The images of Christmas we keep in the recesses of our minds are mostly merry---candles-in-the windows, lighted trees, snowy lanes, tucked-in children, a cornucopia of wrapped presents and full stockings hanging by the fireplace. Santa’s milk and cookies are in there, of course, and we always remember that shocking lump of coal that served as a warning when we had our doubts about The Jolly Old Elf. But all Christmases are not equal and virtually all of us have memories of a Noel that went off the tracks, a time when we were alone and blue or busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin’ for a train.
For me, it was a Christmas spent in Stillwater, Oklahoma during my college days when money was tight and I was 1667 miles away from home. Everyone I knew had left a town which was small enough to begin with and I was on my own for almost two weeks, living in a one-room apartment in the crumbling home of old Maw Kramden and her dotty husband Lester, who always wore a porkpie hat and delighted in turning on the gas for the kitchen stove without lighting it.
I decided to spend my time writing material for my self-published college humor magazine, the Charlatan, efforts which extended long into the night. Eventually, I wrote and rewrote all night long and slept during the day. There is a period in our development when most aspiring writers feel our prose is inadequate and must be rewritten eighty or more times to reach maturity when the truth is that it’s pretty much okay the first time, a fact that Gilbert Shelton let me in on a few years later. Occasionally, I drifted a few blocks into downtown Stillwater to look at the lights and drown my sorrows in a Honeymoon Banana Split at an ice cream palace called the Malt Shop (really), where a kid waitress named Holly took a shine to me. At first, I misinterpreted her interest as pity, and we enjoyed a light banter on my visits, but one night she carefully placed my dish on the mat, pulled the cherry off the top, licked some ice cream off and replanted it. “When you gonna ask me for a date?” she wanted to know.
“What are you, fifteen?” I asked her. “SIXteen!” she scoffed. “And what are YOU, forty-five?” Thinking about it for a moment, I realized I was only a couple of years older than she was.
“I know what you’re thinking---jailbait, right? But listen---you’re not doing anything these days and I’m not either, so who says we can’t be friends. Nobody can arrest you for going to the movies.”
Holly had a point. I met her when she got off the next afternoon and we went to see “The Tingler,” a ridiculous thing for which some of the seats were allegedly tricked out to give you a buzz during the scary parts. It seemed extremely unlikely to me and I never felt a thing, but Holly jumped up about one-third of the way through and squealed. “My seat BIT me!” she laughed. “You’re kidding,” I doubted, but it bit her again and she jumped into my lap. “I’m not sitting there any more, I could be shocked to death,” she complained.
What can you do with a girl like Holly? She said she was too scared to stay home alone (her only parent, her mother, worked all night) so I’d have to take her to my place. We waited until Maw Kramden turned the lights off and snuck in the back door. “There’s only one bed in here, you know,” I advised, naively. “Hey Bill,” she smiled, “I’m really only two months from seventeen. I know stuff.”
She did, too. And suddenly, it was Christmas Eve after all. Santa came down the chimney about an hour later, all the lights flashed on and KOMA radio ironically started playing “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.” Holly smiled, tweaked my nose and said, “That Tingler’s got nothing on you, mister cradle robber.” Fortunately for me, Stillwater had a small and not too zealous police force.
So once again, it’s Christmas with all its tales of Noels past, its brilliant memories of loved ones lost to that big fir tree lot in the sky. Take a moment to inhale its wonders, to appreciate those around you now, to savor these times of good cheer. May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be… interesting.
A Whiter Shade Of Pale
What is it about snow that captures the imagination of small children and steels them against freezing temperatures, slippery sidewalks and the occasional plunk on the head from a well-aimed iceball? Painters have their oils, sculptors their clay and writers their vocabularies, but children’s assets are yet to appear…and then one day there’s snow…floating through the air, covering the ground, blowing into huge dunes, crunching under their feet.
Some great six-year-old artist will get the idea that three large orbs of packed snow, diminishing in size as they ascend, can be placed atop one another to make a “snowman,” top hats, scarves, coal eyes and carrot noses optional. Another will depend on the kindness of strangers with plows who shove the snow to the sides of the street and form tall snowbanks. From this clay, snow fort sculptures are hollowed out, filled with ammunition, peopled with tiny armies and defended to the death or until Mom yells out to call it a day.
Snow covers up the old world and creates a new one full of picture-postcard landscapes dotted by kids in furry caps, scarves, mittens and overshoes. Snow has the incredible power to close schools. Snow amuses children with its proclivity for frustrating adults; they collapse in laughter as their sophisticated elders slip and fall on their butts, watch automobiles slide into snowbanks or get a direct snowball hit in the middle of grandma’s hindquarters. Snow will get you five dollars to shovel off old Mr. McGillicuddy’s walk to the mailbox. If you’re thirsty, you can even eat it (watch out for that yellow stuff).
Snow creates joyful moods, inspires Christmas songs, enables sleds and sleighs to function, sells tires and chains. Snow makes skiing possible, fosters snow angels, gives mountain roads a rest. Sleigh bells ring, are you listening? In the lane snow is glistening. A beautiful sight…we'll be happy tonight…walking in a winter wonderland. With snow, all things are possible. Okay, okay, so it’s tough on the palm trees.
Shop Til You Flop
Unlike my practical wife who daily worships at the altar of Amazon, I am a tried and true Christmas shopper who wanders the side streets and shopping centers of the world searching for presents. I actually like Christmas shopping, the hustle and bustle of smiling shoppers, the ubiquitous music, the Aha Moment when you find just the right gift. Since Siobhan is my main customer, however, the hunt is challenging because she has a closet full of clothes, a new car, plenty of pets, endless garden implements and a full bottle of Shalimar. There will be books aplenty, of course, but man cannot live by books alone and neither can woman. Exotic foods? Forget it. She is a woman who favors dubious edibles like eggplant, squash and yams, though she will show up for dessert. Jewelry? She already has pearls, diamond earrings and a wedding ring, and the first two rarely escape from her treasure chest in a hidden drawer under the bed. Fortunately, she gives me tips now and then so I have something to start with. The other day she complained about a failing Cuisinart immersion blender, which she may have purchased years ago at Walmart. Okay, so that’s a start.
I have not been to Walmart for five years. The last time I was there, I swapped punches with a large brute who inferred I had spilled coffee on the floor, and the Walmart staff was forced to break it up by threatening a lifetime suspension from the store. This terrified the man’s wife and she joined the fray with a vengeance, describing to him a life without Walmart and tugging him off by the ear.
I don’t know if you have been to Walmart lately but the one on EZ Street in Ocala is populated by immigrant employees from Taiwan, Mexico and Burma, who are not well-versed in the English language. Don’t even bring up phrases like "immersion blender,” they fall down on the floor and cry. And finding anything yourself in the bewildering forest of detritus that is Walmart is a chore for younger, more optimistic shoppers. I was misdirected at least four times, which is typical of Hispanic cultures. They prefer to be wrong rather than unhelpful, so they will cheerfully direct you to Patzquaro when you are looking for Uruapan and merrily wave you down the road. I finally found the Cuisinart stash but all they offered were gigantic toasters. If you actually put bread in them it would disappear forever down the giant slots.
After that, I went looking for a six-foot soft leather dog leash at nearby Petsmart. All they had was crappy plastic snaps attached to rope, and they weren’t even embarrassed. I drove over to CVS, which I despise due to its automated checkout counter devoid of humans, in quest of a magic painkiller called a Shoulder Reliever, which their ads promised CVS would carry. Nope. How about that fifty-pound stone frog Siobhan said I’d find at Lowe’s? “Sorry. Bub, we only got turtles.” Grrr!
A shopper has to realize when it’s just not his day, but I foolishly motored over to the Paddock Mall, which has not seen my face in three years. There’s a nice new, expensive Lululemon store there but my wife is Lululemoned out. Despite it being three weeks before Christmas, the mall was not exactly humming and the sorry food court with about four dubious peddlers was destitute. With southern malls across the country crashing and burning daily, it’s hard to imagine this place being around five more years. This is not necessarily bad news. With no place to hang out, high school kids will become psychotic, forcing a revival of the once-thriving carhop industry with its booming speakers, servers on rollerskates and amorous parking lots. It’s an ill wind that bloweth no man good.
Hey, Siobhan---how do I get in touch with the magic larders of Amazon? Do they take orders from old reprobates? And how do we stop Alexa from spilling the beans about what’s in the boxes? It’s a whole new world out there but the handwriting is on the wall. I realize that sooner or later you have to cross the Rubicon but I’m doing it as grudgingly as possible.
Happy holidays from the grinch. Watch out for the humbugs.
That’s all, folks….
