Bam! Bam! Bam! The sounds of the season

 "For Christmas, I would like a $9 AM radio so that I have something to listen to when I butcher the deer in the garage," Brad announced. I stared at him in disbelief. Talk about selfish. First, consider the words NOT said. The implication that he's suffering in lonely silence down there because I refuse to go anywhere near the basement during hunting season. And second...who asks for their own present? My goodness!

That being said, like a precocious little elf, I immediately set to work up-grading his requested gift to make him feel especially selfish. Isn't that what Christmas is all about? Many IT calls were put into Connecticut to ensure I was ordering the correct radio satellite system to surpass my husband's needs.

Christmas Day arrived and Brad was graciously pleased with his present. "I can't believe you went to so much trouble," he said, "When you asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I just said a cheap radio but this...?!?" He was at a loss for words...but not for long.

Turns out that everywhere else in the world, you simply plug your little antennae gizmo in and, BAM! you have satellite radio. But at our house, you have to use a four foot long drill bit to bore a hole into your house. So Christmas afternoon had Savannah straddling our garage roof, manning the drill while her father pounded on the wall in the kitchen to locate the correct spot. Magical.

Bam! Bam! Bam! "Can you hear it," Brad would yell and in the distance, we could hear Savannah's muffled yet distinctly annoyed reply. Bam! Bam! Bam! Brad would yell. Savannah would reply. I would snuggle further into my blanket with my new tangerine-colored Kindle Fire. Bam! Bam! Bam! Yell. Reply. "Some hot chocolate sounds good, doesn't it," I asked Sydney who was sleepily reading her new book over on the couch. "AMY!" I jumped. He never says my name. EVER. This would not be good.

I was assigned the fun job of pounding on the wall. To introduce some much-needed levity to what was becoming a somewhat stressful situation, I pounded to the fun tune of "Jingle Bells." I heard a muffled cry from outside. "What," I asked helpfully, racing to the window. "Pound some more," I was instructed. "Jin-gle bells...jin-gle bells...jin-gle...all...the...w-" Sydney wandered into the kitchen to make some hot cocoa. I heard a muffled cry. I raced to the window. "What?" "Pound some more." "JIN-GLE BELLS...JIN-GLE BELLS...JIN..." Muffled cry. "SYDNEY!" Sydney dropped her spoon in the pan, startled. She, too, was enlisted. I was re-assigned window duty as Brad was not-so-secretly fed up with my holiday-inspired percussion arrangement. So Sydney manned the stick and I manned the window and Savannah shivered on the roof.

Tensions outside were also getting high. "You threw a hammer at me," Savannah accused her father. "No I didn't," he yelled defensively, "I just can't slide it down the roof...it might scratch the steel." "You're worried about scratching the roof but you're not worried about hitting your daughter in the head with an airborne hammer," she screeched. I pulled on my coat. A changing of the guard was required.

After the thirtieth time that I squinted helpfully at him up there, hunched on the roof in twenty degree weather, and asked, "How's it going up there?" Brad decided to call it a day. Loaded with tools, we trekked back to the front of the house. Naturally, I hit a slick patch of ice and performed a cartoonish gymnastic stunt, my feet flying up high over my head, the drill I was carrying...flying even higher. My head and hind-quarters (although with all the eating I've done over the holidays, I should say hind-thirds or even hind-half) landed at the same time. The drill, thank goodness, landed without injury.

Brad is a model of compassion when I fall. "Are you okay," he shouted in my winded face. "Shhhh..." I whispered. "Is anything broken," he hovered over me as I again whispered, "Shhhh." I'm no stranger to falling as you may remember from an earlier blog: A Wicked Evening. I just need a minute. Or in this case...a month. To recover from bruised ribs. Otherwise known as the cost of a $9 AM radio.