Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Monday, December 26, 2011
Well, it's official: I have been named the Bitch Who Stole Christmas. Yay me.
A family member we'll call "Snark" sent me an eVite for an Eve-Before-Christmas-Eve party - the day before the party. The eVite was to me and my mother. The party was at a locale an hour away and my mother didn't feel up to attending and I'm not exactly feeling festive and didn't want to spend two hours driving to and from a party, leaving my mother home alone. Everyone involved knows my mother is recuperating from heart surgery and that I'm unemployed and in foreclosure. So I didn't think declining the invitation was a big deal, especially since the invitation was only extended the day prior to the event. Apparently I was wrong.
"Snark" forwarded my politely worded decline to her eVite to several (pretty much all) of my family and added her comments about me. Unfavorable comments. Another family member then joined in the fun and added comments about me (mostly unfavorable) and forwarded those comments to three family members. One of those family members added more unfavorable comments about me and hit reply all. All included everyone who received any of the emails in the thread. All included me because the original email was from me to "Snark."
Yeah.
Merry fucking swutting Christmas.
This year I received a very special gift, a gift that money can't buy. Insight into what my family really thinks about me.
I am The Bitch Who Stole Christmas.
I'm okay with that. I know I'm not quite myself. I try to hide the negative moods, I try to at least put on my party face around other people. When I can't snap out of a funk I avoid other people until I can fake a smile or two. I have made it my mission to not be Debbie Downer during the past two years. (Excluding the blog - which is my escape. Sorry. But you choose to be here, you know what you're in for when you come here.) And there are a few people who have valid reasons to make some unfavorable comments about me.
However.
"Snark" is not one of them.
However.
I would like to note a few facts about "Snark." (This is the part of the blog where I self-indulgently vent out an "after all I've done for you?!" rant. Sorry. It's been a difficult couple of days and I need to get this out of my system without, you know, making matters worse in real life. It's my blog and I'll rant if I want to. You might want to just skip ahead.
1) "Snark" is a very vocal Buddhist who berates, bashes and makes fun of Christianity and Judaism and all who follow those faiths. "Snark" does this on Facebook, in emails and especially at family functions where most in attendance are Christian or Jewish. Including my mother. (I know. I know.) "Snark's" judgmental mindset, intolerance and lack of respect for other religious and spiritual views is obviously not very Buddhist. And the hostility in "Snark's" venom-laden remarks about Christianity is bordering on an anger management issue. And yet..."Snark" eagerly accepts Christmas presents and hosts an annual large Eve Before Christmas Eve party. And "Snark" is offended when people, family members, me, politely decline the invitation to the Eve Before Christmas Eve party. Even when well-known and valid reasons for not attending are cited.
2) "Snark" was born when I was 17. I have attended: Baby showers for "Snark." Pre-school, Kindergarten, Fifth grade, eighth grade, high school and college graduations for "Snark." And all the dance recitals, scouting events, bake sales, craft fairs, choir concerts, school plays, soccer games, track meets in-between. I have bought raffle tickets, wrapping paper, baked goods, magazine subscriptions, an countless donations from or for "Snark." I gave "Snark's" class art lessons so they could make a huge mural for their class civic project. I took "Snark" and "Snark's" friends, to see Weezer, Garbage, Slipknot, Incubus, and Marilyn Manson when they were in high school and the parents didn't want to go - but didn't want the kids to attend unchaperoned. I even left them alone so they could pretend they didn't have a chaperone. Get this: I even took them to see Insane Clown Posse. Which was literally my worst nightmare come to life. Yes. I, who am horrified of clowns, took a car full of high school kids to see Insane Clown Posse because their own parents wouldn't attend or allow them to attend without an adult. I'm still not emotionally solvent from that experience. If that's not sincere love and devotion...
3) When "Snark" was prepping for the SAT some shortcomings in "Snark's" education became apparent and the test-prep class offered little tutelage in certain areas. Guess who helped raise "Snark's" verbal SAT score?
4) Once in college, there was some, um, "trouble" that included alcohol, a party and the law. Guess who "Snark" called for help?
5) Here's what really gets me, though. There were some years when "Snark" was young and "Snark's" parents were going through a very, very nasty divorce and "Snark's" mother had very little money. "Snark's" mother had a rum-soaked mini-breakdown at the family Christmas Eve party - she was upset her kids (including "Snark") wouldn't have much from Santa but she was embarrassed to ask anyone for help. I took Snark's mother and my credit card and made a mad-last-minute-dash through three stores on Christmas Eve. Santa came through for "Snark" that year (and a couple more years) when there was no way "Snark's" mother could have managed to buy many, if any, presents for "Snark" and "Snark's" siblings. I'm pretty sure "Snark" doesn't know that Santa was me (and my parents) during those years, and I don't want "Snark" to know this. But. I know this.
And so, coming from "Snark," (of all people) the unfavorable comments about me are particularly hurtful.
And so, I'm left wondering if I am the Bitch Who Stole Christmas, if I am as awful as "Snark" and the other taunters said I am in their emails.
And so, this is Christmas.
I always console myself that, even as good friends dwindle and fade, no matter how craptacular my life gets, no matter what, hey, I have family who loves me and believes in me.
Now...well...apparently I can't console myself with that, either.
Oh sure, my mother loves me and believes in me. But. She's somewhat biased. Her judgment is clouded by the fact that she pushed me out of her vagina.
I'm fairly certain the Trill-bashing emails didn't stem solely because I declined a last minute party eVite. I'm pretty sure events of the past few months built up to the free-for-all Trill-bashing email hootenanny.
You how I've been unemployed for two years? And you know how I'm in foreclosure? And have about 30¢ to my name? Yeah. Well. Back in September a family member (not "Snark") brought up that buying holiday gifts was going to put a strain on the budget and that "we" should talk to other family members about cutting back on the gift-giving, maybe draw names or just forgo holiday gifts this year. I concurred and said, "Yes, 'we' should have a talk with the others..." That family member talked to another family member who also agreed that scaling back on gifts would be a welcomed financial relief. So, I talked to a few others who also agreed that money is tight and an agreement to cut back on holiday gifts, the exception being the children. The word was spreading and the Gift Reduction Plan was gaining momentum.
So, the original family member who brought up the idea in the first place suggested I draft an email and "we" would send it out to all the gift-related family members. I combined and encapsulated the accumulated suggestions and drafted an email.
It went something like this,
"We've been talking...and it seems some of us are thinking perhaps this would be a good year to scale back on the holiday gifts. Many of us don't need or want anything (except health and jobs, natch!) and others of us can't afford to spend much on gifts and feel awkward when when we receive more lavish gifts than we can afford to give. Others who live in far-flung locales are finding it increasingly difficult to know what gifts would be most appreciated. Whatever the personal reasons, most of us agree that it's time to scale back on gifts.
We also agree, though, that we all have to agree on this plan. A few ideas that have been suggested are:
1) Secret Santa! Adults will draw a name and buy only one gift for whomever they draw.
2) Price fixing! Set an agreed upon price limit on gifts for adults and children. Note: It's crucial that everyone adheres to the price limit.
3) Give of ourselves! Instead of an item, give of ourselves, a real gift of spirit, give a service, like babysitting or photography or teaching a useful skill.
4) Regift! Not a white elephant! For instance, if you know 15-year-old Billy covets your Joy Division LP, difficult as it might be to part with it, maybe it's time to pass it on to a new generation. If Margie always comments on how much she adores your pink pearl earrings and you rarely wear them, why not give them to Margie? You have two Dremels and Mike doesn't have one and you know he could really use one, voila! gift. Or, somehow, ahem, you ended up with a couple serving pieces of Great Aunt Clara's silver and cousin Sue has the rest of the silver service, how about a silver family reunion?
5) Donations! If you really want to spend money on family gifts, how about donating the money you'd spend on a gift to each person's favorite charity?
Thoughts? Ideas? Let's try to reach an agreement in the next few weeks. If you've already started your holiday shopping, perhaps we can cut back this year and fully implement a new holiday gift agreement for next year."
Okay. So, the family members who were in on the discussion thought the email sounded good, signed off on it and 'we' sent it to all the family.
As you can probably guess, the response was almost immediate and immediately split the family into two sides. Side 1) Those who were tremendously relieved that finally, someone had the guts to speak up and suggest cutting back on the holiday gifts. And Side 2) Those who were tremendously offended and/or angry at even thinking about imposing standards on holiday gifts.
The responses were almost unanimously either (verbatim), "Oh, thank God someone finally suggested this! I'm still paying off the credit card I used for gifts last year." Or. "I'll give whatever I damn well please to whomever I damn well please!"
Ultimately it was left to each person to decide what they wanted to "do" about gifts this year and we'd reconvene and revisit the issue for next year.
So, I sent an email speaking only for myself.
"Hi, me again. Okay, now that we've sort of figured out this year's gift plan and will continue the discussion in early 2012, I'm requesting that you all keep me off your gift shopping lists this year. As you know, the past couple years have been difficult for me and most of my possessions are packed and in storage - in a storage unit that is stuffed to capacity. There's truly nothing I need or want (other than a job, har har!) and I would honestly love for you to spend the money on the children or yourselves instead. I can't afford to shop for gifts and I'll be embarrassed if I can't reciprocate your (albeit well-intentioned) gifts.
Also, as you know, my mother has been going through a lot of health issues and she has not been feeling well enough to shop for gifts. She also asks that you scale back on gifts for her this year."
Okay, so, it's not exactly the cheeriest pre-holiday greeting, but I kind of had to say something, right?
Well, as you probably also guessed, "Snark" and the other Trillian-bashers were the ones who a) fell into the "offended by the mere suggestion of a gift reduction plan" side, and b) assumed there wasn't actually a group of us who who wanted to cut back, that it was only me behind the gift reduction plan.
So, that's been brewing since September. And apparently my eVite decline was the carte blanche to bash they were waiting for and they wasted no time bashing me like an ugly Piñata.
I was already feeling low about a lot of holiday issues.
No money for gifts.
No job = no office parties or colleague holiday get-together. Which sounds like a good thing, but oddly enough, I miss those professional obligations. They speak to a level of professionalism. Job = professionalism. Professionalism = career. Career = obligations. Obligations = sense of security.
Last year I got creative with gift-giving. I offered my services to family and friends. I taught digital photography basics, PhotoShop basics, gave babysitting services and offered to archive and organize digital photos and music. It seemed to be appreciated. I know some people were just being polite, but, I know others have put what I taught them to good use and appreciate what I gave them. And they also mentioned that they liked "having an excuse" to get together after the holidays.
Unfortunately I've kind of exhausted my skills-set and recipients who would appreciate my skills.
So, when a family member made the "not a White-elephant regift" idea, I thought it might be a good idea. And let's face it, my remaining possessions are all I have to offer. So, as I packed up my condo I kept out items that thought family members would like. Instead of selling LPs, jewelry and books, I set some aside for family and friends who I knew would enjoy and appreciate them. And, in the case of a few family heirlooms, I decided it's time to pass them along to a younger generation. I'm obviously not going to have children, these things need to stay in the family, so, instead of storing them or hanging onto them, I decided to give them to other people in family.
That aforementioned Joy Division LP? Yeah. I have an ultra-rare edition. When I sold some CDs and LPs to a local record dealer he offered me a handsome price for that LP (and a few others). I opted to hang onto it and few others, and in the back of my mind I thought, "I know a couple people who would really enjoy these, I'd rather give them the albums than sell them..." "Snark's" spouse is one of the people I had in mind when I thought that thought. I had "Snark" in mind for my grandmother's crystal. A pair of sapphire in platinum earrings that were my aunts' were wrapped for a family member whom I know thought was going to inherit them. Some of my best-loved (and in good shape) childhood books were wrapped and given to four-year-old twins who have exhausted the supply of four-year-old kid books at their local library.
It did cross my mind that it might seem kind of, you know, macabre for the recipients to receive "gifts" of my possessions. It might feel like pillaging through a dead person's belongings...before they die. And I was struggling with that. I didn't want to make anyone feel weird or awkward or embarrassed.
And of course I know that, technically, it's tacky. It is a really tacky thing to do. These are not new gifts. They are used personal possessions or heirlooms that I didn't pay for in the first place. I know this.
But, I can't buy gifts and since "we" couldn't agree to discontinue the family gift-giving tradition, I was left with no choices.
So, I wrapped up my possessions for family and friends. If I knew someone really liked a particular item of mine, I wrapped it up with a note that said, "You have mentioned how much you like this, I've had it a while, it's time for someone else to enjoy it, so, enjoy!"
The people who I thought might be the most sensitive about my situation and would be upset about me giving away my possessions as gifts received something else: Air miles. I have an insane amount of air miles. Enough domestic round-trip tickets to give a lot of people a trip anywhere they'd like to go in the continental United States. (I also used some of those miles as donations to charities that I normally support with money. You do know you can donate your air miles to charity, right?)
I wasn't exactly "happy" about my gift choices, I'd rather have a job and a home and money to buy presents for family and friends. But. Life + Lemons = Lemonade.
By the time the week before Christmas rolled around and I trekked off to UPS to send gifts to far-flung relatives and to my mother's house for the holiday parties, I was feeling okay it. I even convinced myself that they were heartfelt gifts and therefore would be well-received. I had faith in my family. Because, I have a family who loves me and believes in me.
"Think about it, Trill" I told myself schlepping back from UPS in an icy December downpour, "[a close family member] buys the same thing for everyone for Christmas. No thought, no personalized sentiment, just a generic one-gift-fits-all gift."
Yes. A teenaged snowboarding, punk loving boy gets the same gift as a middle-aged mom whose passion is crocheting toys that look like food with googly eyes. "Where's the heartfelt thought in that?" I reasoned, "why bother giving a gift just for the sake of giving a gift? If you can't spend 10 minutes thinking about the recipient and what they're like and what they enjoy and a figure out a gift that speaks to their personality and likes, should you even be giving them a gift?!"
Really getting on a roll, I further delved into my self-consolation and gift-puffery. "And what about [another family member] who gives cash or VISA gift cards? I mean, seriously! Sheesh! Talk about inconsiderate and putting zero effort into the holiday spirit. 'Here's $15, go buy yourself something. I couldn't be bothered to spend any time or effort to buy you a gift, so you do it.'" Yeah!! My gifts, my possessions shared and thoughtfully meted out among my family and friends say, "I remember how much you liked this" or "I know how much you enjoy this" and "I'm selflessly giving you something of mine, something I know you like, too." I talked myself into believing that I would be a living example of how we could move forward, as a family, with our holiday gift-giving traditions.
Or so I thought until I got that fateful email chain with all the mocking and bashing.
And all my self-pep talk evaporated into the dark recesses of my psyche from whence they came.
By the time I received the email many of the gifts were already sent and either opened or under trees in far-flung locales waiting to be opened. There was nothing I could do except hope that one day I'll get a job that offers limitless psychotherapy as part of their healthcare plan.
I don't have regrets. I really don't. Regrets are useless. Hindsight can be helpful. But regrets are useless wastes of emotional energy.
But.
After I read the insults, jokes and nasty comments my family wrote about me I was (am): Angry. Embarrassed. Hurt. And regretful.
I could have sold that Joy Division LP for a lot of money. I could have sold those sapphire in platinum earrings for almost a month of mortgage and utility payments. I could have used those air miles to fly a lot of places. I could have given my grandmother's crystal to a friend who, ironically, inherited a very similar set but with far fewer pieces and spends weekends haunting flea markets trying to find more pieces. Those books were my childhood friends, I loved them, I learned how to read with those books and consequently they opened up the world and my imagination. But no. I opted to give these things, my things, to family members who didn't want to give up the family gift-giving tradition. And now there they were making fun of me and insulting me.
It was like some sick mean girls version of the Gift of the Magi.
After that accidental reply-all email no one said or emailed or texted anything. My family members' Facebook walls became eerily silent.
I allowed myself a good pout and a few tears and made myself get over it then and there. Some of the presents hadn't been opened, and some of them were still in my control. I could withhold them.
Or, I could just continue as planned, give the gifts, say nothing about the email, and paste the warmest, charmingest smile on my face at the holiday get-together.
Which was, of course, the "best" plan of action. Kill 'em with kindness. Let them think and say whatever they want about me. Rise above. Lead by example, not react by insult. Eventually I'll devolve into the eccentric old spinster of the family and this year will serve as a benchmark, the year they first started noticing "odd" things about Trillian.
However.
Regardless of what the rest of my family decides to "do" about holiday gifts next year, the only person who will receive a gift from me is my mother. And not just because she pushed me out of her vagina. She's the one who taught me that grace, dignity and emotional maturity matter and that spite never feels as good as you think it will.
However, as far as gifts for next year are concerned, if I'm to be given the title Bitch Who Stole Christmas, then I might as well live up to it. And, it feels kind of liberating. Or, at least I'm choosing to feel liberated. Insight into your relatives' opinions is hurtful and upsetting, but, it can also be helpful. The blind devotion and respect we often give our family members, simply because they're family, isn't always deserved. That doesn't mean a tit-for-tat game is appropriate. My mother's right, spite never feels as good as you think it will. Retaliation rarely satisfies. But knowing your family doesn't respect or care about you or your feelings means you don't have to do all the things, give all the gifts or attend all the events.
Meanwhile, I hope you have a nice holiday and wish you well for 2012.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Ahhhh, it's the most wonderful time of the year.
Fa la la la whatever.
Have you seen the ad about "being the Santa you want to be" this year? I also saw a jewelry ad coaxing men to get in touch with their inner Santa and buy their women diamonds. The ending fade-out implies that undying love, respect, faithfulness and a lot of sex, even the stuff she doesn't usually like to do, will follow.*
This whole be all the Santa you can be and finding your inner Santa stuff has reminded me about a classmate when I was 6.
He was known as The Jesus Kid. I can sense you rolling your eyes in instant recognition of the person whose memory I just conjured. There was a Jesus Kid in your class, too. I've learned almost everyone had a Jesus kid in their class or school.
I also realize you are surprised to learn my school's Jesus kid wasn't me. Yes, at age 6 I was still a Jesus enthusiast. But I've always been extremely secular. Even in my most fervent and zealous Jesus years it was deeply personal to me. I wasn't ashamed or embarrassed about my religion and I don't remember anyone telling me to keep it on the down-low in public. It was just always a very personal "this is between me, God and Jesus" thing for me. Plus being raised old school Methodist/Presbyterian instilled me that humility matters most and anything remotely resembling bragging, boasting or showboating is not only socially boring, it's morally wrong and spiritually offensive. We are mere mortals. Period. Know your place in this life. Mere. Mortal. Humble servant. There's a fine line between proclaiming your creator and self righteous bragging. Going around spouting holier than thou about your relationship with Jesus/God or anyone immortal could backfire on you on judgment day. I erred on the side of caution and kept my thoughts and beliefs on religion between me and the Holy Men lest I cross the line into self righteous bragging. It was just safer.
And when I entered that classroom and discovered that The Jesus Kid was the class butt of jokes and subject of ridicule the lesson was cemented. I soon discovered The Jesus Kid's religious zeal wasn't really the reason why he was the butt of jokes and subject of ridicule. He was fairly good at math but fairly bad at all other subjects. He was still struggling with his alphabet, for crying out loud. Oh. And he smelled funny.
I was momentarily relieved that the class already had a whipping boy. I selfishly thought that finally some of the teasing aimed at me would subside, or could at least be deflected onto The Jesus Kid, or, maybe, just maybe, The Jesus Kid and I could form some sort of alliance.
I was six. I didn't fully understand the intricacies of social justice in the classroom. But I was learning. I'd not yet read Lord of the Flies and did not realize that life was imitating art right there in my classroom. 8 years later, when I did read Lord of the Flies, I struggled to get through it because I couldn't stop crying. The tears wouldn't stop welling in my eyes. It hit home in ways I don't think Golding could have imagined when he penned it.
This is going somewhere, I promise.
The Jesus Kid and I did not form a bullying victim alliance. He turned out to be mean. I suppose all the bullying and his personal struggle with, you know, the alphabet, took a heavy toll on him. I did feel sorry for him and I didn't tease him - I was never a teaser. a) I never wanted to tease anyone, b) it wasn't my style, and c) I never had the opportunity. I was always at the bottom of the classroom social hierarchy and therefore teasing was strictly forbidden.
I wasn't initially aware of the parallels between classroom humility and religious humility, but a few years later (before Lord of the Flies) I made the connection and knew at some point I would have to decide if this was a personality trait, a quirk of my individual DNA, or if it was something I was learning. This realization hit me during my introduction to the concept of nature v. nurture. Gregor Mendel was merely a science lesson about beans to most of the kids, but for me a light bulb of awareness clicked on and after that I started weighing everything on the scales of nature v. nurture. "Is he mean just because that's who he is, or is he mean because that's how he is?"
Right.
The Jesus Kid.
I soon learned why he was known as The Jesus Kid. No, he didn't go around quoting scripture or talking about Jesus. No he didn't condemn the rest of us kids to eternal damnation. He did pray before eating his lunch, but some of the other kids did, too, so that wasn't enough to earn him the mocking moniker. He was tagged The Jesus Kid because he was not allowed to sing Santa Claus songs. He was not allowed to even talk about Santa, even utter Santa's name. He did not believe in Santa. He believed (Believed) in Jesus.
You know, okay. Fine, cool, whatever. But here's the thing. He was so devout and steadfast in his conviction that he refused to even sing the name Santa in songs. (This was in a very, very small town back in the days long before political correctness and zealous litigation.) I later discovered his conviction over Santa was really just a deep, deep fear of being found out and then beaten by his extremely pious parents.
Ours was a religious town, but a very secular one. We said the pledge, every day, one nation, under God, and it was totally okay if we included Jesus in our Christmas/Easter drawings. (yes, Christmas and Easter were talked about in the classroom, primarily because that's when we had vacation during the school year.) But if you wanted to pray or really talk about religion in school you went to the Catholic school. The Jesus Kid's refusal to sing Santa songs was fine with our music teacher and holiday pageant director. He didn't have to participate.
But.
He wanted to participate.
So. He hit upon the idea of replacing Santa with Jesus, and Santa Claus with Jesus Christ. So, "Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus Lane" became "Here comes Jesus Christ, here comes Jesus Christ, right down Jesus Christ Lane."
The Jesus Kid especially loved Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Go ahead, sing Rudolph and replace Santa with Jesus. I'll give you a minute.
Yeah. I know.
The Jesus Kid was an idiot savant.
For me it was akin to learning Dark Side of the Moon syncs with Wizard of Oz. Just a coincidence, but wow, that's kind of weird. It's kind of uncanny. It illustrates Jesus' love of animals and those less fortunate along with lessons of forgiveness, humility, acceptance, His almighty light and salvation found by following said light.
But of course I didn't understand the deeper meaning behind Rudolph when Santa replaces Jesus. That didn't occur to me until much later (probably about the time I was sobbing through Lord of the Flies). The Jesus Kid was just a kid who smelled funny, didn't know the alphabet, didn't believe in Santa Claus and got teased by the other kids.
I foolishly thought we might have some common ground vis a vis the teasing and that we could be, if not friends, at least friendly.
That's when I discovered that The Jesus Kid was mean. When my other classmates mocked, cajoled, tormented, teased and generally picked on me for being tall/smart/a good drawer/whatever they deemed mockworthy that day** The Jesus Kid immediately joined in the mockery. I quickly realized The Jesus Kid was beyond thrilled that a kid other than him was being picked on and consequently seized upon the opportunity to a) bask in the glory of not being teased, and b) be the one throwing out the insults instead of receiving them.What would Jesus do? Well, not that. So much for the Jesus Kid walking in the light of the Lord.
Nonetheless, I extended an olive branch of peace and hope to him in the form of offering to help him with his alphabet and reading. Mindful of his feelings, I tried to make it sound not like charity but instead a partnership. I'd help him with his reading if he'd help me with my subtraction.
The Jesus Kid wouldn't have anything to do with that plan. "Figure out your own subtraction problems. Hey, the new tall girl can't do subtraction!! Ha ha!!" (Could have said, "Et tu, Jesus Kid, et tu? I can to do subtraction, it just takes me a long time to figure it out. And I know my alphabet, even backwards, and I even read chapter books. And I don't smell funny. Like some other kids whose name I won't mention, Jesus Kid." Instead said: Nothing.)
For that reason I held The Jesus Kid in higher contempt than some of the other kids who teased me. He should have had more empathy and compassion for a kid being teased. Stupid, smelly Jesus Kid. I kept my distance from him. Forever.
Except during the holiday pageant season when I had to stand next to him during two songs. So I had to hear him singing Jesus instead of Santa in all our songs.
To this day when I hear a Santa song I chuckle at the irony of replacing Santa with Jesus.
Maybe it's the press the atheist billboards are getting, or the retaliatory "Jesus is the reason for the season" billboards, or the whole "I will say Merry Christmas, dammit" blogging, or maybe it's because I'm unemployed and poor so I notice this year's marketing more. Whatever the reason, the "be the Santa you want to be" and "find your inner Santa," has triggered a lot of memories of The Jesus Kid. I've been mentally swapping Santa with Jesus, "Be the Jesus you want to be," "find your inner Jesus," and the ironies are making me laugh. And opened the floodgates of my personal issues.
Of all people, you'd think a confused, unemployed, single, childless agnostic would be the first to either a) jump on the Scrooge wagon or b) rally against religion-based marketing.
I'm not big on The Holidays. I'm especially not big on the marketing of The Holidays. Regardless of my feelings about Jesus now, it's weird (and for Believers, blasphemous) to use Jesus as a means to a capitalistic end. "It's Christmas! Buy presents! Expensive presents! Prove how much you love/care about your family and friends by spending a lot of money on stuff to wrap up and give as a way to honor Jesus' birth." Even if they leave Jesus out of it, retailers are advertising for Christmas sales, cashing in on religion. Using a religious holiday for commercial profit is a long standing tradition, predates Jesus. But I dunno, I suppose it's the religious humility that was instilled in me, cashing in on religion, using religion, especially Jesus (of all people) to hawk diamonds and cars seems really obtuse.
And since my dad died Christmas has been...difficult. To say the least. My dad loved Christmas. I mean, he loved it. Everything about it. He embraced it with such enthusiasm it was impossible to remain Grinchy around him. His religious humility took a vacation during December. Outdoor lighting displays, indoor lighting displays, there wasn't a room in the house that wasn't decorated for Christmas. And: Presents. Lots and lots and lots of presents. Both my parents got a little nuts with Christmas presents, even my mother. Oh, she tried to keep us humble with gifts of socks and underwear, but, her attempts were feeble and would never stand up in court. "Yes, yes, we see Exhibit A, the socks, but enter Exhibit B, a Barbie Dreamhouse with furniture and a Barbie pool (sold separately, some assembly required)."
To be fair, though, my parents were equally zealous about the Christ part of Christmas. Sure, we had a countdown to Christmas calendar with Santa and reindeer shaped chocolates, but right next to it was an advent wreath with lights for each Sunday in advent and special prayers for each light. Sure, from December 1 to December 26 the hi-fi was loaded with the Chipmunks, Johnny Mathis, Bing Crosby and Rudolph/Santa songs, but there was also Handel, and every version of Silent Night, First Noel and O, Come All Ye Faithful ever recorded. Sure, hundreds of cookies were baked, but huge boxes of food were collected and distributed to needy families and charities. Sure, we had a lavishly adorned Santa in sleigh with reindeer (all of them, Rudolph with his nose so bright, actually lit with a bulb my dad engineered, leading the pack) flying across the wall above the fireplace mantel, but on the mantel was a large, ornately carved and back-lit Creche. There were a lot of presents under the heavily decorated tree, but there were a lot of donations of money and time to charities, too. I'm not saying they got the balance right, or that the mixed messages didn't result in a lot of religious confusion. But. It was the one facet of my childhood that was (I think) normal in comparison to other kids of my demographic.
My parents knew all the stuff of Christmas could go away and we'd still have a celebration. The stuff was just icing on Jesus' birthday cake and as good excuse as any to let themselves go a bit more than usual. Be a little showy, spoil the kids a little. We all knew the exuberance and abundance weren't what the holiday was about, and I never expected to find a bacchanalia of childhood fantasies spread out for me on Christmas morning. I was always truly surprised, every year, that I was given anything other than socks and underwear.
But since my dad died my mother just doesn't have it in her to do all the Christmas stuff. She misses my dad too much. She does the Jesus stuff, church, charities, but the rest of it? Well, let's just say Santa isn't jovially riding across the wall above the fireplace and there's not a lot of music in the house this time of year. And that's fine with me. We're not Scrooge-y or Grinch-y, "all that" holiday stuff is fine for other people. But it just makes my father's absence even more conspicuous and painful. We're "down to basics" as my mother says. So the advertising and marketing of Christmas seems even more glaring in the stark contrast to our "down to basics" Christmases.
Something that always surprised me was that after I parted ways with religion I still liked Christmas. Not the presents, or the marketing or the holiday travel. I could have seized those aspects and held them up as proof of the sham and mockery of religion. But I didn't/don't feel that way. Some may call me a hypocrite because of this, but, I like the "real" aspects of Christmas. I like being with my family (yes, even my sister). I like the ideals of Christmas. Heck, I like the message of Christmas. To be clear, I like the messages of Jesus. I'm down with the emotional, intellectual and spiritual ideals of Jesus. There's a lot of good stuff to be learned from the New Testament regardless of your belief in the messenger. (Messenger?) No matter what was going on with my family, or in the world, Christmas was always the same with my family. I could count on it. In all the zeal and festooning of Christmas, somehow my parents managed to exude an air of calm. Yep. Amidst all that holiday hoopla there was always an overriding sense of peace and calm during the holidays. Busy, bustling, but not frantic or crazed. (Come to think of it, my parents did drink a bit more than usual during the holidays.) I don't know how they did it because December was always packed with non-stop activities and errands and stuff to do, but either they had it down to a science, a well-oiled holiday machine, or, they loved doing it so much that none of it was a burden. They enjoyed it. Enjoyed it, I suppose.
The gaping hole where my dad used to be is unsettling. His presence is still there, though. And that weird sense of calm in all the holiday madness is still there. Not quite as obvious, but it's there. I suppose it's part of his omnipresent presence.
But those commercials. Geeze. They really bug me. A lot. Always have. I do not like holiday marketing. But. This year there seems to be a lot of reference to being Santa in relation to giving gifts procured from high-priced vendors. It bugs me. So I have to thank the mean, smelly Jesus Kid who didn't know the alphabet for a useful coping tool. Swap "Jesus" for Santa where/whenever you see Santa used in marketing. The obvious, glaring wrongness of the message is so offensive and comical that the commercials become even more ridicule-worthy.
Of all the holiday marketing I hate the most, the ilk I find most repugnant are the jewelry ads. These are actually quite complex bits of marketing, not as obvious as they seem. Yes, they're trying to ensnare men into buying expensive jewelry (usually diamonds) for their girlfriends/wives. But, those ads are not made with men in mind. The "plot lines" of those ads are composed solely for women. They are 30 or 60 second Lifetime movies. The ads are made for women. Yep. They are made to encourage and perpetuate the marketing goldmine that is: Women nag men for stuff. Either out and out nagging, or by more "subtle" clue dropping, the jewelry marketers are banking on the emotional/romantic attachment a lot of women have to jewelry, especially jewelry given to them by a man. Bombard women with these commercials, show them the fairy tale scenario of the dream holiday gift exchange over and over and eventually even the most anti-marketing woman will cave into the desire to have her man spend a lot of money on jewelry for her. She'll either out and out tell her man to behave like the guys in those ads, or, more subtly encourage him to emulate what the ads portray. "Here's a lovely sweater, darling, why don't you put it on, and look, I decorated the living room in soft-lit romantic hues, and I have my hair and makeup done perfectly, oh, here, I just opened a bottle of bubbly, gosh, we look like one of those ads on tv..."
If jewelry ads were actually made for men, targeted at men, hoping to get men to pay attention to the ad and spin the product so well men would race out to buy it, they would not be shot in soft focus with a well dressed couple sipping champagne in a nicely decorated home or at a posh restaurant or exotic/quaint/festive locale, and they wouldn't have a plot, or at least a romantic plot. They'd be 15 second spots with a naked chick saying, "Buy your woman expensive jewelry and she'll give you a blow job."
Or they'd look like beer commercials.
The chicks would be naked, or in bikinis, the guys would not look like fit, well-groomed male models and they'd be in jeans in t-shirts and the setting would be a sports bar or cluttered garage with plenty of stuff to lure the men into watching the ad. "Hey, is that a belt sander behind that guy? Ooooo, getta load of that nail gun. A chick in a bikini, awesome. She's waxing his jet-ski, that's the new Wave Runner. Oh, he's giving her a ring and she seems happy about that, she's undoing the zipper of his jeans. Ya know, I think I'll buy my girlfriend a diamond ring." (I know, I don't know why I'm still unemployed, either. Can't figure it out.)
The whole thing is nauseating. It's unsettling. It speaks to an Orwellian level of psychology and social engineering. And I hate myself for getting ensnared by it every year. I know what's going on. I know the psychology and commercial theory behind it. And no, I have never, ever wanted (or expected) a man to give me expensive jewelry, especially for Christmas. I don't buy into the "expensive gifts = love" theory and I hate that it's perpetuated, especially at Christmas. WWJD? Uh, well, I dunno, but I'm pretty sure manipulation, guilt and emotional blackmail aren't His go to plans for love.
What I hate is that those ads make me feel more alone, more of a loser because I don't have a man in my life to turn to and say, "If you even think about giving me a diamond for Christmas I'll leave you so fast you won't even see the blur I make on my way out the door."
But this year's prominent use of Santa in jewelry advertising helps soften the sting. Especially when I use the "replace Santa with Jesus" trick. Thank you, smelly, mean Jesus kid, wherever you are. You teased me and wouldn't help me with math, but that's okay. All is forgiven because you provided me with a coping skill that helps me keep it real during the holidays. A skill that helps me maintain a calm, rational mindset amidst the holiday hype hoopla. And in turn, because of that odd juxtaposition of calm against chaos, I'm able to feel "normal" during the holidays.
Has my heart grown two sizes to big? Am I a born-again Jesus freak? Nope. But I'm not offended by Christmas, either. I like the Jesus ideals. And anything that celebrates love, forgiveness, kindness, tolerance and peace is good. It's the message, not the messenger (Messenger?) Not sure what to get someone for Christmas? Look to the holiday marketing and then spin it. "Be the Santa you want to be" implies giving the biggest/best/priciest/most intoxicating gift you can find. "Be the Jesus you want to be" implies giving something that actually matters, regardless of your religious beliefs.
*I don't personally know any woman who has leveraged a diamond in trade for "the kinky/icky/painful stuff," but then the women I know wouldn't openly admit to being so easily sexually swayed by expensive presents, so, you know, the possibility that my friends are pleasing their men in ways they'd rather not simply because their men bought them expensive jewelry certainly exists. I personally am not swayed, sexually or otherwise, by lavish gifts, especially lavish gifts that end up costing me my pride/dignity/self esteem. Not that I have been showered with a lot of lavish gifts. I have not. But on the few occasions a lavish gift has been presented to me by someone other than my parents there have been a) strings attached and b) a lot of social psychology and posturing behind it. So. I'm generally not in favor of lavish gifts.
**"Blue mittens? Only kindergartners wear blue mittens on Thursdays. Ha ha ha, you're a kindergartner!!!" You know, that sort of thing. Good times.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
You know I love A Christmas Carol. And, surprising as it may seem, hypocritical as it is, I enjoy the occasional actual Christmas carol. I know, I know. Maybe I am getting soft in my old age. Nah. I’ve always had a soft spot for holiday songs. Even the glory on high all ye faithful holiday songs. And yes, yes, I know that’s hypocritical.
Kind of…
I don’t hate Jesus. In fact I love the idea of Jesus. Well. Actually, I have some issues with the virgin birth aspect, the feminist in me takes issue with God going around impregnating innocent young girls. No one asked Mary if she wanted a baby, or the burden of raising His child. It was forced on her. Messiah schmiah, it’s chauvinistic and manipulative and it bugs me. But other than that, I would be super happy to find out Jesus is more than a centuries old fable. Jesus, the forgiving, patient, tolerant, wise, compassionate, loving guy? Heck yeah, real or not, believers or not, we can all learn a lot from Jesus. And if the Jesus thing were substantiated I’m sure I would be the most obnoxious type of born again – I’d be out there with Prince knocking on doors and exalting the glory and warning people to repent. Fortunately for all of us that substantiation is not eminent. But the concepts Jesus represents are cool. I’m totally down with the concepts and lessons of Jesus. And the Christmas songs exalting him are mostly themed around the benevolent concepts of Jesus. Well, for the most part. The Wassail Song, a merry tune about begging, has always confused me and leaves me feeling uncomfortable. Kind of dirty and not in a good way. I always want to follow The Wassail Song song with Good King Wenceslas to redeem my conscience and put things right with musical karma. The Wassail Song and Good King Wenceslas are the yin and yang of Christmas carols.
O Little Town of Bethlehem is one of my new favorites. My dad used to sing it on the way home from the midnight Christmas Eve church service. I’d be tucked in the back seat, drowsy and exhausted from the day of anticipation (and sugar), we’d drive through our little town, dark streets illuminated with holiday lights, usually under a blanket of snow. Through the peep hole my dad scraped in the ice on the car window for me I’d look up at the night sky trying to find the Christmas Star, my dad’s baritone proclaiming Yet in thy dark street shineth the everlasting love. That’s one of the memories I cling to now that my dad’s gone and that carol, not particularly a favorite in the past, now means more to me than the others. Maybe not for the right reasons, not the intended message reasons, but for me, my personal reasons that one’s significant.
I have warm fuzzy feelings for Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. And for all the wrong reasons. It’s the traditional recessional hymn on Christmas Eve in my parents’ church. When I was a kid sitting through what seemed like a days long service, the organ booming the lively opening refrain of Hark!... meant finally, finally we were going home, putting out the cookies for Santa, carrots for the reindeer, porridge for the Nisse and going to bed. The sooner we got out of there, the sooner we’d be in bed, the sooner the toys would arrive. Hark!... signaled the end of church and the beginning of toys. And. Another bad reason I like Hark! The Herald Angels Sing… My mother has a cousin named Harold. Good natured guy, fun, but a bit odd and someone you want to keep an eye on when he’s around the kids. No, he’s not a perv. He’s a pyro. Harold could always be counted on for innovative pyrotechnics. He could use an aerosol can as a flame thrower like nobody’s business. My brother and one of our cousins made up a new version of Hark!... about cousin Harold. Spark! Old Harold’s Lighter Stings.
And then there are all the other holiday songs. I’m a big fan of The Grinch. Dr. Seuss. Chuck Jones. Boris Karloff. What’s not to love? Three undisputed masters of their craft, geniuses, of the 20th century combine for a delightfully wicked yet endearing, sweet but not sappy, moral but not preachy tale told with such finesse and humor that few among us can resist its siren call. You’re a Mean One is, consequently, one of my favorite holiday songs. My dad used to sing that, too. He could hit those low notes perfectly. When I was a bit overstimulated with holiday cheer and behaving badly he would sing, “You’re a mean one, little girl” and would send me squealing around the house as he chased me. He always caught me and my punishment was a hug, a kiss and a time out reading a Christmas book, one with a moral and the “true” meaning of Christmas to tame my childhood fits of overstimulated orneryness.
The Drifters version of White Christmas is my favorite. Clyde McPhatter’s spin wakes up Bing’s tired classic in ways that define the difference between old school crooning and rock and roll baby, rock…and…roll. I was lucky. I grew up in a house where The Drifters’ version was the accepted and played version of the song. (My parents were fans of The Drifters, especially Clyde McPhatter) Whenever I’d hear the Bing version it sounded wrong to me. Slow, weird and wrong. Even though I was always embarrassed about my parents’ music collection when I was a kid (it wasn’t cool, it was old and very not cool) I was grateful for some of the different songs heard in our house. The reality is that I grew up listening to some truly amazing music and formed an understanding and appreciation for the real thing. They did me a huge favor and for that alone I owe them a lifetime debt of gratitude. But at the time I didn’t see it that way. Our White Christmas exemplifies how looking at, or in this case listening to, something in a different way, from a different perspective, can open a whole new world of experiences and pleasure. Sure, Bing’s classic is good. No doubt about it. Not to dis Bing. But. The Drifters’ version has soul, joy, longing, even if you hate snow and cold weather by the end of it you, too, are so swept up in Clyde’s emoting that you, too, want a white Christmas. There’s a lilting jive and joy that captures the feeling of a great snow fall. Where Bing is nostalgically charming, Clyde is soulfully emotive of the mood of a fresh snowfall.
I inherited a bunch of albums from my older siblings, who inherited them from older cousins. Some of them were weird. Some of them were bad. Some of them were really good. All of them were warped and scratched. In that heap of records were some Gene Autry cowboy classics. I bet you’re thinking, “Rudolph!!!” Sure, yeah, Rudolph’s good. But…Thirty-two Feet and Eight Little Tails is better. Look it up. I promise it’ll dash away into your heart but be warned: It’s a serious ear worm song. One listen and it will stick with you for weeks.
The ‘60s gave us some great bands and some great music. So it stands to reason during that decade there’d be some good holiday tunes. The Beach Boys gave us holiday songs which are great. Classics. Straight out of the Pet Sounds genius we got Little St. Nick and Frosty. Though, ironically, I prefer Bing’s Melekalikimaka over The Beach Boys’. The Ventures put their guitar spin on a few holiday classics breathing new life into old songs. Familiar but with a twist, different but not weirdly bad.
I’m not fond of the song Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town. Dunno. Just not one of my favorites. However. I will say that if, if I have to hear it, I choose Michael Jackson’s, I mean the Jackson 5’s version.
We know I love most things Chrissie Hynde and all things Waitresses. So it’s no surprise to anyone that 2,000 Miles and Christmas Wrapping are favorites. But. Remember Wall of VooDoo (Mexican Radio?) They’ve got a Christmas tune so packed with anti-glee even the most holiday jaded will feel merry in comparison to the somber sentiment of Shouldn’t Have Given Him a Gun for Christmas. I know it sounds sick and wrong, and it is. But. Um. I like it. Fishbone’s It’s a Wonderful Life (Gonna Have a Good Time) is a solid holiday tune. Considering Fishbone isn’t a band that would make me think, “They should do a holiday song!” it’s worth a spot in the holiday line-up. Add Material Issue’s Merry Christmas Will Do to the list of bright stars in dark ‘80s skies. (Yes, yes, I know, Material Issue is more of a ‘90s band but they always seem ‘80s to me.) Another “always seems ‘80s to me” band, The Smithereens, has an entire cd of holiday tunes, and, well, they’re good.
So, you know, this should all bode well for rock and rollers doing holiday songs, right?
Wrong.
Oh, where to begin with the holiday horrors presented by the rock and pop music industry?
Maybe it's me. I'm a bit sensitive this year. Songs that got on my nerves in the past are really annoying to me this year. Then again, I'm guessing when you read through my annoying songs you'll agree: The holidays are no excuse for bad music.
A lot of people of a certain age, a certain generation, hold up Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s, or Greg Lake's, whichever, Father Christmas as a great classic, a terrific holiday song, a new classic for a new generation. Those of us a few generations behind that generation disagree. Or, well, at least I disagree. It’s self indulgent, overproduced, smarmily sweet drivel. Maybe I’m just too young to understand. But. Isn’t that the point of a “classic?” It speaks to many generations? I think that certain generation clings so dearly to Father Christmas because it harkens back to days of yore. The days when FM meant something. FM radio was a “movement.” It was “out there.” Emerson, Lake and Palmer were a penultimate FM band. Album oriented rock. No static at all. FM. Holiday music was not cool. But. For all the album oriented late night FM radio listeners, Father Christmas was the singular exception. It was an acceptable holiday song because it was FM album oriented rock.
Lennon’s Happy Christmas(War is Over). I dunno. I think I’m too young to “get it.” I actually like the opening, “And so this is Christmas, and what have you done, another year over, a new one just begun.” I actually like Lennon’s voice and phraseology. I know. I know. Coming from me that’s huge. But. Like Imagine it’s become a bigger than life cultish mantra that diminishes it’s impact. It’s become trite. Typical. Trite and typical are okay for songs about frosty snowmen and jolly old men in red suits. But trite and typical are not okay for songs about war and uncertainty. I was stuck waiting for a prescription in Walgreen’s and was forced to listen Happy Christmas(War is Over) through a speaker in a holiday decoration. A group of plastic snowmen and elves festooned on a plastic battery powered speaker. I think you can imagine the sound quality of such an item. Bad. Really bad. Loud and bad. And there was Happy Christmas(War is Over) blaring through this really awful plastic battery powered speaker festooned with cheap looking plastic snowmen and elves. Making the whole mockery even more insulting was that Yoko’s screeching falsetto is exactly the right pitch and key for the crappy speaker, so Lennon’s voice was completely lost in the lack of acoustic depth and Yoko was warbling away though this crappy speaker. It was awful. Really. Truly. Awful. Send one of those holiday decorations to the entry to Osama’s cave, turn it on, and I promise halfway through Yoko’s warbling we’ll have Osama and his gang surrendering. “Make it stop, just make it stop! I’m sorry for all the pain and suffering I’ve caused, I’ll do anything you want, you’re infidels but you clearly have superior intelligence, the Yoko WMD is genius in its simplicity, make it stop, just make it stop!”
I like David Bowie. A lot. But. Some of his songs suck. The Peace on Earth/The Little Drummer Boy duet with Bing is one such song. Putting aside the “so weird it’s worth it” factor of David Bowie and Bing Crosby singing together, Bowie’s unique vocal style is perfectly suited for songs about spiders from Mars but not so much for gentle holiday songs. It just doesn’t work.
Ditto Smashing Pumpkins’ Christmastime. I dunno. It’s just weird and not in a good way. I think this was recorded during The Drug Years and somehow heroin and Christmas is too much for me. (I know. I know. I like Shouldn’t Have Given Him a Gun for Christmas but a band on heroin recording a Christmas song bugs me. I never said I’m logical.) I’ve listened to this a bunch of times and I just won’t grab me. I’m not saying Billy isn’t capable of sentimentality or holiday inspiration, but Christmastime just isn’t it.
Speaking of smarm, Wham!’s Last Christmas? Yeah. Um. Anyone care to join me in a couple packs of Sour Patch Kids candy to try to deflect the saccerine overdose of this synth pop crime against humanity? Now that I think about it, that might be a George Michael solo project. If so, that other guy from Wham! can be absolved. If we can’t lock Michael away for indecent behavior in a public toilet, can’t we at least lock him away for that ridiculously sweet and chirpy song? I ask you, the jury, which crime has a greater negative impact on society? Last Christmas will be torturing people long after anyone remembers that George Michael was once arrested for something other than drug possession. (Anyone wanna bet on when he'll be on Celebrity Rehab?)
I’m going to get hate mail for this, but I’ll say what millions of people think while silently suffering every year. Do They Know It’s Christmas. Ugh. Ya know, rock on, ‘80s pop musicians. Raising money for starving people is cool. Let me be clear on that point. And I know the song was written to intentionally pull on our heartstrings and pull out our wallets to pony up money. I believe the mentality was, “Sure, this song sucks, and most of you would normally never excuse this sort of crap from some of us credible musicians involved with this, but it’s for charity so be a good sport, plunk down the money and we’ll go away and leave you alone.” From a marketing perspective it’s genius. People did plunk down money and apparently some food went to Africa. Cool. That’s cool. But for the love of Christmas please, please, stop playing that horrible song. Do they know it’s Christmas? Probably. Does Christmas mean the same thing to Ethiopians as it does to ‘80s English musicians? No. (Hey, wasn't Wham! in Band-Aid? Wow. George Michael appears in two of my most hated holiday songs. The '80s are very good for my venomous spew.)
I’m not mocking Ethiopia or the horrible famine. But every year I dread the coming weeks of hearing Bono screech out a very unseasonal sarcastic dare, “Tonight thank God it’s them instead of you.” I mean, what the…??? This is a holiday song trying to raise money and what do they do? Offend the entire listening population by throwing an accusatory sarcastic taunt at us intended to make us feel guilty for not being a starving Ethiopian, or accusing us of not recognizing how good we have it here in the First World. You know what, Bono? It goes without saying that those of us not starving in the Third World are pretty darned grateful for that stroke of luck. But because I’m a decent human being just about every day I send gratitude out to the Universe that I wasn’t born in the Third World. Okay? I give to charities and do what I can to give hope for a better future for those less fortunate. Most people I know do the same thing. Many of us are capable of compassion and charity without going around preaching and bragging about it. So. Stop yelling at us to thank God it’s them and not us. Shut. The. Swut. Up. Self righteous wanker. (Somewhere in the past few years I've taken a serious dislike to Bono. In case you hadn't noticed.)
Anything, absolutely anything, by Manheim Steamroller. Nope. Uh-uh. If I have to explain you’re on the wrong blog.
I had an epiphany last week. Well. An epiphanette. You know how I hate The Beatles? It’s possible I’ve unfairly judged three innocent victims. It’s possible that it’s actually just Paul McCartney I hate. There’s a growing body of evidence leading to this hypothesis. I hate The Beatles so much that I don’t care who wrote which song, so I’ve never deconstructed the songs to get to the bottom of who is responsible for each song. And I’m not going to start now. But. Based on solo efforts, McCartney’s work irritates the crap out of me, ergo, one could soundly theorize McCartney’s contributions to The Beatles are why I hate The Beatles. I could list loads of McCartney solo songs which back my theory, but I’ll let the jury judge with one singularly horrifically awful song: “Wonderful Christmastime.” The title alone is obnoxious. The children’s choir singing “ding dong ding dong ding dong” is apparently supposed to be cute and festive. It’s not. It’s annoying and grating and invokes very unfestive thoughts. Again, the synth noise is overdone and irritating, even for the ‘80s or ‘70s or whenever it was recorded. Sounds like early ‘80s to my ear. But that’s still no excuse. I suspect McCartney was a tad jealous of the runaway success of Happy Christmas(War is Over) and, not wanting to sound like a lame copycat, he took a different route on his holiday song. He took the merry, merry, happy happy joy joy route. No reflecting on the year, no mention of fear, just simply having a wonderful Christmastime. A lot of artists and musicians who smoke pot say they do it because it unleashes their creativity. McCartney makes a strong argument for just saying no. What smoking pot does is alter the smoker’s perspective on creativity. Everything seems wildly creative and genius when you’re stoned. Wonderful Christmastime is the result of pot induced “creativity.” Like something you’d listen to while stuffing down brownies, Dorritos, the entire Taco Bell menu and Mountain Dew in a frenzied munchy passion. Yes. I know. Somewhere Nancy Reagan is beaming proudly at me and yes that bugs me. But. Then again. If smoking pot is to blame for Wonderful Christmastime This is one case where Nancy has every right to feel smugly superior.
(Most of those holiday hits (and more!) can be found in 4shared.)
Saturday, November 22, 2008
My dad loved, loved, loved the holiday season. He lived by Charles Dickens’ theme of holding Christmas in his heart and keeping it there all year. His enthusiasm was unrivaled. The local Boy Scout troops managed our small town’s Christmas tree lot. (The parking lot of the root beer drive-in which closed in winter. Of course.) The Christmas trees arrived the last week of November. My dad was very involved with the Boy Scouts so he often went Upnorth to a tree farm with some of the other dads. They loaded up a huge truck with trees and then set them up in the tree lot. My dad always had “our” tree chosen and set aside, but my mother didn’t like the idea of the tree in the house so many days before Christmas. The longer it was in the house, the more chance there was for fire or mischief. Somewhere along the line they agreed on December 15th as the official tree day. On December 15th we would go as a family to the tree lot. My dad already had his favorite tree chosen, but, because we were a democratic family regarding certain things, we all bundled up and went to the tree lot to select the tree which would be the centerpiece of the holiday. Usually we ended up with the tree my dad pre-selected. But not always. I remember some pretty tense discussions between my parents about the size, type and health of the tree.
There was just one small issue with the Christmas tree. My mother and I are dreadfully allergic. If we touch the needles our hands are instantly red and itchy. If one of the needles even slightly punctures skin we swell like puffer fish. We’re shoo-ins, natural candidates, for the pro-artificial tree movement. But, artificial trees are so fake. And, this was a very small town. Very small. The tree lot was the local social hot-spot in December. Everyone got their trees there. So everyone would know if you didn’t get your tree there. Because the tree lot was managed by the Boy Scouts it was seen as more than just a tree lot. It was a charity. A donation to the Scouts. So we endured the discomfort with our allergies for the authenticity of a real tree. And for the sake of the Boy Scouts.
Times changed. My brother and sister went away to college. The Boy Scouts stopped managing the tree lot. So, my parents thought that would be a natural time to change the tree tradition. Artificial trees were discussed. By then advancements and improvements were evident in the fake Christmas tree market. But there was still a bit of stigma to them. It was decided we wouldn’t get it from the tree lot. We’d go to The Country and cut one down ourselves. My dad knew a guy at work who knew a farmer who, for a fee, opened his back-forty to Christmas tree hunters.
My dad had a nostalgic vision of us donning festive sweaters and hats, selecting the perfect tree and bringing it home. It was a vision stoked by holiday advertising. My mother liked that the tree was fresh, not a dry fire hazard.
Early one cold December Saturday morning around the 15h, I was given a Nordic-inspired festive new scarf and pair of matching mittens and hat. My mother had a matching ensemble. My dad donned the jacket we called the Lumberjacket. It was a bulky plaid wool jacket lined with more plaid wool.
My father got the Lumberjacket from one of his older brothers who spent a few months working as an actual lumberjack. My uncle hated the job, grew to hate the cold and left for a warmer climate. My father inherited some of his winter clothes. He only wore the Lumberjacket when it was really, really cold and he had to shovel snow or take on some difficult task outdoors in the middle of winter. If a neighbor’s car got stuck in the snow, on went the Lumberjacket and out when my dad. If the pipes froze, on went the Lumberjacket and out went my dad. If the car’s engine was acting up in the cold winter weather, on went the Lumberjacket and out went my dad. If the farmer down the road had an emergency because of the snow and cold, on went the Lumberjacket and out went my dad. It was a serious jacket reserved only for serious man-work in seriously bad weather. If my dad was putting on the Lumberjacket something serious was going down. Sometimes the donning of the Lumberjacket was presaged by a lot of swearing. (in the case of frozen pipes, for instance) Other times the donning of the Lumberjacket was unexpected. There he’d be, suiting up in the Lumberjacket and we’d all be wondering what horrible atrocity had occurred. One time it was because he saw a dog struggling in a horrible winter storm. He couldn’t bear to watch the dog struggle so he donned the Lumberjacket and went out to rescue the dog. Turns out the dog escaped his home and apparently was disoriented in the storm. He was wearing a collar so my dad got him into the house, wrapped a blanket around him, gave him some leftover meatloaf and called the dog’s owners. The dog was small and completely white furred. How my dad noticed him in the midst of the blizzard is a huge mystery, but there’s no doubt my dad saved his life. The dog’s family was very grateful.
My dad had other jackets, nicer jackets, better looking jackets. But the Lumberjacket was his can-do outerwear of choice. Manly. Lumberjacky. Even though my family good naturedly mocked the Lumberjacket (“Uh-oh, must be serious, Dad ’s putting on the Lumberjacket.”) I came to see it as a superhero uniform. My dad was not a tights and cape wearing kind of guy. The Lumberjacket was a fitting superhero uniform for him. He only wore it when he was doing something really serious in very cold weather so in my young eyes the Lumberjacket was an emblem of my dad’s ability to fix anything and help everyone.
I always imagined him leaving the scene of a winter emergency after fixing something or saving lives and people saying, “Thanks, Lumber Jack! We wouldn’t have made it without you! How can we ever repay you?” My dad would smile, shake his head and say, “Just get home safely. That’s repayment enough.” That was my childhood imagination fueled by my reverence for my dad. But even now I think of that scenario. Even through reasonable, realistic adult eyes I know many of the things my dad accomplished in the Lumberjacket were heroic. In the Lumberjacket he prevented our pipes from bursting, freed cars from snowbanks, saved a dog, helped birth at least two calves, and formed a rescue party to save a kid who fell through the ice in our local skating pond. Not Superman saving- the-world-from-evil feats of heroism, but who do you want to have handy? Superman or the guy who has tire chains, rope, a well stocked tool box and can-do spirit? Give me the guy in the Lumberjacket any day.
My mother and I in our new mitten/hat/scarf ensembles, my dad in his Lumberjacket, drove off to the country to cut down our Christmas tree. Yes. We already lived in what many people consider The Country. But, we were going to the real country. The farm down the road from our house was a wheat and dairy farm. Low acreage and a few dairy cows. It was a small scale operation which, while quaint, wasn’t exactly the sort of farm you think of when you think of farm in the country. We were going to have “an experience.” We were going to “experience” an old fashioned country holiday experience. Oh boy!
We drove almost an hour and a half to The Country. The guy from my dad’s office had drawn a map for my dad. On the hand drawn map it didn’t look like an hour and a half car trip so after an hour my dad started saying, “I wonder if we missed a turn…” At this point we had the air conditioning on in the car. We were bundled up for a day of outdoor activity in 15 degree weather. We’d been riding in the car for almost an hour. We were all hot and getting cranky. Finally he pulled the car off to the shoulder of the road. He got out of the car and furiously shed the Lumberjacket. He got out a real map, one printed by a map making company. He compared it to the hand drawn map. He had me look at both of the maps and give my opinion. (I just completed my map merit badge in Girl Scouts.) We decided we were probably on the right road but it was longer than it appeared on the hand drawn map.
My dad drove fast. Always. But on country roads away from the watchful eye of the local cop? My dad drove really fast. The Country scenery whizzed by us in such a blur the details were difficult to discern. When I saw a small piece of wood with, “X-Mass tRees U cuT” painted on it affixed to a barbed wire fence I said, “That’s it! We’re here!” it was too late. My dad had already sped by the road that would take us to our destination. My dad backed up the car and turned down the road, driving at a slow speed. So we could take in the scenery of The Country.
We finally arrived at the farm with the U cuT trees. My dad’s excitement level was high. He was sizing up the farm, making a big show of breathing in The Country air. The Country Air smelled like poop. At least three different kinds of poop. My mother got out a couple tissues, gave me one and whispered, “Hold it up to your nose like you have the sniffles, you won’t notice the smell as much and you won’t offend the farmer.” (That’s my mother all over the place. Even in the midst of three kinds of stink you don’t want to offend anyone.)
A guy, we presumed the farmer, came out of a barn. “You here for a tree?” (As if it wasn’t obvious.)
“Yessir!” my dad too enthusiastically replied. He was putting on the Lumberjacket.
“I’ll get the tractor.”
“All right, sir!” my dad said, quickly ambling up to the farmer while donning the Lumberjacket. I’m sure my dad intended to go with the farmer to get the tractor. I’m sure my dad thought, “The men will now go get the tractor while the womenfolk wait in the car and admire The Country scenery.”
When he caught up to the farmer I saw my dad put out his hand in a welcoming handshake gesture to the farmer. The farmer was just in the barn. The air reeked of three kinds of poop. Even I could do the math. This was not a good time to shake the farmer’s hand. The farmer held up his gloved hands at my dad in a “danger, stay back” motion. My mother, watching from the car, cracked up at my dad almost shaking the poopy gloved hand of the farmer. The farmer continued on and my dad stayed in the spot where he was when he was issued the warning hand signal. My dad turned and looked back at us in the car, waved and gave us an excited thumbs up. We waved back at him, tissues still held over our noses. The farmer, on a large tractor with a flat-bed trailer hitched to it, came around the corner and stopped a few inches from my dad. I saw the farmer motion for my dad to hop onto the trailer. My dad looked crestfallen. I think he thought he was going to get to ride the actual tractor, not sit on the trailer. I suspect he thought the Lumberjacket would impress upon the farmer that my dad was a man, a guy, a Lumberjacket wearing kind of guy. Apparently even the Lumberjacket didn’t give my dad enough cred to ride on the tractor with the farmer. He hopped onto the trailer. The farmer drove toward the car, probably 20 feet, and stopped. My dad hopped off and ran over to the car. My mother and I got out of the car. My dad opened the trunk and held up three saws. He yelled over to the farmer, “Which do you suggest?!”
The farmer yelled back, “You don’t need ‘em, we got blades up ta the woods.”
Again my dad was crestfallen. He brought his own saws. I could see they were newly oiled and laid out special in the trunk of the car.
Once we were situated on the trailer, riding behind the farmer on his tractor, my mother pulled a thermos out of her tote bag. Hot chocolate. Well. At this point it was tepid chocolate. But we drank it anyway. My dad had that look of exaggerated satisfaction and fulfillment. He patted my knee. “This is the life, eh kiddo?!” It was a long ride and by the time we reached the edge of the tree area our bums were frozen and sore from jostling along the snow covered field. We had a hard time getting down from the trailer because we were numb and lame. The farmer motioned to a wood crate with a bunch of old saws in it. “There ya go. I’ll be back in an hour.”
That was it. He just left us there with a crate of rusty old saws. I’m sure it was my imagination playing tricks on me, but swear I heard the howl of a wolf in the distance.
I was a pretty rugged and adventurous kid. I loved playing outside and I love winter. I wasn’t afraid of The Country. This was a dream come true for me – outside, in the snow, nothing but nature as far as the eye could see. But. On the other hand. We were really, really, in the middle of nowhere. And no one except the guy from my dad’s work who drew the map knew where we were. And nothing but a crate of rusty saws to defend ourselves and a thermos of tepid chocolate for sustenance. The farmer on his tractor was slowly fading toward a small dot on the horizon which was the farm. I could read the headlines in my mind, “Family On Holiday Outing Missing, Presumed Dead” and “Local Family Victims of Farmer’s Homicidal Plot, Limbs Sawed Off” or “Remains of Family Looking for Christmas Tree Found, Eaten by Wolves” Fortunately my dad’s enthusiasm prevailed. “Well, here we are! Let’s find a tree!” He jocularly tossed a snow ball at me. It would have been a scene from a holiday greeting card if it weren’t for the crate of rusty saws and eerie absolute silence.
We wandered around the woods, my dad carrying a couple of the rusty saws, going from small scrub trees to glorious towering pines worthy of Rockefeller Plaza. I found rabbit tracks and deer tracks in the snow. We saw an owl watching us from his perch high in a tree. I relaxed about the potential for gory disaster. I made snow angels. My mother threw a snowball at my dad. We took photographs.
And then we found it. The perfect tree. We all agreed on it: The size, the shape, the color...it was perfect. We stood there admiring it far longer than a normal tree admiring time span. My dad took pictures of my mother and I in front of it. My mother took pictures of my dad and I in front of it. My mother took a picture of just me in front of it. My dad took another picture of just the tree.
It was glorious.
Then he got down on the ground to examine the trunk. “Okay…okay…yep, this one will get ‘er started.” He picked up a saw and asked me to hold some of the branches out of the way. My mother packed a pair of gardening gloves for me to wear under my new mittens. This was an attempt to prevent my tree allergy from striking too seriously. It worked. I painlessly held the lower branches out of the way for my dad.
I noticed he was hesitating to strike the tree with the saw. He called my mother over to help remind him how much trunk was required to fit in the tree stand. “I knew I should have brought the tree stand…” he said.
I thought about our adventure thus far and how funny my dad would have looked lugging a Christmas tree stand. I looked at my dad, on his knees in the snow leaning under the tree. The Lumberjacket was riding up on him so there was a gap between the Lumberjacket and my dad’s trousers. His boxers where peeking out from above the belt. This is the style rap kids like, now, but for middle aged white men on a holiday family outing back then, this look was not en vogue. He didn’t have full-on plumber butt, but, it was dangerously close. The image of him with a tree stand combined with his almost-plumber butt gave me the giggles. My mother caught my eye and shook her head in warning. She gave me a look that said, “Not now. Not now. We’ll laugh later, but not now.” She was biting her lip to keep from laughing. I did the same.
My dad was sizing up the tree trunk and trying to figure out where to cut. Every now and then he’d say, “She sure is a beauty.”
And then it hit me. My squelched giggles turned to apprehension. I looked at the rusty saws. I looked at the glorious tree. And back at the rusty saws.
My dad wasn’t hemming and hawing because of the question of how much tree trunk for the stand.
He didn’t want to cut into the tree.
He finally picked up a saw and said, “Okay, I think right about here, don’t you? Does that look good?”
My mother and I looked at the spot on the trunk he was about to cut. We looked at the tree. We looked at the saw.
We looked at my dad.
We looked at the tree.
We looked at my dad.
He looked uncertain, slightly troubled.
My dad looked up at me. I felt the sting of a tear fall down my cheek.
Not a word was exchanged.
My dad picked up the saws, put his arm around my shoulder and we all walked silently back to the crate of saws.
The farmer wasn’t going to return for another 20 minutes. After five minutes of silence and swallowing lumps in our throats I rolled a few balls of snow. My dad wordlessly helped me roll a larger ball of snow. We made a snowman next to the crate of rusty saws. My dad found some twigs and rocks and gave the snowman arms and a face. He was just putting the finishing touches on the face when the farmer’s tractor could be heard getting louder on it’s trip to get us. And our tree.
Uh oh.
We were nature loving wimps who couldn’t bring ourselves to cut a tree. Among the three of us that was okay. There was a nobleness to it. A pride, a conservancy, a nature respecting dignity to it.
But. With the advent of the farmer’s arrival and lack of my dad having cut down a tree, the realization that my dad was going to be emasculated and humiliated by the farmer loomed large. Adding insult to injury the snowman stood there with a silly grin on his face.
I imagined the farmer sizing up my dad and figuring him to be less of a man, dismissing him as a city slicker wimp. “And you with a Lumberjacket. Pfft. You’re a disgrace to the plaid.”
Shy of dashing over and quickly cutting down a tree there was nothing we could do. My dad was going to have to take one for the team.
The farmer pulled up and said, “Where’s yer tree?” He looked behind us, assuming we cut down a tree but didn’t lug to the meeting point.
My dad walked over to the farmer and in a hushed tone told him we decided not to go with a tree this year. He could have redeemed himself by saying, “The kid’s allergic, what are ya gonna do?” But he didn’t. He just lifted my mother, and then me, onto the trailer. My mother cuddled up to him and snuggled into the Lumberjacket. The three of us watched our snowman fade smaller into the distance as we rode away. We watched the trees go from single glorious beauties to one mass of green.
When we arrived back to the farm my dad pulled out $20 and gave it to the farmer. The farmer refused it.
As we were getting into the car an owl flew over us. Okay, this was The Country and there are a lot of owls in The Country. But. We chose to see it as a sign. We made the right decision. We did the right thing.
We bought an artificial tree on the way home and never had a “real” tree again.
Monday, November 17, 2008
My dad loved Christmas. Absolutely loved it. His enthusiasm and excitement for the holiday rivaled that of any 6-year-old hopped up high on Mountain Dew. When I was a kid in my small hometown most people didn’t decorate for the holidays until at least the end of November. There was small town decorum about decorating for the holidays. The decorations were to appear no sooner than the end of November and were to be taken down no later than the second week of January.
My dad started chomping at the holiday decorations bit by mid-October. Because we lived in a cold, unpredictable climate he used the excuse of a “good weather” day to festoon the house with lights and decorations. So what if it was only mid-November? If my mother chastised him for going against the small town decorum and rushing the season he’d come back at her with the rationalization that a storm could blow through any day making the installation of outdoor Christmas decorations difficult and unsafe, if not impossible. The thing is, he was right. You wanted those holiday lights in place before the real snow hit. And, giving my mother The Look, he’d add, “we wouldn’t want to be without lights and decorations this holiday, would we? The kids would be so disappointed.”
The kids. Yeah. Sure. Blame the kids. Sometimes I wonder if the reason my dad wanted to have children was so that he’d have an excuse for toys, fireworks and holiday decorations. Sure, thanks to my dad we enjoyed all that and more, but he was right there in on the fun, too. He shared the experiences with us and that was great. But. I’m pretty sure his motivations weren’t entirely selfless.
He planned a different display every year. Adding, editing and re-inventing the holiday decorations was an annual reason d'etré for him. By the time my mother “allowed” him to put up decorations he’d gone over the year’s master plan so many times he had the placement of every bulb, circuit junction, timer, every wreath, bough, angel and Santa committed to memory. My mother managed the holiday concerts, parties, school plays, the schedules and Christmas Eve wardrobes. She did the baking, the cooking and much of the indoor decorating. But the outdoor displays were my dad’s jurisdiction. It was his point of pride. His holiday greeting to the neighborhood. The showcase for his adoration of the Christ child. And the showcase for his prowess with colored lights and questionable electrical wiring modifications.
My dad had holiday lights dating back to my parents' first Christmas. And, get this, they were hand-me-down lights from an aunt and uncle who were fed up with the old one-burns-out-the-whole-string goes-dark type of holiday lights. They were already old when my parents started using them. Back in the olden days holiday lights were rudimentarily designed. If one bulb burned out the entire string went dark. Which means you had to find the burned out bulb after it, well, burned out. Finding the burned out bulb after the string went dark meant taking out the bulbs and putting in a new bulb. One bulb at a time. When the entire string lit up you knew you found The Bad Bulb.
Some kids have the holiday tradition of Easter egg hunts. Other kids enjoy the holiday tradition of finding treats hidden each day on an Advent calendar. We had the fun tradition of Finding The Bad Bulb. Finding the Bad Bulb Day was an annual two-day event (or longer) which officially marked the start of the holiday season.
My dad usually tested a string of lights for illumination prior to adhering them to the house or trees.
But not always.
Sometimes he’d forget which strings he tested and figured they were all okay anyway, only to discover a bad string - a burned out bulb - after the entire display was in place. Back then you didn’t just go out and buy a new string of lights. You bought strings of holiday lights and replacement bulbs. Some people stockpile emergency items like spare fuses, screws, bolts, bandages, tape…my dad was never without a healthy stash of spare holiday light bulbs.
Discovering a bad string meant one thing: My dad, brother and I had to methodically try each bulb on the string to find the bad one. Even though my dad loved the holidays and was brimming over with enthusiasm and holiday cheer, the stress of a bad bulb dimming his display dampened his spirits. He used words and expressions not considered merry. Jesus (H) Christ was mentioned a lot. And not because we were preparing to celebrate His birthday. My dad's frustration level would rise like a cartoon character – you could see his blood pressure rising to the level where steam should have been coming out of his ears accompanied by the noise of a boiling tea kettle. Compounding the issue were my dad's large hands and fingers. Perfect for throwing and catching a football, his hands were, like the rest of him, sturdy. To say the least. Not so perfect for fiddling with and handling small bulbs and sockets. So. The task fell to us smaller fingered kids.
We worked feverishly to find the bad bulb. As if a glorious string of glowing bulbs wasn't evidence enough, jubilant cries of glee would ring out when a bad bulb was found and replaced. My dad would drop everything and run over to witness the glorious illumination of the previously offending string of lights. There were a few years it took so long to Find the Bad Bulb that when it was finally found and replaced my dad wept tears of joy.
The same process was used to find the bulb which made the string of lights blink.
The Blinker.
The #@!*ing Blinker.
At some point the holiday lighting industry took a huge leap forward in technology and tried to accommodate all holiday lighting tastes by making one-string-fits-all lights. These were bleak days for my dad. For him it foretold The End of Days. The dual purpose strings of holiday light were the work of Satan himself. Much as my dad loved his outdoor lighting, much as he loved useless technology, much as he loved a bit of dash, blinking holiday lights were abhorrent. Intolerable.
He was a purist. He was fine with dozens of strings of light on the house and in the trees, but blinking lights? Pfft. We didn't live in Las Vegas. C'mon, have a little class.
There was one bulb, The Blinker, and if you didn’t want your lights to blink you replaced it with The Steady bulb. The conventional demarcation for the bulbs is that The Blinker has a red tip, the rest are clear. You remove the red tipped bulb and replace it with a non-red-tipped bulb if you don't want your holiday lights to blink. I know this because I spent many, many zero degree wind whipped nights on the front porch trying to Find the Bad Bulb, feverishly working to find the bulb which would make the string of lights stop blinking. The lights, which now didn't go dim when a bulb burned out, would be pulsing away like Saturday night at Studio 54. My dad’s temper and frustration would increase with each blink. Off. On. Off. On. Off. On. Every time the lights flashed on I could see his face. In the still, dark Winter evening of our suburban front yard the blinking illumination cast a sinister pulsing glow on my dad. Like some scary cartoon trip to Dante’s Inferno. With each flash of lights the look on his face became progressively scarier.
When I was young my older brother and I both were called to holiday light duty. I vaguely remember my brother having to man up and handle some of the bigger responsibilities of holiday lighting. You know, guy stuff. Stuff involving hammers, nails and ladders. My dad and brother would spend a lot of time in the garage. And then I, and my smaller, nimble fingers and steadfast obedience, would be summoned. For some reason my older sister escaped holiday lighting duty. The thing is, when my brother was around we'd inevitably be hit with overpowering urges to laugh at the ill-functioning lights. Which only served to anger my dad. He had serious plans. Holiday lighting was no laughing matter. Kids in the Third World didn't have holiday lights. We should have been more grateful for the opportunity to celebrate Jesus by adorning our house and trees with strings of lights.
I missed my brother a lot when he went away to college. But. I didn't miss the ill-timed fits of laughter. Sometimes the situation would strike us so funny we'd be in that silent, shoulder spasming, tears streaming, weak in the knees kind of laughing. Who can Find the Bad Bulb in that condition? After he went away to college I had to take on more holiday lighting responsibility. It was just my dad and me and dozens of strings of lights. And boxes of replacement bulbs. It was no laughing matter. And much as I missed my brother, my dad's patience would be spared two hysterically laughing, insolently ungrateful kids.
Cheeks stinging and teeth chattering in the Winter night air, I could hear my heart beating faster and louder, eventually beating in time with the offensive blinking lights. I worked diligently, often working by touch instead of sight because the porch lights were dimmed for the purposes of effect for the holiday lights. I'd steal a glance in through a front window. There silhouetted in warm glow of the kitchen light my mother would be a vision of domestic holiness baking cookies. Maybe chatting on the telephone. She was unaware of the eminent disaster lurking on the front porch. Christmas could be on the brink of decimation and she was baking cookies. But then, isn't that why we were doing this? To preserve and protect the holiday rituals? Oh, and celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ God's son sent to save us. Yes. Yes I would do my part to make sure our house would be illuminated. And then I'd have a cookie.
I’d work more feverishly, even taking off my mittens to speed the process. Frost bite? Who cares? Must. Find. The. Blinker. The fate of humanity rested in my hands. To speed the process, to make it more compelling, I imagined I was working out some complex military code. I had to stop the blinking before the bad guys blew up the entire country. My dad's progressively worse agitation at the blinking lights should have been compelling enough to motivate me. But my added imaginary saving humanity angle ensured I would find The Blinker in record time. I was always scared of what might happen to my dad if I didn’t find The Blinker in time to save him.
The relief of finding and replacing The Blinker was palpable. With The Steady firmly in place all was right with the world. My dad would see his vision of Holy exultation illumination to fruition. There would be cookies. We would live to see another Christmas.
This will be our first Christmas since my dad died. My mother and I are going through a lifetime of stuff, sorting, donating, discarding things in preparation for her downsizing to a smaller home. We both make wide passes around the boxes of holiday decorations. They're the elephant in the room we don't mention. But. In the past two months of sorting I've found stashes of holiday light replacement bulbs all over the house. It upset me, reduced me to gut wrenching sobs at first. But I find them so frequently, now, that I've become more used to the sadness and longing they invoke. I found two, clipped together, nestled in the middle of a roll of packing tape. I can imagine my dad, in the midst of his lighting prep, setting them down in there thinking they wouldn't roll away and would be ready if he needed them. Instead of crying that made me smile.
For the first time, well, ever, my parents' house and yard will not be illuminated for the holidays this year. I toyed, briefly, with the idea of lighting it up for my dad, in his honor. But the prospect is too painful. It's all still too new. Then I remembered the Broadway tradition of dimming the lights, "going dark," when an actor dies. That tradition seems apt for my dad's holiday lighting displays.
Cherry Cove Road will be dark this holiday in tribute to my dad.
