Button nose.

When I was a wee lass, living on the plain, this is about the time of year that my favorite childhood memory would become a daily occurrence. Every night after supper, I would beg my daddy to get out his guitar and play Christmas songs. He would of course indulge me because it was a legitmate excuse to get him out of doing the dishes. By legitimate, I mean my mama enjoyed him playing as much as I did, so she did not mind being short a set of hands while washing the plates.

He would play all the Christmas standards from this ragged carol book. On the front cover there was a family standing around their piano and donning their gay apparel. We never did this around the piano. Sometimes it was on the couch. On more than one occassion, I made my dad play while we sat by my parents' bathtub because there were steps in front of it. I loved sitting on steps then just as I do now.

It did not matter where he played or how many verses of "12 Days of Christmas" he insisted on playing because all I was waiting around for was, "Frosty the Snowman." He usually had to play it twice because I would make him. I realize this story reveals what an eccentric and controlling child I was. However, it is one of the times when my home felt happiest.

My dad hasn't played "Frosty the Snowman" in a very long time. Today I heard it while I was at Starbucks and it made me wonder if the sheet music is still in the bottom of his Gibson guitar case. I hope so because if it isn't, my father will have to play it by memory. I do not know how easy that is when you are ten years out of practice.