– Ted C. Fishman, 12/14/95
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I got back to the reptile house as the first strains of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” began to bounce brightly around the vaulted hall. My daughter, in a Santa-red vest and stocking cap, looked sternly at her music and struggled to sing over the brass in front of her and the yammering crowd beyond. Then, to introduce Good King Wenceslaus, the choir conductor turned to us and asked us to join in. The crowd went quiet waiting for his cue, then on the stroke of his baton sang, beginning surprisingly loudly and in tune. They hadn’t just stumbled in, they had come to sing. Standing next to me was the guy who made the home-office comparison, singing out in a round, honey baritone. On the choir’s risers, Elly and the other children perked up, lifted by the unified voices. I’m not Christian and I have no clue who King Wenceslaus was, but I began to feel lifted too, maybe not spiritually but at least back up the evolutionary scale.
