My daughter Elly spent one Sunday caroling at Lincoln Park Zoo for an event the zoo holds every year, hosting young people’s choirs from the area. Elly, who’s seven, sings with one of the troupes of the Chicago Children’s Choir. Last year they were allowed to take center stage, near the seals and sea lions. It’s the best spot; the animals there clap. This year the CCC was relegated to the reptile house; it’s hard to think what crocs and snakes might do to show their appreciation. As it happened, the children were spared a cold-blooded reception since the house is closed for repairs until next year. Two-legged mammals filled the hall instead, and they greeted the choir quite warmly and joined in the songs.
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I generally feel a little cold-blooded myself around Christmas. I’m not one of ye faithful, and I hate having “The Little Drummer Boy” stuck in my head for six weeks every year. Nevertheless, having one of my own brood perform before the zoo crowd had me ho-ho-ho-ing all the way to the reptile house. I had an hour to kill before the caroling began, while the singers warmed up, so I wandered over to the zoo’s famed great-ape house. The weather that day, which seemed borrowed from April, along with the promise of song had drawn more people to the zoo than I’d ever seen there before. (No doubt the fact that the Bears–the kind that might be introduced into the wilds of Gary–put off their near extinction until Monday night left some families groping for a Sunday afternoon activity.) At 1:30 hundreds of people, many in reindeer sweaters and glittery Christmas tree sweatshirts, edged shoulder to shoulder into the ape house.
I got back to the reptile house as the first strains of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” began to bounce brightly around the vaulted hall. My daughter, in a Santa-red vest and stocking cap, looked sternly at her music and struggled to sing over the brass in front of her and the yammering crowd beyond. Then, to introduce Good King Wenceslaus, the choir conductor turned to us and asked us to join in. The crowd went quiet waiting for his cue, then on the stroke of his baton sang, beginning surprisingly loudly and in tune. They hadn’t just stumbled in, they had come to sing. Standing next to me was the guy who made the home-office comparison, singing out in a round, honey baritone. On the choir’s risers, Elly and the other children perked up, lifted by the unified voices. I’m not Christian and I have no clue who King Wenceslaus was, but I began to feel lifted too, maybe not spiritually but at least back up the evolutionary scale.
