Spirit of Christmas lives on

(The following was my Undercurrents column for Dec. 14, 2008.)

For 43 years, give or take, my Christmas Eve was spent with — and in the home of — my maternal grandmother, Mazie Massey. My personal definition of the holiday was molded from those experiences and captured in innumerable photos around her Christmas tree.

Christmas Day was for my other grandmother, and in later years we visited my in-laws on that day, too. But Christmas Eve was Grandma Massey’s time.

There were fireworks launched in the field behind the house. Fondue was arranged by Aunt Wendy. Trays of veggies, plates of cookies, bowls of fudge, platters of pie, slices of cake. Homemade fruitcake if you liked that. Pictures of the piles of presents around the tree, as her children, grandchildren, cousins, friends and neighbors came over for the evening. (And in the later years, add spouses and great-grandkids to the roster.)

She had a gift for making children happy, for making each one of them feel like they were special. Every child who came into her house on a Christmas Eve could tell you how she doted on them, held them in her arms and made them feel loved.

The tree was most often covered in red lights, with angels and dolls and little birds throughout. She began collecting “Gone with the Wind” ornaments in recent years, and we bought her a new one just last Christmas.

She insisted on getting a photo of the tree each year. It made her happy to see the mad stack of gifts and the littlest children with their eyes full of wonder and anticipation.

In my childhood and young adult years, Grandma’s house was only a couple of miles away from wherever I was living. For the last 15 years, it’s been a little more of a trip, but we always made it. The first Christmas Eve I lived in Panama City, my car broke down on the way to Grandma’s house, and my Uncle Joe drove all the way to DeFuniak Springs to meet me where the tow truck had left me and take me home to Century.

There were only a few times we didn’t go to Grandma’s for the eve. Once in my childhood, we stayed with my paternal grandmother, and just a couple of years ago, as Grandma’s house was being renovated after it was damaged by Hurricane Dennis, Christmas Eve was at my mother’s house.

We even spent Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house one year when she was off visiting my cousins in Hawaii. A freak cold snap froze the pipes in an old house we lived in, so we carted the presents to her house, and we stayed the night there. I recall putting together toys for my toddling little boy with the help of my sister and brother-in-law.

No one lives in Grandma’s house these days. She left us before the spring came, after a long and difficult illness. Her little Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler ornaments hang on our family tree this year.

We’ll take pictures, and we’ll think of her.

Peace.

Embellishing the Memories of Christmas

There used to be four of them, I think — little white plastic reindeer attached by the tiniest red ribbon to a white plastic sleigh. Grandma Simmons would place the arrangement in a windowsill or on the big turntable/black-and-white television (back in the day when TVs were concealed inside wooden furniture) as part of her Christmas decorations.

She had an aluminum Christmas tree, as well, and a spotlight with a rotating four-color lens shining on it, but that's another story.

One of the reindeer survives, sort of. I don't know what might have happened to the rest of the set, but this one racing courser has been in my possession since childhood. It's yellowed from age and has the dried residue of ancient invisible tape around its midsection. An antler is broken, as is part of its snout.

It's seen better days.

I glued its two halves back together in the last week of November and perched it in a place of honor upon a green limb close to the top of my family's Christmas tree. It sits among crystal ornaments and Hallmark collectibles, but this one little reindeer - it's more than "mere embellishment," as Webster's might define the word.

It's my favorite.

Not that there's anything spectacular about it. You'd miss it among the lights and tinsel. But it wouldn't be Christmas without it, if you know what I mean.

If you're an adult, Christmas is often about memories. If you're a parent, it's often about making memories for the kids around you. A couple of future memories could be right under your nose — simple things, the tiniest elements that, recalled, will make Christmas special for someone in years to come.

Peace.

(The preceding was most of my Undercurrents column for Dec.8, 2002; the list of local holiday events at the bottom was deleted.)

Christmas Zen: The Lesson of the Bulbs

Pull one out, and put a new one in.

Still no flicker.

That's not it, so replace the old one and move on to the next one.

Pull it out, and put a new one in. Still no glow.

How many is that? Fa-la-la-fifty?

If you've ever re-used a strand of last year's Christmas lights, then you know what I'm doing here. Actually, if you re-use Christmas lights, you may have someone reading this to you right now because you're still doing what I'm doing here.

Take a deep, calming breath. Replace the old one, move to the next one. Pull it out, put a new one in. Still no shine.

Ah, those wonderful Christmas traditions. Playing holiday music while trimming the tree, making sugar cookies, sending cards to far-away family, sharing hot cocoa with the kids, watching It's a Wonderful Life and crying like a baby, wrapping presents and never cutting the paper quite large enough to cover everything.

...Finding the one festive bulb on a million-bulb strand that's burned out.

Deck those halls! Ring those bells! Nog those eggs!

Talk about holiday stress. There stands the noble (though artificial) fir tree, naked. The children are holding their favorite ornaments and tapping their feet — and if you take too long, they're sure to start tapping each other's feet and throwing ornaments around the room.

It's a test, see. You're testing the lights, and the lights are testing you. It's a karmic metaphor, telling you things like "Hurry up and wait," or "Patience has its rewards." It's the Spirit of Christmas Past reminding you, "Quitters never win. Winners never quit."

Pull one out, and put a new one in. Still no sparkle.

"Never give up," the lights are saying. "Good things come to those who re-use their lights."

It's Christmas Zen, man. Give your energy to the strand, and the strand will give energy to you.

Replace the old one and move on to the next one. Pull it out, and put a new one in. Still no twinkle.

Note to myself for next Christmas: Buy a new strand.

Peace.

(The preceding was my Undercurrents column for Dec. 23, 2001. It is part of my column collection, "Dazed and Raving in the Undercurrents.")

Someday Soon, We All Will Be Together

(The following was my Undercurrents column for Dec. 3, 2006)

We’re in the thick of it now. The Halloween costumes and decorations are packed away, the Thanksgiving leftovers have been consumed, and we’re starting the final stretch toward the greatest holiday on earth. Here are some random thoughts as we celebrate the season.

I’m a sucker for the sappy Christmas songs — just not that one about the Christmas shoes. That’s the Nicholas Sparks book of Christmas songs, guaranteed to make me change the station.

Two of the radio pre-sets in my truck are now on local stations that play nothing but Christmas songs. Also, it’s pretty much the only month of the year those stations play in my truck, but whatever. I appreciate them right now.


It’s a joke around my house that one of my Christmas traditions is watching “It’s a Wonderful Life,” while one of the kids’ traditions is watching me cry while watching “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Let’s not dig too deeply into that, however, and just accept it as the way things are.

On the other hand, my post-bypass emotional state being what it is, this could be a record-setting year for the old waterworks — not that we’d want to change that, would we? Isn’t that the lesson of the movie?

We generally decorate our Christmas tree on Thanksgiving weekend, but we got an extra week’s jump on it this year, as we were planning to visit relatives during the long holiday. Over the years, we’ve collected lots of Hallmark ornaments, prompting one young visitor to laugh last week at our “toy-covered” tree.

It’s true: Star Trek, Barbie, superhero, Peanuts, fairies and other fanciful figurines fill the branches, nestled among the colorful lights. Some of them light up or make noises or wish you a Merry Christmas. It’s a fun tree.

By contrast, I suppose my mother’s Christmas tree is much more “grownup,” as it’s covered with crystal and glass, and illuminated by white bulbs. We helped Mom decorate it on Thanksgiving. It rotates on a stand, which can be disconcerting after too many eggnogs, but at least none of the ornaments talk to you.

Finally, another favorite moment of mine early in the season is hearing my daughter squeal with disgust at the first few notes of the “Partridge Family Christmas Card” album. (“To you and all your family, your neighbors and your friends, may all your days be happy with joy that never ends. May peace and love surround you at Christmas time and all the whole year through.”)

Peace.

Midnight on the Firing Line

There was a frightening undercurrent in the crowd that gathered around the red cardboard display boxes in the back aisle of Lynn Haven's Walmart Super Center just before midnight on Thursday. It was minutes before Black Friday, and the tension was high.

The only thing I can compare it to is a school of piranha circling chum.

The display boxes held DVDs and Blu-Rays behind a thin plastic wrap. A woman in a blue best said she would cut the plastic and remove it at midnight, at which time the always-growing crowd could then take their picks of the videos. I looked around, and it was clear the crowd had other ideas.

People literally circled the line of red displays, noting the titles they desired. They glanced at the others in the crowd, weighing their chances in a fight.


This is what Christmas is all about, I thought: Togetherness.

One of the women in blue vests walked up and down the row, telling people to clear the main aisle. Crowds backed up on each other in side aisles. A few tightened their shoe laces.

About 11:58 p.m., we heard shouts and mob noise coming from the other end of the electronics department, where someone had opened a box of video games. Then a woman in a blue vest popped a box cutter and started to touch the plastic wrap on the displays — and that was all it took.

The crowd rushed into the aisle, shoving hands through the plastic wrap to snatch videos. People reached around each other like TSA agents at a pat down, groping blindly for hidden treasures they couldn't even name. Everywhere were exclamations of "Excuse me!" "Sorry!" "My bad!" "Pardon!" "Excuse me again!" as people reeled through and against one another to seek out season sets or special editions or heavily marked down titles.

Ah, the gentle sounds of the season!

Arms loaded, I sought the shopping cart I had parked on a side aisle, but it was gone. Instead, I found my daughter having escaped alive from the other end of the electronics department with some things she wanted for Christmas in a cart. I dumped my loot in there and guarded the cart while she dove into the crowd I had just left behind.

No injuries were reported.

Giving thanks for the simple things in life

Thanksgiving Day is coming up later this week, as you might have heard, and it’s a tradition at our house to share some of the things we’re thankful for each year. Some years are better than others, of course, and some lists are more extensive.

Beyond the obvious (such as continued decent health and a healthy family), here are a few things I am thankful for:

- Not being a turkey this week. (Go ahead, insert your jokes here.)

- A wife and kids who balance the challenges of keeping me grounded while encouraging my flights of fancy.

- Twitter and Facebook friends, without whose virtual validation I would wander around and talk to myself about random things even more so than I do now. (By the way, #FF for @ing me this week: @ShellieT, @karenzach, @RealRiverJordan, @ BradMilner, @SBradyCalhoun, @lou1492, @bradmeltzer, @wdglover, @JaysonKretzer, @mikecaz.)

- Real-world friends with a sense of humor and imagination, who don’t seem bothered by my non sequiturs or Chinese curses.

>>(See the rest of the list here.)<<

The Best of Deals:

Get special pricing on 'The Best of Days' through Dec. 15 — use the coupon code STOCKING305 at checkout.


Peace.


Follow Tony on Twitter @ midnightonars

Connecting across time and space

(The following was my Sunday 'Undercurrents' column for The News Herald.)
Surrounded and bolstered by kindred spirits on Thursday night, Wewahitchka-based author Michael Lister talked about the sacred calling of the storyteller. He used the word “shaman” to convey the mystical connection between the teller and the listener.

Like an alchemical equation seeking balance, the work birthed in the act of creating art can’t reach maturity until the work is interpreted. Otherwise creation is the silence in the forest when a tree falls and no one is there to hear it.

It’s the sound of one hand clapping.

Michael’s words, as usual, started me thinking. In particular, I recalled a few events of the past week where the things people said (or wrote) and the things I heard (or read) connected with memory to create new meaning. You never know what people will say, or how the things they say will stick with you and bubble to the surface of your thoughts.

A couple of examples:

I visited the set of “A Doll’s House” on the Amelia Center Theater stage at Gulf Coast Community College this week. Decorated for Christmas, the lights and baubles stood in stark contrast to the dull walls and furnishings in shades of brown. It looked like a scene out of “A Christmas Story.”

The play is set in 1950s Chicago, and the short sequence I viewed made me think about those folks on our Squall Line who want their country back — one of whom even went so far this week to type on his or her computer that “The 1950s was a better time.”

On stage, the husband teased his wife with $10 bills that she greedily snatched from him, one by one, and promised to spend wisely. He called her pet names and spoke in soothing tones, making sure she understood her place and function in his world.

I was reminded of an early Saturday morning recently, when an older man joked about spending his entire “allowance” on yard sales. He circled among some tables stacked with colorful trinkets and clothing, asking silly questions and flirting with the ladies at the sale. Suddenly, he grew quiet.

“I was married three times,” this total stranger said to me, his breath misting in the morning cold. “I left the first one, the second one left me, and the third died. She was the only one who ever said she loved me. She was the only one I ever loved.”

He cleared a lump in his throat and pointed at a coffee maker designed for one person. “Is that real or a toy?” he said, and I told him I believed that it was real. He bought it and drove away alone.

Peace.