Ah, December! What would we do without it? Were there no December there would be no Christmas, no Hanukkah, no fruitcakes, no May-December marriages. There would be no Siobhan Ellison, a Sagittarius born on December 13. There would be no New Year’s Eve, for crying out loud! Millions of people would show up in Times Square waiting for the glass ball to descend and nothing would happen. Bummer!
How many of you out there like the Nutcracker Suite? Too bad, it’s kaput. What about “It’s A Wonderful Life?” Nope. No Tiny Tims, no Grinches, no ghosts of Christmas past, present or future. We hate to even bring this up, so let’s whisper. No S-a-n-t-a C-l-a-u-s. On the positive side, grandma won’t get run over by a reindeer, but that’s small potatoes considering such grievous losses.
The good news is that there IS a December, and you should cuddle and coo to it for all 31 days, lest it someday get in a snit and sulk away into the ethers. Sing the Christmas carols, drink the eggnog, recite The Twelve Days of Christmas. (By the way, has anyone out there ever seen a real pear tree?) All together now….”Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house….”
The Best Things In December; Number 1---Mistletoe.
Some kids might disagree. After all, December is the month Aunt Bea comes to visit. Auntie likes to lurk in the hall just waiting for one of her nephews to wander innocently under the mistletoe in the living room, then WHAM!, she nails him with a slobberbuss. This is an occupational hazard of having an aunt, hopefully rectified by the card you get with a dollar enclosed every birthday.
But how did all this mistletoe business get started? Well, you might know it was those Celtic Druids of the 1st century A.D. again. Amazed that mistletoe could bloom during the worst winters, the Druids came to view it as a sacred symbol of vivacity and they administered the plant to humans and animals alike in hopes of restoring fertility. One thing led to another and well…you know. A lesser-known bit of Norse mythology has Odin’s son Baldur being resurrected from the dead with the use of mistletoe. His mother Frigg was so delighted she immediately declared the plant a symbol of love and vowed to plant a kiss on all those who passed beneath it. Thus the term, “Friggen awesome!”
Best Things #2---Five Buckle Overshoes.
Winter in the frozen north was no box of chocolates but we kids learned to cope. We had dense hooded jackets, double-thick mittens and earmuffs to ward off the cold. We had hot cocoa and oatmeal to warm up the engine. But best of all, we had our own superpower---the colossal might of five-buckle overshoes (“Make sure you snap all the buckles, Billy, and don’t get your fingers caught.”) to stand guard over our feet. Neither rain, nor snow, nor 8-degree temperatures could stay these overshoes from the eventual completion of their appointed rounds.
Let’s face it, while all else floats serenely over the white surfaces of winter, the feet find little relief from the frigid snow, the melting puddles, the hard challenge of New England’s uncivil season. No mere shoe can save you, no pipsqueak rubber shoe cover which practically invites snow inside, no wobbly boot like the garbageman wears. No, we need our overshoes to keep us from harm. They buckle tightly to keep the warmth in, they have thick soles which allow you to walk unfrozen for miles, they go far enough up the leg to allow you to walk in snowdrifts. If a polar bear were to attempt to bite your foot off at the ankle, he would soon give up and retreat in shame, humbled by the impossible density of the five-buckle overshoe. Why, they’re almost enough to make you move back to the Frigid Zone. I said almost.
Best Things #3---Midnight Mass.
Back when the Catholic Church was more fun and all the services were in Latin, the better to misunderstand, the Yuletide season was brightened by the Christmas Eve rendition of Midnight Mass at St. Patrick’s Church. We couldn’t attend, of course, when we were younger due to Santa Claus issues. What if you were out gallivanting around when the Jolly Old Elf arrived and found you were not snug in your bed? Would there be gift reductions, points taken off for insufficient sugar plums dancing in our heads? No sense taking chances, right?
We warmed to the idea as we got older and gave up our fantasies. After all, if you went to Midnight Mass that meant you didn’t have to go to church on Christmas Day when you’d be deep in your presents. Also, the church choir was there en masse to deliver spectacular songs of the season and Monsignor Daley would be sure to parade through the aisles clanking his magic incense dispenser, leaving aromatic clouds of vapor in his wake. It was better than the potpourri at those Japanese Atari stores. All of which would be fine if it didn’t take six hours and wind up with the Monsignor telling us he needed more money. My Father always said they needed an intermission so all us sinners who weren’t asleep already could escape into the night. “See if there’s a fire alarm, Billy, and if there is, go pull it.”
Best Things #4---Homeboy Hockey.
When we were kids, there was no such thing as an available ice rink unless you were one of those rich kids who went to Andover Academy. Nonetheless, inspired by the exploits of the local Boston Bruins, we wanted to hit the ice with our homemade hockey sticks, makeshift nets and imitation pucks. To do so, we needed a big rain, then a hard freeze to swell some minor pond to hockey-playing size, a happening which occurred more often than you’d think. We abstained from whacking one another around like the real NHL players because we could barely move our arms up and down due to the limitations one discovers when wearing 17 shirts, sweaters and jackets on top of one another. Think penguins playing hockey.
There is a fine line between when pond ice is hard enough to hold the weight of an 80-pound boy and when it is not. Sometimes a kid finds out the hard way. Rushing in unchallenged on a helpless goalie, my sneer of arrogance turned to terror when I realized the thin ice I was travelling on was cracking well in front of the goal mouth. I shot the puck anyway, and it went in. Unfortunately, so did I, but my route was directly south into waist-deep 30-degree water. I got a few cheers but a lot more laughter.
Ever try to climb out of a lake onto thin, cracking ice which keeps breaking in front of you? Try it some time, the experience will find a spot high on your no-fun list. I walked through the mire all the way to shore, dripping like a drowned rat. You can’t take your clothes off because it’s 8 degrees and besides, all the kids would snicker. You just ooze your way home, shivering. “WE WIN, 1-0,” I yelled back over my shoulder as I padded off. “No way, Billy!” replied Butch Hart. "You're all wet!” Hilarious laughter. Curtain. No encore.
Best Things #5---No-School Days
As much as I actually liked school, I have to admit a certain fondness for the surprise of a free day, eight glorious hours of no readin’, writin’ or arithmetic. Especially arithmetic. My sister Alice and I would sit hard by the radio at breakfast, listening to the announcer run through the list of blizzard-inducing school closures with our fingers crossed, rightfully indignant our city hadn’t been called yet. Lawrence, for some reason, was less likely to cancel classes than any town around us, prompting outrage.
“How do they expect us to get to school in all this snow?” Alice wanted to know. “Yeah, it’s ridiculous,” I agreed. “Why does Rowley always call off school first? How come North Andover always cancels early?” There oughta be a law. We started getting our weighty togs on in grim silence, doomed to snow and long division, when the magic words came racing across the airwaves: “….and now, there will be no school today in Lawrence.” Hoo-RAY! Dancing in the aisles, smiles all around, whoop-de-do!
“So what are you kids going to do all day?” my Mother wanted to know. “I’m getting my sled!” exclaimed Alice. “Look at those huge drifts,” said I. “Perfect to build a snow fort.” Marie Killeen sat down at the table and looked at her children with a wry expression. “Well, thank God they didn’t make you two go to school in such terrible conditions,” she said. “That’s what…a fifteen-minute walk to St. Patrick’s? Bad as it out there, I’m sure you won’t be able to last very long outside.”
Alice, innocent as the driven snow, looked back at her Mother in reassurance. “Don’t worry, Ma, we’ll be alright. We’re wearing our five-buckle overshoes and we won’t get our fingers caught.” It’s nice when you’re young enough to be oblivious to sarcasm. Ask Alice when she’s three feet tall.
Best Things #6---Snowballs
Southerners have only the vaguest notion of how snow works. Gilbert Shelton, a naive Texan, visited Lawrence one late November day, climbed a ten foot hurricane fence and jumped backward in reverse-bellyflop mode into several feet of very soft newly-fallen snow. He sank much further down than he ever expected and lay there on his back, arms outstretched, looking for assistance. “What do I do NOW?” he wanted to know. Ask a roach, I told him.
Ice Driving is another talent required for northern living. The rookie ice driver finds himself slipping, slams on the brakes and promptly spins into a ditch. Even the best of northern drivers are challenged by the perfidy of icy roads. I once drove my extra-long Cadillac hearse a half-mile down slippery Andover Street, steering like a madman, fishtailing from one side to the other, barely avoiding parked cars on both sides.
Florida drivers, of course, rarely encounter these problems in the Sunshine State. I said rarely. In the mid-1980s, local temperatures fell into the low teens the day before Christmas and the roads were perilous. Driving from Orange Lake into Macintosh was a risky venture and just north of the latter town, inexperienced drivers were twirling off the road in droves. When I finally got to the Oaks Mall in Gainesville at a spiffy 20 mph, the walking was just as bad as the driving. Shoppers carrying their Christmas treasures were buttplanting onto the icy asphalt, left and right. There was never a better time for Baby Steps.
Being neophytes to the joys of winter, people from the lower regions also assume that constructing a snowball is less than an art form. They also suppose that any old snow will do, a laughable error. All snow is not equal. Light, powdery snow won’t do at all, lacking the moisture required to pack the snowball into a satisfactory weapon. If you’re having difficulty finding good snow, seek out an area where the ground may be warmer. As a last resort, lie down on the snowy ground for a few minutes to heat the stuff up. Wet snow makes the best snowballs.
Naturally, there are uncivilized people who carry this business too far, applying a watery coat to their finished snowball to make it harder than week-old pizza. These kinds of snowballs violate the Marquis of Queensbury rules and should only be used in situations when your snow fort is in danger of being overrun by savages who might pants you.
There is a certain etiquette to snowball-throwing as practiced by professionals but often ignored by rank amateurs and/or nasty little weasels. For instance, a girl should never be hit anywhere but in the back or lower body. Any male is eligible to be smacked on the back of the head or virtually anywhere else, though it’s considered bush-league to hit a kid with glasses between the eyes. Snowballing anyone older or bigger than you is the height of folly because you will pay in spades. And don’t even think for a moment of hitting your mother, the punishments are too terrifying to contemplate. Voice of experience speaking.
One thing which has probably changed over the years is the vulnerability of females in wintry climes. In the good old days, there was no fear of punishment from weak-armed, snowball-throwing girls. If the flimsy missile actually remained in the air long enough to hit anyone, it was equivalent to the impact of a butterfly landing on your shoulder. Since the onset of women’s fast-pitch softball, things have undoubtedly changed. Little girls are more competent now and they’re meaner. The Florida softball team has shortstops who can throw a softball through a stone wall, just think what they can do with a snowball. “Run, Harry, that Rosie MacDonald has an 80 mph slider!”
December. Her charms are many and varied. Fireplaces are stoked, ski lodges perk up, brilliant lights festoon the towns, spirits are high. God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
