2001: A Holiday Odyssey

Think back to the year 2001. It was a stressful year for a lot of us. But for myself and the members of my High School choir, it was absolutely unforgettable. The year 2001 was the year that we were invited to sing in Washington D.C. at the lighting of the capitol Christmas tree, and at the White House.

We spent much of the season gearing up for the actual trip. We sang in every VFW hall, in every mall, and at every town function we could for months, trying to raise the money to send 24 kids, a choir director, and an accompanist to Washington D.C. for the holidays. We had our picture in the local paper, we were on the morning news. And, finally, we had the ok to go.

For those of you who aren't familiar, Washington D.C. is lovely at Christmas time. The buildings and monuments are lit up merrily, and everything is cheerful in the crisp winter air. The city, as well as the rest of the nation, was having a particularly tense Christmas season, enduring the fallout of the 9/11 attacks. But through it all, there was a spirit of determination. We would collectively place our anxiety aside for a few days and celebrate the season.

So there we were, my choir and I, shivering in the chill evening air on December 11th. It was three months to the day since the attacks, and though things were merry and lighthearted, it was still a serious event. We watched the sun set from atop Capitol Hill, listening to speakers extolling the beauty of the year's tree, the wonderful evening to come, and the hope for a merry and peaceful Christmas to follow. I, being a thoughtful but sometimes scatterbrained girl, had left my belongings on a chair beside my father as our choir took the stage to sing. In the confusion, I assumed he had seen me do so, however, the night had not yet played out its plan.

We sang. We caroled for the people, as the sun finally sank beneath the horizon. And soon the tree was lit in all its glory and majesty. There was to be a reception indoors, and we were to continue our caroling there. I was shunted along with my choir-mates, unable to catch up to my father and ask him to grab my purse. I assumed he had it, as I had left my choir music with him as well, and one of my choir-mates had brought that to me. But as we settled in to continue our caroling, my dad came in emptyhanded. I asked him where my things were, and he hurredly made his way back down to the tree to find them for me.

He returned a bit later, and handed me my purse. When I asked if he had trouble finding it, he simply shook his head.

Well, that's all a nice bit of exposition there, but where is the REAL story, you ask? It's right here.

Fast forward to the next day. My choir and I were waiting in a small room in the White House to perform, and we were all aflutter with nervousness. My choir director hushed us all, declared he had a funny story to tell us, to ease our minds and distract us from the nerves that came with such an honorable performance. And this is what he told us.

My father, upon discovering that I was without my purse, began walking back down to the tree. He hadn't got far when he was stopped by a policeman. The police asked him where he was headed, and my father said he was going back to the tree, to search for his daughter's purse. The policeman told him to continue, that he would have another man meet my father on the way down.

So he kept walking. Next, a policeman on a motorcycle stopped him. He asked him where he was headed, and again, my father told him he was going back to the tree, to search for his daughter's lost purse. The policeman said "hop on."

...So there was my father, in a tuxedo, on the back of a police motorcycle, speeding down Capitol Hill toward the tree. And when they got there?

The hundreds of chairs that had been on the lawn to accomodate the large crowd were gone. Except for one. The huge floodlights that had been trained on the Christmas tree were now blaring at this single chair. The bomb squad, with their equipment and a K-9 bomb sniffing unit, were walking up the hill. And in the center of all this fuss, was my purse, sitting innocuously upon its chair.

My father explained to the police that it was indeed his daughter's purse. The man looked at him suspiciously. He asked if it would be alright to search the bag first. My father agreed. The policeman glanced at my father sidelong, and said one thing.

"You open it."

And that is how I earned the nickname Kaboom, right then and there, sitting in the White House while waiting to perform, possibly for the president himself.

It is the most memorable experience, and the most memorable holiday season I have ever had. (And no, I am not on the FBI Most Wanted List!)