Christmas in July

“Christmas Crazy”

 

One Christmas, I got snagged

in the current of holiday shoppers,

pulled under and swallowed

by a swarm

scavenging the remains of

trendy trinkets, rooting through

bargain bins,

pecking and picking

over remnants of deals already closed out;

endless rolls of wrapping screamed

louder than the toddler trailing

behind her mother’s cart overflowing with

Christmas crazy—

 

It careened around a corner,

out of control,

rickety back-left wheel spinning absently,

and crashed,

triggering an avalanche of

expletives and baubles,

the gift-wrapped gaudiness

spilling across the not-too-recently

waxed tile—

 

The tin-speaker droned overhead;

the din of holiday havoc

paralyzed my senses:

individual samples of non-cheer now

in Aisle Two served in tiny white baking cups

for your convenience.

 

So I left—my cart

and my soul

empty—

for a more stable scene.

 

Deserting the hive behind

the automatic sliding glass doors,

I drove to an empty lot,

windows down,

gazed at the few simple lights

warming the blueblackness of the winter sky,

and exhaled private

exultations and alleluias—

a prayer to peace.

photo credit: Calwaen Liew on Unsplash

 So...I started scribbling the ideas for this poem about a year and a half ago, but a couple of weeks ago I felt the need to pull it out and either finish it or be finished with it. I'd love your feedback, but want to  remind you that I haven't poemed for a while.

Also, here is my traditional claim that I am going to start posting more content in the future. Believe it or don't, I'm still going to do it. Anyone want to hold me accountable?

A Late Christmas Musing

I know this is late--not even time for Dia de Los Reyes, but it's another make-up, one that has actually taken me quite a while to complete.  And for the record, I'm still not happy, but I guess it's good enough for now.  I also warn you that it is highly cheesy and religious, but it's still a part of me.

(Make-up for December 24, 2013)

            When my family went to visit my parents’ house on Christmas afternoon this year, I found myself enjoying a (rare) quiet moment in the front of the tree with my dad.  All the kids (our five and Marc and Liz’s four) were zooming under Grandma’s apron strings or blasting each other to smithereens on the Wii.  Dad reflected for a while then asked about past Christmas seasons that stood out in my mind.  I’ve shared some of these on my blog already, but I wanted to save this one for Christmas Eve.

Call me sentimental (and you might get smacked), but probably the most meaningful Christmas Eve was the second one I celebrated in Spain as a missionary.

            I was in Granada, proselyting in the Albaycín, right at the base of the Alhambra.  (From one of the towers, you could spit on our apartment.)  The last day of my mission loomed just over two weeks away: January 3, 1998.  My feelings about going home were mixed. I was ready to move on with my life, but I didn’t want to give up my time serving the Lord.  It had been two years since I had been a part of the world.  I was scheduled to start school at BYU in the spring.  Would I even remember how to function in college let alone life?

            On Wednesday the 24^th, our whole district (six of us) had been invited for a Christmas Eve luncheon at a church member’s home on the other side of the city.  This kind grandmother wasn’t in any position to host us, but we went anyway so as not to offend her.  Lunch was simple, but satisfying—not a Christmas feast, but good nonetheless: a thick caldo (broth) and some fresh bread.  We left with our pockets full of cheap, stale turrones, mantecados, and polvorones—which we promptly gave away to some neighborhood kids.  I even wore a Santa hat that I had picked up somewhere (I think someone mailed it to me.) as we visited and caroled and soaked up the spirit of the season.

            On the walk home, there was an underpass that went under the freeway around the city, which was meant for pedestrians only.  Part of the long, narrow path was fenced on both sides with chain link, but most people could walk side by side with barely enough room to not knock shoulders.  However, we had a problem as we filed along in the chilly afternoon.  Two teenage hoodlums on a motoscooter were zooming down the sidewalk toward us, weaving, laughing, shouting, and generally being obnoxious.

They buzzed a young mother pushing a stroller.  I don’t know what they said to her, but the vulgarities that she directed at them could only have been provoked by something worse.

And then they saw us and accelerated.  We shuffled over to the side and stopped, pressing against the fence to give them the widest berth possible.  I, in my Santa Claus hat, brought up the rear of our little troop.

The helmetless, jacketless, tactless, brainless freaks edged closer.  The idiot on the back stood up and made some fairly acrobatic hand gestures.  The balancing might have been considered impressive had the peril not been so great.  If they didn’t pull back, they would run into us.  At the last second the driver swerved away.

I exhaled in relief a moment too soon.  The moron on the back snatched my Santa hat as they sped off down the sidewalk, spilling some stacked boxes on the side before speeding into incoming traffic and around a corner.

I was shocked—utterly speechless.  Here we were, trying to spread some Christmas cheer, and some imbecile kifed my Santa hat.  Who does that?  On Christmas Eve?  To a missionary preaching about Christ on Christmas Eve?  I was genuinely incensed.  My anger rose, but I decided to keep it inside rather than cause a scene.

The others started walking again, not noticing my missing hat or knowing what had happened.  It wasn’t until we started below the actual concrete underpass that my companion said, “Hey, Elder Anson, where’s your hat?”

The anger bubble burst, and deciding not to take it out on anybody, I yelled at the roar of the traffic and punched the wall (a habit from earlier high school experiences, but that’s a different story).  Now, for those who haven’t already figured it out on their own, punching a cold, concrete support wall in December when my hands are dry and cracking is not a good idea.

Everyone stopped and looked at me.  Looked at my hat.  Looked at my hand.  And decided not to say anything.  I just shook my head—upset at the two jerks, upset at myself for my reaction.  We shuffled on in silence.

What made it worse was that the other two companionships in out district had dinner appointments to head to. However, My companion and I had nowhere to go.  They split off from us as we had another thirty-minute walk back to our area.  None of the members living in our area had invited us over.  And it didn’t seem right to knock on people’s doors uninvited on Christmas Eve, so we decided to try to see if we could find anyone to talk to out in the largest plaza in our boundaries—the one with all the fountains.  Right now the name escapes me, but I know it is not Plaza Nueva.  We lived close to that one.  Maybe someone can help me out.  I can’t find it on any online maps.

Regardless, no one was out.  And I mean no one.  We stood in that plaza for forty-five minutes without seeing another soul.  The sun had set by then, so we sat down and watched the fountains light up with holiday red and amber and green and white.  We resigned ourselves to the fact that nothing we did that night would be effective, and we talked for a while about a wide array of topics starting with our current pool of work and ending with my imminent departure back to the Sates.

My comp decided he needed to stretch his legs and wandered over to the fountain and walked along its ledge.  I sat still and looked up into the clear sky—rare in the city—and I noticed the calm that had fallen over the mountains to the northeast, touched with the first snows of the season.  The city noises themselves were going to bed.

The night grew cold, and as I sat, feeling a little sorry for myself and for my missing hat, I flipped through the blue hard-covered Book of Mormon in my hands.  I turned to 3 Nephi, Chapter 1, where the sign of Christ’s birth shone in the America’s, far away from the Bethlehemic action.  I reviewed my convictions and why I even came to Spain in the first place.  I knew that He was born, lived, died, and lived again for me, just like He did for everyone else.  The message I was sharing was true. And I knew it.  And He knew that I knew.

I turned my cracked and bleeding hands over, and I realized that the Lord knew me, just as He did the Nephites, just as He knows each of us; and that although I was far away (literally and figuratively), I was not forgotten.  It didn’t matter if I wasn’t invited to a party or a dinner or if I had my two-bit hat.  My selfish thoughts turned to another lowly setting—one two millennia earlier, and my self-pity dissipated.  I calm, warm, reassurance replaced it

It’s difficult impossible for me to relay my exact feelings that Christmas Eve sixteen years ago, but as I attempt typing them tonight, I can still feel that burning that grew in me that night.  It still smolders within, and it will never burn out.

Sledding Dirty

            On Little Rock AFB we lived at the bottom of a steep hill—a hill down which I learned to ride a bike, a hill that provided a buffer from the annoying kid who messed with Benji—took his food and taunted him and ended up with a chewed up face.  But there’s one memory about that hill that stick out right now.

            Christmas Day 1983, or maybe 1984, was one to remember.  My brothers and I raked in a boatload of Star Wars and He-Man action figures.  Well, to us it seemed like a lot.  It probably wasn’t, but who cares?  It’s the memories that count, right?  I think it was that Christmas that we received Castle Greyskull and the Ewok village play sets.  We were in heaven, but that was nothing compared to the fact that it had snowed!

            This was the first Christmas I remember being white.  There may have been others, but this one I actually remember being excited for the slow-falling fat crystals.  I remember trying to teach tiny David to catch them on his tongue, but he didn’t like the cold and wet on his little face.  In reality, the snow wasn’t that deep or impressive (looking at the pictures now)—kind of crusty, with chunks of ice strewn throughout—but to us it was a small bit of paradise.

            Marc got the crazy idea to go sledding.  None of us kids had ever been (that I could recall), and it became an instant obsession.  There was one problem: no sleds.  But for my dad, our personal MacGyver, it was no problem.  He simply cut up the waxed cardboard boxes our toys came packaged in, and Shazzam! Instant sleds.

            After what seemed like hours, Mom finally called us (three boys and Dad) in for dinner.  We had worn the snow through to the grass, but we begged for one last run down the hill on our makeshift sleds.

As we trudged up the hill for one more run, Dad watched us struggle up the hill.  “Is that how you boys have been getting up the hill?” he asked.

            “Uh huh.” Marc nodded.

            We would clamber up a slick smaller part of the hill with our cardboard sleds in tow, grab a frozen rock, and haul ourselves up to the next part of the hill, where we could get a foothold before pushing on to the summit.

            “Every time?”

            “Yep.”

            “You know what you’ve been holding onto, don’t you?”  Dad’s smile grew.

            “Uh….”

            “That’s Benji’s frozen dog poop!”

            And that was the end of that game.

The "Tinkling" of Bells

            Last night we took the kids to my parents’ house to make some Christmas goodies, namely peanut butter cups.  At some point in the night’s conversation my Dad asked me what I remembered about Christmases when I was young, so I guess I’ll spill one of the ones I had saved for later now…just because it came up last night.

            When I was nine years old, we had just moved to Japan at the beginning of December.  We moved into a small twin home where the walls were so thin that when the neighbors tromped down the stairs you thought they were coming to see you.  And as the military movers go, we didn’t receive our whole baggage (all our household crap) until Christmas Eve.  In a flurry of elf-like (non-Herbie) activity, we unpacked the decorations and threw them around the place until it really seemed like Christmas.  And coming from Vegas, it was okay that there wasn’t any snow (yet).

            After Mom read Luke 2, we placed our stockings, and Dad helped us situate Santa’s snack, we three boys clambered up the stairs past the kerosene heater into our beds.

            Not too long after I had drifted off my bladder reminded me that I hadn’t emptied before hitting the sack, so it promptly kicked me out of bed.  I suppose I must point out that this cardboard shack only had one bathroom, which, of course, was located at the foot of the stairs.  Hearing noises downstairs, I figured it was safe to relieve myself.  Mom and Dad usually watched TV before bed.

            Dad met me halfway down, scooped me up, tossed my blue-jammied self over his shoulder and carried me back to my bed.   He plopped me down, deaf to my protests.  Seriously, I had to go!  Couldn’t he see my pee pee dancing?  No.  He told me I could come down and go after I had counted to a million and two.

            Dang it.

            My senses heightened, I heard scissors, tape dispensers, and wrapping paper.  Nothing was spoiled, though.  I had already seen my G.I.Joe vehicles sitting in plastic AAFES bags on the floor of Mom and Dad’s bedroom days earlier—in plain sight, even—not wrapped or anything.  For some reason, the number 38,000 sticks in my head whenever I think back to this moment.  That and fuzzy golden garlands.  Apparently Santa made his stop after I passed out.  Good thing my bladder lasted longer than my eyelids.  The only tinkling had been the bells on Santa's sleigh.

Three Sisters!

To get the ball rolling, I’m going to start with something simple and something Christmassy, although I promise right now that not all of my posts will be Christmas-related.  This afternoon I started a list of ideas about Christmas and only came up with four.  One will definitely be saved for later in the month.  The others will appear randomly—depending on how much time I have to write each day.

Toward the end of 2006 Amy was pregnant with our fourth child, who was due to arrive at the end of April.  With Sariah and Zac we found out the gender well in advance.   With Ally, we decided to let it be a surprise until delivery.  We wanted to do something different, so as cheesy as it sounds, we decided that it would be fun to have the baby’s gender be a surprise to open on Christmas morning.

At the appointment when everything is revealed, the ultrasonographer checked everything out: counted toes, analyzed brain matter, told us when to close our eyes, and sealed the pictures in an envelope.  Little Sariah, Zac, and Ally could hardly stand to wait.  We placed the secret near the top of the Christmas tree (so grubby little hands couldn’t “accidently” reveal the surprise) and waited.

Christmas morning arrived as usual with squeals and Santa and the brightly colored mess of recyclable paper and plastic.  We had decided to open the envelope last.  And although the three little yahoos chomped at the bit for me to put sets together, dress baby dolls, and insert batteries, the kids quieted down when Amy pulled down the small envelope.  Zac—hoping for a brother—and Sariah—wishing for another sister—started crossing their fingers.  Ally may have just slurped hers.

“It’s a sister!” exclaimed Amy (or something close to that).

Sariah cheered.  Ally joined in.

Zac’s stood speechless for several seconds.  Then his eyes brimmed with tears and held for a few more moments before exploding: “But I already have two sisters!”  He broke down, weeping like a kid who Santa had passed over.

It took several minutes to console him.

The need for special “guy time” between a boy and his dad shot to the top of the priority list.

A day later he came up to Amy with a crayon creation in his hand.  “This is for ‘Little Bit’” he said.  Apparently he was over the trauma that would be Brooklyn.  Then he sneaked away to terrorize his other sisters.

It’s a good thing Sam came along a few years later.