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Guest Posts, Siblings

Christmas, 2019

October 1, 2023

That Christmas, I fantasized that I could discover a gift that would stop the destruction of ALS. Or that I could give Lance a beautifully wrapped present that would remove his pain. Historically, I could find, make, or schedule an experience to surprise and delight my husband. That holiday would be like none other.

How can one truly enjoy the holidays when each day is an emotional and physical challenge? I felt like a cracked pane of glass—with just a tiny bit of pressure, I’d shatter. But it was Christmas, and we traditionally put up a tree and outside lights, decorated the house, cooking elaborate meals, and enjoyed spending time with family and friends. So, I pretended that nothing had changed; this was just another Christmas, but it wasn’t.

I was determined to make that season as festive as previous years. In the past, we’d searched to find the perfect fir tree and took pains to decorate it and the house. Setting the tree in the stand was always an adventure—Lance splayed out on the floor to adjust the knobs in the tree stand while I held the tree.

“Is it straight?” he said.

I can barely see his legs sticking out from under the tree. My face is smashed against a large branch. My arm isn’t long enough to hold the tree and see much of anything.

“I can’t tell from here. All I can see is your legs. I need to be further away. I’m going to take a few steps back.”

“Don’t let go of the tree!”

“Well, goofball, tighten the screws so I can step back.”

My fingers are sticky from tree sap, and the grand fir’s pungent scent has overwhelmed my nose.

“Who are you calling a goofball?”

“You! Dorkman,” I laughed.

When we finally got the tree straight and secured, Lance hauled out the boxes and containers of outdoor and indoor lights, tree and house decorations, the Santa collection, holiday towels, dishes, and more. Each year the number of bins grew as I found new treasures at Christmas bazaars and after Xmas sales.

“Don’t you think we have enough ornaments?” he asked every year.

“You can never have too many ornaments or decorations,” I say while opening a box of red and silver mercury glass garlands.

“Besides, something always breaks. So I’m just trying to replace what’ll get destroyed by the critters or you.”

Sipping champagne while decorating, we’d make up stories about the ornaments—the more ridiculous, the better. Lance could get me laughing so hard I would snort, which was his goal.

“Do you know where this ornament was made?” he asked. He holds up a glass orb encasing a silver bell and a snowflake. It looks ethereal, and I hear a slight tinkle.

“No”

“Well, I remember that we bought it at that village market in Vic.”

“That ornament didn’t come from Spain,” I said.

“Oh yes, it did. I clearly remember a tiny man with a large nose and a scraggly beard in a booth with a green cover. He only spoke Catalan and told me that his ornaments were made by fairies that lived in the forest. He explained the story of each one and described the fairy that created it; according to the man, the fairy that made this one had long black hair and blue eyes the color of the sea.”

Lance smiles at me, and I can see the small boy he once was. His eyes sparkle like tinsel.

“Really,” I said

“Absolutely. He even told me the fairy’s name. It’s Oswena.”

“You are such a clown!”

We would never be able to do that again. Nor would we have a fir tree again; it was too much work for one person. Now our conversations were limited. I’d ask Lance questions, and he’d either nod or tap out a sentence on his iPad.

“Good morning, honey. Were you able to go back to sleep?”

I’d gotten out of bed four times to rearrange his pillows and administer more pain medication the night before. Each time I heard him through the baby monitor, I shot out of bed and down the stairs.

He nodded and smiled. I smothered his face in kisses, feeling the sandpaper scratch of his whiskers. The blinds were still closed, and the room was full of shadows. I turned on the overhead light to get him ready for the day.

“Do you need the mouth spray?” I asked

Lance’s mouth dried out, especially overnight, because he wasn’t producing enough saliva. I never realized before how important saliva is to comfort.

He nodded. I rolled over the turquoise cart on wheels. It contained all the things we needed—waterless body shampoo, adult diapers (in case the condom catheter slid off in the night), extra gauze pads and tape, scissors, numbing cream for his feet, Balmex for diaper rash, tissues, and his pain meds. All were easily accessible and in one place.

“Do you want a bed bath today?”

He shook his head.

“What about a shave?”

Again, he shook his head.

Holding up clothing options, I asked: “Do you want to wear sweats or pajama pants? We aren’t going anywhere today, so you can hang out in pajamas if you want.”

Lance pointed to the pajamas.

“Red or black? If you want black, I’ll go get a different t-shirt, so you’ll still be stylin.”

I emptied the urine bag and made sure I didn’t dislodge the condom catheter while dressing Lance. Then, while I got him organized and transferred from the hospital bed to his wheelchair, our son Blair assembled the artificial tree, unbeknownst to me.

I walked into the kitchen to prepare Lance’s morning formula and meds, my slippers softly thwacking on the oak floor. Lance guided his motorized wheelchair behind me. I glanced into the family room and saw a six-foot forest green tree aglow with tiny white lights next to the stone fireplace.

Gasping in surprise at the tree’s beauty, tears erupted from my eyes. Blair, dressed in jeans and a University of Oregon sweatshirt, turned around when he heard us enter and grinned at me.

“Oh, Blair Bozo! It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“Yeah, I thought I’d put it up while you got Dad dressed. Are these sad tears or happy tears?”

“A little of both,” I said

Throwing my arms around him, I buried my face in his shoulder, my tears and runny nose leaving a wet spot on his sweatshirt. He squeezed me in reply.

“Hey, could you feed your Dad so that I can take a shower? The formula’s on the counter, and there’s a new syringe next to it. You’ll need to crush his pills; they’re already in the mortar.”

“Sure. Where’s the gauze and tape?” He asked

“In the top right drawer of the sideboard. You good?”

“Yep.”

Traveling anywhere was stressful for both Lance and me. It took extra planning to get him ready and safely loaded into our converted van, his wheelchair locked in place. The van was a massive vehicle. It took a long time to accelerate and even more time to come to a stop. It was like steering a container ship.

Each time the side door opened, the ramp gliding out with a metallic scraping sound, the van slowly lowering itself, I remembered that Lance was helpless once he was strapped in place. I was anxious every time I drove it.

What if you can’t stop it in time? There aren’t any airbags that will protect Lance in his wheelchair. What if you miscalculate its size and sideswipe another car or the guard rail? What if one or two clamps fail and Lance’s wheelchair starts to shift? What if we get in an accident?

So often during those thirteen months (and one day) between Lance’s diagnosis and his death, I tried to prove to the world (and myself) that I could handle everything, manage everything, maintain my good humor, and create a safe and happy environment for Lance. Attending concerts, cooking elaborate meals, hosting guests, buying, wrapping, and delivering Christmas gifts were my attempts to pretend that my world wasn’t unraveling before me.

Christmas afternoon, I loaded Lance into the van while Steve and Belinda (Lance’s brother and sister-in-law) climbed onto the rear bench. Belinda’s feet dangled above the floor like a child in an overstuffed chair.

We were off to celebrate with the kids and grandkids. Blair and Jackie were hosting an open house. Members from both families gathered to share hearty soups and fresh loaves of bread. The wine and cocktails were abundant; the Christmas tree was colorfully lit; the house was full of lively conversations.

I don’t remember much of that evening other than I stuck close to Lance the entire time. I worried that he would need something, and it would go unnoticed. I just sat holding Lance’s hand and observing the activity around us.

Ever watchful, I noticed after two hours that Lance was tired. There was a gray shadow under his eyes. I said, “let’s go home.”

When he was safely in bed, his pillows arranged to reduce pressure on his hips and legs; I wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his shoulder, inhaling his scent. He smelled a combination of the lavender body lotion I rubbed on him every morning and sweat.

“I love you, buddy. Merry Christmas. Will you be okay so I can take Steve and Belinda to their hotel? I should be gone about twenty minutes.”

He nodded his head and smiled. He looked drained; the bones of his face more prominent every day. I knew the celebration had been exhausting for him, but I think he knew it would be his last. I turned off the lights, closed the door, and herded Steve and Belinda into the car. Dropping them off at their hotel, I wished them a Merry Christmas and thanked them for coming to celebrate with us.

When I got home, I remembered that Zoey, our tiny seventeen-year-old black and white Papillion had diarrhea that morning, and her behind was a little stinky. So I decided to bathe her before I went up to bed. She was curled up in her basket in the kitchen, head buried in her tail. I put her in the utility tub and began to wet down her backside. ONE EYE HUNG OUT OF ITS SOCKET when I turned her head toward me. Suppressing a scream, I wrapped her in a couple of towels and called the emergency vet clinic.

“Hello, I just found my Papillion with one eye hanging out of its socket. Can I bring her in right away?”

“Of course, because it is after six, the doors are locked. Ring the bell when you get here, and we’ll let you in.”

What do I do about Lance? I can’t leave him here alone for an extended time, and I don’t know when I’ll get back. Why didn’t I check Zoey earlier? My God, when and how did this happen? How long has she been in pain? Call Blair and Jackie, see who can come over immediately.

Blair didn’t answer his cell, so I called Jackie.

“Jackie, I have to take Zoey to the emergency vet. Lance is in bed. Can you come over right away?”

“Of course. I’ll grab my coat and be right over.”

“Okay, I won’t wait for you. I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I said

“Don’t worry. I’ll spend the night. Go!”

I wrapped another towel around Zoey and placed her in my lap, plugging the address to the Emergency Clinic into my GPS.

Jesus Carol, how could you have not seen that? What happened? Oh, my God, Zoey, I’m so sorry! Please hang on. Oh God, Zoey. My poor little girl.

It was ten-thirty on Christmas night, and the streets were devoid of traffic. I drove as fast as I dared with Zoey in my lap. Ringing the bell, I paced, waiting for the staff to answer the door. I could barely speak; I was so distraught. I held Zoey in my arms while filling out the paperwork and approving treatment. Within minutes, a vet tech led me to an exam room and gently took Zoey out of my arms.

“I’m going to take her to Dr. Jackson for an exam. Then the doctor will come and talk with you about treatment,” said the Vet Tech.

I nodded and watched her turn and walk down the hall, her tennis shoes squeaking on the tile floor. The door to the exam room slowly closed behind her. There were a couple of chairs along the wall. A sink and brown cabinets lined the other wall. I don’t know how long I sat there. My brain was on fire with anxiety, guilt, and recriminations.

What could have happened? Maybe she bumped into Monte, and he snapped at her. But I didn’t see any blood, just her eyeball hanging out. Oh, God! I don’t know how much more I can take!

The Vet walked in after a discrete knock on the door. She was about my height with strawberry blonde hair in a ponytail and wearing green scrubs. She looked about 30 years old. She smiled one of those smiles that expressed sadness.

“Hello. I’m Doctor Jackson.”

She reached out and shook my hand.

“I’ve given Zoey some pain medication. Typically, we can do surgery in cases like this and place the eye back in the socket. However, I’m not sure that is a good idea given Zoey’s age. She’s very frail.”

“Are you suggesting that I put her down?”

My eyes began to fill with tears again, and I began to sob loudly.

Dr. Jackson reached out and put her hand on my knee while grabbing a few tissues. When finally able to speak, I choked out:

“I’m sorry, it’s just that my husband was diagnosed with ALS earlier this year, and the disease is moving much more quickly than we were led to believe. I’m his primary caregiver. We’ve been married thirty-three years, half of my lifetime. Over the years, every time we’ve had to put down an animal, we’ve done it together and supported each other. Now I have to do this alone. This is just the beginning of having to do everything alone.”

“I’m so sorry about your husband. I can’t imagine what you are experiencing. Do you need some time to decide about Zoey?”

I shake my head.

The door closed with a soft click; I began to sob again. I felt as if I was being abandoned by everyone I loved. I don’t know how long it was before the doctor returned with Zoey, an iv needle in her right front leg. Her leg was so thin I could see the light through her skin.

“Be careful of her leg. You don’t want to pull out the needle. I’ll leave you alone,” said Dr. Jackson.

I held that tiny body and gently stroked her head, remembering how we both went gray simultaneously.

Zoey, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t check on you right away. I don’t know how long you were in pain. I’m so, so sorry. I love you so much. You have given me so much love all these years. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.

I don’t know how long I sat holding her. Eventually, I poked my head out the door.

“I’m ready,” I called out into the empty hall.

Dr. Jackson returned with two syringes on a tray.

“I’m going to give her something that will cause her to go to sleep, and then the final injection will allow her to pass away peacefully.”

I held that tiny body, tears running down my cheeks while I watched Dr. Jackson inject the medications. I continued petting Zoey’s head and silently telling her how much I loved her. Finally, the doctor pulled out her stethoscope and listened to her chest.

“She’s gone. You can take her home, or we can arrange to have her cremated and her ashes returned to you.”

“I’d like her to be cremated, please.”

She took Zoey from my arms.

Shortly thereafter, I was in the reception area, signing all the forms, and giving the receptionist my Visa card. I didn’t even try to read the documents; I just signed them.

The receptionist escorted me to the door, unlocked it, and held it open for me. I stumbled to my car and drove home. It was challenging to see the road through my tears.

The house was dark and silent when I got home. I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a couple of fingers of vodka, and sat at the old oak kitchen table staring into space.

I can’t believe what is happening to me, to us! What’s next? I know what’s next. I can’t think about that now.

Finally, I went to bed at about two o’clock.

I got up at my usual time, dressed, and went down to see if Lance was awake. I peeked in the glass door and saw his eyes were open, and he was staring at the ceiling. I opened the door quietly. It took me a couple of attempts before I could speak. My throat felt as swollen as my eyes. Finally, I reached out and held his hand, still warm from being under the covers.

“Hi, Honey. I’ve got some bad news. Last night after you were asleep, I found Zoey with an eye hanging out of the socket. I don’t know what happened. I rushed her to the emergency vet; the doctor said she wouldn’t survive the surgery given her age. I had to put her down.”

His face crumpled like a sinkhole, his mouth opened, and a primitive inhuman howl erupted from him. Tears streamed out the corners of his eyes. I began to cry again and leaned down to embrace him.

An Executive coach, Carol Putnam believes that coaching can help to launch people forward toward their goals while they gain new perspectives, and deeper self-awareness. She is straightforward and direct in her approach while incorporating creativity, spirit, and humor as she engages with clients. A believer in the power of expressive writing to heal old wounds, uncover possibilities, and facilitate creativity, Carol has completed extensive training in expressive writing and is certified to teach over twenty journaling techniques. She publishes a weekly email blog, called Thriving Thursday.

***

Wondering what to read next? 

This is not your typical divorce memoir.

Elizabeth Crane’s marriage is ending after fifteen years. While the marriage wasn’t perfect, her husband’s announcement that it is over leaves her reeling, and this gem of a book is the result. Written with fierce grace, her book tells the story of the marriage, the beginning and the end, and gives the reader a glimpse into what comes next for Crane.

“Reading about another person’s pain should not be this enjoyable, but Crane’s writing, full of wit and charm, makes it so.”
Kirkus (starred review)

***

Statement on Black Lives Matter and support for social change

Guest Posts, Christmas, Fiction Fridays

Waiting For Flicker, Christmas 1963

December 18, 2020

By Byron Spooner

“The holidays are hard on everybody,” Mother says, stubbing out her half-smoked Kent in a chocolate-smeared dessert plate, as if that might head the conversation off at the pass. If Dad were here he’d be giving Mother his usual hyperbolic ration of shit about smoking, but he’s long gone so she can do pretty much anything she Goddamn well pleases. Plus, she only smokes about three or four a day. Five, tops. If I could get away with that I’d still be smoking.

Arranged around the table in roughly the same configuration as at that lunatic Christmas dinner forty-odd years before, the three of us are the only ones left and none of us remembers exactly. Not that it matters.

“And really, what was Dad thinking?” my brother Davey says.

Which is exactly the question Mother doesn’t want me or Davey asking, the start of a discussion she’s endured many times; another rehash of that evening we still tell stories about—obsessively, she would say—and embellish and laugh about, at our increasingly infrequent gatherings. She hopes she can still steer clear of it.

“Who knows?” I say.

“Who cares?” Mother says too late.

At the head of the table, the tinsel-shimmering tree in the bay window behind him, looming over us, was six-and-a-half feet of Dad. He was halfway into his third martini. At the other end, Mother, tiny and starting to put on weight, had a VO on the rocks within easy reach; who knew how many she’d had in the kitchen. The entire Northeast region, as the weatherman called it, may have been glazed stiff from three days of continual freezing rain, but inside the heat was on full, the food was steaming. The perfect way to bring the day to a fitting finish.

Granted, the morning’s gift exchange hadn’t gone as well as it could have. Davey and I had each gotten at least one thing we wanted and had managed to keep the whining to a minimum. Davey, at seven, had been, for weeks, nearly beside himself with anticipation; I played it cool, it was my tenth Christmas and I acted the unimpressed veteran. Dad’s asshole buddy Garnett and his glamorous wife Marge were with us and, as always, exchanged token gifts with Mother and Dad. But they’d been staying with us ‘for a couple of weeks’ since around April. Another thing for Mother to be chronically pissed off about.

Things got off on the wrong foot early when Dad gave Mother a flat white box with red wrapping paper and a gold ribbon. She unwrapped it carefully, putting the paper and ribbon aside intact, and slid the top off the box. She peeled away the tissue paper and slowly, with a puzzled smile on her face, held it up for view in front of us before she realized what exactly it was; the flimsiest, shortest, sheerest negligee legally offered for purchase within the borders of the contiguous United States. There were straps going every which way with seemingly no imaginable purpose, it looked as if the whole rig couldn’t modestly cover one of the cats. What there was of it was the thinnest black fabric with blacker vertical ribbing and a feathery—or maybe furry—scarlet trim. The second she realized what it was, her smile disintegrated and she flushed red as the trim, dropped it back into the box while trying simultaneously to refold the tissue paper around it, jam the top back on the box—if she could have rewrapped it she would have—and drop it on the floor next to her. She couldn’t look at anyone in the room, instead scowling at the box as though it were a Great Dane soiling her clean floor.

“Go ahead, try in on!” Dad said to her, leering slightly and elbowing Garnett.

“What was that?” Davey asked, “What’s it for?”

What was Dad thinking? Did he mistake the flush of embarrassment and anger on her cheeks for some rosy dawn of eroticism, a pinkening of the cadaver of desire afresh? Was he so out of it that he misinterpreted the obvious signals?

Mother was short-tempered the rest of the day and when I asked Dad why, he said, “Christ, who knows? It’s always something with her.”

Dad wore his suit to dinner nearly every day and there was no reason Christmas dinner should be any different. Expecting guests, especially wealthy guests like Aunt Doobie and Uncle Flicker, brought out the blade in him. Flicker had inherited money—“a shitpot full,” according to Dad— from his family. Money made from the manufacture and sale of a nationally-known constipation remedy. Which was what made “shitpot full” even funnier, again according to Dad.

When Flicker wasn’t around Dad referred to him as the “The Laxative King,” but on the rare occasions Flicker was around he sucked up to him unsubtly, calling him “My favorite brother-in-law” and stuff like that. It was Dad’s conviction, his only unshakeable tenet of belief, that the one and only reason Flicker existed on the earth, the reason he’d been born of woman and suckled and nurtured and expensively educated and raised to maturity and unleashed on an unsuspecting and undeserving world in all his slim, urbane, cigarette-holder-sporting, Thunderbird-driving, condescendingly-nasal-voiced glory, was to make Dad look bad.

Dad’s attitude was: You never knew when a rich person might be suddenly convulsed by the irresistible urge to begin handing out random cash. Stranger things had happened after all and there was no reason not to be close by should such a compulsion come over Flicker.

But Doobie and Flicker, never the most reliable of jetsetters, still had not shown. They were already a couple of hours late when Mother and Dad powwowed in the kitchen, hissing and whispering. Mother wanted to go ahead and serve; dinner was going to be too late for us kids if we waited much longer. Dad wanted to hold off for another hour or so. Mother’s winning point, the one that changed Dad’s mind, was ‘If we stall around any longer the roast’ll be ruined.” Overdone and tough. Hearing this, Dad, who liked his beef cooked ‘so it moos’ immediately relented and started herding everyone in sight to the table. He always said sophisticated people ate their meat rare.

With or without Doobie and Flicker, Dad had been looking forward to the Christmas roast since sometime around the Fourth of July. He loathed Christmas and all things associated with it but wasn’t about to let that spoil a good meal. Just because he’d been collecting Unemployment for the better part of nine months didn’t mean we couldn’t splurge a little for the holidays. The roast alone had set him back enough to feed the entire family the usual slop for a week. We’d be eating nothing but macaroni and cheese and store-brand canned crap into mid-January at least, but it would be worth it. Mashed potatoes, peas with pearl onions, Parker House rolls, real butter, Jell-O salad. Gravy. Garnett had said he’d kick a share into the pot but came up short, having been unemployed even longer than Dad.

Dad seemed to hover over the roast, a knife in one hand, a fork in the other, letting the anticipation build.

He peered into the gravy boat, the good one our grandmother had given us, silver and shaped vaguely along the lines of Aladdin’s Magic Lamp, from over his glasses. If you asked him—not that anybody ever did—there was never enough gravy; the woman never made enough. If it had been up to him he would never, ever, have to ladle out the gravy in carefully measured, niggardly portions as if we lived in the poorhouse or something. If it had been up to him, he’d have poured it. He’d have poured it on his meat, his potatoes, his vegetables, his salad, his goddamned ice cream, if he wanted to. He’d float the whole flipping meal in it.

And he always, at this point in the proceedings, asked the same question, “The gravy situation is MIK, I presume? More In Kitchen?”

“Just what’s there,” Mother said, her voice tense. To her, the most galling part of the whole performance was he always, no matter how many times he trotted out the same tired line, felt the need to translate the acronym for her. Did he think she hadn’t heard ‘More In Kitchen’ the last two hundred times he‘d said it? Did he not realize he was prodding a hornets’ nest with this MIK nonsense?

He shared a downcast look with us kids, and then with Garnett and Marge, as if to say, ‘See how much I have to suffer?’

He paused for another solemn moment.

“I must say that Christmas dinner is always extra special when I’m serving all these wonderful people. All these people who are so close to me and whom I love so dearly.”

Was he sincere or just bullshitting us? Probably a little of both if my ear could be trusted. It was hard to know.

“I know we’re all broke this year…”

“Just like last year…” Mother muttered.

“…but there are still some things…”

“…and the year before that…” she continued.

“…that are more important…”

He went on from there, blessing each of us several times including the roast and the gravy and the pearl onions, with the gravy ladle.

“A-men, a-men,” Marge said.

“God bless us one and all,” Garnett said. He was defrocked minister, so he still knew how to make stuff like that sound sincere and insincere at the same time..

“The food is getting cold,” Mother said.

Carefully and with all the high-seriousness befitting the occasion, Dad carved the roast and doled out the slices, a few at a time. His disappointment was obvious as each successive slice peeled away; the meat was gray, without even a trace of pink, through and through. The rest of us, hungry and not nearly as worldly as Dad, fell on the food like starved peccaries. All the while we kept one keen eye on the remaining food and plotted ways to get a little more than the others when the time came for seconds. Everyone talked at once: the gifts, the rain outside, the fire in the fireplace, Santa, Christmases past, Dickens, the Grinch, a week off from school.

No one mentioned Kennedy, who’d been shot and killed just over a month before.

“We’re not going to spoil our Christmas just because that sonofabitch is dead,” Dad had said, earlier in the day, making clear his position. As if there had ever been any doubt.

Garnett pulled a palmed marshmallow out of Davey’s ear. He kept a bag of them hidden in his coat pocket. Davey giggled.

“I love this time of year; the Christmas trees, the decorations, the store windows,” he said.

“Yes, it is lovely isn’t it? Why don’t we drive into the city tomorrow and see the decorations on the big stores one more time before they take them all down,” Marge suggested.

“Good idea,” Mother said, “We all get tired of being cooped up in the house after a couple of days. I know I do.” A glance at Dad.

Dad rolled his eyes ceilingward. Not his idea of a fun way to fill an afternoon.

“Did you see the guy owns the hardware store downtown?” Dad said, “He stuck a sign in his window says, ‘Give Your Husband a New Screw for Christmas!’ You might want to take the kids past that way. Good for a couple of laughs.” It was always hard to pinpoint who his intended audience was for this kind of thing. The rest of us could practically hear Mother simmering at the other end of the table. He was oblivious. At least it seemed so.

Garnett laughed, as would be expected, but Marge hid her mouth behind her napkin.

“Why would you say something like that at this table, with the children here, everyone in such a good mood?” she said.

“It’s a joke, m’dear, a joke. Best just to let it pass.” Garnett said, pulling another marshmallow from Davey’s ear. I monitored this pretty closely. Usually after another highball or two he’d switch from marshmallows to quarters. You wanted to be around for that.

“I hear Doobie and Flicker are headed for Aruba after the holidays,” Dad said.

“Yes, they are,” Mother said, perking up, momentarily encouraged that her husband had been paying attention to something other than his own needs for a change.

“Maybe they decided to head down there early,” Dad said.

“I understand it’s lovely this time of year,” Marge said.

“Me, too,” Garnett said, “No freezing rain, at least.”

“Art Plouts had a buddy went to Aruba,” Dad said, “He told me it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Art Plouts?” Mother said.

“I remember ole Art,” Garnett said, “Wasn’t he…”

“Art Plouts?” Mother said again, incredulous, wanting none of Art Plouts, a gin-soaked housepainter Dad had met in a barroom in Memphis who’d mooched room, board and booze off us for several months in exchange for a couple of shaky coats of exterior white.

Mother said, “If Aruba’s such a hellhole how come people are practically killing themselves to get there?”

“Just ‘cause you’re rich, doesn’t make you smart,” Dad said, directing this at me and Davey as if it were a valuable piece of advice.

Mother said, “I guess by that measure you’re about the smartest man in town.”

He gave her a look of wounded incomprehension.

“You should be a regular genius,” she said.

Garnett reached over and pulled a quarter out of my ear. I must have miscalculated his rate of consumption.

“You and Art and all your other deadbeat friends? You idiots think it’s smart to not work? You and your friends are too fucking smart to hold a steady job?”

The table went silent.

Garnett issued a barely audible burp.

Dad swore like a drill sergeant, we heard obscenity and profanity daily—hell, hourly—from him. It had only been only a year or two since I’d figured out ‘motherfucker’ wasn’t another word for ‘lawnmower.’ Nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, exclamations, he swung the words the way Dizzy Gillespie swung high notes, the way Jackie Gleason delivered a punch line, with precision and artistry, yes, but also for the sake of pure entertainment. But that word—Fuck—coming from Mother, and not just the word but in that tone, in front of her children and Marge and Garnett, and on Christmas, was nothing but unalloyed rage. It sent a charge of fear through the room.

“See here,” Marge said.

“Shut up,” Mother said, “You’ve been on my last nerve all day with your holier-than-thou, high-and-mighty attitude, so right now, just for now, why don’t you shut up?”

After a minute and with deliberate and exaggerated patience Dad said, “If you’re referring to the alleged differences between me and the sainted Flicker, I would like to point out, A, he’s never had to lift finger one in his entire pointless goddamned existence. B, he inherited everything…”

“It wasn’t Flicker who gave you the idea for that…that…filthy…thing you tried to give me this morning. That idea had to come from Art or some other dirty-minded friend of yours.”

“I came up with that on my own…” he said, leering again at the memory.

“I had nothing to do with it,” Garnett said.

“And in front of these poor children…?”

“…and, getting back to my original point, don’t forget, C, everyone…” he said, going back to his list, his forefinger pointing to the ceiling, massively oblivious to what was coming.

“…and on Christmas…?” she said, wanting nothing more to do with his alphabet.

“… on the entire face of the planet…”

“And…in…front…of…all…these…people?”

  As she said this last, she jumped out of her chair, gripping the edge of the table, bringing her end up with her as she rose.

“…kisses his rich ass…”

Like all tragedies, this one happened in slow motion.

We all watched breathless, frozen in place, useless, as Mother tilted her end of the table upward and sent an avalanche into Dad’s lap; the tablecloth with our dinner, dishes, silverware, serving platters, water glasses, the cocktails, the roast, the Jell-O salad, the peas with pearl onions, the mashed potatoes, the gravy—the gravy! Dad tried to save the roast, grabbing it as it sailed by. At the same time, he tried to stand, to get out of the way of the rest of our dinner, but in his rush to throw himself clear his legs got tangled in his chair legs; his left shoe clomped onto the silver-plated gravy boat, half-flattening it. He slipped in the spreading slick of gravy and fell backwards, kicking out, shooting the gravy boat, which no longer resembled Aladdin’s Magic Lamp or anything recognizable, at a terrifying speed and sending it smack against the opposite wall. It ricocheted back at him, caroming off the ceiling on its way. There was still enough gravy in the ruined thing to spatter Dad’s face and clothes when it struck him square in the forehead and rattled to the floor, came to rest in nearly the exact spot it had taken off from. More stunned than wounded, he fell backwards into the tree, bringing it down with a great, sickening crash. The plugs on the Depression-era light strings sputtered and smoked under the strain and finally gave up the ghost, flickering once, twice, and dying. Dad sprawled on top of the ruined tree, the roast resting on his chest like some wet trophy.

“Shit,” Dad said.

An extended stunned silence ensued punctuated only by the miniature crash—Ding!—of a last glass ornament dropping to the floor. We all sat in our chairs feeling suddenly exposed, absent the table, napkins in our laps, knives and forks still in our hands

“God bless us one and all,” Garnett said and Dad, from where he lay moaning, his suit gravy-spattered and covered with pine needles, could only laugh. He always thought Garnett was a fucking riot.

“A few years ago,” I say, “It came to me that the world didn’t need me to point out all the already obvious hypocrisies of the season. Most people work out ways to live with them, reconcile with them, so they can still enjoy the season. And I’m not helping anything by acting like Dad; trying to convert everyone into an atheist or a Scrooge. So he hated Christmas? So what? What gave him license to go around spoiling everyone else’s holiday?”

“So if you don’t have anything nice to say I just dummy up? ” Davey says, “Doesn’t sound like you.”

“It’s the new me,” I say.

“How’s that working out for you?” Davey asked.

“So-so, I’d have to say, Dr. Phil,” I say, I’ve been the other way for so long it’s just habit to be that way.”

“Forty Christmases under our belts since that one,” Davey says, “I guess we’re the last of them.”

I ask Mother, “What happened to Garnett?”

  “After your father died, I lost touch with Marge and Garnett,” Mother says, “I assume they’re gone. It was no state secret I never really cared much for them.”

She always said that, “No state secret.” Some things never change. Actually, most things never change, if you think about it.

“No, it certainly wasn’t,” Davey says, laughing at her understatement.

Mother says, “The last we heard they’d gone up to Providence to live with Marge’s sister, ‘looking for work’—probably sponging.”

“Doobie and Flicker never did show up,” Davey says.

“The peripatetic Doobie and Flicker,” I say, jumping on the rare chance to insert ‘peripatetic’ into a conversation.

“Wow, nice word,” Davey says. In our family, sarcasm is the mother tongue.

“Yeah, and I remember how pissed off you were,” I say to Mother. Davey just laughs. Whatever happened to her sister Doobie and Doobie’s husband Flicker that night is lost in the mists—the freezing rain—of history; never satisfactorily explained, never resolved. Nobody ever asked, nobody ever explained. Like everything else, we all just acted as if nothing had happened and trudged on. It was a tradition that had been passed down through generations. They died a few years later off the coast of Mexico, marlin fishing. Apparently everyone on board was loaded—’knee-walking drunk’ was how Flicker’s ancient mother put it—when they capsized.

“They always lived like the rules didn’t apply to them. They were terribly reckless.” she says, “And, just to set the record straight, I wasn’t ’pissed off’ so much as disappointed.”

Davey laughs again, “‘Disappointed?’ Hell, you didn’t speak to them for a couple of years after that.” He is always brutally honest with her, the one who calls her on her bullshit, never giving her an inch, ever since he was little.

“Yes, I never got the chance to reconcile with her,” she says, “And I would’ve too.”

Davey and I exchange glances that say, ‘Yeah, right.’

“It was all so long ago,” she says, sighing “I don’t understand why we always have to come back to it. Every Christmas it’s the same Goddammed thing.” She lights her last Kent of the evening and shakes the match out.

Davey says, “You’re right, ‘the holidays are hard on everybody.’”

Byron Spooner has recently retired after twenty-one years as the Literary Director of the Friends of the San Francisco Public Library where he produced literary events including a weekly poetry series with San Francisco Poet Laureate Emeritus Jack Hirschman. He founded and edited of The Readers Review, the Friends’ literary blog, where he wrote about books, music, film and bookselling. With his wife, writer Judith Ayn Bernhard, Byron co-edited Arcana: A Festschrift for Jack Hirschman (Andover Street Archives Press, 2014). His writing has been published in the San Francisco Examiner, the Anderson Valley Advertiser, Autobiography and Isis. He has written introductions to several anthologies published by FSFPL. His short story, A Book for Christmas was published by Red Berry Editions in 2011. Byron has served on the San Francisco Poet Laureate Nominating Committee and the One City, One Book Selection Committee of the SFPL, on the Board of Litquake, and the Advisory Board of the Beat Museum.

Anti-racist resources, because silence is not an option

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

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Christmas, Guest Posts

Donald Trump Can’t Stop Me From Saying “Merry Christmas”

December 22, 2018
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By Amy Doyle

During my twenties, I signed cards and saluted acquaintances with the slogan, “Happy Holidays!” Saying “Merry Christmas” in the nineties in New York City felt retrograde, even though I was a Catholic. It lacked the carbonation of “Merry Christmas,” but “Happy Holidays” accommodated everyone: my Jewish friends, who were many, my Muslim students, my agnostic neighbors (the former-Catholic-future-Catholics), and my one atheist friend, who was too busy reading to take notice.

The truth is, none of them noticed. They were neither offended nor impressed whether I said “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays.” But I trudged on with my forward thinking, sterile greeting for a few more years until discovering that speaking in my mother tongue, saying “Merry Christmas” with all its emotional density, was a radical act of love, connection, and, maybe, political resistance to conservative efforts to control the narrative of who we liberals are. Continue Reading…

Guest Posts, Holidays

The Christmas Tree That Saved My Parents’ Marriage

November 30, 2018
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By Julienne Grey

Right before my mother died, she wanted to give me a gift. “I want to give you something,” she’d said. “Anything you want. Something special. What would you like?”

Surrounded by family photos and irises and loving cards from the years, in the room she’d chosen to die in, I wasn’t thinking of gifts. That week she’d been dipping in and out of consciousness. She’d glimpse a photo from her Mykonos honeymoon and say, under the influence of morphine, “It’s beautiful being here on this island.” I’d smile back and say, “Yes, it is.”

What did I want? I wanted my mom alive, alert, awake. But that wasn’t something she could give for much longer. And I didn’t want to make her sad. So instead I said, “Can I have a puppy?” Imagining a sweet little bichon or a shih tzu was the only thrill I could imagine in that room. But when I looked up, my mom had already fallen asleep. Continue Reading…

Guest Posts, Holidays

Nun Gimmel Heh Shin

December 22, 2017
hanukkah

By Magin LaSov Gregg

The LeVees

In our sodden delta parish, December means sweater weather, fleece parkas, fairy lights twinkling along the bayou. At night Carl and I sip monk beer on our back patio while a cat curls up at our feet. We sit beside azalea bushes, in the shadow of oleanders, and watch the pale moon glow. Autumn leaves don’t change colors here. They dry out, become brittle and papery, then fade from green to brown by Hanukkah.

This year I’m observing my second Hanukkah in Louisiana, and I’ve done the thing I never expected to do. I said yes when Carl asked me to marry him. At this time in our lives, he’s a Baptist minister, and he serves a small congregation known as the “gay church” in town. He’s the only minister between Jackson, Mississippi and Shreveport who will officiate at same sex weddings. Recently, I fretted when he stood in a gazebo across from the court house and blessed the union of two women while cars whizzed along a busy road –– this is 2006, nine years before Obergefell v. Hodges. Our parish carried David Duke during his bid for U.S. Senate. And a few years before I moved to town, someone left a burning tire on the front yard of one of Carl’s colleagues, who’d spoken out against Christian prayers being broadcast on the intercom system of a local high school. I tell few people I’m Jewish, and we keep our address unlisted. Yet Jews view me with suspicion too. Continue Reading…

Christmas, Family, Guest Posts

Tidings of Comfort and Joy.

December 25, 2014

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By Melodye Shore.

 

I swear to you, there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.
–Walt Whitman
It was when our mutual friend Katrina Kenison introduced me to Amy VanEchaute’s blog, My Path With Stars Bestrewn, that the seeds of a friendship were planted. In a later entry, “While My Pretty One Sleeps,” Amy wrote a gorgeous tribute to her beloved Momma, who seemed to me the stuff of fairy tales. At once magical and ephemeral, Amy’s Momma reminded me of my sweet Nana—not mirror images, mind you, but similar in all the places where light exists and love makes itself manifest in the world.

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Amy’s Momma with Maymer, 1973

My Nana, early 1970s

My Nana, early 1970s

Though we are separated by distance—1,900 miles, more or less—my subsequent conversations with Amy brought us closer. Over time, I came to realize just how much we have in common. Our personalities are uniquely our own, but we approach the world with a shared sense of wide-eyed wonderment, are attuned to music about Mother Earth and her creations, and words that whisper to us the wisdom of Transcendentalists, matriarchs, and the Eternal All-knowing.

A few weeks ago, when Amy posted a picture of the Victorian-style wreath she’d created as a Christmastime homage to her mother, I wished aloud for a memorial spot where I could visit Nana. Amy expressed similar regrets about her own grandmother. As fate would have it, “Maymer” is buried in a cemetery less than nine (count ’em, 9!) miles from my house.

Right then I realized that we’d ventured into that serendipitous space where wishes are sometimes granted, the realm of possibility where you don’t dare blink, lest you miss all the fun and magic. “I’ll make her a wreath,” I heard myself say, “I’ll find Maymer’s grave and lay it there for you.”

Get this: I’d never made a wreath for a loved one before, much less a total stranger! So what? My inner voice asked. I answered the challenge by grabbing my car keys and heading to Michaels. Not for me, something purely decorative…I’d pull together thematic elements! The circular shape would speak of unity—the joining of hands across the miles, a warm embrace in absentia. And the sturdy evergreens would represent our grandmothers’ character: strong women who endured hard times without complaint, who embroidered the fanciful into the everyday, and who sowed seeds of grace in every word and deed.

 Behold! My first-ever homemade bow! See the tiny angel? She represents Maymer and Nana, spiritual giants of short stature. In the curve adjacent to the gilt-edged bow, I placed creamy white roses, as fair as our grandmothers’ porcelain complexions.


Behold! My first-ever homemade bow! See the tiny angel? She represents Maymer and Nana, spiritual giants of short stature. In the curve adjacent to the gilt-edged bow, I placed creamy white roses, as fair as our grandmothers’ porcelain complexions.

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Here and there, I scattered various gifts of earth and sky, to help illustrate the underlying meaning of this circle: Hope, that thing with feathers; pinecones that represent growth and renewal; a sprig of cedar that symbolizes strength and healing; holly that speaks of loving sacrifice; and twining ivy, to depict the precious memories that cling to the very fabric of our being.

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On these scrolls are written the songs of our heart: “Deep Peace” for Maymer, and “His Eye is on The Sparrow” for Nana. I tied them together with a tussie-mussie of forget-me-nots, tiny blue flowers that grew prolific in Maymer’s garden and inspired Amy’s momma to write this gorgeous haiku:

Like my mother’s eyes
Twinkling from the garden path
Blue forget-me-nots.
©Marjorie Neighbour, 1982

 I then clipped two candles on the upper right corner, humming as I placed them among the greenery: These little lights of ours, I’m gonna let ‘em shine… Sprigs of mistletoe are scattered at the base of the candles, for who deserves bunches of kisses more than a beloved grandmother?

I then clipped two candles on the upper right corner, humming as I placed them among the greenery: These little lights of ours, I’m gonna let ‘em shine… Sprigs of mistletoe are scattered at the base of the candles, for who deserves bunches of kisses more than a beloved grandmother?

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A chubby bird hovers mid-air, a shimmery gold confection that catches the sunlight with its feathers. Into its bosom, I tucked a pale pink rose from my backyard garden—a secret treasure of the sort that I suspect Nana and Maymer loved best. Over time the petals will fade and crumble, but as with our most cherished memories, their essence will remain.

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Here’s how my finished wreath looked, lovingly placed as it was near the cedar tree where Maymer rests.

136042_600I discovered nearby yet another wreath, created with bougainvillea flowers by Mother Nature herself! It’s a very unusual arrangement, which makes me wonder if I was meant to stumble upon it in my walk across the grounds. And just beyond the reach of my camera, a songbird flew from tree to tree, chirping when it landed but never lighting long enough for me to get a clear glimpse of it. Felt more than seen, it was identifiable only through the sweetness of its song. “Like the soul,” Amy suggests to me later.

Sunset at the cemetery.

Sunset at the cemetery.

This wreath is truly a gift of the heart and of this season. It honors the circle of life, a miracle with no beginning or end, and brings tidings of comfort and joy to both the giver and recipient. In the same way that the Winter Solstice turns back the dark by lengthening the days, this gift has swaddled us in warmth and light—new friends who feel as if we’ve known each other forever, pulled by our grandmothers into a wordless embrace that is nothing less than divine.

About Melodye Shore: I am an established writer and researcher whose work appears in a wide variety of published articles, newsletters, and educational materials. My personal essay, “Luz” is included in the Young Adult anthology, DEAR BULLY: 70 Authors Tell Their Stories (HarperTeen, 2011), and I’m a co-contributor to THE GIRL GUIDE: Finding Your Place in a Mixed-up World (Sourcebooks, Inc., 2013). An experienced public speaker, I’ve been quoted on a variety of topics in Time Magazine, the Christian Science Monitor, the Los Angeles Times, Sports Illustrated, USA Today, and other publications.

My current book project, CAN I GET A WITNESS? Memoir of a Tent Evangelist’s Daughter, chronicles an itinerant childhood during which my family crisscrossed the country in a cramped sedan, setting up revival meetings wherever we landed.

While I still enjoy traveling, I feel most at home in Southern California, where I live with my husband. In addition to writing, my interests include art journaling, photography, gardening, and plotting new adventures. Connect with me here.

Featured image courtesy of Robert S. Donovan.

Jen Pastiloff is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Join her in Tuscany for her annual Manifestation Retreat. Click the Tuscan hills above. No yoga experience required. Only requirement: Just be a human being.

Jen Pastiloff is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Join her in Tuscany for her annual Manifestation Retreat. Click the Tuscan hills above. No yoga experience required. Only requirement: Just be a human being.

VANCOUVER! The Manifestation Workshop in Vancouver. Jan 17th. Book here. No yoga experience required. Only requirement is to  be a human being.

VANCOUVER! The Manifestation Workshop in Vancouver. Jan 17th. Book here. No yoga experience required. Only requirement is to be a human being.

Contact Rachel Pastiloff for health coaching, weight loss, strategies, recipes, detoxes, cleanses or help getting off sugar. Click here or email rachyrachp@gmail.com.

Contact Rachel Pastiloff for health coaching, weight loss, strategies, recipes, detoxes, cleanses or help getting off sugar. Click here or email rachyrachp@gmail.com.

click to order Simplereminders new book.

click to order Simplereminders new book.

Christmas, Guest Posts

Our Christmas Fixer.

December 24, 2014

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By Aine Greaney.

My father never told us that he loved us. Instead, Dad fixed the things that we loved. Decapitated dolls.  Wobbly kitchen chairs. Pinching shoes. Give my Dad one hour in his backyard shed, a few whirrs and clanks from his messy toolbox, and … Presto!  Whatever had been fractured was (almost) good as new again.

Dad worked 60-plus hours per week as a lorry driver for Ireland’s state-run freight company. In the busy season, the Guinness Brewery sub-contracted with his company to make extra beer deliveries. In Ireland, believe me when I tell you that there is no busier Guinness season than December and New Year’s.

So by Christmas Eve afternoon, Dad was still working, and our tree always stood, trimmed but unlit, in the window of our front parlor.  It never occurred to my mother or any of us five kids that anyone but Dad should or could engage in the Grand Light Showdown. Only Dad could get those miniature lights working and strung.

Our house sat directly across the street from the village church, so we were under deadline and surveillance. In country villages like ours, tongues really wagged—especially during sold-out Yuletide ceremonies. So before our fellow parishioners arrived for midnight service, whatever it took, he had to get that tree lit.

Now, over four decades later, I can still see him standing there in his lorry-driver’s uniform, testing, twiddling, and then, when he found that one, recalcitrant bulb, he would dead-head and fix it until … We had lights.

Continue Reading…

Guest Posts, Inspiration

The Blank Page by Denise Barry.

December 19, 2012

The Blank Page by Denise Barry

Sears Adventure

 

When I was eight years old I desperately wanted to be a writer.

I didn’t know I could be one without a typewriter (yes, I am old enough to have used a typewriter!) and I knew my parents couldn’t afford to buy me one, so I fiercely prayed to Santa Claus on a nightly basis, begging him to bring me one for Christmas.

When Christmas morning came, I held my breath as I tore into the beautifully wrapped box with my name on it, from Santa. I reached inside and pulled out….a ream of paper.

I glared at that paper with as much hate as I could muster. “Why am I getting this?” I thought, bitterly. “What am I going to do with paper?”

It should have made sense to me that if I was getting paper, the reason I was getting it would follow. But I was too fixated on what it wasn’t to have any common sense.

My mom had been watching me the whole time. “Is there anything else in there?” she prompted, sounding amused.

I looked in the box again. I don’t know how I had missed it before, but there it was – my typewriter!

I didn’t notice that it probably weighed less than a pound and it was made almost entirely out of plastic. All I knew was that it was the color of my heart, and it glowed, just like my mother’s eyes as she watched me jump up and down, hugging it close.

The paper meant something to me then. I fell in love with it. I remember how I gently slid that first piece out of its package, not wanting to crease it in any way. It felt so smooth and clean and pure. It was as empty as a new day, just waiting to be filled with whatever I chose to fill it with. What a delicious feeling. What a gift!

I excitedly rolled that page into my typewriter and began tapping away on the keys. I watched as words appeared, then sentences. I couldn’t believe that what had been just a thought in my head was appearing on this blank canvas, right before my eyes! The reality of this scared me. “What if I make a mistake? I can’t just erase it, it’s ink!” I thought. The paper felt so special to me, I didn’t want to waste even one piece of it!

Well, it turns out, I did make mistakes. A lot of them. But I never wasted even one sheet of paper. With every piece I crumpled up and threw away, I was one page closer to what worked for me, what felt right.

When I was nine years old I wrote a song for my mother, which she made me sing ALL the time! After she died a couple of years ago, I found it tucked away in an envelope, inside her box of treasures. She had saved it for all these years.

I am humbled to realize that my thoughts are creations. MY creations. And that what I create can be powerful enough to touch someone so deeply, they treasure it for a lifetime.

What a powerful gift we come equipped with and no Santa required (sorry Santa!).

If you would like to see the original song I wrote, click here

Shared with love by Denise Barry. To learn more about Denise, click here.