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.