Early Christmas

I hear it’s not too early to be thinking about Christmas; it may be too early, however, to hear what I’m hoping to get for presents; that can wait another month or so. I used to be one of those who scowled at the sight of holly paired with ivy before Thanksgiving. Not any more.   

It’s not that I’ve given up and gone to the dark side of commercialization. I like Christmas, so why not think about it and stretch the season out a bit. It doesn’t mean I’m going to start flashing red and green or wishing anyone the merriest. I’m just going to get into the Christmas spirit sooner this year.

The reminder that Christmas comes earlier every year usually arrives with the seasonal displays in stores, the ads in the newspapers, and the songs on the radio.  This year it hit me in the middle of August, with the beginning of play practice. Every year the church I attend puts on a play at Christmas, and this year they mistakenly gave me a part. So I’ve been thinking about Christmas for two months already.

Most everyone agrees that Christmas is over before you know it and that it doesn’t last long enough. So why not extend it. And most everyone is in a good mood at Christmas time, everyone except those that have suffered some emotional trauma that is forever linked to the blessed holiday – like getting a potato under the tree because someone thought you had been a naughty boy. I am so over that.

I have many good memories about Christmas: the way the downtown decorations in Belle Plaine swayed in the snow-filled wind, my brothers and sisters looking at Christmas lights with my dad while Santa came to our house, reading to my wife and kids by the Christmas tree and so on. In fact, I keep Carol of the Bells, and Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas on my iPod.

I know a group of sisters (not nuns) who have already done their Christmas shopping.  That kind of activity requires a good memory; otherwise it might be November of next year before you remember where you hid the gifts.

There are other downsides of starting the holiday season early. For instance, you really can’t be yourself with Peace on Earth and Good Will toward Men hanging over you like so much mistletoe. More than once I have had my behavior corrected with “please…it’s Christmas,” or “Jerry!  Not at Christmas!” One year I was told that I almost ruined the holiday when I took advantage of a year-end sale at my local Ford dealer.

Of course, concentrating on Christmas cheer doesn’t mean we have to skip over Thanksgiving, but Christmas is not just about getting presents. It’s a reminder that we need to give of ourselves by treating each other with love and kindness.  

Is this a crazy idea? Yes – crazy like a box wrapped up with a bow. Would it be so bad to be in the Christmas spirit longer than just on the night before, or the week, or the month? I find it to be so much more pleasant to be around others at Christmas, as most are in a good mood. I think it may be the way to live. So, I’m going to give it a try, I’m going to choose to be as happy as my happiest Christmas memory. What have I got to lose? I may be wrong, but I doubt that I will be eating Crow for Christmas.

Since there is no time like the present, Happy Christmas to all.

Camping with Lewis and Clark

A couple months ago my son, Nathan, gave me a book about Lewis and Clark, and it finally worked its way to the top of the pile.  I’ve always been intrigued by those two and the 45-50 men who made up The Corps of Discovery (the name that Thomas Jefferson gave the expedition). Their journey across the new nation and back again took place between 1804 and 1806, and it seems impossibly difficult from my 21^st century perspective.

The trip covered 8,000 miles and lasted over 2 ½ years. They had to bring most of their supplies and trade with the Native Americans for the remainder.  They had to hunt and fish for their food, and they slept outside or in drafty cabins they constructed. Those guys knew how to camp.

I respect them and their successes, and yet I find no compulsion to duplicate any of it. I’m not shy about my feelings about camping: I don’t like it. But lately I find myself sleeping in campgrounds. 

The problem is with Rhonda, my wife. She likes nature; she also likes taking advantage of my agreeable nature. I have gone on record saying, “I don’t care where I go, I care where I stay.” I enjoy traveling, but I require comfortable accommodations.  She has discovered a weakness in that position and is exploiting it with a travel trailer.

The last two weekends I have been found sleeping in state parks. The purists argue that anyone who does not cook over a fire and sleep on the ground is not actually camping. Fine, but I contend that GPS, Gore-tex, internal-combustion engines and other modern improvements make any present day claims to “roughing it” seem rather tame compared to the early 19^th century traveler. I’ve just taken it a step further by pulling my cabin behind my truck.

When we pull up to the camp site I dispatch Rhonda to scout out the area and assist my backing, lest I smash into a boulder or waiver into a neighbor’s tent. She is skilled in selecting just the spot where she is neither visible from any of the truck windows, nor as a reflection in the mirrors. She waves her arms and leaves the utterance of discouraging words to me. Backing the cabin (trailer) into the camp site can be just as tricky as portaging a canoe or keelboat, but at least Lewis and Clark had help.  

Our breakfast is not unlike those of The Corps of Discovery.  It is cooked over a fire, except ours is fueled by gas. The eggs and toast are still prepared in a skillet, and I suspect a Spam-like meat substance was also enjoyed by Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, as Spam lasts forever.

One night we had no heat and the outside temperature dropped to around 30 degrees. As I lay in bed freezing I wondered what old Meri and Bill would do. So like a good camper I got out of bed and lit a fire Well maybe not a campfire, but a fire just the same.  It’s not easy lighting an oven’s pilot light in the dark. Being true adventures we went against all convention and used the oven to warm the trailer for a while. So that was kind of the same as those early explorers if you stretch it a bit.

In the morning I set out across the chilly campground in search of a warm shower. But I what I found instead was a cold shower that froze me to my core.  

Camping. I bet Lewis and Clark were grumpy in the morning too.

Guess List

My home has seen its share of guests this fall – some welcome, some not. 

The unwelcome ones are made up mostly of insects and bugs, with some birds, reptiles and small mammals to round out my dance card. They all wanted in; some actually made it. 

The first indication the house was being set up for invasion was a bunch of tiny ants on the sidewalk. There looked to be several thousand of them crawling in fast-forward motion over the top of each other. I was so impressed that I had to share the experience with my wife, Rhonda.  I wasn’t sure she would think the ants were as cool as I did, but I knew she would find them interesting.

“Ick. Any closer to the house and I would have you get rid of them,” she said.

Asian beetles (invaders from the East) and Box Elder bugs are hardly news anymore – still annoying, however. Birds fly into windows ever since Hitchcock introduced the idea. And what house hasn’t entertained a country or city mouse?  More noteworthy is the green tree frog, straight from the pages of National Geographic. Once or twice a year I play a game of catching a leaping one that came in on a plant when it was moved to its winter home. Being a fan of E.B. White, I will tolerate a spider I find in the barn – but not the house; Charlotte’ s relatives stay outside and Stuart’s little cousins best find accommodations elsewhere.

The wasps have been the most challenging.  They mistakenly chose to build a nest in a small crevice created by the second and third edition to the farm house. I sealed that hole and several more, but no matter how many small holes I seal up, no matter how much I hit them with spray from 2-20 feet, they keep coming back and they find their way into the house. So, now instead of hitting them with chemicals I make it more sporting. I outfit myself with high top shoes, long socks, thick canvas pants, a hooded sweatshirt and heavy gloves. I climb through the window onto the roof and engage them in battle. The gloves do not come off, however.

There is a wasp nest the size of a basketball up in the North corner of the barn loft. I plan on attacking that on a bitterly cold Saturday in January. I was sweeping the loft a couple weeks ago for a party when I spotted it. I knew if I knocked it down we may have to cancel the barn dance, but I considered it. What better way to get people moving than to have them run in terror from wasps.

Although I didn’t invite everyone I should have, and everyone who came to the party was not invited by me, but everyone who came was welcome – we even had a sign that said so. When you have a gathering with the band, No Stone Unturned, you can easily lose control of the guest list. One person I didn’t recognize was my sister’s daughter’s husband’s sister’s boyfriend.  Although I didn’t catch his name he seemed very nice, at least I think that was him. Anyone who sticks around to listen to me play the banjo can’t be all bad.

Sometime after midnight everything quieted down.  But I found it hard to sleep – in my head I kept hearing The Animals, Beatles, Byrds, Crickets and Eagles.

Running out of time

There was a story on 60 Minutes about asteroids and other celestial bodies crashing into Earth and disrupting life – either temporarily or permanently. There was more to it than that, but that’s what I took away from it.  If the timing is just right (or terribly wrong) a half-mile wide rock could smash into Earth and give us all a bad day.

I normally don’t sit down to watch 60 minutes, but it was running about 30 minutes late because of the televised Sunday football games. My family likes to watch The Amazing Race, and it normally starts at 7:00 here on Sunday night, but once in a while it starts later because of a shift in the TV schedule. (I think they call that being pre-empted in TV jargon).

Life is not so easily pre-empted. I had a manager once, known only to me as, “Mr. Shoes.”  He believed that if you weren't fifteen minutes early to an appointment you were late. More than once I had to observe his size 17 shoes pacing the floor as he waited for me to get ready to see him.

I normally like to be right on time or a couple minutes early. Any more than that and I will stay in my truck and read.  I keep three to four books and a pair of reading glasses with me for just such an occasion. Being almost blind without the aid of corrective lenses, I will have either my contacts in or glasses on.  If I am wearing my contacts I will need reading glasses, but if I have my glasses on all is clear.

But lately, my regular glasses have been giving me a headache. For the last year or two (I’m a slow learner) I get a headache on the weekends when I don’t wear my contacts and rely solely on my glasses. I operated on the theory that I would give my eyes a break from the contacts on weekends – kind of a mini-vacation for my eyes.  But it didn't work; after a weekend of living with a man with a headache my wife needed a vacation.

So I went to the eye doctor. I had almost forgotten about my appointment and instead of being early I was...about twelve minutes late. I rushed in to the clinic with a hurried, harried and apologetic approach but was told I would have to reschedule because I was late. The receptionist handed me a bunch of papers saying, “we need these completed before we can see you”, which I felt it unnecessary to explain that since I had been there, oh about twenty times before, they should have everything they need.

“We can reschedule you now,” she said. But I couldn’t as I was only seeing red. I left and had half a mind to go someone else, but there was the matter of insurance and out-of –pocket expense and so on and so forth.

So on my following appointment I was a few minutes early with all my paper work completed, but I still had to wait for fifteen minutes until I was admitted into the next room.  As I impatiently tapped by size 10 ½’s on the floor I guessed I was being punished for my previous tardiness. 

During the exam the doctor pointed a light into my eyes that was so bright he must have got it from a lighthouse surplus store. While I was being tortured I told him everything – about not eating enough carrots, rubbing my eyes too hard and the headaches.

He thinks that because of my slight astigmatism my eyes are having a tough time adjusting between the contacts and my glasses on the weekends. He suggested I order new glasses to correct the problem. Not what I had in mind, but neither is it the end of the world.

Ghost's Chance

I was talking with a friend of mine last week about ghosts. The dormitory their child is living in has a reputation for being haunted.  Radios being turned on and off and the sounds of footsteps in the hall when no one is there are reported as common nightly occurrences.

Real or imagined, it doesn’t matter whether you believe in ghosts or not, their existence is not dependent upon your belief. As for me, I’m not so sure because I could argue for either side, but for a moment I thought I saw and heard a ghost the other day.

It’s been a whole year since we buried Buddy, our black Labrador/Great Dane mix. At the height of his health he was almost 120 pounds, and sometimes I think I see his large frame in the shadows. Big and clumsy, he would make for a corner at full speed and slide right through as he would lose footing on all four feet.

Buddy’s happy, hurried gait was very recognizable, especially on the deck. The claws and heavy paws told you he was coming before you saw him.  I heard that same sound last week as I walked out the door.

I turned to look for Buddy and saw a big black lab sliding on the deck. I wanted it to be him, knew it couldn’t, hoped it would, and realized he was gone just as the dog with the different colored collar turned and ran off.

Up until then, I hadn’t realized how much I miss Buddy. But the sight of that visitor brought it to life. I still think about Max, the large German shepherd that preceded him, but not as much. The other dogs, first Winnie then Jessie, have come and gone, and that’s all right. So it appears the void left by Buddy can only be filled by another dog.

I’ve mulled this over in my head and looked at it from several different angles. In that internal discussion I am at once the boy who wants a dog to walk and play with and the grandfather who wants to give him one. Then I am the father who sees things pragmatically and says no we don’t need one.

This lopsided tug of war was played out superbly in Episode thirty-five of the TV show, The Wonder Years. Thirteen year old Kevin is surprised with a dog by his grandfather.  The problem is that Jack, Kevin’s father, wasn’t in on the surprise. Jack and Grandpa (Jack’s father) argued about the merits of giving Kevin the dog.

In this adaptation of a scene from that episode I will play the part of all three characters. It’s kind of a one-man, one-act play.

Father:              Dogs are too much to handle

Son:                 I can handle it, I know I can handle it.

Grandpa:          You can handle it, you’re fifty-four.

Father:              I know how old I am, and I know what having a dog means. A dog chews things. A dog needs to be walked.

Son:                 I promise I’ll walk him…

Grandpa:          Give yourself a chance. You need a dog.

So yes, I need a dog. I need a dog to walk, to play fetch and tug of war with. The farm needs a dog to guard it. I haven’t had any one dog for more than seven years at a time (we gave one away, one ran away, and two died too soon) so at my age I only have enough time left for six or seven more dogs.

In the Wonder Years, Jack, the father, lets Kevin, the son, keep the dog.  In this episode of my life I am not entirely sure I have a ghost of a chance in convincing all the players in my life that getting a dog is a good idea, but seeing is believing.