Every day I get in the queue To get on the bus that takes me to you*
I heard the school bus stop at the corner outside our house as it does every weekday morning. Tomorrow will be the last time for the next three months; then the cycle starts over in August.
It made me think about going to elementary school in Bisbee, Arizona, back in the early 1960s. My school was built in 1955, during the Eisenhower years when the country built schools, hospitals and the Interstate Highway System, named for the last Republican president who thought government should serve the common folk. It was two stories, facing opposite directions and, since we were in the desert, all the classrooms opened to outside play areas. Snow was fascinating and rare. Valentine’s Day was always sunny and short-sleeve shirt weather. I’d never heard of winter coats and thermal underwear until we moved to Illinois.
We had brand new desks made of beige powder-coated steel with blonde wooden seats and a desktop. The walls were cream colored, and ceilings were covered with that white interlocking acoustic tile. The fluorescent lights looked like the old aluminum ice cube trays. There were simple wall clocks in every class and the principle’s office. I think they were square with a light gray face and a sweep second hand.
Some kids never liked school but for me it was a wonderful time. New pencils, maybe new school clothes, and new shoes because my feet were growing quickly. My first-grade teacher was suitably impressed when I spelled September for her. S-E-P… T-E-M… B-E-R. It was my birth month so why shouldn’t I know how to spell it. I was really excited when they picked me to be one of the three Wise Men in the Christmas play. I later figured out it wasn’t for my budding talent (I didn’t have any at 8 years old), but because I looked black.
Within a decade I would go from a relatively happy kid (despite the terror of living with an abusive alcoholic) to a sullen, angry teenager in the era of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. Half a century later I’m now a sullen, angry old man taking peculiar delight in telling solicitors to get the fuck off my porch, while imagining that inevitable eternal summer vacation.
*Lyrics from “Magic Bus” by Pete Townshend. (C) 1968, Fabulous Music, Ltd., London, England.
People who have never been to Iceland mistakenly believe it is a year-round frozen wasteland covered in glaciers with marauding polar bears. But Icelandic winters aren’t as cold as one might think because the warm currents of the North Atlantic Gyre create a milder climate. Average December temperatures in Reykjavik and Southern Iceland are in the low 30s, while they are about 15° colder in the northern regions.
Reykjavik has around 12”-16” of snow every year but gets rain more often than not. The north, being colder, gets far more snow, which is great for the ski resorts in Ísafjörður, Akureyri and Seyðisfjörður.
The long, dark nights are the real killer, with only 4-5 hours of daylight in Reykjavik and about an hour less in the north. However, this means more time for viewing the Northern Lights when the skies are clear.
Despite the cold and darkness, the Icelandic people welcome the holiday season with 26 days of Jól (“Yule”), embracing culture, traditions, festivities, food and more. It begins on December 12 with the appearance of the first Yule Lad and continues until January 6.
“Gleðileg Jól!” (“Gley-thi-leg Yole”) is “Merry Christmas” in Icelandic.
Aðventukrans – Advent Wreaths Icelanders are predominantly Lutheran, and like Catholics, they celebrate Advent, the four weeks leading up to Christmas. Originating in Germany, Aðventukrans (“Ath-ven-tu-kranz”) Advent wreaths, are based on a pre-Christian Germanic ritual anticipating spring’s return. The evergreen ring symbolizes the continuation of life. There are three purple or blue candles symbolizing Hope, Faith and Peace, and one rose candle symbolizing Joy.
Making Adventurkrans is an Icelandic family Christmas tradition. They light the candles, one by one, each Sunday before Christmas; the rose candle is lit on the Third Sunday of Advent, also known as Gaudete.. People will say a short prayer or blessing after lighting the candles and some will light a white candle in the center of the wreath for Christmas Eve or Day.
(Our pageantry-obsessed former priest wasn’t satisfied with any old Advent wreaths. He commissioned a four-foot Advent wreath on a circular metal frame, which descended from the ceiling via a remote-controlled winch, with three-inch diameter, 18-inch candles at $25 each. Predictably, it failed to work one year and had to be repaired at considerable cost.)
Christmas Markets Every weekend people can flock to Christmas markets that are similar to the Christkindlmarket in Chicago:
Downtown Reykjavik’s Ingólfstorg Square becomes Jólaborgin (“Yol-a-bor-gin) or Yule Town. The Icelandic telecommunications company, Nova, builds an ice rink in the square and rents out skates and helmets. There are shops in the nearby Christmas Market in Austurvöllur (“Ooey-stir-vooy-thlur̥) Square for traditional Icelandic gifts like their famous wool sweaters. There are games and goodies for kids as well as musical performances.
The Christmas Village in Hafnarfjorður,(“Haf-na-fyor-thur”) a port town about 10km/6mi southwest of downtown Reykjavik, features shops selling handcrafted gifts and jewelry, and food stalls selling cookies, hot drinks and smoked lamb. There’s live music, storytelling and the occasional elf lurking about.
Christmas at Árbæjarsafn (“Ar-bay-yar-saf”), Iceland’s Open-Air Museum is open year-round and tells the story of Iceland’s past through historic buildings. In the summer museum staff dress in period costumes and do “chores” like smoking meat and spinning wool. (I wonder if they get a Britney Spears look-alike to churn butter for them.) During Advent the museum provides a “traditional Icelandic Christmas” experience. Visitors can make candles and bake laufabrauð, (“lauv ah brat”), Icelandic leaf bread.
Jólasveinar – Thirteen Santas Saint Nicholas, Europe’s Santa Claus is based on Nicholas of Myra, a 3rd century bishop who became the patron saint of children and others. He leaves presents for good children on Saint Nicholas Day, the saint’s feast day, which Western European Christians celebrate on December 5 or 6 and Eastern European Christians celebrate on December 18 or 19.
Iceland does not have Santa Claus. Instead, the Icelandic people celebrate 13 days of Christmas with Jólasveinar, the Yule Lads. According to legend, the Yule Lads of yore were troublemakers whose names reflected the pranks for which they were known. The contemporary Yule Lads are more benevolent, and one may encounter them on the streets. Every night from December 12th through December 24th, one Yule Lad appears and leaves small gifts in shoes that children place in windows. They leave in the order they appeared, starting on December 25 until the last one disappears on January 6th, not to be seen until the following season.
1.Stekkjastaur (Sheep-Cote-Clod): The first Lad to appear, he has two peg legs, harasses the sheep and sucks milk from them 2. Giljagaur (Gully Gawk): Hides in barns and steals milk froth from the buckets 3. Stúfur (Stubby): Very short and eats crusts from the pans he steals 4. Þvörusleikir (Spoon-Licker): Tall, thin, steals and licks þvörur (long wooden spoons) 5. Pottaskefill (Pot-Licker): Steals leftovers from pots 6. Askasleikir (Bowl Licker): Hides under beds and steals askur, one’s personal dining plate 7. Hurðaskellir (Door Slammer): Slams doors during the night 8. Skyrgámur (Skyr Gobbler): Obsessed with skyr, Icelandic yogurt 9. Bjúgnakrækir (Sausage Swiper):Hides in the rafters and steals smoked sausages 10. Gluggagægir (Window Peeper):Looks in people’s windows for things to steal 11. Gáttaþefur (Door Sniffer): Uses his large nose and keen sense of smell to find Laufabrauð. 12. Ketrókur (Meat Hook): Steals meat with a hook 13. Kertasníkir (Candle Beggar): Steals edible fat candles from children
One will often run into men dressed as Yule Lads roaming the streets of Reykjavik.
Santa’s Enforcers European cultures created demon companions for Saint Nicholas: Krampus in Austria, Zwarte Piet in the Netherlands, Knecht Ruprecht in Germany, Père Fouettard in France, and Schmutzli in Switzerland. They were dark characters, sometimes depicted with horns who punished the bad children by beating them with birch rods or leaving them coal and stones instead of gifts and sweets.
Grýla, Troll Mother
Iceland has Grýla, the Yule Lads’ troll mother, a thoroughly unpleasant woman who has claws, hooves and a tail. She snatches naughty children, stuffs them into a sack and takes them back to her cave to be boiled in a cauldron and eaten. (I’m reminded of a quote by W.C. Fields: “There’s no such thing as a tough child – if you parboil them first for seven hours, they always come out tender.”)
Jólakötturinn, Grýla’s Bad Kitty
Grýla’s pet, Jólakötturinn (“Yo-la-ka-thur-in”), the Yule Cat is an enormous creature with glowing red eyes, sharp claws and whiskers,. It eats children who have not received any new clothes for Christmas, making them grateful for getting mundane gifts like socks, scarves or sweaters. (It’s thought that farmers used it as an “incentive” for workers to finish processing their wool before Christmas.) A large lighted statue of Jólakötturinn appears in downtown Reykjavik every year.
Christmas Traditions December 23 –Þorláksmessa(“thor laks messa”) –St. Thorlac’s Day Named for Iceland’s patron saint, this is the final day of Christmas preparation. People celebrate by eating kæst skata (“kay-est skah-tah”), putrefied skate (stingray) that smells of ammonia, along with potatoes and sweet rye bread. Like hákarl (“har-kardl”), the infamous fermented shark, it is an acquired taste and definitely not for the faint of heart. (I’d rather indulge pasteles, the Puerto Rican version of Christmas tamales.)
December 24 – Aðfangadagur (“ahth fang a da gur”) Christmas Eve Families gather on Aðfangadagur for dinner which may include: • Hangikjöt (“han-gee-kot”) – lamb that was traditionally hung in a shed and smoked in sheep dung because the original settlers cut down all the birch trees. It is sliced and served hot or cold with potatoes, peas and laufabrauð. • Hamborgarhryggur (“Ham-bor-gar-ree-gur”) – glazed smoked rack of pork, imported from Hamburg, Germany by way of Denmark. It is often served with caramelized potatoes and Waldorf salad (a classic side when I was a kid) • Jólajógúrt (“yo-la-yo-gurt”), literally “Christmas yogurt,” available only during Christmas. It has an interesting list of ingredients, including strawberries, cocoa butter and cocoa paste, barley malt and malted wheat. • Rjúpa (“ryoo-pa”) rock ptarmigan, a type of grouse, served with caramelized potatoes and red cabbage. It’s now a protected species and difficult to come by although the lucky may find it in certain restaurants.
Jólasmákökur After dinner it’s time to bring out desserts and drinks. Nothing says Christmas like Jólasmákökur (“Yo-las-mah-koh-kur”), Icelandic Christmas cookies: • Marens Kornflexkokur (Chocolate Cornflake Cookies): Made simply with egg-whites, sugar, chopped chocolate, corn flakes and vanilla. Our version is Cornflake Wreaths, cornflakes mixed with melted marshmallows dyed green, shaped into wreaths and then dotted with Red Hots • Sörur (“Sore-oor”): Almond macaroons topped with chocolate butter cream, then dipped in a chocolate glaze. Also known as Sarah Bernhardt cookies, they were created in Copenhagen in 1911 as a tribute when she came to Denmark for the Danish publication of her memoirs. • Lakkrístoppar (“Lah-krees-top-par”): Meringue cookies with chocolate and filling of choice, usually licorice. • Spesíur (“spay-see-ur”): A sugar cookie topped with a chocolate button, similar to our Peanut Blossoms, sans peanut butter. Offset the buttons and you can make googly eyes. • Hálfmánar (“half-man-ar”): Sugar cookies made with cardamom and lemon. The rolled dough is cut into circles, filled with rhubarb jam and folded into half-moons before baking. The traditional Icelandic recipe uses ammonium carbonate (“smelling salts”) instead of baking powder, which gives your kitchen an obnoxious odor. • Piparkökur (“pee-par-ko-kur”): gingerbread cookies with pepper added to the dough. • Vanilluhringir (“van-eel-oo-ring-ere”): A classic vanilla cookie, shaped into rings, like one of the cookies in the Danish Cookie tins. • Bessastaðakökur (“Bess-ah-stah-ta-ko-kur): A sugar cookie made with clarified butter, then topped with Demerara sugar and chopped almonds before baking. Bessastaðir is the Icelandic White House, and presidents often serve these cookies to guests.
Icelandic Christmas Drinks • Malt og Appelsín also known as Jólaöl (“Yol-ahl”): Combination of two popular soft drinks, Egils Maltextrakt, and Egils Appelsín, a fizzy orange soft drink. People can combine the two at home or buy pre-mixed cans during the holidays. Pour the malt into the orange soda to avoid a Mentos and Coke explosion.
• Brennivín (“Bren-uh-vin”): the infamous ‘Black Death,” a potent akvavit/aquavit, made from fermented potatoes and flavored with caraway. • Christmas Beers. Limited-edition brews available only at Christmastime with names such as: ○ Bjólfur Grenibjór: caramel and pine flavors ○ Magnús Frúktus (“fruity Christmas beer”): flavored with raspberries, blueberries, cherries and vanilla. ○ Jólakisi IPA (“Christmas Cat beer”): tropical flavors of mango, pineapple, and passion fruit. ○ Einstök’s Icelandic doppelbock: A dark lager with roasted malt, caramel and coffee flavors.
Finally, at midnight, families will gather to open presents and partake in the cherished Icelandic tradition of exchanging books, known as Jólabókaflóð,(“Yol-ah-boke-ah-flot”) the Book Avalanche. It’s a time to curl up by the fire with hot cocoa and treats and share stories or read. Indeed, their love for books and storytelling is so great that one in ten Icelanders will publish a book!
December 25 – Jóladagur (“Yo-la-da-gur”) Christmas Day: The day after the night before is quieter, a time to relax, (and eat, of course!)
December 26 – Annar í jólum (“An-ar-ee-yo-lum”) Boxing Day: Literally “another one for Christmas” people leave their homes and gather with friends and family they may not have seen on this “second day of Christmas. Bars are open again and the party continues.
December 31 – Gamlársdagur (“Gam-lars-da-gur) New Year’s Eve: Translated as “Old Age Day,” Icelanders send out the old year with a bang. After yet another dinner, people will gather around 8:30pm at several sites in Reykjavik and in other towns for Áramótabrennur (“Ar-ah-mo-ta-bren-ur), the traditional New Year’s Eve bonfires. After that, everyone will go home to watch Áramótaskaup (“Ar-uh-moh-tas-kup”) the annual satirical sendup of the year’s events at 10:30pm. It’s comparable to John Oliver’s Last Week Tonight year end reviews.
Just before midnight people gather to watch fireworks displays and set off their own. Iceland Search and Rescue (ICE-SAR) teams use fireworks sales (this is the only time when private fireworks are legal) to raise funds, taking in about 800 million ISK ($6,284,368) in 2022. One can also watch the Reykjavik fireworks from anywhere in the world, courtesy of RÚV TV online (6pm CST). People wish each other, “Gleðilegt nýtt ár!” (“Glee-tha-leg-neet-ar”) which means “Happy New Year!” in Icelandic. The celebrations continue well into the night, with parties, gatherings, and festivities, much like the annual debauchery in Times Square.
January 1 – Nýársdagur (“Nee-yaus-da-gur”) (New Year’s Day): Aside from nursing hangovers, on New Year’s Day people will leave their homes open or set a place at the table to welcome elves and trolls.
January 6 – Þrettándinn (“Thre-tan-din”): Also known as “Old Christmas” and “Second New Year’s Eve,” January 6 marks the end of the Christmas season. Christians celebrate Epiphany, the day the Magi arrived in Bethlehem and God revealed Himself through the baby Jesus. Icelanders also celebrate Þrettándinn with more bonfires in honor of the fairies and elves that are leaving. Many local celebrations elect Fairy Queens and Kings who lead participants in “elf dances” around the fire.
Amusing folk legends arose around Þrettándinn. One is that cows miraculously begin speaking in rhyming couplets that will drive anyone listening mad. Another is that seals are the soldiers from Pharaoh’s army who drowned in the Red Sea. They shed their skins, becoming humans who dance naked on beaches before retrieving them and returning to the sea. The last Yule Lad, Kertasníkir (Candle Beggar), leaves until the following December 23.
This is the first Christmas since my teens that I haven’t been
completely annoyed by the whole thing. Oh, I still rail at the commercial where
the Yuppie scum couple celebrate with $100,000 worth of new trucks, or how we’re
supposed to think love means buying your spouse a high-end luxury car. But I
don’t feel the usual sense of dread mixed with despair.
And I’m not sure why.
Maybe it’s because
The weather has been sunny with temperatures in the 50’s, like December in Arizona, instead of cold and gloomy with slushy streets and bad drivers.
Peg hasn’t had to do the Death March to Christmas in three years, and we’re going to a 6 p.m. Christmas Eve Mass instead of the 11 p.m. “Midnight” Mass.
I’m no longer working for a heartless corporation that doesn’t give a shit about its people, and I’ve been doing something I find far more fulfilling.
I’ve been off all month since surgery and I actually have time to enjoy things like wrapping gifts and making cookies, rather than the last-minute blitz to get it all done.
I’m too old to be raging at the materialistic “gimme gimme gimme” of the season.
Whatever the reason, something changed. I’ve been pondering
my inevitable mortality and prioritizing. As a kid I felt bad for not having
much, then I felt guilty as an adult for having more than others. I’m still
painfully aware of the divide between the haves and have nots, but I can’t fix
it. I can only do my small part to make the world a better place for others, however
fleeting that may be.
It’s often said, “The days are long, but the years are
short.” At my age the days are short and,
the years are even shorter. Giving and getting stuff isn’t important; friends
and family are. Cherish those around you who you love, as you never know which
one of them may not be around next Christmas.
We have a saying here: “If you don’t like the weather, wait
five minutes.” Midwestern seasons can be unpredictable, ranging from tranquil
to brutal. Here’s my guide.
Winter
Midwestern winters…SUCK. There’s no other way to put it. It’s not the cold; it’s the unending grey that stretches from early November through March and sometimes beyond. We start the long, slow crawl to more sunlight on December 22, but the darkness just sucks the life out of everything. Christmas is bittersweet; the day after Christmas is the hangover from the night before. New Year’s Eve is the last hurrah of the year. I still hate trying to stay up past midnight, watching one of the local newscasters trying to slip her co-anchor the tongue as “Sweet Home Chicago” plays during the fireworks at Navy Pier.
Groundhog Day Blizzard 2011
I keep telling myself, “I just have to make it through
January and February.” The Superbowl means spring is about six weeks away, if
we’re lucky.
Spring Just when I think about hanging myself rather than enduring one more week
of winter, the sun suddenly comes out and spring arrives, right on schedule!
The trees seem to go from delicate buds to full bloom overnight and the grass
is once again green. The pungent scent of fresh (not frozen) dog turds wafts
through the air on our morning walk. Praise the Lord and pass the potting soil!
It’s time to take the covers off the patio furniture and the air conditioner,
hook up the garden hose, and think about how I’m definitely going to power wash
the deck this year along with all those other warm weather tasks. I’ll be lucky
to check a quarter of them off the list. Life is good again, eh?
Budding trees
Not so fast. This is the Midwest, remember. March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. But Mother Nature is a bitch; it’s more likely Scar and his friends will show up for the next couple of months and remind us we are idiots for maintaining any sense of optimism. The Cubs postponed their 2018 Opening Day game because of snow, while the White Sox, a much hardier bunch, played and beat Kansas City 14-7
We can go from turning on the furnace to turning on the AC
in the same week, sometimes in the same day. We sat on the deck on St.
Patrick’s Day in 2012 when the thermometer hit 81° and froze our butts off the
following March. This year we got five
inches of snow on Palm Sunday and 70° less than two days later, setting
a record. Two more inches of snow fell on April 27. I’ve seen snow in
Michigan on Mother’s Day and Peg had snow Memorial Day weekend when she was
living in Minneapolis
Palm Sunday Snow, 2019
Spring 2019 has been particularly brutal. The lousy weather
has dragged on well into May with cooler than normal temperatures and endless
rain and may continue into June. It was sunnier the last two weeks of March
than all of April and May. The rain has jacked up mold levels, assaulting my
lungs and adding to the misery.
There are momentary respites. The crabapple trees at the
neighborhood park blossom for a few weeks. Lombard’s Lilacia Park lilac trees bloom sometime in May. Chicago
kicks off the approaching summer when meteorologist and WGN’s Weather God Tom Skilling flips the switch
on
Buckingham Fountain.
Crabapple blossoms
Every year I tell myself, “Well, this winter wasn’t so bad.”
And nine months later I’ll wish we were living someplace warm and cheap.
Summer
Our one week of spring gives way to summer. The urchins are out of school; Baxter no longer goes berserk at 7am when he hears the school bus. I wish the first day of summer was somewhere in July instead of June 21 when the Summer Solstice marks the beginning of that long, slow slide into darkness. But the change is gradual enough that it’s hard to notice, until mid-August when the sun sets before 8:20.
The weather can be hot and dry, hot and steamy or any
combination. Those first few muggy days remind me of being out of school for
the summer, listening to the mostly unintelligible words of the Hollies’ “Long Cool Woman (In a Black
Dress)” or the Beatles’ “Get Back” while riding
around thinking about one of my classmates I just saw washing the family car.
She wore shorts and those sleeveless blouses that through which one might
glimpse the side of her bra.
We don’t have to suffer brutal heat like Phoenix where it’s so hot construction crews have to pour concrete after midnight. Chicago issues heat advisories when the heat and humidity become dangerous and the city opens cooling centers for the poor folk with no air conditioning, minimizing the risk of death. That approach developed after the devastating heat wave of July 1995, when triple-digit temperatures combined with an inadequate electrical grid resulted in more than 700 deaths, mostly among the elderly people who were isolated from the rest of their community. 215 died on July 15 alone. The Cook County Medical Examiner’s office had to rent refrigerated trucks to store the surplus bodies.
Summer is mostly tolerable, except for the occasional deluge or tornado. July 1 means football pre-season starts in a month; college football in two. Baxter and I walk either early in the morning or late in the evening. Or we just say, “screw it” and go to Dairy Queen. (Last year we ran into an old guy in the DQ parking lot with a parrot on his arm and a cone in his hand, singing “Let’s all go to the lobby” on his way back to his truck.)
Autumn
This is easily my favorite time of year and it’s not just
because I have an autumn birthday. What’s not to like? Labor Day signals
summer’s official end. The kids go back to school and the adults put away that
summer belligerence for another year. College football season starts, and I can
look forward to another year of watching the Michigan State Spartans win
instead of the Fighting Illini losing. Pro football starts as well, but it
isn’t as exciting. Baseball will come to an end and the WGN 9 o’clock news
won’t be postponed for a Cubs game.
There’s also nothing like the first time the wind shifts,
and a Canadian high pressure system pushes the humidity back to the swamps in
the South. The leaves start to turn (sometimes as soon as August) and
eventually I’ll have to play “Find the Dog Turds” when Baxter decides to do it
under the crabapple tree at the local park. Soon we’ll be knee-deep in pumpkin
spice everything, from that overpriced coffee from Washington State to Culver’s
Pumpkin Shakes.
Autumn leaves, August 2018
The weather is fickle. We can go from crisp, sunny mornings
to cold and drizzle. It snowed October 30, 1997, three months after I moved
back to Illinois. It wasn’t much but enough to win a cynical bet I made with
Peg. An EF4
tornado hit Washington, Illinois, on November 17, 2013. I’ve seen 70° two
weeks before Christmas, followed by 15” of snow in January.
The cluster of holidays makes the early nightfall far easier
to take. Halloween sits on the fence between Indian summer and the first snow.
Thanksgiving is a great holiday because there’s a lot of food and no gifts to
buy, at least until Black Friday kicks off the annual shopping frenzy. I start
looking for stuff online before the Cyber Monday insanity and breath a sigh of
relief when the last gift has been wrapped. The family once again ignores my
suggestion to go on a Caribbean cruise for Christmas.
Some of us really hate “the most wonderful time of the year.”
It is difficult, no, it is impossible to explain our aversion to Christmas to anyone who hasn’t struggled during the holidays. We are likely to hear, “Whassamatta wit’ you? It’s Chris’mas, fer Chrissake! Stop being such a downer and get into the spirit!”
“…Crappy toys flying off the shelves Midgets dressed up to look like elves Spread good cheer or burn in hell…”
Denis Leary (1)
It wasn’t always this way for me. I looked forward to Christmas when I was a kid, especially the smell of a fresh-cut tree permeating the house with a scent that we enjoyed but once a year. We’d buy a tree from the stand some local fraternal organization had erected in a parking lot, then haul it back home. My parents struggled to get it into that rusting metal tree stand without losing too many needles, and then adjust the crooked trunk until the tree was as straight as possible. We’d untangle the lights and clip them to the tree branches, sometimes swapping screw-in bulbs to balance the colors. Finally, we’d take those fragile glass ornaments from their thin cardboard boxes, shake a wire hanger loose from the pile and carefully put them on the tree, hoping they would all survive until January.
But things changed. The details aren’t important; let’s just say I cringe when I hear John Denver singing Please Daddy Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas. It got worse after we moved from Arizona, where everyone was pretty much on the same socioeconomic plane, to the Midwest where I discovered the haves and have nots. That the sun disappeared behind endless grey skies between November and April exacerbated my own depression.
One dismal winter day in 1974 I found “The Death of Christmas: Interviews with forty-three survivors,” in the bargain bin at Follett’s Bookstore, across the street the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. The proceeds from this 1971 book raised funds for the Neediest Children’s Christmas Fund in Chicago. On the cover a sad black Santa with an empty toy sack stood in the snow before three poor urban kids, a heartbreaking sight. The title page featured this illustration (2) by John Fischetti, an editorial cartoonist for the now-defunct Chicago Daily News.
A quote from one of the “survivors” summed up my feelings: “Christmas is for the rich to enjoy, the middle-class to imitate, and the poor to watch.”
A few years later I was walking down Michigan Avenue in Chicago one miserable December evening for reasons I’ve long forgotten, as I certainly didn’t have the kind of cash one needs to shop there. People hurried along the sidewalks like salmon rushing upstream to spawn. Women in furs. Businessmen in overcoats and severe looks. All the stores windows were brimming with faux Christmas cheer—the kinds of decorations no ordinary family would even think of buying—enticing the wealthy with diamonds and furs. “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
A young woman sat on the cold concrete, leaning up against the marble front of a jewelry store, eerily illuminated by a light above the display window. She was rocking a young child wrapped in a thin blanket. The child’s mouth was open in a silent cry – I suspect the little girl may have suffered from cerebral palsy. A small container with a few meager coins lay at their feet. People passed them by without a glance and my heart ached at the wretched scene. I stood looking at them for a few moments, feeling helpless and confused. I don’t remember giving her any money; I think I was too shocked and ashamed. I’ve never forgotten that little scene from more than forty years ago.
The approaching holiday season triggers a predictable emotional sequence: annoyance; irritation giving way to righteous anger; resignation, relief when it’s all over followed by the post-holiday despondency. I’m annoyed when Home Depot and Costco start stocking Christmas decorations and crap in September. At least they have the decency to not play Christmas music until a week or so before Thanksgiving.
Then there’s Black Friday. The day after professing gratitude for friends and family, a roof over one’s head, and more than enough to eat, people get into fistfights over crap that will lose its appeal a few weeks into the New Year. I detest the term “Doorbusters,” which conjures a stampede of desperate peasants trying to buy their way to happiness, unaware they are being shamelessly manipulated by corporate overlords with far more money than they will ever have.
My irritation grows in direct proportion to the frequency of overly precious Christmas advertising on television and blossoms into righteous anger by late November when car commercials outnumber all others by about ten to one. Nothing captures the true meaning of Christmas like buying your spouse a luxury SUV wrapped in a gigantic red bow and telling your Yuppie kids some bullshit story about how Santa delivered it.
The post-Christmas crash follows the buildup to Christmas Day. It’s the hangover from the night before, except that night was six weeks in the making. Dried-up trees litter the curbs and dumpsters overflow with cardboard boxes and torn wrapping paper. Stores fire sale their Christmas crap up to 90% off, which gives one an idea how much it was worth in the first place. Wal-Mart starts stocking Valentine’s Day cards before New Year’s Eve. The college bowl games and the Superbowl are often anti-climactic, and I never liked basketball. Football pre-season is eight long months away.
I made a conscious effort to suppress my inner Grinch when I became a father. I didn’t want my kids to have the same dismal holiday memories I had, and I think it worked out reasonably well. (One year the oldest got a pair of pliers to pull the bug out of his pre-teen butt.) Still, the first time I read them The Polar Express I lost it at the end when Billy reflects: “At one time, most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound.” (3)
My son asked, “Why are you crying, Daddy?” You’ll figure it out in about twenty years.
I’ve made my peace with Christmas. I take delight in the little things. Classic Christmas albums by Andy Williams, Nat King Cole, Johnny Mathis and the incongruous duet with Bing Crosby and David Bowie. Christmas movies like White Christmas, Miracle on 34th Street, and Die Hard.
The guy in the neighborhood who spells BAH HUMBUG on his roof in rope lights. (I wanted to put an inflatable Grinch on the roof, but Peg promised to shoot it full of holes). The look on the Chreasters’(4) faces when they show up at 12:15 a.m. for the Christmas Eve “midnight mass” that’s been starting at 11p.m. for at least thirty years.
Christmas Day is becoming more like Thanksgiving – dinner with family and friends, wishing all peace and good will, and trying not to be a dick in the coming year. Getting stuff isn’t important; being with those you love is the best gift.
Many still find very little to celebrate around the holidays, but some churches have stepped in to fill the void. During the 1980’s the British Columbia hospice community started “Blue Christmas” services which have since spread to churches.
“…The idea of Blue Christmas is to acknowledge the darkness, and let it be dark. That is a quietly revolutionary act in an optimism-obsessed culture that would pressure even the Little Match Girl to look on the bright side. Some churches refer to the event as the “Longest Night,” because many services take place on December 21, the winter solstice, when the sun stays hidden longer than it does on any other night of the year. The structure varies widely, but common motifs include candles, music in minor keys, periods of silence, and time to privately share specific sadnesses and fears (say, by writing them down and placing them on a “tree.”). …” (5)
If you can still hear the bell, you are indeed blessed. Please say a prayer for those for whom hope remains elusive.
Chreasters: occasional Catholics who show up only on Christmas Eve and Easter, largely out of some subconscious obligation to the memory of long dead relatives who will chew their asses once they reach Heaven.
