OP Callaghan – Christmas

OP Callaghan – Christmas- by OP Callaghan.

I started playing drums before I had drums.

At the age of 7, I knew that I wanted to be a drummer, and began playing with a pair of mismatched sticks, procured from a concert at a neighbor’s graduation party. I beat the hell out of a couple of pillows, playing along to Deep Purple and David Bowie, as well as choice selections playing on PYX 106 and Q104. The following year, for Christmas, I got a snare drum. It was a Montgomery Ward “steel snare drum and stand”, which I immediately took to abusing while learning how to play “Wipe Out” from a “Music Minus One” record, which verbally taught a drum lesson by dropping out the drum part, allowing the student to fill in the blanks. My neighbor had given me an old cymbal, which I precariously perched upon a music stand, and was able to use my foot to throw off the snares for the tom-tom part. I would practice this and other songs daily, which certainly drove my family crazy. In my downtime, I would peruse the Montgomery Ward Catalog, looking at the drum sets and dreaming of rock stardom.

I grew up in a nice, affluent community, but my family was humble. My dad was a mechanic, my mother worked in a grocery store, and every year at Christmas, my folks would warn us that “It’s gonna be tight this year,” but somehow we always seemed to make out like bandits. I spent the previous year begging, pleading, and swearing that I would get straight A’s in school if I could simply have a drum set. My snare drum and cymbal setup was augmented with a couple of frisbees attached with duct tape, and an old bass drum without a foot pedal that I would literally kick with my right foot. To say that I was desperate and pathetic is an understatement.

Despite my pleas, my parents warned me that my wishes were too expensive. After all, we had just moved to a bigger house from our cramped bungalow, my mom had been laid off from the grocery store, and I had two younger brothers. Money was tight, and drums were expensive. I was beyond defeated. Christmas Eve, I hung my stocking over the back of the couch next to my brothers’ stockings, as we didn’t have a fireplace. I kissed my parents good night and raced up the stairs with my brothers, and eventually fell asleep. I dreamed of hockey skates, a distant second on my wish list. In the morning, I woke up, looked at my patchwork snare drum frisbee combo, and resisted the temptation to play a bit before breakfast and Christmas morning. My brothers had somehow awakened before me and were doing their best to contain their excitement on Christmas morning, while patiently waiting for me to wake up, by standing over my bed. After some good-natured ribbing, we rolled down the stairs to tear into our gifts.

Now, my parents had already warned us that “Christmas is not going to be huge this year,” which they did every year. But unbeknownst to me, they had conspired with my brothers weeks earlier. My two younger brothers had expressed to my folks that they thought that a drum set would be a good present for me, and they would be willing to get fewer presents if it meant that their older brother could get drums! Now, truth be told, I was not the sweet older brother. In fact, my younger brothers were already both bigger than me by the time I turned 9, and we spent the majority of our time beating the sh** out of each other, with yours truly getting the majority of the beatings. Despite our hooligan-like behaviour leading up to Christmas, my parents were touched by my brothers’ presentation, and managed to scrape together enough to get me a second-hand Gretsch drum set. As I turned the corner after descending the stairs, my brothers began to jump and shout, “Lookit that! You got drums!”

I was paralyzed and speechless. They were beautiful. Champagne sparkle, Gretsch jazz kit, in all of its sparkling glory, resting nicely in front of the Christmas tree. The tree lights and tinsel, reflecting off the sparkling metal flake of the drum shells and the chrome snare drum, were a stunning vision in my young eyes. I didn’t cry, but came real close as I sat down on the throne, to behold this majestic mountain of mahogany and maple … but my sticks were upstairs. I made a break and was quickly dragged back to the table for a glass of milk and a slice of my grandmother’s treacherous fruit roll (she made it every year, with that awful candied fruit and raisins. Nobody should ever eat that stuff.) I scarfed it down, ran upstairs to get my sticks, and began to play. My family put up with about three minutes of my foolishness before sternly requesting that we get to the rest of the gifts. I begrudgingly agreed and patiently waited for my brothers to open their football helmets, electronic football games, pajamas, socks, board games, and obligatory winter wear, while every few minutes, looking at me with a satisfied grin.

I had finally gotten my drums, but was unaware of the conspiracy until just a few years ago, when my Dad shared the story with me. My brothers had long forgotten, but my father had shared this story with me shortly before he passed away from lung cancer. He had taken ill a few months before, and we had increased the frequency of our phone calls. We would glaze over current events and instead spend more time talking about memories and family history. He loved to hear what was going on in my life and was thrilled that I still made time to play the drums. I’m still in awe of my brothers’ generosity, between kicking my ass and offering to sacrifice their Christmas for me. I had traded in those Gretsch drums for a set of Tamas when I was about 16, and had purchased a few other kits before nostalgia had gotten to me, and I began to try to find my old Gretsch kit. I was telling my Dad that I had called Drome Sound to try to track them down (nearly 25 years later, a futile effort), but had found a similar kit in the Midwest. Dad thought I was crazy to try to find that old kit, and even crazier to pay what I did for the replacement kit. But hey, my brothers thought it was cool, and all these years later, I still feel like the luckiest 10-year-old in the world. Thanks, Dad, Mom, Ollie, and Bruce.

I wish all of you, drummers and the rest, a very happy holiday season. See you next year.

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