Department 56 Arrives

December 20, 2013

     Followed a semi full of rolled and tied Christmas tress, bumping along the highway, slowing down the terrific traffic. Reminds me of the Charlie Brown Christmas trees we always had, Taelor and I, from Norfolk pine plants, to Palm trees in Hawaii to Christmas cacti with ornaments weighing down the branches. I don’t have a tree this year, wasn’t in the plan for last year in Brasil. the year before that I was renting a room and that house was minus a tree as well.  

     In my Middle and High School years, we obtained our family Christmas trees from the Middle School across the street when Winter Break started. My mom collected them for the needy families and we nabbed one for our front room as well. As little children, we marched into the woods, following dad with an ax over his shoulder like Paul Bunyan, to choose just the perfect tree, that may have a slight lean to one side. He hacked away at it, and down it went with loud squeals of excitement from the little mob of a family crowded around.                  

     We weren’t a sit-on-Santa’s-lap-and-take-a-picture-at-the-Mall kind of family, so we avoided that fiasco. Memories of Christmas’ past with the family are blurry and unkempt. Far too early parental awakenings led to opening gifts Christmas Eve. I vaguely recall those Christmas mornings or the scenes that followed jumping on the parents in their bed. One present stands out-a dog robot that walked and it’s eyes lit-up when the switch was turned on. I adored that gift. It came with a leash and collar. I walked it everywhere, an attentive and responsible owner.   

     Our traditional Italian meal, a day-long preparation, home-made pasta strung on wire hangers around the kitchen, marinara sauce bubbling on the stove. Hunks of bread were dunked, sneaking samples of grandma’s famous recipe throughout the day. Home-made delectable pasta with to-die-for marinara sauce, scrumptious cannoli, mom’s famous meatballs (I was a meat-eater back then,) and crusty rolls were greedily consumed before the rituals began.

     Singing Christmas carols around the house, some of us laden with the nativity scene characters, including the cow, donkey and lambs, that strode along, though mute as stones, part of our Christmas Eve ordeal. I think candles were also involved. We resisted the tradition, in later years, but mom persisted so we sang and rolled our eyes back into our heads at one another a lot.

     Typically starting from the youngest to the oldest, we opened our gift, handing the present from the person sitting next to the tree, to the recipient. No gifts really stand out in my mind yet the sensation of family togetherness is powerful. Although Taelor and I have a very different tradition, we continue to honor our time alone and cherish the years we have as a family. It’s a Wonderful Life or another classic movie will be viewed, snuggled on the couch Christmas Eve.

     It had been three years since we arranged the North Pole Series Village. The little houses light-up, reindeer pull the sleigh with Santa aboard, and little people have fun among the festive snow-tipped trees. A jolly scene.

Horrible Horace

December 18, 2013

     My assignment is to write a Christmas story under seven hundred words, within thirty minutes:

Horace is saddled with his five year old daughter for Christmas this year. He inevitably works his sister then, mother, and when all else fails, his little rat of a brother, Stephen, to accept Josephina into their homes for a day or two, while he presumably scrambles for work to pay off his divorce debt, back child support and his snake charmer lawyer. In truth, he usually holes up in his fifth wheel, playing video games and gambling with the guys.

Driving home from the tool and die company where he works as a machinist, Horace catches sight of a white cat, black splotched across its head, skulking along the road, crossing, stopping, seemingly judging the driver’s compassion, before continuing onto the sidewalk. He grinned in admiration for its survival instincts, living outdoors in sub-zero weather, making it in the world. The question arose in his mind whether he had what it takes to thrive in the wilderness, alone and unprotected.

The first plea is to Candace, his baby sister, number uno on his speed dial. He drops his leather jacket on the worn plaid sofa and pushes the button with confidence. Candace adores Josephina but has three sons of her own that take up far too much of her time, needing to be carted from one sports event, part-time jobs, meals out with friends, the Mall or any other lame excuse to push their mom around. Horace jumps into his perfect solution for the both of them, by offering to drop off Josephina, pay for all of the kids to go to the movies, and he will pick them all up afterwards. Candace cuts her older sibling off before he gets three words out. She assures Horace that she would love to have Josephina come for the holidays but she and the family are all headed up to Truckee for a ski weekend at her best friend, Rhonda’s new boyfriend Chet’s perfect lakeside chalet. Sorry!

Horace jumps off the phone as though it is a time bomb and rings his mother. She is always complaining about her swollen legs, sore throat, throbbing back, or some other deadly ailment that will keep Josephina away from her house. Damn, he can hear her moaning before she even answers the phone! He cradles the cell on his shoulder and prepares for the whine. No answer. Without hesitation, and not without some relief, he hits number three, Stephen.

Stephen had much better luck with his high school sweetheart, Rosie. They have a house in Eldorado Hills, a membership to the Country Club, where Horace is currently banned from entering the bars, any of the restaurants, and the outdoor pool area, including the patio, and array of parking lots. Hard to get past feeling a bit smug about that incident. His brother always plays hard to get and in the end, usually can’t take the pressure, and he gives-in with a lot of fuss. Horace has his card ready. He bought tickets to the Kings, Stephen’s favorite team, and will gift them to his agreeable babysitting brother when the time is ripe.

Stephen lets the cell phone ring into voicemail. He got the phone call from Candy, the moment she hung up with Horace. He can play the game well too. Horace glances out the window during the recorded message and sees, much to his astonishment, a white cat with black blotches sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. It stopped, watching a sizeable dog approaching, its owner creeping far behind. The apparent canine attendee sees the cat and appears to call the dog, distracting it. As the pup turns to follow the owner’s direction, the feline continues down the cleared path.

The recorded message stopped and Horace left word that he is on his way over with Josephina, and she will be spending the night with Stephen and his family. She is, in fact, so looking forward to spending Christmas with Kelley and the rest of her awesome cousins.

Henri the Heroic Horse

December 17, 2013

     Henri, the mini horse died today. He was the sweetest little pony that frequented the local nursing home, to nuzzle the elderly, delight the staff, nibble on baby carrots, and make new friends. It was sad, sad news. I am sorry for his owners as well as all of the others, who have been so deeply touched by this pretty little horse. Difficult having these wondrous creatures in our lives, knowing they leave behind a vast abyss, when they depart.

     This is the season for losing folks (and animals) as you may know. People tend to break away during the holidays, leave the suffering, weak bodies, loneliness, aftermath of disease, heartache, and agonizing pain behind. It is difficult to imagine why they would choose to exit, especially when there are family members, loved ones who weep and mourn their death. Yet, I look at the 90^th birthday photo of a friend’s mother, who lost her husband this summer. Her face shines vacant and weary, worn and empty, with an Alzheimer’s stare. She disappears into the lap of her son, melding into the Christmas tree behind. I pray she still has the ability to experience joy, the passion of life and awe of each breath.

     When a child leaves, it becomes an even greater challenge to accept the loss. I recall a young couple, very close friends of my boyfriend, whose daughter drown in the pool out back. The words, tragic accident, are unfulfilling in this case. I recall the victim’s father, Brian’s face, just after, pale, astonished, disbelieving and terrified. The faith, he once carried like a sure trophy, was swiped, when he failed to turn in time, to see her sink to the bottom. Brian had left the gate unlatched to the pool as he ran to his truck for the contract. The family Black Labrador, barking frantically at the descending form, alerted his business partner. The ambulance was beckoned, arrived seemingly in time, yet the EMT, unable to resuscitate, switched off his siren, in dejection, on the way to the hospital. Brian, following in his work truck, at a racecar pace, nearly crashed in horror. It was clear he had to be the one to tell his wife, the mother of their three year old, that she was dead, because of his neglect.

     As much as we plead, beg, promise, scream, cry, pant, rave, stomp and wail, it does not change the outcome. Prayers certainly help one feel productive and calmer, sometimes. The aftermath is traumatic and everyone has to deal with it in their own way, their own time. I can only promise to listen, lend an ear, make a dish, take over the laundry, send a card, hold a hand, and listen. Nothing is worse that having someone you care about suffer the emptiness and loss. Yet, it is inevitable.

     I am sorry for your loss.      

In a Pickle

December 16, 2013

     My friend in Washington state had just donated a significant amount of money to the Tent City Project in Seattle. The work is a homeless encampment in a large parking lot, housed at places of worship, which allows about one hundred people to set up tents on the property each night. The donations are applied to dumpsters, porta potties and a shower. As my buddy left the agency and his large check behind, he shared his donator's remorse, kicking himself for giving away so much of his hard-earned income. While he visited the local Walgreens to pick up some supplies, he berated himself. The exit door swung open, a gust of wind pinched the receipt out of his hand, and it stuck onto the wet pavement. As he reached for the paper, he spotted a shiny object, just beyond the document, scooped it up and discovered a considerable diamond had been lying there. True story. This happened to be the exact day I took a sprawl across the wide city street.

     My fall-down-and-go-boom incident was a bigger deal than I had anticipated. I finally sat still, that evening, and the knee swelled, became excruciatingly painful, bad enough to toss and turn all night as I poured water into the hot water bottle, exchanging that for two ice packs every twenty minutes, to apply to my bad left knee. The injury is debilitating enough for me to request the guy upstairs do the shoveling from a recent snowfall. A very uncommon act since he works 13 hour days, seven days a week. I am humbled to texting him with an awkward plea. My dog looks longingly at the door, pacing between back and front access, yet I cannot risk the fall while giving him a romp. He simply has to be willing to feel restless and bored with me, lounging on the couch, and in bed all this time. He’ll gain an extra bone in his stocking, when I can get out to shop.

Ghost Tales

December 15, 2013

     “In The Middle” CD release is happening at Famous Dave’s restaurant in Uptown tonight. Kevin Pertinen and Tony Comeau are shining the audience with their tunes, sweating under the sweltering stage lights as we clap and cheer them on. Friends I have not seen for over fifteen years meet us at the joint, encouraging us to partake in the slabs of meat coagulating on a platter in the center of the table. I brought home my share for the dog since everyone got their fill. Will make up for not having an evening walk, I’ll bet.

Mostly hefty folks in the crowd, slithering along the dance floor, using up so many glasses, the bar is constantly running out and we are forced to wait a lifetime for our drinks. I chat with Tony’s parents a bit and find out he plays at the Ocean Shores Music Festival in Washington state, within long spitting distance to where I ventured quite a few times.

      The fact that there are CD’s for sale at the front of the establishment is announced repeatedly and I pray KP sells enough to cover his production costs. The young whippersnappers have gone in the red to get their music out into the world. It is incredible to witness just how much fun they have on stage, sharing themselves, their skills, and energy. Tony is an incredible fiddler, exceedingly shy (hope I am not revealing his secret) and humble about his talents.  

      I am thankful to be out of the cold, having a tumbler of Summit in front of me, until the darned empty flung itself on the floor on its own fruition. I kid you not, the fan above the table tossed my mug and earlier, another woman’s full Light Coors on the tiles below. No wonder the place runs out of glasses so rapidly.

Sideways

December 14, 2013

Well, I got slipping on the ice, cracking my bony left knee on the asphalt, flinging my body across two lanes of a busy street, out of the way this winter season. My sunglasses flew to the other side of the big patch of glass as I glance up to see a young guy, staring at me from the corner of the crosswalk, seemingly oblivious to my shaken form, and obvious distress. When I met up with him in the Half Price Book Shop moments later, he met my eye without a glimmer of compassion. Then again we swish past, rounding a corner in the travel section. He couldn’t be moved to pass a kind word. I’m dismayed.

Crossing the street, after browsing aimlessly in the store for forty-five minutes, I commented on the perilous ice, to the woman wobbling next to me in fashionable high black boots. She shared that she had fallen, on her journey in the opposite direction, awhile ago. Claimed she splayed on the concrete while people drove past, knowing she was a spectacle, and she was helpless to do anything about it. We commiserated and parted ways. I gave her arm a brief squeeze before stalking the slush to the parked car.

I feel wary and anxious, traumatized by the fall, hours later. Arnica rub helps the stiffness in my joint but the suffering from vulnerability will not recede. Suppose dark chocolate meant for someone’s stocking will come in handy.

Bad Luck

     No wonder I got stood up for a Progressive Dinner tonight…it’s Friday, December 13, 2013. Shoulda saw it coming.

     Got Mrs B in her new flannel pajamas, all snuggly and warm after a shower, hemmed the pants (before helping her into them) and set her up at the table with pot roast, sautéed onions, broccoli, side salad and buttered toast. The oven was full-up with a pork lion, slab of meatloaf, marinated chicken breast, pan of curly fries with seasoned tilapia cooking in a frying pan on the stove, vegetables steaming and three eggs getting hard-boiled. This is my life on Friday nights. We opened the mail, I wrote five Christmas cards on her behalf, massaged and wrapped her bloated legs, dripped eye drops, cleaned the bathrooms, kitchen floor, counter tops and loaded up plates for the next four nights. In the back of my mind, I was preparing for a fun night out with friends. They would be nibbling hors d'oeuvres, moving onto the dinner spot, awaiting my phone call.

     It was later than I expected before I got out to my vehicle. My cell phone was acting up, spinning the numbers and not connecting properly so I had to take out the battery and re-set it, while shivering in the parking lot of Mrs. B’s apartment complex. I refer to the area as  The Ice Skating Rink since I pray, when I walk through the exit door, that I don’t fall flat on my face, purse flying across the slick concrete, contents spewing with embarrassment.

     Pushed the CALL button for one friend, no response, the next friend didn’t pick up so I chose to drive home versus drive around the city, attempting to locate the party. Sigh. Very disappointed. Friday the 13^th struck.