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The muffled trampling of young feet through newly fallen snow. A snowflake landing on a coat and lingering just long enough for one to witness its lacy complexity, before it melts. The note-finder and the harmonious humming that follows in preparation for the next rendition of 'Oh Holy Night.' Ten kids - caroling in a small Vermont town - a week before Christmas.

Conjures up something from Currier & Ives, doesn't it. And to us, that is just how it seemed - on occasion, treated with hot chocolate by a loyal and inspired listener along the way.

For weeks, we had practiced on the school bus. Our bus driver was our conductor, and our mediator. We were the last kids on the bus - the last ones to be let off, and our trip was 7 miles into the 'boonies.' Two families that had grown up together; our troupe comprised of two bases, six sopranos, and two altos.

The event date always fell on a weekend. Yet, our bus driver was delighted to be our chauffeur. The first year, 1964, we were the initial 10. Each consecutive year, we began to dwindle, until we were four. Then our caroling troupe was no more. But the music remained in us.

A few of us continued the gift of singing at Christmas - in our church choir a few years later. Again, for a number of years, we sang in the Christmas concert that began at 11:30 PM on Christmas eve, followed by mass. And one of us was chosen each year to solo in the revered spiritual Christmas hymn - "Oh Holy Night." My uncle's gifted hands lifted such wonders from the old church organ as we lifted our hearts in celebration. My dad read an appropriate reading from the gospels. The night was nothing short of magical.

Our families have since dispersed. Some have passed on. But the memories we created, the tradition we kept for as long as we could, we will take with us.

Music crosses all boundaries and all planes of existence, especially at Christmas. And song from a young heart is forever sung.

Learn more about this author, Louweeze.
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