A Different Kind of Christmas Story

Everyone is familiar with the themes behind 1983’s “A Christmas Story.” Ralphie desperately longs for the toy of the year, in this case, a bb gun. Mom and dad are hesitant. Their concern for his safety and the hanging threat of “you’ll shoot your eye out” mask the bigger looming fear, namely the beginning of their son’s transition to adulthood. Eventually, the parents relent, providing one of the keys which help Ralphie open the door to making his own decisions (good and bad), experiencing both joy and success and heartbreak and pain, and coming into his fully-formed self. 

             (Photo credit Hollywood Reporter)

The movie’s turning point, where Ralphie receives “ol Blue” as surprise final gift, actually played out in my own life. It was 1987; my friends and I had all hatched an idea in study hall to form a band. Scott played drums. Bob was practicing the hell out of an old acoustic guitar and Dan already had an electric to play lead. Jason could sing AND play keyboards.  All we needed was bass!

I mentioned the idea to my mother a total of one time. That same year, on Christmas morning, a final package awaited me from underneath the couch: A brand-spanking new, sparkling white Gibson Epiphone Power Bass. I couldn’t believe it.  Based on a single conversation, my mom had taken it upon herself to empower me. To give me a tool that would shape the very course of my life. 

I showed up at Scott’s house over winter break for my first band practice, not knowing a note, riff, or lick. Bob and Scott were the only ones who were serious about getting a band together, so a trio we would be. By next November, it would be time for our big debut!

It was the Friday night before Thanksgiving week in 1988 when our three-piece, “Rebellious,” debuted at the Glendale Jr/Sr high talent show.  Wearing peg-rolled jeans, suit jackets with the sleeves pushed up, and sporting mullet haircuts, we barreled through our original tune, “Hurricane.”  Standing on that stage in front of the whole school was electric. It was the spark of an addiction which would span the rest of my days; being on a stage in front of a crowd felt as natural as breathing, and time itself seemed to speed up.  The moments were passing by quicker than I could comprehend them and I wanted to savor every last one. As I sung my own lyrics into the microphone, I caught the eyes of people in the crowd; they were listening to us…to ME! This overweight, awkward kid, so often the focus of bullies and ridicule, was now the guy on the stage, aiming his bass guitar like a weapon.  I had found my place. 

Despite all the flawed adolescent fantasies of what being a “rock star” was all about regarding the opposite sex, there actually WAS one female in the audience whose eyes were on me all night: My mom. After nearly a year of practicing in Scott’s basement and jamming at a few family parties, we were playing a real gig in front of a crowd. She was watching the investment she had made not even a year earlier bear fruit.  After being downsized from her job earlier in 1988, my mom (a single parent) no longer had to miss all the typical school moments from having to work second shift.  She was enjoying the time off by investing it in her kids’ lives. This period is when I started becoming a fully-formed human and she had the time to get to know me. 

Two days later, on the Sunday evening before Thanksgiving, my mom died from a massive heart attack. It was sudden and catastrophic; despite initial optimism from the EMTs, the rhythm would not return to her body’s timekeeper. Two days after the biggest moment of my life, my mother was gone in an instant. I stood in a rainy parking lot staring at the sky and wondering where all the logic in the universe had gone. 

In the days and weeks following the funeral, my bass guitar became much more than a musical instrument. She (we musicians often refer to instruments in the feminine) grew to be my crutch, my therapist, and my confident. She helped me to develop socially and put spending money in my pocket. In college, she opened doors to new circles of lifelong friends and helped me learn how to personally network, jump on opportunities, and find ways to make things happen. This extended family grew me as a person and musician, opening the doors to new styles of music and paid gigs. A surprise gift from my mom in 1987 was helping me pay my way through college in 1994 and keep the lights on in my house in 1995. This same gift would take me to stages far and wide, connecting me to so many wonderful people, including the woman I would marry in 2012.

The course of my life changed on that Christmas Day in 1987 because my mom listened to me so intently during a single conversation. Now, at 48, having lived 2/3 of my life in her absence, her spirit still dwells near me every holiday season. For years, a veil of sadness hung over Thanksgiving and the transition into Christmas; the idyllic image of family gatherings and slow motion scenes of gift giving and turkey dinners had not existed in my life for many years. Over the last decade of my days, however, the joy has returned.

On the home road to 50, I’m more musically active than ever, playing in some of the best bands and on the nicest stages of my life. I’m writing and recording songs and helping administer a music-themed charity.  I have a happy marriage and extended tribe of family and friends. I have found love and peace in the life that I’ve gotten to build for myself, based on a confidence that came largely from my time in the music business…a place I’d never have found myself without my mom and a “Christmas Story” moment in 1987.