Go Tell It On the Mountain Again
The three-year-old choir children twirled and giggled as they were led in a knot of single-file to the carpeted steps at the front of the church. Perfect Shirley Temple curls were accentuated with red and green ribbon. Sprays of plastic berries and twinkling tinsel erupted from shimmering outfits.
And, of course, there were the obligatory boys.
A woman who looked like she’d lived through a thousand simultaneous Christmas Days staggered to the front of the throng of devout youth. She stooped (or collapsed, I don’t know which) onto the plush carpeting in front of the mass of pent-up energy, spread her hands like an angel’s wings and coaxed the assembled children to sing. Carols were on the menu for the church-folk that day, and we held our breaths in unison, waiting for the first tender notes to twitter forth from the platoon of cuteness.
Go Tell It on the Mountain. A classic spiritual, now Christmas carol, was the first number on the set list for the wee singers. An eager little girl on the front row got them started off flat, but it didn’t matter. Their wiggly, giggly fuel lit fires in our Christmas souls that long-ago night. We adults assumed the proper attitudes of worship, of contemplation, of prayer.
Go! Tell it on the mountain!
A little girl in the middle of the throng, the one with the red-and-green plaid tulle dress spun with gold, the one with the hairdo that screamed, “My mommy used every bit of her spit to style me this way!”, THAT little girl decided she was bored with the proceedings. Standing in a group of children singing in front of a thousand people wasn’t showy enough for her. She needed to do something much more, ahem, memorable.
Over the hills and everywhere!
She lifted her frilly red-and-green plaid tulle skirt spun with gold over her head, revealing frilly red lace underpants. Twirling and swaying in time to the music, she kept her skirt pulled over her head and could not be persuaded to lower it. Her arms were frozen, unbendable. Stuck in the erect position.
Go! Tell it on the mountain!
Meanwhile, a little boy happened to be placed immediately to her left. He could not help but notice the state of his flashy neighbor. I mean, we ALL saw her panties shining there in the glow of the spotlight. He looked at her fluttering skirt, eyed her come-hither panties, and got a look on his face that can only be described as belonging to a dirty-old man who’s just discovered the internet is for p0rn. With lascivious glee, he shoved both hands down the front of his Christmas green corduroy pants and got busy with his bad self.
In the mayhem that ensued, with parents, teachers, even the pastor, trying to break up the ungodly display while still maintaining a suitable aura of worshipful decorum, the Accidental Cootchie Mama sat in the back, apoplectic from laughing. I didn’t understand why people looked at me with reproach when ALL THAT was going on up front, but I decided Go Tell It on the Mountain would be my favorite Christmas carol of all time.
What is your favorite traditional Christmas carol?
Please post your selections today in the comment section. And remember, if you comment on this blog during this series, you have a shot at winning a either Christmas or a Crooner CD. Twelve chances in all. The more you comment, the greater your chance to win. Blog comments only.