You hear the sirens first. Somewhere in town, not out on the interstate. Then they quit. Probably someone caught speeding down Main.

Then you hear them again. More than one siren. One sounds like the Fire Department, not the town cop.

And the wife is late getting home from work. Sure, she was probably going to stop by the grocery store in the damaged Explorer, but still, she should be here by now. And this time the sirens keep going. They're close.

An accident?

So you trot upstairs and look out the front door. Two intersections down, at our junction with Main, there are lights flashing. Beams bouncing off houses. No speeder, this. And you worry.

Then you see the lights are moving, heading north your way. Slowly.

A cop car. Well, what do I mean? The cop car. Followed by the Fire Chief in his huge red SUV.

And in between these two emergency vehicles, with their lights and sirens going?

A truck pulling a flatbed trailer. Bearing carolers.

They stop mid-block to the south, and the sirens quit. And you can barely hear the faint refrain of human voices, raised in song.

So you run down for the camera, and by the time you're back at the door, the sirens are going, and the Christmas caravan is moving again, directly in front of your home, the children on the trailer shouting out suggestions to their leader for the next carol to sing.

And the Fire Chief waves out his open window, and yells "Merry Christmas to the [Grouse] family," calling you by name because, well, you know each other. You wave back, and as the parade stops again mid-block, the white Explorer whips around the corner, passes the Fire Chief to pull into the drive. And all is well with the world, now.

And you stand on the porch in the cold night air, listening to refrains of "Oooo tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy..."

And as the voices silence and the sirens come on again, you head down the stairs to help the wife unload groceries, nodding to your neighbors standing out on their porch.

And that's caroling in Grouse Town.

One of the limber pines in the Seminoes, leaning into winter.