I swore I would not do it. I did it.

There was already a pile of CDs—more than a few hands high—themed for the holidays. Now there is another CD on top.

Those other ones still do it for me. They have warmed my heart season after season through the cold ones, the unusually warm ones, the ones spent surrounded by family, that sad lonely one that still sticks in the throat, and the magical white one from my youth. That one is easy to conjure up. I can see myself running American Flyer in hand, chocolate-milk mustached, in boots barely borne from the box, speeding up for a sleigh ride down the front street with brownstone grandstands and parked car spectators lining the downward-sloped snow covered pavement.

As sure as there would be joy at the bottom, there would be song later. Gathered together, in a choral phalanx with song sheets in hand, there would be Ms. Issacs, the retired school teacher in her plaid skirt and wool leggings; Jack, her adult son, who my dad always called the “career student;” Mr. and Mrs. Brown, the older couple, whose grandchildren lived in another state; Mr. Bob, the Korean War vet, who was wounded by friendly fire and a home-movie enthusiast; Mr. Gene, who showed Bugs Bunny shorts on his Super-8 projector; Ms. Charmainge, the mom who always had marshmallow and peanut butter sandwiches readily at hand; her husband Jim, who let us play step ball against his porch; Veronica Reinke, the classical musician, neighborhood piano teacher, and coral leader; all our parents and us, the kids: Shawn, Julie, Sherry, Ronnie, Robbie, Richy, the three Mikes, Pat, Greg, Debbie, Mark, Gino, Jason, Chrissie, and me. Ms. Reinke would hum the key and out would come the cannon of Christmas carols as we strolled from house to house in song.

Why is it that we don’t sing every day? Excluding the shower anthems and the children voicing songs from chorus class stuck in their heads, we rarely break into song to celebrate a day. Could we be forgetting how to carry a tune? Are we ashamed to hear our voices? Human voices, strung together, empower the spirit to soar. And if that sounds embarrassingly sentimental, than the point is well made. We pass eleven months and two weeks of every year in silence. Somehow singing has been hijacked and performed only by pros, or it is projected from the wings of pulpits.

I know what you are thinking: What about karaoke. Please . . . singing with a mic over a faux soundtrack is less than inspiring; there isn’t anything wrong with it, there just isn’t much right about it. Group song, two voices or more, is what we are missing from our day-to-day. Can we raise a mug in our taverns and lay out a melody to mark the pain and joy we all feel? On the sidelines can we not elegantly build a beautiful chorus of voices in harmony to insult the other side?

I know many of you have difficulty carrying a tune. This is all the more reason to join in communion. Invite someone over who can sing and stand close to him/her. Magically, you will sing in tune, I promise. Sing anything, too—not only carols or formal tunes. On a recent bachelor party I witnessed an ensemble of tipsy men break into song. It started slowly, but by the chorus the whole yellow bird was rocking “Come Sail Away” by Styx. Sure the “headed for the sky” line was a little scratchy, but the testosterone melded.

As a species we have a deep heritage of singing. And even as Americans our past was rich with voice. Our hush is a recent phenomenon. John Phillip Sousa, the great American composer, once testified in front of Congress that the technology of the day would inhibit the creative spirit in the everyday person. “These talking machines are going to ruin the artistic development of music in this country. When I was a boy in front of every house in the summer evenings you would find young people together singing the songs of the day or the old songs . . . We will not have a vocal chord left; they will be eliminated by a process of evolution as was the tail of man when he came from the ape.”

I am not advocating that we take back our tails, but wouldn’t it be nice to make music together with the very instrument we all can invoke. It is not called “glee” club by accident.

Well, I bought another holiday CD. You should too. I could point you in a direction but I won’t. There are ones that will uplift, entertain, take you down memory lane or make you feel you should be dressed up. Experience the joy of choosing yours and if you want to know mine, come on over. There will be hot tea with honey, some warm brandy, a guitar, a piano, sheets with lyrics, and plenty of room for another voice.