Summer Family Depression

I’m not sure if anyone else has noticed, but reruns of the 1970s family drama, “The Waltons” has been showing up on more than one cable channel.

The resurgence – albeit modest – of the Great Depression family throwback hit couldn’t come at a better time because my family is in the throes an economic depression of our own, so with the retro-runs I can show my kids just how fun a depression can be. 

While summer gives my kids more time to ride their bikes, play at the park, swim in the lake, hang out with their friends, it also affords them more time to ask for things.  I can’t imagine how they make it from breakfast to lunch during the school year without grazing a kitchen every half hour.

Just the other night my wife and I were sitting on our front porch swing when my daughter opened the front door and asked if she could have some leftover chili.  My wife said no because they would be having it for lunch the next day.  Two minutes later my son steps out and asks if he could have a few slices of cold cuts.  No, my wife said, the cold cuts are for lunches.  Not five minutes later, my daughter, who obviously lost the toss, opened the door, told us how much she loved us and asked if we could order a pizza.

It’s not as though we don’t feed our children, we do.  Only three hours earlier we were sitting at the table scoffing down bowls of chili and rice.  My son had three helpings to my one. 

And it’s not just food.  Apparently parental greetings now begin with Can I get...?  Can I have…?  Can we buy…? 

  

The problem is we can’t just spend money that way during the summer.  You see, I am a teacher and just about midsummer my family hits a depression.

Early in June we hit an economic slowdown and eventual recession where any fiscal growth slows, spending comes to a near halt, and employment opportunities are reduced greatly. 

Sure, we tuck some money under the mattress throughout the school year for the rainy day that is June, July and August, but that little cushion has a funny way of losing its stuffing every time we change the sheets.  Wouldn’t it be nice if…? begins the conversation.  We’ll just take a little…it continues.  We’ll make sure to replace it…we vow.  The cushion ends up being a flimsy sheet.

Once September hits we enter into a period of recovery when the demands for goods and services (new clothes, school supplies, activities, fundraisers, etc.) are able to be met with the supply of income (Dad working a couple of after school activities and teaching a couple of courses at the local university). 

However, the recovery is short lived and almost immediately falls into another recession with the onset of the holiday season.

About a month into the new year an economic boon occurs.  With summer impossible to imagine with all that snow and ice, spending becomes a remedy for cabin fever:  Some clothing for us or perhaps a new piece of furniture, a new video game for them because the poor little darlings are stuck inside.  Wouldn’t be nice if…we’ll just take a little…we’ll make sure to replace it. 

The household economy cycles back to the June slowdown followed by the summer depression where there is no room for eating leftovers as a snack, and no room for pizza.

There is room, however, for some fresh air-popped popcorn in front of penny-pinching, purse-string-tightening entertainment and a hopeful lesson for my kids that one does not need a lot of possessions to be happy episodes of “The Waltons,” and, though they may not believe it, they could be much worse off:  They could have even more brothers and sisters.

Valentine's Day Fear

Like many rationally thinking men, I am absolutely terrified of Valentine’s Day, this year more than most.  My reasons are many, and while I could go as far back as to third grade and the Hong Kong Phooey Valentine incident, for brevity I’ll start a little later.

On Valentine’s Day, 1979, I decided to write Candy a poem.

I was in high school and had developed a deep crush on Candy.  She was somewhat plain looking, tall, thin build, short brown hair, thick glasses.  I remember how I loved her long slender fingers.  I don’t know why I liked them, I just did. 

Her parents owned a small arts and crafts store down the street from where I grew up.  Many evenings, as she sat behind the counter in the mostly empty store, we’d sit and talk about many profound and meaningful subjects.  We spent much time together, talking, laughing, enjoying each other’s company.  And while I saw her as the love of my life, she saw me more as a little brother.  You see, she was a senior, while I was nothing but a lowly freshman.

So, on Valentine’s Day, I decided to write Candy a poem that would put it all out there.  I opened an emotional vein and bled such anguished adolescent sentiment that it couldn’t fail. 

I stood next to her watching as she read, studying her face for any reaction.  At first she looked confused and maybe just a little concerned, but then a huge smile grew across her face.  She looked at me straight in the eye and said, “This is really good.”  She looked at the poem and then back at me.  “Do you think I could use it to give to my boyfriend?”

I eventually recovered from the devastation of that episode, but it has served as a touchstone for Valentine’s Day ever since.

Avoidance has been my coping mechanism of choice when it came to Valentine’s Day.  It worked pretty well for a number of years, too.  The holiday’s winter placement made the flu a perfect out.  An annual bout of bronchitis kept me safe in solitude every 14^th of February. 

It wasn’t until I started dating Cheri, the girl who would end up being my wife, when I was roped in to – did I begin to celebrate the day.  But it was not without a lot of trepidation and a little tragedy.

Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Friday when Cheri was a sophomore at Temple University and I was living down at the Jersey shore.  When I got off work at four in the afternoon, I stopped at a florist and spent what little money I had on a dozen roses.  I planned to stop home, take a shower, and then head up to Philadelphia.

Just before I pulled in my driveway, it started to lightly snow.  I gently lay the roses in the trunk and went in.  Less than a half hour later, I stepped out of the shower and peered out the window at blizzard conditions.  Mother Nature had given me the perfect out when I finally didn’t need one.

Much to Cheri’s chagrin, I called to postpone our Valentine’s date.  Being a guy and an economizer of every step, I decided to keep the roses in the trunk.  I figured the florist stores them in a cooler, what harm could it do.

The next day, late in the afternoon when the main roads were clear, I drove up to Philadelphia.  I told her how sorry I was that we had missed our first Valentine’s Day together, but, if she would come out to the car with me, I was sure all would be forgiven.

I led her outside and proudly opened the trunk.  There we stared at a dozen roses fit for Morticia Addams.  They were practically black, wilted, and generally pathetic.  Apparently a cooler at a florist is not the same as a subfreezing trunk.  I would have told her to forget about the roses, that I was taking her to a romantic restaurant in the city, but I had spent most of my money on the now dilapidated flowers.  The best I could offer was some ice cream from the convenience store and maybe some M&Ms to sprinkle on top.

Fortunately, I have improved somewhat when it comes to Valentine’s Day.  For instance, I no longer buy super sized boxes of chocolates when just that morning my wife was complaining that her jeans felt a little tight.  I double check to make sure I actually sign the card I give her.  I also make sure to read the words closely before randomly underlining some to give them emphasis.  There is no good answer for why you underlined the word “but.”

This year, Valentine’s Day falls on a Tuesday, and I am just a little concerned.  Going out the weekend before is too early to really count and the weekend after is too late.  Sure, you can say that the date is in lieu of Valentine’s Day, but that will still leave an expectation of something on the actual day.  That means we guys must either go out on a Tuesday night – which no working person would wish on his worst enemy – or risk certain emotional annihilation. 

The whole situation makes me feel a little feverish.  Maybe I’ll luck out and it’ll be the flu.

Icycle Light Plea (A Form Letter)

The following is a draft of a proposal on an idea of a concept.  Readers are urged to clip, copy, sign and send it along to their local town representatives.  Remember, the more of these they receive, the more likely something will be done about this most heinous problem.

Dear Representatives:

My name is (your name here), and I live at (your address here).  I would like to bring to your attention a serious problem that is not only plaguing our little corner of the universe, but most other places as well.  In fact, the problem is so out of hand that we are in danger of it’s becoming an epidemic.  You must take serious action now before it is too late and there will be no turning back.

Let me start by saying that I am not a killjoy in any way.  I like having fun as much as the next person and in a festive spirit, I’ve been known to make rather merry.  Let me also start out by making it clear that I believe in the rights of all private property owners and that there ought to be limits to the powers of local government.

That being said, however, I sincerely demand that you, (insert local form of government here:  township committee, town council), draft, pass and strictly enforce an ordinance that forces homeowners and renters to take down their icicle lights within a reasonable time after the winter holidays.

There was a time when people ridiculed those who left their holiday lights up past the Super Bowl.  That behavior was once reserved for those who also thought that a broken down car made an excellent lawn ornament.  Alas, no more. 

Today, unfortunately, it seems that leaving the lights up year round is in vogue.  I challenge you to drive through a neighborhood without passing a home sporting the glistening tentacles dangling from rooftops.  Even those developments with “executive homes” – you know, those slash-and-build neighborhoods that was a orchard just last week – have a few families who must think that icicle lights are permanent lighting fixtures just because they come with nifty plastic clips.

Perhaps these perpetrators believe that no one can really see the lights dripping from their rain gutters.  Perhaps they think that they are attractive and add to the aesthetics of the block.  Perhaps they feel that if everyone left their holiday lights up, it will become the norm.  Whatever these people may believe, I must strongly state that they are wrong, wrong, wrong.

Not only are they a safety hazard because they are not designed permanent outdoor use, but these lights are just plain ugly.  They make your house look like an Appalachian smile. By keeping them up, residents are showing a lack of respect for themselves or their neighbors but also for (insert name of town, borough, city, berg or township) itself.

It is time for our (insert town type here:  town, borough, city, berg or township) to stand up and take swift and decisive action.  It is time for all (insert name of town, borough, city, berg or township) residents to tell their fellow community members that these lights are an eyesore, that at night, during the holidays, they are a delightful adornment, but now, during daylight saving hours, they look not unlike an albino millipede racing across a roof.

Even though there are most likely ordinances already in the books dealing with temporary and permanent outdoor electrical wiring and lighting that can and ought to be used to control this ever-growing problem, a specific ordinance may help many people to realize that the appearance of their homes are as much of a reflection on me as it is on them.

Thank your for your quick attention to this problem.

Sincerely,

(Insert name here)

“Auld Lang Syne” Revisited

A night when old and new become indiscernible is a cause for celebration. 

The modern young in sequined gown or cummerbund and tails know this and faithfully obey.  They spare no expense for guests as well as for themselves.  Occasionally they may survey the large ballroom or intimate living room with its streamers and balloons and noise makers and favors, and smile.  They then merge into the flowing moment and cheer with the feeling of accomplishment and success from all that has been done over the course of an hour, a day, a season, a passing year, a passing lifetime and the hope or what still lies ahead.

At some point in that evening when the fabric of time cuts through us like the glint and glitter of that sequined gown, someone will inevitably break into song:  “Should auld acquaintance be forgot,/ And never brought to min’?/ Should auld acquaintance be forgot,/ And days o’ lang syne?”  The song was written by the Scottish poet Robert Burns over 200 years ago.  Burns was known to be quite addicted to excesses at social events, which offers us a better understanding to the glass clinking tune.

A pleasant ditty to be sure and barely tolerable for the umpteen renderings within the twenty-four hour period known as New Year and I hesitate to entertain one more.  However, very few people have ever heard the song in its entirety and, for that matter, know what in the world it means. 

Here to follow then is a modern translation from the Scottish and a somewhat liberal interpretation of the New Year’s Eve perennial, “Auld Lang Syne.”  Please note:  the lines in quotations ought to be read aloud in the deepest Scottish accent you can muster.  The other lines should to be read aloud like Regis Filbin or Rosie O’Donnell.

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to min’?”

Hey!  Great to see you.  It’s been way too long, you know.  What was it again we had that fight about?  Shouldn’t we all just forget about those things that have happened between us in the past?  Wasn’t it something about a G.I. Joe?

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days o’ lang syne?”

Shouldn’t we all just forget about things we said long ago?  To forgive is to forget, right?

(chorus) “For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne,”

Come on, let’s let bygones be bygones for old time sake, I mean, let’s be reasonable.  Your eyebrows grew back, didn’t they?

“We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne!”

Look, let me make you a drink.  Really.  This time I promise, no flaming Grand Marnier.

“We twa hae run about the braes, And pu’d the gowans fine,”

Hey, remember when we were kids and got into your mom’s room wearing her gowns around our necks jumping up and down screaming “I’m Batman,” and using her bras as parachutes for our collection of G.I. Joes as we flung them all out of the second floor window and watched them soar. 

“But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot, Sin’ auld lang syne.”

But we’ve grown and matured and have come a long way since those days of long ago.  But I’ve still got my G.I. Joe in near mint condition except for that foot that busted when you threw him off the porch screaming, “High Dive!”

“We twa hae paid’t i’ the burn, Frae morning sun till dine:”

Do you know how much money I could have been paid for a G.I. Joe in mint condition?

 “But seas between us braid hae roar’d, Sin’ auld lang syne.”

A lot of water under the bridge since those days when you did the following to me listed here in no particular order:  sat on my lunch box, connected my chicken pox, squashed my ham and cheese, pelted my head with peas, pushed me in the girls room, sprayed me with cheap perfume, referred to me as a so-and-so, ate my last pistachio.

“And here’s a hand my trusty fiere, And gies a hand o’ thine,”

So, put ‘er there, pal.  All’s forgotten.  Now how about a nice flaming Grand Marnier?

“And we’ll tak a right guid willie waught, For auld lang syne!”

Whoa!  Hold it a minute.  Who you calling a willie waught, you rotten son of a…

“And surely ye’ll be your pint stoup, And surely I’ll be mine;”

Fine!  Ya ingrate.  Take your stupid pint and go your way no more will I impose.

“And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne.”

I’ll take this cup o’ kindness yet and stick it up your nose.

(chorus) “For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne,”

For old time sake, Bud, I think we’ll come to blows.

‘We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne!”

I’ll take this cup o’ kindness yet and stick it up your nose.

Remember, a new year is a fresh start, an opportunity to start anew all the excuses we’ll be using when the holiday season finds us once again scrambling for rationalizations and running for cover. 

Happy New Year.

True Confessions of a Fruitcake Convert

Here's a holiday piece that I resuscitated.  It appeared in a slightly different form in the Christian Science Monitor in December, 2003.  Long live the fruitcake!

I used to be one of those people - the kind of person who repeatedly dusted off old jokes from that guy who preceded Jay Leno -- the first time -- on the "Tonight Show," chortling and pointing at stacks of fruitcake tins in the grocery store, ridiculing anyone who would actually admit to ingesting one.

Ten years ago, I would have applauded the Canadian Air Transport Security Authority's recent ban on fruitcake in the interest of safety - fruitcakes are so dense they could hide not just a knife, but an entire kitchen drawer full of cutlery. I would have quipped that humanity had long known about other fruitcake-related risks such as chipped teeth, broken toes, and severed friendships.

But all that has changed. I have eaten my words.

Ten years ago, my wife announced one December morning that she wanted to make that cumbrous Christmas classic. Ignoring my litany of one-liners (one doesn't make fruitcake, darling, one mines it), she told me that every year her grandmother, an English immigrant, made traditional Victorian Christmas "goodies" that included plum pudding, figgy pudding, mincemeat pies, and fruitcake.

She confessed having fruitcake in the house every yuletide and actually enjoying it. My wife described the cake her grandmother made in terms I had never fully associated with the dessert before: spicy, sweet, nutty, and fruity. Alas, her grandmother, who measured ingredients by the palm of her hand and the arc of the pour, never wrote down any recipes. And ever since her grandmother's passing, my wife had been feeling a holiday culinary void. Thus began her quest for the perfect recipe.

She researched and gathered recipes from books, magazines, websites, and newspapers. Then came the experiments. With the somber seriousness of biochemist, she tested this recipe and that recipe, taking ingredients from some and adding to others.

As she performed her empirical lab work, I reviewed some of her findings. Roman soldiers apparently carried cakes made of raisins, pine nuts, and pomegranate seeds mixed in a barley mash (tasty). Some food scholars dated fruitcake all the way back to the ancient Egyptians, who considered it essential sustenance for the dead in the next life (hardly surprising).

"Hey, honey," I called from the dining room, "now I know how the pyramids have lasted thousands of years." A green candied maraschino projectile sailed from the kitchen in response.

But one night a few weeks later, while I was engrossed in the evening news, my wife entered the living room and handed me a round, deep brown cake. The top had a glossy sheen and was decorated with colorful bubbles of candied red and green cherries. It was weighty.

She handed me a knife and tentatively, I cut a slice. The knife passed through without effort. I took a bite. And then another. Before I knew it, I was helping myself to another piece. Some may say that it was the systematic deadening of my taste buds from unremitting subjections to one failed experiment after another, while others may argue it was simply fatigue, but the fruitcake tasted good. In fact, it was delicious. It was moist and chewy and laden with spice that lifted the corners of my mouth into an unavoidable smile. She had done it.

Ever since, I have been an advocate, eagerly explaining to unbelievers that fruitcakes are sort of like people: Some are dry and dense while others are packed with fruit and spice. And some just need a little extra holiday care to help them turn out just right.

http://www.csmonitor.com/2003/1222/p09s01-coop.html

Holly Jolly Holiday Final

This time of year always reminds me of that great feeling of finishing that last fall semester final.  Regardless of the outcome, the cessation of academic stress is gratefully replaced by the sensation of holiday stress and a few weeks of time found.

I’m thinking about finals because I’ve just heard on the radio Burl Ives’ rendition of “Holly Jolly Christmas."  Whenever I hear that song, I cannot help but think about my biology final at Atlantic Cape Community College in southern New Jersey because the professor looked just like Burl Ives, though, to tell the truth, he resembled more the snowman on Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

I dreaded my biology final.  Every time I’d try to study for it, I would easily find more a more pressing activity like cutting my toenails.  It wasn’t that I disliked the course; I just wasn’t into it.  What made it even worse for me was the professor seemed to take the approach that everyone in the class was destined for a career in medicine or some sort of scientific hodge-podge which couldn’t have been further from my own aspirations.  Science has never been a favorite subject of mine.  I would much rather dissect fiction than frogs. 

The morning of my biology final I woke up with a high fever.  I had two finals scheduled for that day:  Psychology of Adolescence/Adulthood and Biology of Our World, and I thought I would have been fine if I could only stop shivering.  I popped a couple of Tylenol and drove to campus.

Midway through my Psych final my chest began burning with every inhale, I struggled to hold back coughs, and the little dots on the Scan-Tron form started moving around in dizzying swirling patterns.  I randomly filled in the last five questions to put an end to the misery.  But I still had a second exam in a half an hour.  When I broke into uncontrollable fits of coughing, I realized I had little choice.

I walked into my professor’s office and explained to him my situation.  Keeping to the other side of his desk, he jotted down his home phone number and told me to call him as soon as I felt better.

Four days later, two days before Christmas, I called him expecting to schedule a make-up exam for sometime during the first week of the spring semester.  Instead he asked me what I was doing that afternoon and gave me directions to his home.

At his front door, I held out a doctor’s note, written evidence of my bronchitis, but he only smiled, bid me entrance and led me into his kitchen.  The house was decorated for the holiday for both sight and smell.  Hints of cinnamon and nutmeg lingered about boughs of garland, laurel and holly.

The professor offered me a seat at the table and asked if I liked mulled cider.  I confessed that I had never tasted it.  Cider was only served cold in my house, I told him.  He smiled again, walked over to the counter and lifted the lid off of a crock-pot.  What I had taken for a scented candle when I entered the house was actually the aroma emanating from this potion.  He placed an oversized coffee mug in front of me and then handed me a stapled packet of papers.  Enjoy, he said and then left the room.

I reached maybe the third question when his wife walked into the kitchen, placed a plate of holiday cookies and some napkins on the table, said she had some last minute shopping to do, wished me luck, and left the room.  For the next hour and a half I worked on the exam interrupted only once when my professor refilled my cup and told me to help myself to more if I so desired.

When I was done, I took my test into his living room.  The professor was sitting in an easy chair reading a book next to a Franklin Stove with doors ajar enough to show a glowing flame.  The whole scene seemed almost too cliché to me, and yet there it was. 

I thanked my professor for his trouble.  He insisted that it was his pleasure, and he wished me a merry Christmas. 

On my drive home “Holly Jolly Christmas” came on the radio. 

Maybe it was the fact that what I presumed as a stogy science professor treated an undergrad in a gen-ed class with empathy and genuine kindness that had made a life-long impression on me, or maybe it was the image of the snowman that told me the story of Rudolph every year of my life sipping a mug of mulled cider, nibbling on a Christmas cookie and grading my exam because without any degree of certainty, I couldn’t name one thing that was on that test. 

Ghosts of Christmas Future

I am sitting watching the six o’clock news while my youngest son plays on the floor in front of the TV.

Yet another story comes on about some towns and cities across the nation referring to Christmas trees as Holiday trees.  I look at my son and wonder how far all this will go.  I think about how it will be when he’s in his golden years; I imagine ghosts of Christmas future:  an aged grandfather and a bright little boy:

“Will you tell me about what Winter Holiday was like when you were a little boy?”

“Sure.  Come here and sit by me.  Way back in the early part of this century, things were very different from the way they are today.  First of all, when I was small, the holiday was still called Christmas and, even though there were many people trying to bleach Christmas out of our social fabric, the holiday was still pretty much widely accepted.”

“You mean people didn’t have to hide in their basements with blackened windows and celebrate in secret?”

“No, not at all.  We’d decorate the house while listening to Christmas carols on the radio.”

“What, did you have to buy a special channel or something?”

“No.  As Christmastime approached, you would just start hearing Christmas songs.  Of course this was back when radio was free.  I remember my father telling me about when television was actually free.  There may have been fewer channels to choose from, I remember him telling me, but with less of a selection came greater quality.”

“Christmas songs on the open airwaves?  Wow.”

“Talk about putting things out there, I remember my father hanging Christmas lights outside on our house. We even had a nativity scene.”

“Outside?  Where everyone could see it?  Wasn’t he afraid of offending a passer-by and being arrested for religious intimidation or even being sued?”

“Back then things like that didn’t happen.  Well, it did, but not to individuals.  Only municipalities were being sued for openly acknowledging Christmas for was it really is.”

 

“For what it really was?”

“Mmm hmm.  Christmas was the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ.”

“Giggle giggle, giggle.”

“What?”

“You said a bad word.  Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

“I appreciate that.  It wasn’t until the late Twenties when even Christmas displays on private property were being outlawed.  There was this idea called tolerance that meant you were supposed to accept and celebrate differences in people.  And that idea seemed to work well unless your own particular difference happened to be in the majority; then it was view upon as politically incorrect and culturally insensitive.  So the tolerance movement became a front for erasing any differences among all people.”

“Mommy says ‘we must oppose the tendency towards selfish departmentalism by which the interests of one’s own unit are looked after to the exclusion of those of others.’”

“Yes, and so did Mao Tsetung.  But I suppose the roots to the change go back to when I was only two years old, right after a huge hurricane called Katrina had hit.  You see, the government realized that private industry could do a better job at providing support services for natural disasters and people in need, so the government began taking over corporations.  It wasn’t too long after that when the Electoral College was dissolved and all elected officials were voted in office by people living in places like Los Angeles, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Chicago and Washington.  That’s why we’ve had nothing but democrats in office since 2008.”

“What’s a democrat?”

“Oh, that’s the name of the People’s Party before they changed it, back before people were forbidden to cross boarders of certain towns unless they were driving a particular type of car with a specified mileage and had an x number of passengers, before cameras watched our every move, before the tobacco speakeasies, before keeping Christ in Christmas was considered an inexcusable offense.”

“Aren’t you glad we live in times like these now, Comrade Grandfather.”

“I supposed I’d have to say yes, now wouldn’t I, or you’d report me to Comrade General, wouldn’t you, you little scamp?”

“Oh, Comrade Grandfather, you’re so silly.”