Decking the halls these days requires some spirit
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- December 7, 2024
- 575
I wouldn’t call it a bad omen necessarily, but it was a bit alarming when, a full week before Thanksgiving, measurable snowfall fell.
Having been up all night, which is my vampire custom, I rose from the basement and walked outside, only to realize I wasn’t dreaming.
You could hear, quite plainly, the sound of snowflakes falling on the carpet of leaves that had yet to be raked or been blown away.
There was something eerily comforting in the predawn darkness, a whisper of times past, and it was then I understood that no matter how hard I tried, escaping this new world of nostalgia was futile.
It wasn’t déjà vu … it was more like déjà View-Master.
You remember those things, don’t you?
Based on the novel idea of seeing postcards through binoculars, they created what was called “stereoscopic” 3D reality, a means by which users felt as if they were actually standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon or descending into the depths of Mammoth Caves.
Of course, back in the early '60s, this was precisely the kind of alternative existential cocktail that would eventually result in LSD.
But that’s neither here nor there.
Like so many of the playthings children enjoyed back before parents got wise, the View-Master, like the Super Ball and Greenie Stick’em Caps that followed, was a nonoptional cultural artifact, part of any boy’s arsenal of distractions, just like Mad magazine, slingshots, baseball cards, Hot Wheels cars and transistor radios.
That was my experience, anyway. It’s that lost world I’ve been rediscovering ever since I moved back home nearly a full year ago.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m fully aware that in the nearly quarter of a century I was gone from here, life has moved on without giving my extended absence a second thought. A full generation has come into being, even as another has all but disappeared. Housing developments that were verdant fields when I left have sprung up, churches and schools have been razed, businesses have been born, and the downtown hums with an almost audible buzz.
I’m still getting used to being a walking, talking reminder of so many yesterdays to the point that when someone stops and asks, “Hey, don’t I know you?” I just smile and say, “It’s possible.”
The frustrating part is when I can’t, for the life of me, remember their names, even though they know mine. Makes me feel awful.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about maybe going back to church, not that it’ll make me better able to recognize people, but because it’s Advent and Christmas is coming and, well, old habits die very hard.
Not counting funerals or weddings, I went to Mass exactly once after relocating to the Carolina coast at the turn of the century.
Coincidentally, it was around this time of year in 2000, and I remember thinking, “This place looks more like a multipurpose facility than a church … I bet these pews are actually bleachers.”
It wasn’t very Christian of me, I’ll freely admit that, but I was accustomed to a sacred space that held too many memories to count, a simple place of worship and prayer that informed my spirit and molded my soul, such as it is, as I close in my 70th birthday.
As a recovering Catholic, I’m susceptible to the inevitability of the liturgical calendar, a fact that becomes more acutely pronounced as December’s days become shorter and darkness falls even earlier.
Adding to that sense of celebratory foreboding has been decorating this house for Christmas, a cheery chore that’s necessary but still taxing, sort of like shampooing your hair before getting it cut off.
In Carolina, I knew where everything went, how best to make it look, and most years, I could make my wife smile by going through the motions, a dance I got better at as the time rolled by.
Here, though, it’s all an empty canvas, and creativity is required.
For one thing, this place has lots and lots of stairs, an architectural oddity I had all but forgotten about when we lived close to the ocean. Down there, folks have no basements, and most houses are limited to a single story, owing to, well, all those damn hurricanes.
Here, however, if you have to haul boxes to the living room, it’s 15 steps up and 15 steps down. Should you need to add some cellar cheer, that’s a dozen steps down and another 12 up. All told, over the course of several festive and jolly days, you could scale Everest.
I’ve been swallowing aspirin by the fistful, but my back still aches.
I’ve been staying hydrated, but my renal system’s on the blink.
I’ve taken to grabbing afternoon naps, but my vampire soul rebels.
I’ve enjoyed unearthing ancient snowmen, but my mind’s melting.
Still and all, I’m determined to make the most of the holiday season, to revel in the wassail, to honor the mistletoe, to quaff the eggnog, to sing and dance and pray and feel as free as Scrooge did.
And the very next time I walk into a snowfall that precedes a rosy-fingered dawn, I promise and vow to do my level best not to shiver.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to find him on Facebook, where Christmas is a state of mind, not a calendar date.