HUMOR: Trombones, and How Drew Got Booted from His Kid's Middle School
It's spring, and Drew is just getting around to writing the family Christmas letter. Somehow through the trombones and handbells and Sven and yoga classes, the family's still together.
By Drew Gallagher
HUMORIST
Friends, Readers, Countrymen, lend me your eyes; I come to bury Christmas Letters, not to praise them.
Truthfully, I give a little golf clap to those who still take the time to write up a letter and mail it to friends and family instead of bemoaning how busy they are and simply posting it to Facebook as a temporary substitute with the promise of a future day when they are less bedraggled and can take the time to lick an envelope. Historically, I have found many Christmas letters to be sweeter than eggnog and without the necessary helping of alcohol. So today, I give you a Christmas Letter (belated of course) that reflects a degree of candor that I have long thought would be a refreshing change. Kind of like the homage to the holidays from those noted Christmas balladeers, The Ramones with “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight)”.
DISCLAIMER TO PRESERVE MY MARRIAGE: This is a letter of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or too many glasses of holiday cheer. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Dear Friends and Family:
Sorry I was a bit late getting this out to everyone, but apparently there was some disagreement between me and the old battle ax as to which one of us was writing the Christmas letter this year. She played the “Are you ever going to get another job you worthless piece of…” card, so I figured I’d lift high the gauntlet thrown at my feet and enlighten both friends and family of the titillating tidings in the family from 2025.
Some of you may note that my physical presence is absent from this year’s Holiday card photo but there is a simple explanation, and it has to do with my further engagement in the arts which I will touch upon later. Now, there might not be as simple an explanation for why our strangely mature foreign exchange student Sven is in the photo with the old ball and chain and my two disappointing children, but Sven has become an increasing presence in our family dynamic, and the love of my life felt that he earned the promotion from picture taker to featured guest. (Why he insists on wearing a Speedo in the photo is a separate matter.)
In fact, the Mrs. says that she and the kids might go visit Sweden with Sven this summer when he has to renew his work visa. I was told that someone had to stay home with the dog, but I reminded her the dog died a year ago. She then cried a lot which, in hindsight, might not have been related to the dog’s passing because she hated that the dog always humped her leg. I told her that she should like the fact that the dog still found her attractive. Or at least her left shin.
Our two disappointments (aka sons) seem to like the idea of experiencing other cultures and cheered when their mother said they were going to Sweden, and dear old Dad was staying home to take care of the dead dog. Neither appeared to be particularly bothered that the dog was dead and not in need of Dad’s expert care.
The oldest boy has finally given up playing sports of any type and has taken up a musical instrument after I finally put my foot down before he started middle school this year and said he had to participate in something other than Minecraft. He chose the marching band which he swears wasn’t just to piss me off. I asked him why he furthered this charade by choosing the trombone, and he said he and his friends liked saying ‘tromboner’. I called the principal and demanded that the boys stop calling each other tromboners, and the principal carefully considered my concerns before telling me that that was actually what players of the trombone were called according to the music teacher. I told him it’s also a graphic sexual act and asked if he had performed it on the music teacher. I’m no longer welcome at the middle school.
The youngest son will probably follow in his older brother’s footsteps and give up sports shortly based upon his considerable lack of prowess with any sport that requires the use of a ball. Sven, however, thinks he might make a good swimmer and often accompanies Thing 2 and his mother to the beach for weekend training sessions. Disappointment #2 says he wants to get a Speedo just like Sven, and his brother keeps asking if that is to show off his ‘tromboner’ which is the exact usage I was concerned with when trying to explain it to the middle school principal.
When my wife isn’t working in the public school salt mines (and need I remind you, those salt mines are only open for nine months a year with almost half a month off at Christmas), she spends a lot of time doing hot yoga in a class that Sven teaches at a downtown studio. Sometimes when she gets home, I joke with her and ask if she’ll do downward dog for me and she cries quietly. She must miss our dog more than I give her credit for.
As for me and the arts, well it’s not just family Christmas photography. I have learned that I have the ability and the affinity for playing the handbells. Just not at church. A few months ago, after another one of her crying jags, my wife suggested I join her at church on Sundays. She said we could go to the later mass which was casual so I could sleep off my weekly Saturday night beer tastings and wear a T-shirt and jeans if I wanted to at least try to save our marriage. Apparently that didn’t mean I could wear my Nietzsche shirt that reads: “God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.” In the short time I was there though I did find the handbells quite intriguing and ran home and bought a very nice set of Schulmerichs for $2,000 on eBay at the “Buy Now” price. Because of the rude reception I got at the church, I quickly realized that there is a general bias against handbells being played outside of a church setting and have formed a Facebook group to bring ostracized handbellers together in arenas that appreciate 19th Century German philosophy and also serve alcohol. Just message me on FB or check out the page, ‘Hands Off My Handbells’.
We’re all excited to see what 2026 has in store. Maybe I’ll write a symphony featuring handbells and trombone. Or maybe I’ll give Kristi Noem’s replacement and ICE a buzz and let them know about Scandinavian Sven. Afterall, the family dog is already dead.
From our family to yours, happy holidays!
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