snow on shadow

Sunrise comes late these winter mornings, and at quarter to seven, the slices of sky between the maples' bare branches -- which, in the city, is as close as we get to a horizon -- blushed pink and orange. In the backyard, the light colored the ripples of snow the diluted blue-white of skim milk. The rain at the tail end of the storm had layered a skin of ice on the snow, but for every three steps I took on top of it, on the the fourth, I broke through halfway to the ground.

There's too much ivy growing on the fence and the garden shed and, seeing it, I thought of my favorite Christmas carol, The Holly and the Ivy and how I had first heard it at a long-ago concert by a children's choir that my brother sang in. Like everyone in the family except me, my brother has a bright, true voice that can suffuse a room and I could hear him through the tangle of other, paler voices.

Which, of course, brought to mind what has to be my least favorite Christmas song ever, namely (with apologies to anyone who adores and simply can't get enough of it) The Little Drummer Boy. Because what's up with that incessant rum pah pum pum rum pah pum pum rum pah pum pum anyway? I mean, isn't it supposed to be a silent night?

So, what's the seasonal song that you just can't stand? You know, the one that's too trite or too overplayed or too cheerful or (as Missing One posted the other day) too melancholy to listen to. The one that, if you hear it just one more time, you might be tempted, à la Saint Lucy, to do something rather painful and unpleasant involving knitting needles.

And when you're done venting about carols, why not head over to Bub & Pie's place. She's currently being tossed mercilessly on the horns of that age-old dilemma: new house or old house? Can't you help her out?