My little town of Bethlehem

In my little town of Bethlehem, camels nuzzle one another, cattle low and always a single loveable donkey scuffs a hoof quaintly. The drummer boy sits in the corner, trying not to jostle the three wise men. They are somewhat out of focus. At times they look like kings. Then again they seem to disappear. Or they arrive late, sometimes in January. Is one of them black? Who brought the frankincense?

There's a wind-up key behind the stable and a light bulb in a balsa wood wall. Joseph's ceramic toe is chipped. His beard is smooth and brown, like dark ale. Mary is radiant. The baby, oh the baby. The baby is huge! A blond behemoth with a cherubic smile. Glories stream. Shepherds quake.

Pa rum pa pum pum. By the chimney with care, stockings. Bing sings, ring-a-ling. Do they know it's Christmas? So this is Christmas. It's Christmas in Killarney. The nativity scene plays over a roaring fire silently as Lifesavers tumble out of red and white stockings sewn by a caring grandmother. Pine boughs grace the mantle. Be careful lighting the candles.

There's a group of tiny golden angels; their wings are stuck to the wall with tape. They're from a different scene perhaps, like that shepherd boy with the broken crook who wears an 18th century English cap. Mom puts him there every year. He fits. He does his bit. They all play their parts.

I played the part of a shepherd. My mother rolled a nylon stocking up, and wound it around ginham tea towel draped over my head, desert-style. I wore a blue housecoat. An old man from church lent me his cane for a crook. I was the first to sight the star, at age four, tripping up the stairs of the sanctuary, pointing excitedly to the cardboard cut-out wrapped in tinfoil, so high on the brown brick wall of St. James Centennial United...

Herod went ahead and slaughtered every boychild in the land. Baby Jesus, I am a poor boy too...

Shepherds quake. Glories stream. The lion and the lamb lie down together, no, just the lamb, the lion comes in later. No wheat, no chaff, just straw, strewn over the mantelpiece. When it's over you pack the figures back into the creche with the straw.

Joyful, joyful, we adore thee. I've been learning to play it on the silver ukulele. Shall I play for thee?