I wrote a paragraph Saturday night, sat and looked at it for a while, deleted it and went to bed. I seem to be following suit tonight. I have done the dishes, eaten my apple (tonight, a piñata, with salt), looked at the blank white screen for some time. A number of ideas manifest themselves, but none I feel like developing. Oh, woe is me.
And now it is Monday night, actually Tuesday morning, the thirtieth, already 5 days past Christmas. In two days (I have the feeling it will happen before I finish this sentence) 2014 will have ceased to be.
Christmases at my age exist in my mind like a pack of Tarot cards, there are major images and minor images, and I can almost shuffle them mentally. The images contain children, first one, then two, then three; various later images contain various creatures, almost always a dachshund who loved to rip open paper packages and race mindlessly around the room, always the same room for we have lived in the same house for 42 years.
Actually looking at the images, the memories, made me realize that the first images had no creatures, for when we moved into the brand new house we had built, we decreed that our two dogs, Biscuit, a long-haired dachshund, and Lancelot, an old English sheepdog, were to stay outside. Both dogs were messy. The house was new and beautiful. We loved them both as much as we have loved any of our dogs, yet we made them stay outside. Every time I think about that decision I wish we had not made it. Our third dog, Hollie the Collie, stayed outside too. I guess it seemed normal by that time. Now it seems a deficient decision and brings tears, as well as the realization that the past is or at least seems to be fixed.
Shuffle the deck and see the children change size and shape and the dogs move inside, Fritz and generic Buster, the runt of his litter. I think the Brunners paid us to take him! Then Mary's big cream colored Labrador, Max. (I used to call him "Fathead"; he should have bitten me; instead he came happily; he was a good dog, and I loved him too.)
When the children were small but growing, I am frequently on the floor clumsily assembling things we had gotten them for Christmas, like the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars. I was as excited as they were. We had He-Man's Castle down there one year too, and I watched the TV show with them after school from time to time. Well She-Ra was hot! Goodness. I never get away with anything!
Sometimes part of Christmas would involve carting presents to northern Ohio where our parents lived in Tiffin. The last Christmas celebrated in Ohio was the year my mother was in the hospital and very sick with cancer. Johanna was just over a year old but she could walk, and I remember her walking across the hospital floor to my mother's bed. My mother died in a nursing home a month later. Her funeral took place at the end of January in a terrible northern Ohio blizzard. After that, my father always came down to Berea to be with us here for Christmas, and he becomes a delightful part of the images, for a while. He died in 1989. Oddly, I remember Mary's mother being here frequently, but I can't see whether she was ever here for Christmas. Surely she was, though I can't tell for certain.
Forty some years of Christmases. I can look back; it never occurred to me to try to look forward, with good reason, I think. The second I try now I see only someone missing, primarily myself, which suggests that that is an ignorant thing to do. This year, after all, was delightful, almost perfect. We were eight adults and two (grand) children; we all had a good time together, enjoying one another's company; moreover, I got the best presents ever.
My eldest son and his wife bought me a facsimile edition of the traveling, hand-made St. John's Bible, Gospels and Acts. A copy of the original has been at the Berea College library this year, and the book is impressive. J-D and his wife, Erin, came early to give it to me before the frenzy started, and that was just the right thing to do. I have been reading a chapter or two each evening before going to bed; the print and the illustrations are exquisite; being able to read it while realizing how it was made is quite moving.
I also received two enormous boxes of my favorite snack food, Welch's fruit snacks, 40 packs per box. Oh my. I had three packs earlier, and since Simon was sitting with me at the time, I had to share; he seems to like them as much as I do. If I don't give him one from time to time, he gives me the stink eye, which coming from a dachshund is not pleasant.
The third gift was a trilogy, William Shakespeare's Star Wars by Ian Doescher, illustrated.
Han: A chance for new beginnings we have made,
Directing hearts unto the rebels' cause.
These are the star wars we have fought and won--
For now our battles and our scenes are done.
Prithee, I say, tis an odd and humorous thing, quite entertaining. Or, "--Beep, meep." as R2-D2 frequently says.
Some might find my wife's present, my last, a strange gift to give to a grown man, and an old, but no matter how old I get, there is something in me that delights in stuffed animals. Perhaps it is my unrealized feminine side, or my inner child. In any case I have a number of small stuffed puppies. Some are next to my bed, about five or six there, and the rest are looking down at me from my closet shelf, another eight or ten. They are too cute for words, almost. I have two dachshunds, three labs, cream, chocolate, and black, a beagle, a golden retriever, a Dalmatian , etc. etc. I got most of my pound puppies from Cracker Barrel, one at a time. My wife has frequently given me "the look" for getting yet another one, however. However, this Christmas she saw one at T. J. Maxx and could not resist. Oh joy! She bought me a stuffed animal, the best stuffed animal ever. I had her take a picture of him before I started tonight, and that is the image that goes with this entry. I love him. I tried to name him Wagner, but Wagner kept coming out Webster, so Webster he is. He looks like a Webster. (Or maybe a Spenser, 2 esses, like the poet?)
Webster also looks real; he sits on my pillow most of the day, usually. Schuster was back in the bedroom two days ago barking at him. Every time I come into the bedroom, Webster startles me for a moment into thinking he is a real dog. Well, he is real, no doubt about that. And now, best Christmas ever: books and fruit snacks and Webster from my wife! Who would have thought it?