"Tis the season for school Christmas programs.  Thanks to Madelein Murray O'Hare, school Christmas programs are now designed to fill one full of Christmas jeer.

I forget that fact from year to year as I happily prepare to go listen to my children perform.  From all indications, this year's production promised to be big!

First off, the gym was filled with the eager buzz and happy voices of hundreds of excited parents and grandparents.  I even noted the presence of one dutiful great aunt.

The parents were busily engaged in the parental ritual of setting up video cameras to record every minute of little Sally's first Christmas school program so that the magic of these many happy hours could be enjoyed again and again.  I thought briefly about asking one of them to make a copy for me—that is, the thought crossed my mind that I could ask one of them—but I quickly remembered that such a request would probably violate copyright laws.  Besides that, I really, really wouldn't want a copy.

We seated ourselves behind an acquaintance, a mother and her little boy.  She turned and greeted us happily, asking how each of us was.

We were all fine.  We've worked hard to be fine since we'd be associating with Heidi and her new baby, and would have Amy and Shawn and little Kami as Christmas houseguests.  The Farbers and their succession of chicken pox cases have been banned from our house for a month to prevent Jamie from getting it and passing it to our other grandchildren.

"And how are the Joneses?" we asked our friend.

"Oh, we're just fine, too, except Brock here, just came down with chicken pox tonight.  We just couldn't miss this, though, and I think everyone has already had them."

I glanced at my wife.  Her eyes were exceptionally large and wide.  They quickly ranged over the red spots on the boy's face and then surveyed the balcony.  As the lady turned her head back toward the stage, we arose en mass and headed for said balcony.

Forebodings of doom settled 'round me as the ghosts of Christmases past forced their way into my memory.  It was here in this very room and this very setting that I annually try to fight off sleep.

It was here that the little boy threw up on the stairs on his way to see Santa Claus.  Legions of little people pressed up behind him and tromped through the slop.

It was here that our inspired music teacher lined up the fifth grade and their recorders for a rendition of that old Christmas favorite, "Go Tell Aunt Rhody."

It was here that Miss Frantic, the second grade teacher, busily demonstrated her child-handling skills, flapping here and there, while making a fashion statement with her large black and white checkered hat gaily accented with a red ribbon.

It was here that little girls on stage wore cardboard reindeer antlers on their heads, and their mothers' loose nylons and high heels on their lower extremities.

And then the moment arrived.

"Welcome to Old Mac Donald's Christmas!" the music teacher announced.

"I'm already annoyed," my teenaged son growled beside me.

Indeed, Christmas jeer, Madelein Murray O'Hare, and barnyard sounds filled the air as troops of farm animals paraded onto the stage to sing, bray and moo their numbers.  Standing in front of bales of straw and a curtain backdrop tastefully decorated with paper cutouts of scissors, carrots, brown blobs and blue blobs, the children probably performed flawlessly.

The first 63 numbers performed by the primary grades were non-traditional Christmas carols, I suppose, from which all mention of angels, baby Jesus and wise men had been scrubbed.  Each grade performed their particular version of "E-I-E-I-O."

The sensitive subject of Christmas was tentatively introduced by the 4th grade singing a takeoff of the "36 Days of Christmas."  Day number one was "A basket of turnips and greens."  This was the suggested gift for that hard-to-buy-for farm animal.

Day number eight was "mud puddles to stomp in."  A boy threw some brown blobs on the floor when his day arrived, and dutifully stomped in them thereafter whenever his day came 'round again.  Thus we identified one of the beautiful curtain decorations.

Our interest in the program now peaked as we eagerly anticipated the possibility that the blue blobs might similarly be identified.  We were not disappointed.  They turned out to be "ponds to swim in" on about the 27th day.

With the mystery solved, so early in the program, things were all downhill from there.  A skillful director should never let things climax so soon.

By the time a succeeding group (the sixth grade, I think) was well into an instrumental version of the same song, the only thing keeping the grandparents in the audience awake was the exceedingly discordant "5th day."  Relaxed and slouching bodies all around tended to snap into rigid, upright positions each time day number 5 came by again.  Unison was quickly restored each time, however, as succeeding verses revived and united the audience's collective snores.

My teenaged son nudged me in the ribs.  He had been studying the printed program.

"There's hope for this one here," he said, pointing at "Mary's Boy Child," a number to be rendered as a vocal solo.

As I ruminated upon the possible definitions of "rendered," I pointed out to my hopeful son that the vocal solo would be rendered by the school's rock-star wannabe.

With closed eyes, one hand thrusting the microphone down his throat, and with the other hand clenched tightly into a shoulder-high fist to show the depth of his feeling, the wannabe proceeded to render, that is:  "to melt down, try, to treat so as to convert into industrial fats and oils or fertilizer."

The fifth, sixth and seventh grade bands successively and successfully demonstrated their mastery of that difficult musical beat called "staccato."

The seventh grade had reached the level where they could undertake more difficult numbers, namely "The William Tell Overture."  They skillfully combined staccato with slow motion to create a most interesting and unusual piece.  I could close my eyes and almost see the Lone Ranger on Silver as that noble steed s-l-o-w-l-y-reared-into-the-air to prepare for his gradual retreat.

Retreat, and a strong desire to not be mingling with diseased people, were dominating thoughts in our collective minds as the program ended.  We led the way to the door as grandparents headed our direction, and children headed for Santa Claus.  Our four-year-old was whisked outside with nary a glimpse of Santa.

So much for 1998.  What will happen next year?  Madelein would have been so proud.  Do I have the courage to suggest that they have a January concert next year instead of a Christmas travesty?  Maybe if we're lucky, the Y2K bug will end school as we know it before their concert comes around again.