There was magic to the night streets of 1963 Houston. It was in the steady backbeat of the car wheels over the regular breaks in the pavement. It was in street lamps that brightened the city’s watery air into little pools of light so you wheeled through one illuminated world after another, the promise always in the next one.
With both of us under the spell of the streets that night, it's forgivable that my older brother Mack would offer me a cigarette that my ten-year-old self readily accepted. I must have coughed and sputtered as I inhaled, but mostly I remember how the smoke turned blue as it rose out of the car’s open windows.
We were returning home from our traditional Christmas Eve gathering with the extended family of cousins, aunts and uncles. We all looked forward to that party. It was hosted by the family of one of my father’s sisters. There was a warmth to the celebration, and a lot of laughter.
So, my brother and I are headed home after a good time, speeding along high on Winston cigarettes when the KILT-AM radio DJ played Bing Crosby’s song, “Do You Hear What I Hear.” Mack, a little bit of a mocking tone in his voice, began to sing along. The song was on the radio all the time that season, and you couldn’t help learning the words.
Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see
I looked at him and he began to sing louder. Laughing, I started to sing the chorus parts.
Mack: Way up in the sky little lamb
Do you see what I see
Me: Do you see what I see
Mack: A star, a star, dancing in the night
With a tail as big as the night
With a tail as big as the night
Me: (Humming the background harmony. Sort of.)
Mack: Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
Me: Do you hear what I hear?
Without realizing it, we soon lost our exaggerated irreverence. By the time we got to the last verse, we belted it out like Bing. And we sang both parts together.
Said the king to the people everywhere
Listen to what I say
Listen to what I say
Pray for peace people everywhere
It wasn’t like we were consciously focused on any meaning in the song. But, looking back on it, I can’t help but wonder. President Kennedy had been assassinated just a month earlier. There was an unease in our parents’ world we must have absorbed. We’d never admit it then, but the song spoke to that.
Years later, I learned that “Do You Hear What I Hear” was written in response to the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis. The songwriters, Gloria Shayne Baker and Noel Regney, said they couldn’t sing the song because it was too emotional for them. Said Baker, “Noel wrote a beautiful song, and I wrote the music. We couldn’t sing it, though…our little song broke us up. You must realize there was a threat of nuclear war at the time.”
When the song ended, I glanced down at the cigarette still in my hand. Ash had fallen off in my lap and I moved quickly to put the cigarette out in the car’s ash tray before it burned my fingers. Mack stopped me. “Throw it out the window,” he said. “We’re not supposed to be smoking.”
As we drove on, I looked at the Christmas lights on the houses and buildings we passed. The radio played the Village Stompers’ “Washington Square,” an instrumental pop song with a rhythm that fit the night. My foot kept the beat on the floorboard. Mack had his right hand on the wheel, his left hand out the window feeling the rush of air against his palm. When the band’s horns kicked in, Mack slapped the roof of the car in time and I clapped along as we raced down the road from one illuminated world after another.
Beautiful, Glenn.
❤️