Holiday Melancholy

I had a meeting with some cohorts last night and we each went around the table to talk about a fond Christmas/holiday memory. Three of us each had a nice story to share, two of them about a specific gift. Mine was a combination of vignettes: Attending late night Christmas Eve service at the Episcopal church to which we belonged (I explained it as "mass-ish". Since I keep imagining that Episcopals are like the wild cousins of Catholics, I tend to describe everything in Catholic terms, with the suffixes of "ish", "esue" or "-like" at the ends of them). Anyway, I also recalled one Christmas morning in particular when our parents awoke us and it was still dark, about 4 a.m. We all opened our presents and, when we finished, we disappeared into our rooms to play while our parents went to sleep. They'd been awake all night wrapping presents (packages for five kids takes some time. Having three of my own, I can understand).

One of my friends was uncomfortably silent, then explained that Christmas was a time of trauma for her and we respected her unwillingness to elaborate on it. She did say that it has gotten better for her, now that she has her own child.

Another friend, the one with the memory of a wonderful sweater, explained that she no longer celebrates Christmas, that her husband and daughter simply don't get caught up in the bluster of it all. Her husband is Bhuddist, but that's not why they don't celebrate. The two of the decided, before their daughter was born, that they weren't going to start the rat race with her and stepped out of the game. The allow her to receive presents from friends and grandparents and others, they just don't participate. At first, we were all puzzled and imagined that this must be some terrible life for the child, like the Crawford household ("You may choose ONE present, Christina. The rest will go to the poor children.") but, upon reflection, we realized we'd not have batted an eye had she been Jewish or Jehovah's Witness or Hindu or whatever, if there had been a reason based upon doctine or rules rather than free will. Like, it would take a separate God to take presents and shopping and trees away from us.

The funny thing is, she was the calmest person at the table last night.

Gingerbread Houses and Dim Sum

This weekend, my partner's mother and stepfather are in town for an early Christmas. Our oldest boy's 15th birthday was also Saturday, so we spent the day in the city. He'd wanted Dim Sum lunch for his B-day and so we went to our favorite, House of Hong in the international district. Good food, nice ambiance, great shopping at the local Asian supermarket. Later, we parked in the upper garage of Macy's and, as we headed to the ground floor, my mother and father-in-law commented on just how much the Macy's building reminded them of the department stores of yesteryear, each floor bustling in its holiday activity, glitzy, etc. I don't know. I understand what they're saying and I've been in buildings that elicit the same feelings in me. The Georgetown (in Seattle) Sears. I was just in a Sears in Redmond that made me feel the same way. Maybe that's it. A Sears, JC Penney, Macy's--they seem to be like time vaults, each building taking on the permanance of the era in which they were constructed.

I hear that Joe Lieberman has endorsed John McCain and that no Democrats had even sought his endorsement. I wonder if Al Gore sits there by the radio, listening to all of this and thinking of Joe like an ex-lover. "Did I ever really know him?" he asks Tipper. "It's like he was another person then. I can only imagine what my life would be like if we were still together. God, I was a sucker."

Do You See What I See?

Yesterday, I drove my mother to have her cataract surgery at the nearest facility that her HMO allows--in Redmond, WA right near the massive Microsoft campus. She wound up not getting it done after all. No details needed, suffice to say that her mind and body were not cooperating and it will all be tried again in or around February. She is well today; more frustrating for her than anything else.

Being trapped in the Overlake area of the Eastside in the middle of the day on a Tuesday has reminded what a completely different world it is during that time. Killing time among strip malls and chain restaurants isn't really my biggest desire in life and taking the opportunity for holiday shopping seemed the best idea at the time. The nearest "big" stores to the hospital were Fred Meyer and Sears, both of which got the majority of my shopping dollar on this day. It was really rather creepy, I have to say, wandering throughout these buildings in the sedative, slowed-down environment that dominates at 10:30 a.m. on a workday. Lots of retired folks (presumed) and either unemployed or those people shopping in the window of time that either precedes a swingshift of sits at the end of a long graveyard shift. Throughout it all, I think the most maddening thing was that, whether I was in Sears, the local thrift store, Safeway or Red Robin, there seemed to be no shortage of bad, contemporary verisons of old Christmas songs whining over the loudspeakers. How many "it girls" of the moment can cover "Santa Baby" or country western crooners can strum out "Do You Hear What I Hear?" I've never been a big Bing Crosby fan, but I started to yearn for him like a long-lost lover by 12:20 in the afternoon.

That's Not a Small Tree

This weekend, we went to a Christmas tree farm near our house. It sits at the end of a long, winding drive through towering evergreens and it's truly magical, opening up to an expanse of 17 acres of trees of various sizes and species, each sitting neatly within a seeminly endless grid. The boys had insisted on choosing the tree, but no sooner had we stopped the truck did they pile out, taking off through the rows of trees in a frenetic game of tag. As Shayne and I wandered through the groves, we could hear the shouting and see streaks of color from a far distance as they zipped in and out of the thickets. It was great. Open space, free range young 'uns. Because we have unopened boxes of kitchen cabinetry (waiting for our endless kitchen remodel), we'd planned on a small tree of no more than 6 feet. An hour later, we were tying down a 16 footer and it now stands beautifully in our living room.

I received a call Saturday morning from Rich Rusk, the son of former Secretary of State Dean Rusk (under JFK). He'd received my manuscript to review and wanted to call and congratulate me. He and I met briefly at the unveiling to the Clayton, Jackson, Mcghie memorial in Duluth in October of 2003. He's active in civil rights in the south, a member of the Moore's Ford Lynching Memorial Committee out of Athens, GA. We had a great talk; he's truly a man of strong character, dedicating his life to making the world a better place. It evokes a bit of meloncholy, causing one to look back at an era when we really did look ahead optomistically to better days. He told me he shared my sense of purpose, of embracing the "sins of the father." He said that his father was a wonderful, loving man, but that he (Rich) still carries the legacy of Vietnam and that drives him to stand today as a proponent of human rights. I think that must be the hardest thing of all, to recognize that those people--even people who, in the past, did horrible, far-reaching acts--often made those decisions under circumstances that caused them to feel that they were making the absolute, necessary choice. They thought they were right and it's only years later, when the dust has settled and we see through clearer eyes that we know it was the worst possible thing that could have been done.

Today is Pearl Harbor Day

We're studying World War II era in my classroom, gearing up for our unit on the Japanese Internments of Bainbridge Island residents in 1942. It's been an interesting mode of study, looking at the climate of the nation (and world) at the time, the war from the perspectives of children from various parts of the world. As a class, we just finished reading "The Cay", by Theodore Taylor. It's a vivid narrative of a young boy's self-discovery after having been stranded on a Caribbean island with a local black man. It's not so much a tale of war, though it takes place amid German u-boats that lurk off shore of the Dutch Antilles at Curacao, just north of Venezuela. I'm also reading the book, "Snow Treasure" aloud to the students. I remember reading this book as a child and being riveted by it. It's a (likely fictional) tale of a group of Norweigan children who traffic gold bricks away from the village bank to keep it out of the hands of occupying Nazis. It's not as powerful as I'd remembered, but the students seem to be enjoying it. One interesting item: I have a student whose mother is German and there has been some discomfort in our discussions of Nazi Germany, reconciling a shameful part of one's heritage. I can relate to this well. It's been a good discussion, an opportunity to talk about the difference between government factions and representatives vs. the common citizen, that often our identities are dragged through the mud in the interests of the person at the top, the "leader" who uses his underlings to do his dirty work, to attain some selfish goal, cloaking it all in the banner of "patriotism".

Soggy Bottom Boys

An entire weather system blew its way through the region yesterday. My partner called from Northeast Bremerton all in a panic because he was blocked in by a flooded thoroughfare. I could understand his distraught timbre; I would be anxious if I thought I might not get out of Bremerton. Sorry, Bremerton, it's just a thing I have about shuttered Eagle Hardwares, IHOPs and compteting 99-cent stores. Anyway, I was able to log onto Mapquest and guide him out via alternate routes. It took some time, getting my perspective right on the map, tilting my head to the side and trying to imagine my tiny self driving from the star to the exclamation point. All evening, the news was filled with people huddled behind sandbags and porches sagging under the rush of overflowing rivers.

Today, President Bush was tackling a news conference in which he was forced to address the intelligence report that confirmed that Iran is no closer to having nuclear weapons than they are adopting hot pants as the national garment. As I listened, I imagined beads of sweat forming at his brow as he tried to spin it all to his advantage. "I just found out this week." "They said before that they had news, but didn't tell me what it was." I wondered if the marionette strings were hurting his wrists as he talked. He sounded like my son when he tries to rationalize screaming at his brother for no good reason. "No, he didn't take my toy, but I could see that he was thinking about it and he might still do it when I'm out of the room. So there." It's all so bizarre, like a Stanley Kubrick film and if it weren't all so terrifying I'd be laughing until my knees gave out.

I have to wonder (political rantings continuing here): Past presidents have enjoyed illustrious post-office careers as lecturers, diplomats, writers, etc. What in tarnation will GWB do? Who will pay to hear him talk? I suppose there will still be people in that 27% who will do so. They'll still have 80% of the nation's wealth in their pockets, so they'll certainly be able to afford the ticket prices (and Ticketmaster fees). Maybe he'll write a book. "Ollie, Ollie Oxen Free: Eight Years of Hiding Behind the Bushes."

And the Rain Fell in Sheets...Flannel Preferred

On Saturday, the promised snowstorm blew into town, blanketing our property in just enough stuff to support a fiberglass sled for about a dozen runs. Numb hands draped holiday lights from the eaves and shrubberies and by the end of the evening, it was a festive, glowing delight. Even my kids had to take a moment to compliment me and I'll always welcome that.

We went out that night to see "No Country for Old Men," the new Coen brothers film starring Javier Bardem (in his best/worst Prince Valiant hair-don't and Carol Burnett-playing-Nora Desmond crazy-eyes), Josh Brolin (who has grown up so ruggedly from his "Goonies" days, looking like the lost, grit-covered son of suave "Mr. Streisand" James Brolin) and the ever-reliable, gruff Tommy Lee Jones. An amazing movie, harkening back to the "Blood Simple" days of the director(s). Unexpected, non-Hollywood ending (no spoiler, here)--perfect. Like a Tobias Wolff story, even though it's from the Cormac McCarthy book.

The rain is pouring down like a monsoon here; the dip at the bottom of our drive was a small lake this morning. There are parts of our property that are like sponges anyway. Right now they are sodden and mucky and completely alluring for young boys wearing Crocs, who must plant their little feet with extra force as they walk, then complain loudly and incessantly of cold, wet feet and muddy socks. Too bad, so sad is what this compassionate father says. Just don't get mud on the floor of the car.

The Charmin Guy

I read that Dick Wilson, the man who played Mr. Whipple ("Please don't squeeze the Charmin!") passed away just before Thanksgiving. I remember myself as a kid, watching him as he shamefully, yet gleefully, ducked 'round the corner and squeezed the hell out of a toilet paper package after having chastised some woman for doing the same. Sure, he was being hypocritical, but I think even then I had a spot of sympathy for him. This poor man, an uncontrollable urge that to him seemed so inappropriate and socially unacceptable yet he JUST COULDN'T STOP HIMSELF. With the Larry Craigs and the Richard Curtises and the Mark Foleys of today, it makes Mr. Whipple's addiction seem so cute. "Please," I wanted to say even then, "buy yourself some Charmin, take it home and squeeze until you can squeeze no more." Actually, I remember Dick Wilson playing a character with an altogether different kind of addiction. Do you recall the latter-stage alcoholic constantly witness to Samantha Stevens' witchcraft on "Bewitched?" That was him. And just like many drunks I have known, he'd swear off the booze after having watched Sam appear/disappear/float/morph, then he'd toddle away down the sidewalk trying to convince himself that it had all been a hallucination. But a few episodes later, there he'd be again, stumbling out of a bar, car keys in hand.

Thanksgiving was a quiet affair at our house. Our neighbors, he of the sliced thumb and his partner, were to join us for turkey and fixin's. Yet, while awaiting tendon reattatchment surgery the night before Thanksgiving, a sharp pain in the side alerted him that something additional was wrong. Sure enough, it was an appendicitis. And not a moment too soon. So, in a sense, the slicing was a GOOD thing, since he might have had the attack and chalked it up to indigestion. Two surgeries later, he's on the road to recovery and has the late turkey, ironically named "THANKSGIVING" to thank for it all.

Warming up to the Cold

It seems like I can't get warm lately. We're beginning a remodel of our kitchen; the work's been going on endlessly and we've not even started the kitchen, yet. The mudroom is now (almost) the pantry, a door removed and outside leading doors nearly all glass. Maybe it's psychological, but with the open space I feel constantly chilled. My sons huddle up to the wood burning stove (in their thin shortsleeves as I nag them to put on sweaters) and I find myself jamming log after log into the stove's open mouth.

In our living room is a mountain of Ikea boxes, kitchen cabinets waiting for me to piece together. I imagine that hell might be like that. I think that if there is such a place, the cruelest punishment will be an eternity doing that very thing that in life caused you to break out in a sweat and become anxious, snapping at loved ones and strangers equally. For me, it would be sorting dozens of boxes by code, unwrapping and trying to find a place for the sheets of styrofoam (and feeling horribly guilty about the waste), crawling around on my hands and knees as tiny metal fasteners dig themselves into my kneecaps, being buried under giant rectangles of discarded cardboard.

My son caught me in the walkway at school today, proudly showing me a tower of river rock he'd made in the garden bed. Someone had dropped off a large pile of smooth, gray stones and several students had taken to making a zen garden of sorts from them. I'll miss that in another year, seeing my son each day, his beaming face as he moves from classroom to classroom, his joyful play on the big toy as he calls out to me by my teacher name. I hope he remembers those moments when he's my age and that when he does, he smiles.

A Leonard Cohen Morning

On mornings like this, when the drizzle hangs in the air like gauze, I'm reminded of one of my favorite films, "McCabe and Mrs. Miller." The soundtrack is a repetitive hum of Leonard Cohen at his somber best and it captures the dreariness of the Pacific Northwest in late autumn/early winter perfectly. Today is one of those days.

Last night I had my final class with Kathleen Alcala, "Historical Fiction" or titled something along those lines. It was a great class; though I think the best part (as I often find with writing courses) was the chance to share writing with others. It's wonderful to see what others are working on and make connections with those whose styles are in the same vein as your own. Two other writers--amazing at their crafts--and I have made a pact to continue meeting and discussing our current projects. We mean it, totally and for sure this time.

I caught some flack over the personal disclosure of yesterday's entry but I have to say that the animal karma is out in force. A coworker's husband shot a deer while hunting this last weekend and while preparing to gut it, he missed and stabbed himself in his knee bone. I've decided that I'm not even going to comb my dog until this curse passes.

The Day Thanksgiving Died

My neighbor and his partner adopted two little turkey chicks (turkeylings? Turkilettes?) some time ago. They'd planned to raise them as future main courses, naming one Thanksgiving and the other Christmas. This last weekend was to be the knell for both of them. The moment had come, a club was swung, a turkey hanged upside-down. A swift flick of a sharp blade and the recently deceased fowl lurched, like some zombie bird bent on redemption, on a refusal to go without a fight. The neck is cut, but overshot and along with it, the now guilt-ridden and distraught man's thumb. A phone call is made to the neighbor (me) with the not-so-cryptic question: "Where's the nearest hospital?"

When my partner and I went next door to help secure the scene (a hanging bird in the woods, with many chickens running around unsecured, would be too enticing for the coyotoes, bear and fierce racoons in the area), it was missing only police tape and chalk outlines. Besides the ominous sight of the bird (and the confused, but suspicious-looking still-living turkey named Christmas--because, even though they'd planned to kill both on the same day, Christmas still follows Thanksgiving), there was the bloody club, the bloody knife and various scattered gloves, some bloody, some not. Sensing a theme? There was also blood on the steps.

In the end, we offered to help secure the Meat of Christmas (NOT the title of an O Henry story), but alas, the thrill of the fight had left everyone involved. Karma draped over the town of Kingston like a thick, down blanket. Our neighbor is a changed man, humble and contemplative. A heart is renewed and while I'd offered so readily to come to his aid, to snap the handles of the pruning shears against the quivering waddle of Christmas, I know that I could no sooner do that to the bird than I could my own loyal dog. It was all I could do to stuff the bloated, feathery body into the safety of the Coleman cooler. I suppose that the sting of death is unexpected for many of us, even if it's in the context of supper. When I reach back into my memory, remembering the deer hanging from the rafters of my garage and the sharp hunting knife that my stepfather had given me to skin his kill, the dark eyes of the doe still resonate in my mind. I know it was dead, long before I began separating the skin from the muscle. But its eyes. Man, they were ruthless.

Back at the keyboard

It's been some time since I tried out this blog thing. On recommendation from my editor, I thought I'd pick it up again. Since my last entry, I've been hard at work editing my book and just this morning, I sent off what I'm hoping are my last edits to my editor before it goes to press. It's scary and a relief since the proofreader caught a couple glaring errors that would have been pretty embarassing had they wound up in the actual book. The final title is, "The Lyncher in Me: a Search for Redemption in the Face of History." I credit Rebecca Walker with the main title; it came out during a discussion of my work during a memoir workshop. It's great. The cover art is wonderfully powerful and my publisher at Borealis is standing behind it 100%. They've decided to make my title the headliner for the spring (sesquentennial) catalog. Amazing. I feel like I'm on the cusp of something big here and I'm not sure I'm ready for what's coming up.

My First Book Talk!

Last night, a friend and I attended an author presentation by Rebecca Walker, author of the new memoir "Baby Love." Rebecca is the daughter of "The Color Purple"'s Alice Walker and civil rights attorney Mel Leventhal. I've heard Rebecca speak before and she never fails to be entertaining and, most important, thought-provoking. In her first memoir, "Black, White and Jewish", she writes frankly about her parents' shortcomings in raising her and the resulting clash of identities she felt over a myriad of issues--race being just one. What I love most about her is her refreshing candor and unflinching determination to be true to herself. She understands that, as a writer, the person's first responsibility is to be honest, embracing the difficulties in one's life as well as the positives. Secondary is the way in which the peripheral characters might take how they're being portrayed in writing. This isn't to say she's ruthless in her illustrations of her family members--she's no Christina Crawford. She tries to wash over her memories with a layer of understanding and guarded sympathy. I think we can all learn from this. For my own family, I refuse to let those who have hurt me off the hook, simply because "it was a long time ago" or "it's the best I can do." My love is unconditional, but my time and energy isn't--nor is a relationship with my children, who don't have the same power to say "no" or see through the dysfunction that I have. I'll give the gift of context and understanding for the shortcomings of those who have dodged in and out of my life over the years, but I don't have to let it continue just because "they're blood."