So, comes another year....

In just a few hours, we usher in the next number in a sequence, one we optimistically call a New Year. We humans have this abiding need to keep score, to maintain a count, new start fresh, or at least to fool ourselves into thinking we start fresh. But...

What exactly will be new about the number 2009? Will days be longer or shorter, will months be given different names, will night not follow day, will the people who inhabit those hours be changed for either better or worse, or will it not all be simply more of the same that has gone before? Will we discover new problems or will we not just continue failing to solve the same old ones? Will we suddenly discover that coveting our neighbor's property, or disdaining their choices in living, or flaunting our own religious beliefs are not worth the costs of war? Will we be willing to want the same thing for others that we want for ourselves and then be willing to 'put our money where our mouths are?' It's highly doubtful.

Why then do we attempt to close the doors on the old year with our lists of the good, the bad, and the ugly; of our accomplishments and our disasters, or our dismal failures and our brief flashes of brilliance? Won't we again inscribe a new list of 'resolutions' that we pledge to keep then dismiss as they are sloughed to the wayside by the vagaries of everyday existence and the stress we ourselves put on our lives and those around us. Will we actually notice when those resolutions crumble this time?

How many of us actually take a moment to ask ourselves exactly what it is we think we're doing? How many of us question the way we count time? Or question the whys of time counting? How many of us are willing to measure ourselves by the strict parameters with which we measure our years and then question what has been done with those 365 days? Our lives are so short, yet so, apparently is our vision and our reach. We seem more comfortable with subtle limits we impose on our thinking or allow others to impose upon us...limits we rarely question because we so rarely question that mountainous thing called 'tradition.' Few of us would willing repeat today and mistake or misjudgement we made yesterday, but we rarely question tradition, no matter who or why it was originally established, if we even know.

So, we'll raise a glass of something sparking or bubbling, kiss a friend or foe at midnight as tradition demands, call out "Happy New Year" as real time continues unchanged, and hope some unseen cosmic force alters our lives for the nebulous better, ignoring the simple reality that our better depends upon our own devices and desires and willingness to make an effort.

Hope, like genius, is one of those cloudy concepts that is hard to explain. But hope is also like genius in another way, once defined by Albert Einstein as 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration. We would do well to remember that small saying as we turn our eyes to another revolution in the yearly cycle...that to achieve something new, wonderful and hopeful requires our attention to detail and our willingness to work long, hard and smart. Otherwise, in the brief span of 365 days, we'll again simply see the coming of another year much like the one just passed.

May you each achieve greater vision, diligence, and willingness to embark on the new as comes another year.

The Tree From Which The Apple Fell

I spent the better part of yesterday, Christmas Eve, thinking of my father, although I never thought of him as father except in the formal honorific sense of the title. He was then and always will be my daddy, no matter how old I get. Thinking of him as daddy is not a southern thing, nor a "kinster" thing, nor a childish thing. It was my reality, although few other people saw him in such soft and cuddly terms. He was tall and strong like his Viking ancestors, he was aloof from the tendencies of the masses, he was abrupt and frank in his actions and speech, he was smart but self-effacing, he was determined and self-taught, he was protective and reactive to threats, and he was a responsible marshmallow to the people he loved.

My daddy was born on Christmas Eve, the middle or fourth child of a five son, one daughter family that struggled for everything they gained. He didn't graduate high school, having to drop out far earlier than his mental abilities suggested he should to support his parents and two younger siblings. He'd wanted to be a doctor, a desire fed when he was very young while perched on a stool in the kitchen avidly watching the local sawbones amputate fingers that couldn't be saved on his brother's crushed hand. Since medical school wasn't to be, he instead became a hard worker in blue collar jobs and as an avocation, a care taker of families in need of a strong back and arms and a good heart. Society at large may have lost a dedicated doctor, but closer society gained a caring man.

Since his 'growing up' years were devoid of specific attention to the day of his birth, his own immediate family once formed made it a point to give far greater attention to him and December 24 than we did to Christmas itself. While no one could equatably make up for those special touches he lost through those years, we tried to give him a few to replace them - a special day of sharing, of treats, or favorite meals, of laughter and of love just for him. If asked, I'm convinced he would have said we succeeded.

Daddy was no stranger to self-sacrifice. He rarely took anything for himself, be it time, money or things. It all went first to my mother and me. In his own way, he spoiled us both. That doesn't mean of course, that we didn't have some times with personal fireworks. Daddy might have been the original "Quiet Man," but when he'd had enough or said no, he meant it. He could, however, also be very subtle, and it was this gift for subtleties hidden behind the pretense of napping that gave my mother fits...and still makes me laugh to think about.

Daddy's side of the family while loving was never overly close except in crisis. My mother's side of the family practically lived out of each other's pockets. Togetherness was the watchword, dropping by to visit was expected, and Sunday's and all holidays with the exception of Ground hog's Day were always for family. Over the years, daddy had begun to 'nap' during these almost constant visits. In the big easy chair, he'd rest his elbow on the arm, put his chin in his fist, and close off all sound by sleeping.

There was much speculation that he was losing his hearing since no one could possibly sleep in all that noise, and he seemed to snooze comfortably while mother fumed over his rudeness. At her constant urging, he finally let me take him for a hearing check. The report was glowing and I finally caught on. He was neither asleep nor deaf - he was simply tuned out. It was our secret, and I could easily relate. He'd heard all the stories, all the complaints, all the boasts and ramblings multiple times, so he tuned them all out and rested up for the next round of visits. It was actually a nice if pragmatic thing to do - far kinder and considerate than announcing that it would be great if they'd all give him some peace. Somehow, I doubt that even that would have hindered any of them from coming to him when they had a need or a problem. And he always helped, even if he occasionally grumbled.

My favorite daddy story occurred long before I was even a gleam in his eye, as he'd put it. According to his mother who got the story from her older boys, daddy must have been about ten. The neighborhood boys used to congregate around an area called Ingram's Hill, which like it's name, was a large open hill with a pond at the bottom, one long side filled with trees and lots of bush and places for curious boys to play. The older one's had built a fort or club house of sorts and in the manner of mobs everywhere, wouldn't let the younger boys inside. There was plenty taunting and name calling, lots of yelling and fuming, except for my daddy who went off with the small knife string from his pockets and began cutting branches from the smaller trees. It took some time, but he made a bow and several arrows, then rubbed sticks together until a flame caught. His thinking, as that fort/club house burned, was that if they all couldn't play there, then none of them should. His solution was inventive, practical and determined, and it certainly satisfied that internal thirst for justice we all have. It satisfied his, and mine as well, so in that way, too, I am my daddy's daughter.

Although I have many of my mother's mannerisms and sensibilities, I am more like my daddy. I look like him, I think like him, and I act like him too. I see his genetic offerings in every mirror. I even walk like him. During one segment of my life, I tried to be as much a son to him as I was a daughter. He taught me to fish, to hunt and shoot, to drive, to keep my awareness in a crowd, to stand tall and to look not only ahead but up. My sense of fair play comes from him and my incessant curiosity does as well. Even part of my ability to do so many things with my hands is at least half his influence. He taught me to ignore fools, pity idiots, disdain gossip for only what I saw or heard with my own eyes and ears. He was my role model and my bulwark and I would love to sit down with him again and talk.

It always seemed fitting to me that I was born on Father's Day. I may have been a pure gift to him, but he has always been the most wonderful of the cosmos' gifts to me. I'll always miss him, even when I know he's here inside me all the time.

For Want of One Small Candle Aglow in the Dark

In pleased anticipation, I took a drive this evening. It was a perplexing experience. There are far fewer holiday lights this year, making both residential and business areas less welcoming, more forbidding, sadder. It was disturbing because one brain impulse would lead to the next and the next in a long line of semi-conscious ideas and few were positive. Nostalgia may run rampant at this time of year, but it is not necessarily a good feeling.


I can't know for certain why the lights are dimmer or missing; I can only speculate and surmise. Perhaps last year's highly decorative owners have moved, or worse, perhaps they've lost their home. Maybe someone is ill and holiday displays are inappropriate. It could be that the owners are simply growing older and more infirm, less able to expend the energy and effort that goes into such planned displays. Their children might have grown up and moved away, or the holiday spirit might have by-passed their hearts this year. Or, the economy may have shrunk their willingness to risk smaller income for larger utility costs. Whatever the reasons, my frequent haunts are significantly less vibrant and bright than expected. It seems particularly cruel at a year end in which hope is about all some people have left.

Our area has supposedly been less severely impacted by the housing crisis and general economic downturn, but it's uncertain if that is really the case or if it is only the most recent in the series of false faces dreamed up to cover the truth by skewing it...as though local atmosphere would somehow taste and smell better if we didn't know that a healthy spritz Febrez masked old mildew and rot.


Our city, like our entire state and so many others, has finally acknowledged a massive budget short fall, far too late in the fiscal year to correct or lessen it's impact. Necessary services are disappearing while the mayor and town council scrambles to justify the unjustifiable. Some things are continuing, however, because supposedly the money has already been set aside...things like a massive arena and convention center they say will bring in visitors and conventioneers. Of course. As though other locations than ours will have the money for frivolity and frolic, so we'll keep building and not worry about fewer firehouses, closed shelters, bare cupboards in the food bank, or less police on the streets. It's all in appearances and the appearance of propriety, right?


Along with small businesses and trucking companies, we locally depend on a massive complex of medical services and teaching hospitals, Ford Motor Company, General Electric's Appliance Park and a major hub for United Parcel at our land locked but expanded international airport. That particular expansion only cost a few modest neighborhoods of lower income housing. No biggy, right? The medical community remains relatively stable, or at least largely silent about their profits and losses (so tacky to equate illness with money you know), but both Ford and GE locally have taken big hits. So many jobs have been lost. Many small businesses have starved. It seems to reason then, that many workers in those starved businesses will be facing their own critical decisions on food and shelter.

This community has always been especially good about lending helping hands. Of course, this is also part of the Bible Belt so the idea of charity is imbibed with mother's milk. Ironically, one of the most charitable places for one-on-one giving that I've ever experienced is the New York City subway system. Like the City itself, that giving is special. There's something earthy and magical about it. Whether it is a musician moving from car to car playing a saxophone, or a deaf man handing out cards, or simply a bag lady with a paper cup, those subway riders who are first to reach for their donations are those who appear to need them as greatly as the person seeking help. Those folks, regardless of race or nationality, always give, probably because they themselves are just one minor disaster away from also having to depend upon the generosity of others. That one step removed possibility is truly a great equalizer. And it does make you think, if not me, who? And if not now, when?

Contrary to what you might think, all this does blend together in that chain of thinking I mentioned in the first paragraph. The lack of seasonal lights made me think of the old exhortation about 'not hiding your candle under a bushel.' Next, of course, was the idea that if we'd all just 'light one little candle,' no one would be in the dark. Somehow when we think of lighting the dark of night, we think of the bright lights of Broadway, or the glitz and neon in Las Vegas, or the snap of flashbulbs at a rock concert, or the floodlights at a political rally. Only in Christmas Eve services at various churches, or in times of crisis, unexpected death, or national tragedy do we collectively think of lighting a candle, and then the light is an expression of grief or solidarity, snuffed out at the first hint of the crowd disbanding, that lowly candle then relegated to birthday cakes, sexual scenarios or aromatherapy sessions.

Just imagine, if in the dark of night, we were all to light and keep burning indefinitely just one little candle....

Bright Lights and the Promise of Feathers

After five years of abstention, I put up a Christmas tree this year. I did it solely for me. Five years back, many things had changed; I no longer had close family who were not home bound. The life styles of my extended family members had changed so that they were seeking their own traditions. The holiday itself offered little to recommend it, so I withdrew from the season.

Perhaps decorating a tree after a five year hiatus doesn't sound like an accomplishment, but you see this holiday was my very favorite all those earlier years and sadly to say, I behaved like a Martha Stewart clone. I gathered natural elements like pine cones, berries, branches and dried flowers and made wreaths and decorations. If it didn't move in my home, it got decorated with something. When I had overnight guests, each bedroom had it's own tree, its own stash of goodies including small coffee pots and/or selections of tea for those personalized moments alone. I cooked and baked both traditional and specialized cookies and cakes, some of which took a minimum of two days in the making. I put together calorie laden care packages for neighbors, my mailed cards were written in calligraphy complete with impressed wax seal. I did it all up well and I relished the doing.

I forgave everyone including myself when the build up and anticipation was more satisfying than the culmination. And I dismantled it all and stored it away with notes to myself on what needed repair or replacement and what should be added the following year. And I rarely bought anything 'Christmasy' in the after holiday sales, ignoring frugality for the following year's joy at anticipating again, even as I visited the malls and saw more anger and frustration on mature faces than I saw joy, and noticed less awe on younger faces than sly calculation.

However, my primary thrill in all this madness was always the lights, be they colored or white, standard or miniature, bubble or still. It was all always about the bright lights of the season. And the greatest let down of all was when all those homes, stores, rooms, streets, corners, and green ways suddenly went dark. I never understood why anyone wanted to go into a brand new year without light.

Although I closely coexisted with people of various faiths, the holiday rarely struck me as a religious one, although I did greatly enjoy the sensation of sharing and closeness it could conjure. Frankly, however, most of that feeling was because of winter solstice and the inherent beauty of light. Even during those years when I disdained decorating a tree, I still took evening drives through various neighborhoods to bask in the holiday light show - often with nostalgia, sometimes with sadness, sometimes with awe and too frequently with mirth at what Goethe described as "nothing more fearsome that imagination without taste."

I was fortunate to be in London several times in the past immediately prior to the holiday, and when one talks of holiday lights in London, nothing beats the decorations at Harrod's. The first time I drove by one house in my neighborhood over ten years ago, I stopped the car in the middle of the street and with my mouth hanging open, I simply stared. It was Harrod's!! In my town! I doubt anyone but me truly appreciates the effort those home owner's put into that display because of it's brightness - their electric bill could probably fund full scale war in a small country. Because of the muscular coordination the owner's need to erect those humongous star bursts on the top of that high, two story house, they might be related to the flying Wolenda's, but I've never asked. I simply enjoy and laugh. I was worried about them this year because the decorations were slow to appear, but two nights ago they were there - and their neighbor's blinds were drawn closed.

This year my tree is only a six foot artificial and although I'll probably be sorry, I did not wire it to the walls. As you already know if you've read my past postings, I've become a cliche. I live with cats. And cats happen to love batting at anything that moves within their visual spectrum and also love climbing trees. My tree of choice prior to this one was a ten foot one in the living room which has a cathedral ceiling. It took between two and three days to get it set up. It took my cats only one night to bring it to near total destruction. After a forensic invesigation to put CSI Las Vegas to shame, I determined that at least one, if not more, of my not-so-lady like felines had jumped from branch to branch to branch slowly working their way higher and higher. At least they waited until the week between Christmas and New Years to bow those branches so badly that one had to be wired to another so that things remained reasonably upright. They removed many of my designer ornaments, but at least disdained the glass one for those made of feathers that looked like birds.

And as usual, the cats 'helped' when I put up this tree. It probably won't last too long, but as long as the lights remain lit, I won't complain too much. It's only me and the girls to enjoy the lights of the season anyway, so let those beautifully stubborn felines investigate and just bring it on. I rather suspect that if the old fable about animals talking at midnight on Christmas Eve is true, my girls woujld have a few things to say about why any human would bother to put fake birds in their tree instead of real ones, and ask why there are no live mice in catnip hung in their stockings hung on the mantle.

A bright Winter Solstice to all.