As of the morning that I write this, there are ten days till Christmas Eve. We’re doing nothing more here at Basecamp in the way of decorating than we’ve already done and the gifts are pleasantly wrapped and parked under the tree.
I think Robin still has some baking in mind, and that would be ahead of us , but otherwise, my challenge to the madness part of the Christmas season is … bring it on!
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‘Twas not always so. There were many years when there were emergency trips to shops on the afternoon of the 24th, plugging gaps in a doomed attempt to create the seamless fabric of a perfect Christmas.
It never happened, of course. Last year, for example, our guests arrived and within hours I had developed a febrile illness which I spread to several others before I knew I was ill.
Then there was the Christmas Eve a couple of decades ago when one of my children was stuck in Morocco of all places, as a coup was under way outside her hotel door.
Or when I was eight years old and I inadvertently tripped over the bicycles that Dad had hidden in a stairwell, and as I recall I received at least three undeserved swats to a tender behind before I could convince him that it was an innocent act on my part, and that I wasn’t trying to see what my present was ahead of time.
And yet I remain an absolute sucker for Christmas. For the stories, the legends, the traditions, the foods, the music. Especially the music. Robin’s tolerance for my playing the same tunes over and over during the season has grown a bit shorter over time, and who can blame her? Even I have a problem with hearing Jingle Bell Rock more than once a year.
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Those darlin’ congressional Republicans are just chunks of fun, aren’t they? They have just opened a congressional inquiry to see whether President Biden has done anything that they could impeach him for.
They don’t have anything to go on and have no crime to point to, but they’re going to spend tons of money wandering up and down the hallways and issuing subpoenas, hoping that they trip over something incriminating along the way.
Got a spare Bah, Humbug that you’re not using this Christmas? You could apply it here.
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Vignette #1
Spring day in Buffalo NY, 1972. I am out on the backyard patio at the gas grill. Behind me is my young daughter.
She says: What dat white tuff? What dat boo tuff?I am puzzled for a moment, and ask her to repeat her question.What dat white tuff? What dat boo duff? This time she points at the sky.
Then the answer dawns. The skies have been gray and gloomy for weeks on end. Today is the first day with blue skies and white clouds in months.
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You know how an odor can just snap you back into a room in your memory? I just had one of those. I was making yogurt this morning and lingered over the pot of hot milk that was being set to cooling until I could add the cultures. That aroma was linked to one of my mother’s remedies for nearly everything. Warm milk and saltine crackers in a bowl.
That concoction carried me through measles, rubella, whooping cough, mumps, and a host of nameless maladies. Obviously it worked, because here I am.
Since I left home and went out on my own, I haven’t used this amazing curative at all. Lord knows how much suffering I have experienced unnecessarily. I believe I’ll resurrect it during my next illness, whatever that turns out to be.
(BTW. Mom had two remedies in her arsenal. The other one was Canada Dry Ginger Ale.)
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Vignette #2
Thanksgiving Day in Buffalo NY, 1972. I am once again at the grill, having just finished doing the ceremonial bird out there.
I set the platter containing the turkey on the picnic table behind me and turn to attend to closing down the grill.When I turn back, our large Siberian Husky is standing on the table with the entire bird in its mouth.
Without thinking I give him a swat with the spatula I am holding and he drops the turkey back onto the platter.
I carry the bird indoors and we go on with the meal. Only I have the secret knowledge.
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At an AA meeting last week, several members mentioned that they had connections with equine therapy programs. Other pets were brought up and it became quickly obvious that for many in that room there was a great deal of comfort and serenity that had been afforded by the “friendship” of animals. I only put that word in quotes because although there are truckloads of information dealing with what having a pet can do for us, we really don’t have many clues as to how the pet sees the transaction.
Most of the people I know well in AA are looking for spiritual connections of one sort or another. Some are Christians who found that the straight ahead approach in their churches of origin didn’t help at all when they discovered they were addicts. There was a lot of being judged, a lot of bad advice given (just STOP, for cripes’ sake!), and a loss of the feeling they once had that there was a God and that he/she cared for them.
Nearly all of those whose recovery is solid have found a source of personal … power … for lack of a better word. I tend to believe that these strengths, this power was always present in us, and what happened was that we became able to access it. Approaches were unique to individuals, but the result was the same.
You admitted to being lost. You admitted having hurt others, and made resolutions to make amends to those people when it was possible to do so. You let go, and you emptied yourself. You began to meditate in one form or another, and replaced bad self-talk with a better variety. You talked about this process as it was going on while in meetings, and welcomed the stories of other members’ journeys, borrowing practices of theirs that seemed to apply to your situation. You kept coming back and sharing what you had in hopes that someone else might benefit from hearing of your successes and errors, and in this way you were aways polishing, paring, shaping your own internal life and thought.
I have had low points in my time on the planet, and who hasn’t? One of my best counselors during some of those times was a cat named Poco. At the times when my struggles seemed overwhelming and I had difficulty in seeing any way out of them, he would come and sit in my lap or nestle against my shoulder from the back of the chair. Touch him and he’d purr in seeming contentment.
Those simple acts were enough to bring me back to that moment, instead of doing what I had been doing which was rushing ahead in my mind to tomorrow … next month … next year … all of them absolutely uncertain, none with a guarantee.
But all I had to do right then was to accept the companionship that this small animal was offering, and not to try to solve the rest of my life in an evening. Over and over again, the process was enough to maintain a smidgen of sanity and the rudiments of direction. With the passage of time, I began to see the truths in the Zen proverb:
“Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”
If you are intrigued by this proverb, there is a really good article I can recommend: On Enlightenment: 3 Meanings of the “Chop Wood, Carry Water” Zen quote.
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Little Home In The Valley 
Glad to hear your yogurt maker is still useful! Personally I’ll take the commercial stuff with all that wonderful sugar 😝 happy holidays ho ho ho
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Thank you for the ho ho ho. As for the yogurt, you started something here. We are cooking with gazillions of Lactobacillus bulgaricus and lovin’ it.
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