My father and the tree...

Throughout the years there is a battle that takes place in my family’s home right around this time.  Apart from Easter, Christmas is one of the most beloved holidays that my family celebrates.  The savory aroma of sausage rolls and shortbread emerging from the kitchen, the lovely fresh evergreens hanging with their burgundy bows from every stained glass transom, the warm glow and crackle from the flames dancing in the fireplaces, and emanating over the lovely chorals of Kings College comes the grunting verbal bellowing of my father's frustrations as he takes on the Christmas tree.

As far back as I can remember the day after Thanksgiving has always been the designated day we spend decorating our house in celebration of our Savior’s birth.  This too is the day that we all know to stay clear of dad.  For the sake of our Christmas the living room becomes off limits.

Now our Christmas tree has changed forms throughout the years.  For the past few years we have relied on a massive 10’ tall imitation Douglas fir.  What attracted my father to this tree was ease of assembling it.  The branches just folded down and thus it was rather simple.  That is until you have to deal with the reality of stringing lights; and oh the amount of lights that a 10' tall tree needs!  For starters it is inevitable that no matter the quality of lights or the hours spent every previous year restringing... they are just not all going to go on.  This reality never really seems to sink in with my dad and so one can always tell when this moment arises from the choice words that are heard coming from the direction of the living room.  

The most memorable tree would have to be the old plastic one of my childhood.  Now if any of you are familiar with this model the idea behind it was that each branch was labeled and went in its assigned spot on the trunk for easy assembly.  That was the idea… easy for Leonardo maybe.  The rest of the house would be decorated and the crowning moment was still upon us, trimming the tree.  It would take my  father most of the day carefully laying out each pile of matching branches across the living room floor, always coming up short on branches and giving many stern warnings to my brothers and me "don't touch anything".  Well into the evening the assembly would be complete and a sigh of relief as well as a great drain of Christmas spirit was radiating from my dad.  

This year had a bit of a different end result.  There was no letdown in the tradition of all the lights not coming on.  In addition, there was a guilty pleasure for my mom and I as we watched from a safe distance the production of my dad trying to balance the base of the tree as well the challenge of wiring the tree to make sure that it didn’t topple over.  Both actions may I add ended up with my father toppling over into the tree.  You can draw your own conclusions on how placing the star went.

Alas after such an effort it was decided to retire this tree and opt for the first time ever a live tree which I might add looks lovely!

What would Christmas be without the frustrations that later turn into laughable memories!

Who's afraid of the dark...

What truly frightens you?  There seems to be a familiar trend from articles I’ve read in that the two highest ranking fears people tend to have are either death or public speaking.  I must admit that neither one of these cause me to lose much sleep or any bouts of extreme nervousness.  However, this is not to say that I don’t have my own personal fears.

My biggest fear is the loss of my parents.  What child doesn’t live with that harsh reality?  But moving onto a more personal level, I have no shame in admitting that I am afraid of the dark.  Yes, even at my age the dark of the night will still set my heart racing at times.  Whether it's running out for a forgotten item from the car or simply letting the dog out one last time, there is a sense of fear in me to do this after the sun goes down.  It never fails that when I'm home the stairwell light will be switched off at the top leaving the bottom switch useless.  For those of you who have to climb a dark flight of stairs in order to retire for the night, how many of you will truthfully admit that on occasion you find yourself racing up them with the ridiculous idea that someone or something is coming up after you?  I raise my hand high and will acknowledge that I still do this.

Yet why is it that so often we are drawn to situations that bring out our fears?  For example, I love reading a good ghost story even though I know full well that I most likely will have trouble getting to sleep that night and knowing far too well that even if I am able to get to sleep Lord help me if I awaken in the night and need to use the washroom….  I’d rather suffer from kidney troubles than risk that dark hallway!  To this day I will never understand how my best friend was able to be home alone, her house being well out in the country, and watch horror movies with every light off.  But I digress…

What draws us to indulging in our fears?  It has always been my understanding that fears are ideas that bring out states of nervousness and anxiety but yet... they fascinate us at the same time.

 

Do we really ever conquer our fears?  You hear so often about how you are to face them dead on and somehow this will exonerate them.  Personally I have never found this to be true.  I believe that any fear you are able to subside does only that.  It never truly goes away.  You get somewhat use to it, comfortable in acknowledging that to some degree that particular fear will always be a part of you.

Although my fear of the dark is certainly better today then it was when I was a child, I have come to the realization that no matter what I do it is inevitable that there will be times in my life where I will wake during the wee hours of the night and something will go bump. 

They do exist...

Few people can claim they have known their best friend for as long as I have known mine.  In fact, I can't even tell you how we met or what we first thought of one another.  Growing up with two brothers, she is the closest relation I will ever have to a sister.  We have known each other literally since we were in diapers and there are few, if any, recollections that I have that she has not been a part of.  Many adventures and bouts of mischief, none instigated by me of course, were shared by the two of us with countless stories to fill a lifetime of memories.  There is one memory however, that stands out far above any others...

I full heartedly believe in angels.  This can be declared without a trace of doubt for I have seen one before… well I should say we have seen one before.

Like so many of my older post I will take you back again to my childhood home where this incident took place many years ago.  This home sits upon about 60 acres of mostly farmland but towards the back of the property, our gravel lane extends to a large woods with an enormous hill leading down to a deserted gravel pit.  It should be noted that during this time my parents had oil wells set up around the property and the company that managed them kept a very small office not far from the bottom of this hill.  Now like most children of 7 we constantly tested our limits.  And what better way to do so then by ridding our bikes to areas that we were strictly told not to go?  This is how this story begins.

We rode towards the woods, down that long gravel lane, and came to the top of this very steep and large hill.  We waited, each silently pondering which one had the nerve to go first.   I was the brave one and decided to ride as fast as I could.  After making it down safely my friend followed only to have a terrible accident at the bottom.  Blood was gushing from her head and I was in a state of panic.  With my friend screaming in pain and myself in a total state of confusion as to what to do, I left my friend and rushed to this office only to find it locked with nobody around.  My screams and beatings on the door were in vain… what was I going to do? 

Tears running down my face I turned to go back to aid my friend only to discover a man by her side with a towel held up to her bleeding head.  He didn’t say a word, walked her over to the entrance of the office where I was standing and next thing I knew the door was unlocked and I was on the phone calling my mother to come and get us.  With my friend at my side, still holding that red towel to her forehead, we walked back outside only for this man to be gone, completely vanished.  We were the only ones in that deserted place.   

My mother arrived on the scene and all was put back to right once we were home.  It wasn’t until later in the day that we both realized what had taken place.  A locked door, a red towel, and a disappearing man…

To this day we both can account for what we saw.  

They do exist. 

Power of the dog...

How many of us would concede to the most heartfelt relationship with someone who would love you like nobody had ever loved you before?  Someone who accepts you for every flaw and who will always be the first to say they were sorry?  The most ideal relationship you could ever possibly imagine?  Complete and unconditional love!

But what if this relationship came at an inevitable cost to you?  You would lose this someone many years before you were ever ready to let them go.   Most, I imagine, would never agree to giving their heart over to a relationship that you knew was ultimately doomed to sheer heartache.  So why do so many of us do this?   

A few weeks ago my friend sent me a message asking if I had ever read “The Power of the Dog” by Rudyard Kipling?  Being a fan of Kipling, I was surprised to realize I had not.  This poem is not for the faint of heart.  Tears were pouring down my face by the time I had reached the end.  How perfectly Rudyard described this relationship.

If you were to ask me to describe my idealistic relationship,  I would simply say... to find someone who loves me like my dog.

The Power of the Dog
by
Rudyard Kipling

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find--it's your own affair--
But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long--
So why in--Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

 

...vapors of joy and hurt.

Is it instilled in us at a young age that we are all on the path to some sort of greatness?  A great career?  A great education?  A great artist? A great mentor?  A great love? 

Perhaps it’s an approaching birthday or a moving concert that has got me to thinking about the path that I have traveled down that has lead me to where I am today.   Does anyone’s life turn out how they planned or even hoped?  To throw my own pity party I will be the first to admit that mine sure has not.   I suppose one of the hardest lessons of life that I’ve learned thus far is that it takes some pretty hard reality knocks and many wrong choices along the way to realize.…  that mistakes are something of which happiness is built upon.  How easy is it to dwell on the past and the “should have done it differently” moments.  It’s consuming sometimes.  Get’s the better of you as it were.  

For those that have never seen David Gray live I implore you to treat yourself sometime to this artist’s gift.  This songwriter is one of the few that sounds better live than in the studio, a rarity in its own right.  It has been a dream of mine to be someone’s muse.  Call me a hopeless romantic but I can’t help but read Lord Byron’s poetry or a lyric of Gray’s and think…. to be such an inspiration to someone and to be loved in such a way that brings such beautiful words to a piece of paper and become timeless… well it’s to become immortalized in a way.  To bring words to life and express them in a way in which they have never come together before and to create a completely new understanding…. that’s a greatness.  

Of all that were mentioned above… who wouldn’t choose having a great love over all the rest?  

Faces of buildings, trees
All that is stoned, inert
Here in these empty streets
Well, it silently does assert
That we are just passing ghosts, honey
Vapors of joy and hurt

.... on a dark and rainy night

A few weeks ago I was home visiting my mom and dad.  If you know me you will know that this is not an uncommon way that I enjoy spending many of my weekends but this weekend was different.  It was well into the evening when a massive storm hit.  The rain came down in buckets and the lighting put on a brilliant display; so much that the power went out.  Now my parent’s house is one of great age.  In fact, believe it or not it was built in 1876.  It is a lovely old country farm house and is set off the main road quite a bit.  Being a place that has many of the charms of an older home that one might delight in, I will confess that it is rather an eerie place to be when you are in complete darkness.  This is the setting for how the evening was about to unfold.

My mother and I mucked around looking for candles while my father clattered through the cloak room closet trying to find a flashlight.  It never fails that flashlights are never in their usual spots when the power goes.  Candles were found and the living room became alive with their warm glows.  It was like a page taken out of a 1900 century novel.  A dreary night, sans electricity and an evening awaiting some forms of entertainment.  Well what does one do without the staple items of today's technology?  After all how often are evenings spent anymore where modern technology does not come into play in one form or another?

The evening consisted of reading aloud Bram Stoker's The Judges House.  If you are not familiar with this short story I highly suggest picking it up.  It is by far one of the best ghost stories you will ever read.  After the story was finished and being even more unnerved we opted for something a little more lighthearted.  A deck of cards was brought out and a game of Gin was dealt.  It wasn't long into the card game that the power came back on.  I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.  Spending the evening in such a manner had turned into a refreshing escape.  Isn't it sad to think that it has to take something as extreme as losing power to have such a unique and lovely time, when all can simply be had on a regular basis by the flip of a switch?

With that being said.... I will be attempting to start some new habits.

Trying to return home...

You can’t go home again; often I have wondered what Mr. Wolfe meant by this now famous saying.  Although I have never fully read this acclaimed piece of American literature, there is something that is so curious about the title of this book.  What does it mean to say you can’t go home again? 

I am the epitome of what you would call a “home body”.  I find that I make it a point to go home almost any chance I can get.  Home, what a loaded word.  It has a different meaning to everyone.  To me it means so many things.  Automatically I think of my mother.  Home embodies her.  There is a sense of security that you can't find anywhere else.  It’s the comfort of familiar scents.  Fresh scones and wheat n’ bread, Sunday roast  sizzling in the oven, sausage rolls, newly cut hay.  The shelter of your cozy bed as you ease your head down for the night.  The dancing of lace curtains as a gentle breeze comes through an open window.  Warm glow of a crackling fireplace.  Laughter and harmless teasing from older brothers.  Family meals together.  Dad’s love of butter.  The wagging of tails.  The sound of gravel under my feet as I walk towards the front door. 

But back to the posed question; you can’t go home again?  It really only hit me the other day what this truly  means.  Whenever I make the long drive away from home, down our gravel lane you can still usually find a tear running down my face.  Usually this is due to the image of my mother in my rear view mirror getting smaller and smaller as she continues to wave until I’m out of sight, but there was something more the last time.  Will all those dear thoughts of home ever surface in the same moment again?  Can any of it really be captured and held on to in the same way?  The cruel reality of it all is that home is something of a fleeting memory.  It’s over before you know it.  Sure there will always be a great treat in going home but it’s just not the same as it use to be.  Both brother’s now live hundreds of miles away as well as myself.  Yes there are joyous reunions of holiday and summer visits but they are always hindered by the realization that this moment must pass.  Those few years that we all had together can never be recaptured in the same way my memory accounts.  Years go by in a blink and in turn so many changes. 

Perhaps I don’t truly grasp the true understanding of what Wolfe was trying to get across to his readers.  That can only be brought to light by finishing his book.  But I have an understanding of what it means to me.  You can’t go home again, so you better hold onto those precious memories.  

"Dear Fox, old friend...

thus we have come to the end of the road that we were to go on together... and so farewell.

But before I go, I have just one more thing to tell you: Something has spoken to me in the night, burning the tapers of the waning year; something has spoken in the night and told me I shall die, I know not where. Saying, "To lose the earth you know, for greater knowing; to lose the life you have, for greater life; to leave the friends you loved, for greater loving; to find a land more kind than home, more large than earth- whereon the pillars of this earth are founded, toward which the conscience of the world is tending- a wind is rising, and the rivers flow."

You Can't Go Home Again, Thomas Wolfe 

Rest assured.... I have not forgotten...duties of life call...and I shall be writing again very soon...

Monsieur Sprout...

My relationship with Monsieur Sprout began when I was very young.  We have had many years together and the bittersweet trials of a love/hate relationship.  Monsieur Sprout would usually be a dinner guest once if not twice a week in my family home and to be perfectly frank, the only one who ever really wanted him there was my mother.  Now if you are ever fortunate enough to dine at my mother’s table you better come prepared for a delicious meal that consists of at LEAST three vegetables. Growing up my family never seemed to miss an evening meal together and like stated already... never did a week go by where the oh so dreaded Brussels Sprout showed its ugly green leafy head.  

Reasons for this nemesis always being welcomed back can be blamed on the strong British influence of my mother’s homeland or the simple fondness she had of this veggie. I blame the strictness of my families table manners.  Propriety while dining has always been upheld to the nth degree.  With that being said... it was required that at least one Brussels be consumed before we could leave the table.  

It should be noted that my brothers and I made many diligent attempts to avoid this terror of all vegetables.  Claiming to have already eaten the one, although my parents seemed to have a radar for knowing this fib. Dousing them in gravy, salt, pepper, creamed corn… just anything else on your plate to avoid the terrible taste.  Countless endeavors were made to slyly pass it on to the eager dog waiting for a handout under the table, but even they seemed to know that this item was not something worth begging for. 

My favorite attempt would have to be the cleverness my brother Andrew made in taking an extra helping of mashed potatoes in order to bury the sprout.  In fact I do believe this was the only successful evasion ever accomplished of a Brussels.  It did not take too long for my father to catch on.  Inspections of potatoes soon followed.  

It  takes a bit of maturing of one’s mind and one's palate to realize there is truth to "mother knows best".  Until recently my relationship with Monsieur Sprout has taken a turn.  I have learned to actually really like these little cabbages.  I find them better when they are small, cut in half, steamed to perfection, and with the aid of a little butter and salt & pepper they are delightful.  So go ahead… give them another try.

Life's little annoyances...

I will be the first to admit that I no longer enjoy my birthday.  As a child you wait and wait for that special day that comes only but once a year.... you know... YOUR DAY! Alas now it only represent yet another year passing and another digit being added onto your fading youth.  And yes I am well aware this is vanity at it's finest!

One of the only saving graces I have observed with this ever so unfortunate aging process, would be my virtue in patience growing ever so slightly.  Mind you, I do reiterate slightly.  That being said... I will admit I keep an ongoing list of little things in life that truly test this very important quality that one should process.

So far... little things in life that I find extremely irritating:

• Trying to plug a cord into an outlet and having to flip the cord cause the fat and thin metal prongs don’t match up.
• Filling out a form online and the cursor doesn’t automatically go to the next box on your social security or phone number.
• People who insist on putting their change back into their purse or wallet and therefore making your wait in the grocery store line that much longer.
• People who insist on examining their bank receipt and then have to put their money away while you're in the line of the ATM and in turn, make your wait that much longer.
• Someone sitting in your usual unassigned seat in class or church.
• People who don’t know how to use the passing lane.
• Dropping a piece of toast and always having it land butter side down.
• Waiting for nail polish to dry.
• Those who take the elevator for anything under 2 floors.
• The sound of dogs licking their paws!

Mind you the list could go on and on, all depending on my mood.  But all this being said, one of the greatest sensations in life is being able to surprise yourself.  My patience is not one of my greatest virtues but when I do catch a glimpse of a slight improvement I get a sense of accomplishment... and with that just being said, I have  something else to add to this list... feeling older!

“Patience is a virtue, Possess it if you can, Seldom found in woman, Never found in man”

A stranger I use to know...

It never fails that your past will always end up finding you at some point in your future.  After running into an old beau that I had not seen or talked to in years I found myself walking away from our brief encounter very pensive.  Not in the way that one might think after running into an old flame.  There were no feelings of “what if” but rather it was more of a sensation in thinking there goes a stranger I use to know so well.   

Relationships are truly one of life’s greatest puzzlements.  How is it you can spend years getting to know someone inside and out, seeing them at their best and worst, and then one day it can all end and the realm of strangers sets in.

  

What is there to be said about leopards not changing their spots?  So many believe that change is something that is inevitable in us, and yet my brief encounter with my past proved that the person standing in front of me was a stranger.  He had changed.  So what is this contradiction about?  Perhaps the answer is... it just fits right in with the confusion that embodies relationships?

I can’t say where I am really going with this entry other than for those who are not afraid of their past keep you heads held high.  For those that would rather avoid it… I suggest keeping your eyes on the sidewalk… cause it’s always when you least expect it on some random Tuesday afternoon, while you're carrying an awkward bright blue rain barrel… and voilà...  it’s upon you.

and yes... this is exactly what it looked like!

After all, who does not dream of returning home? ...

set fire to the stars...

Every Christmas, well rather any time of year really, you can find A Child’s Christmas in Wales being played in my family’s house. This 1987 adaptation of Dylan Thomas’ poem never seems to grow old with my family members, say my dad. I implore anybody who might have a soft side for the nostalgic or just enjoys looking back on remembered years to make it a point to see this movie.

But I digress from my true point of topic…

A few weeks ago I happened across a movie, The Edge of Love. Being the hopeless romantic that I am I was instantly hooked. Much to my surprise and pleasure I came to find out that this film was loosely base upon Dylan Thomas. Only knowing a touch of this poet’s personal life I was intrigued by the way his character in the movie was portrayed and found myself immersed in his poetry once again after the movie had ended. Besides the true raw genius that is Thomas’ poetry, the film caught an interesting side of the 1940’s. I found myself enamored by the red lips, circle skirts and thick heels of the time. But it was more than that. Although the fashion of the time was heading towards a masculine inspired direction, the women still embraced a sense of femininity. There is something to be said about lady like qualities. They are mannerisms that I see very lacking in today's society but should still be embraced and esteemed.

Again… this film by no means is anything of brilliance and besides being somewhat melodramatic towards the end, there are some very simple qualities worth taking note of and if nothing else... take pleasure in the complexity of Thomas' poetry.

Love In The Asylum

A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.

More Thomas's poetry...

... and it is snowing again

The snow is falling. The latte is brewed. And the book awaits...

It has become such an irritation, much like it does around this time every year, of hearing others complaints about the in-climate weather. I will admit it takes much of my patients to just allow the grumbles to be acknowledge but really I would like to just say... 'tis Indiana in February.... what do you possibly expect?

Although the weather can stir a sense of cabin fever, Lord knows I suffer from that, but take advantage of your surroundings and indulge in all that is cozy. Pick up that book that you have been meaning to finish for such a long time now and treat yourself to a steaming beverage! Your mind will appreciate some escape time....


My book and drink of choice for this afternoon....

... oh and more on these two particular items to follow soon!