Good King Wenslus-slus

JUST AFTER THANKSGIVING, as I walked through Woolworth’s past the tinsel decorations, the words of Good King Wenceslas blared out over the store, sung with a nasal Mitch Miller heartiness that could shatter a glass. The insistent voices brought the glad tidings even into the rest rooms and the telephone booths. King Wenceslas was followed by another carol, as it would be by still another and another, all day, all week, all month. “How do you stand it?” I asked the girl from whom I bought a ball-point refill.

“Sometimes I don’t see how I can,” she answered softly, as if in gratitude at the question. Outside I knew there would be jingle bells on Tremont Street and round the corner someone from the Salvation Army playing O Little Town of Bethlehem on a trumpet. The herald angels would be at it again at Filene’s. Everywhere I might go in the city I would be followed by these canned carols, repeated over a thousand public address systems, as if a maniac were playing Christmas chopsticks. For decades now I have felt a tightening of my stomach muscles every time I hear the echo of a carol.

FR

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Francis Russell

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JUST AFTER THANKSGIVING, as I walked through Woolworth’s past the tinsel decorations, the words of Good King Wenceslas blared out over the store, sung with a nasal Mitch Miller heartiness that could shatter a glass. The insistent voices brought the glad tidings even into the rest rooms and the telephone booths. King Wenceslas was followed by another carol, as it would be by still another and another, all day, all week, all month. “How do you stand it?” I asked the girl from whom I bought a ball-point refill.

“Sometimes I don’t see how I can,” she answered softly, as if in gratitude at the question. Outside I knew there would be jingle bells on Tremont Street and round the corner someone from the Salvation Army playing O Little Town of Bethlehem on a trumpet. The herald angels would be at it again at Filene’s. Everywhere I might go in the city I would be followed by these canned carols, repeated over a thousand public address systems, as if a maniac were playing Christmas chopsticks. For decades now I have felt a tightening of my stomach muscles every time I hear the echo of a carol.