The sounds of Christmas are everywhere in song, whether Silent Night or Little Town of Bethlehem or even the Chipmunks’ Christmas Song and Deck the Halls with Boston Charlie. But I’ve got a story of a Christmas song you’ve never heard of. In fact, it’s not even about Christmas; it’s about the day before. It began one day back in 2001 when my father – Alex Barris – called me with a problem.
“I’ve written a song,” he said. “It’s called ‘It’s Christmas Eve.’”
“So what’s the problem?” I asked.
Dad said it was a piece he’d composed some years before. Not only had he written up the musical score sheets and the lyrics, but he had also published it and even recorded a rough soundtrack of his own voice singing it. His dilemma, he told me, was that he now wanted to have the song professionally recorded in a studio, with piano accompaniment and a female vocalist. Therein lay the dilemma, he said. He wanted one of our daughters to record it. But which one?
“Why not have them do it together,” I suggested, “in harmony.”
And so my father’s family Christmas project was set in motion. The girls – one professionally trained, the other naturally gifted – took time over that spring to rehearse with renowned Toronto pianist Norm Amadio. Then on a warm day in June 2001, pianist Norm, singers Quenby and Whitney, and composer/lyricist/producer Alex arrived at a sound studio in Toronto’s east-end for the recording session. The song begins:
“It’s Christmas Eve, a time to think,
And here’s a thought you can borrow:
If you believe in Christmas Eve
You’ll banish all of your sorrow.
The mistletoe, the frosty snow,
Are gifts you’ll treasure tomorrow.
So start to weave this hallowed eve, a merry Christmas Day.”
As the music and vocals were laid down that day eight years ago, the rest of us – my mother, my sister, my wife and I – looked on in awe as the magic in the studio happened. Within just a few hours, the recording session had created a most wonderful tribute to an often overlooked Christmas moment – the poignancy, calm and anticipation of the day and night before Christmas. The chorus concludes:
“It’s Christmas Eve, a magic time
A time to think about giving,
A gift of cheer to those held dear,
Who make our lives worth the living.
It’s time to praise in song and phrase
The One who’s always forgiving
The One whose birth upon this Earth
Created Christmas Day.”
More than just a song, my dad and our girls had concocted for the rest of us a permanent record, literally, of a family’s tribute to a most special time of year. In the months that followed the recording, we tried to get some of the big names in the Canadian recording industry to pay attention to this little demo CD. Some agreed to take a listen. None was interested enough to record it. Not long after, my father was crippled by a number of strokes and health setbacks that took him from us in 2004.
Every year, when the holidays roll around, we reflect on Christmases past, celebrations to remember and gifts that stand out. A few years ago, I noted, for example, that the National Museum of Play in Rochester, New York (established in 1998), issued its list of all-time most memorable toy gifts – including such items as alphabet blocks, Barbie dolls, crayons, yo-yos, Frisbees, Silly Putty, jump ropes, Hula Hoops, checkers, red wagons, Erector Sets and View-Masters.
Of course, being an American museum, they just didn’t get it when it comes to a kid’s first hockey skates. When I was a boy, my most memorable Christmas gift came right out of a Roch Carrier short story. The folks gave me a peewee-sized set of pants, suspenders, socks, shoulder, shin and elbow pads and CCM skates – my very first set of hockey equipment – complete with Hesspler green flash hockey stick, gloves and helmet (I think I was among the first on my team to wear that Butch Goring style three-piece head gear). That Christmas morning I shed my pajamas right there in the living room, suited up in my hockey gear and stayed in it 0’til Christmas dinner.
For me, however, all that pales next to the gift of a song from the heart of a father, delivered by the voices of his granddaughters, to the rest of his adoring family.
