Work With Hope

This is the final shared blog topic with my friend Andrea. You can find her post here

Last year I spent the holiday season living in the house of my friend Jennifer’s parents. My dad’s house had sold before I had a chance to find another permanent place, and the renters who were living in Jennifer’s folks’ house had moved out somewhat abruptly. It was a perfect solution to what could have been an expensive and difficult problem.

Though the house was comfortable, in a nice neighborhood, and served all my needs, I never felt truly at home there. It was a welcome way station before my next jump which I hoped would bring me into a place that was completely my own. I had my bed, but I sat on someone else’s furniture, cooked in someone else’s kitchen, and washed in a shower that was always too short for me.

However, as Christmas drew near, I decided that I wanted to decorate the place nonetheless. I hung a wreath on the door, put up my lighted holly garlands, and hung my stocking at the fireplace. I remember writing a blogpost about all of this here, and I joked that it would take a miracle for my stocking to be filled. Then on Christmas Eve, and thanks to a good old-fashioned Catholic miracle (in the form of an sneaky dear friend) the stocking was filled.

Jump ahead a full year and I again have hung my stocking over the mantle of my fireplace in my home. However, this year I don’t think I will be visited by ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come (or pretty much anyone). The crackdown of COVID restrictions, coupled with the shrinking of my bubble, will guarantee that there will be plenty of room in this inn, but no visits, no celebrations, no stocking stuffers.

But unlike last year when I was struck by the stark emptiness of the stocking, I think this year, my stocking is already pretty full. A cursory glance at its contents shows me

• A home that is beautiful, comfortable, and all mine. One which I hope will be a center of life and a gathering place when that is possible.
• My daughter has remained healthy and safe through the pandemic, moving out of NY to Colorado Springs near her mother and coping with longer term health issues.
• Most of my friends and I have thus far been able to avoid contracting the Corona Virus, and we wait in hope for effective distribution of the vaccine.
• I have met a lot of people during the past year and made some friends for different lengths of time, and I have grown closer (even in distance) to the friends I have.
• I have had friends who helped me and friends I have been able to help.
• I have been truly blessed to have a a therapist who has walked this journey with me for some time now and who continues to believe (and helps me to believe) that the final quarter of my life will be the best.
• The pain in my shoulder and neck that was so debilitating through the autumn months has faded completely to where I feel no pain or tingling at all, and I have been able to get off the (mild) medications that I was taking.
• I have read more novels (and even non-fiction) than any year in memory.
• Interesting new ideas that I have written about, talked about, and thought about.
• I have been lucky enough to work throughout the year
• More like that…but you get the point.

The stocking has already been filled through the year, and this Little Christmas season will be warm in the midst of loneliness by the stocking of my life that has been abundantly stuffed.

Be safe, be strong.

…if there weren’t one post that was hastily done just to beat the clock.

Be safe, be strong.

As advertised in the heading, tonight is monthly book club. We have been meeting via Zoom since March, and this is our last meeting of the year. Tonight is a little bittersweet, as we don’t usually meet during the month of December because instead we usually have a party (which I have described on other years). This year no parties, just more bookclub.

I think appropriately for the final book of 2020, we have read Winesburg Ohio by Sherwood Anderson. The book is comprised of 22 character sketches, capturing the various persons of the small fictitious town of Winesburg near the end of the 19th Century. The stories are interwoven, and several plot lines follow through in different chapters from a different focus. Probably the best analogy might by Masters’ Spoon River Anthology, Wilder’s Our Town, or Balzac’s La Comédie Humaine.

I have read most of this book before, but only as individual chapters, never straight through as a novel. It was a different experience and a richer one. The tapestry of joy and pain that the author gives us transcends the limitations of the small town and the book becomes a feast of recognition in the heart of the reader. In fact…well, we’re not supposed to talk about the book until bookclub starts…

One quote though, from the penultimate chapter “Sophistication”:

“The sadness of sophistication has come to the boy. With a little gasp he sees himself as merely a leaf blown by the wind through the streets of his village. He knows that in spite of all the stout talk of his fellows he must live and die in uncertainty, a thing blown by the winds, a thing destined like com to wilt in the sun.”

Damn fine.

Be safe, be strong.

This is another blogging duel between Andrea and me. If you want to read her (excellent) post go here

Christmas cookies have been a part of my family tradition since I was a child. The four of us kids would help (hinder) mom each year as she made countless cookies, plated them, and then took them around the neighborhood as gifts for those on our street. There wasn’t a visit during the holidays when a plate of cookies wasn’t brought along.

As an adult I started baking cookies on my own, I developed two “standard” recipes and then usually made a third that would change from year to year. These cookies were usually taken to work to give to friends, but there were many years that we loaded a wagon with plates of cookies (and my daughter Taylor) and went around the neighborhood spreading Christmas cheer.

Skip ahead to 2020. I’m in a new house, the world has gone to hell, and my coworkers all live out of state. However, I felt this year more than others I needed to maintain my tradition and make cookies for the friends I still see in my limited rounds.

…one of whom happens to be vegan

So the challenge this year was to make plant based cookies to go with my “normal” cookies (are plant based cookies part of this “new normal” I keep hearing about?). s

Some of the ingredients were easy substitutions

• Vegan butter for dairy butter, I’ve been using vegan butter for some time now. I actually like it better than dairy butter and it works and tastes more or less the same.
• Condensed coconut milk for condensed dairy milk, trickier substitution because it is much thicker than the original, so the cookie is a little bit more toffee like, but still workable
• Cashew sour cream for dairy sour cream, this one is a bit more of a stretch, and I don’t know if I would put it in a baked potato, but it seemed to work great in cookies
• Eggs…

Unlike the other substitutions, there are few simple substitutes for eggs. I spent some time looking in to what eggs do in a batter. Their chief role is as a binding and leavening agent. The frankly seldom add much taste to the batter at all. So a substitute is as much about chemical properties as it is about taste.

In my experience with vegan baking during the past year, I have discovered three egg substitutes.

• Flaxseed meal: combine 1T of flaxseed meal with 3T of water for each egg. Stir and let sit for a few minutes while it thickens into a brown paste.
• Justegg liquid egg replacement: easier to use than other methods, but very short expiration date, so a lot goes to waste.
• Egg replacement powder: similar to flaxseed meal, but a little closer to eggs chemical properties…plus it makes a grey paste.

I went with the third option this time, and I must say, the cookies are (at least to my untrained pallet) indistinguishable from their dairy originals.

Cooking vegan, is an interesting adventure, but like when I first learned to cook, there is an excitement of seeing how things work (and more importantly taste) together. I have no plans to go totally plant based in the foreseeable future, but it’s fun to make good things for those who do. It broadens the talent and opens the mind.

Be safe, be strong.

I’ve always loved the art of Edward Gorey. In the 70s and 80s his books and pictures were everywhere. His wonderful instance sense of the commonplace in the macabre was a favorite of mine

So today, we’ll have a Edward Gorey Christmas…and a Gashlycrumb new year!

Be safe, be strong!

December 14, 2020 Joe Biden surpassed the number of confirmed electors that he needed to be elected President of the United States both by popular and electoral vote.

Two hundred and twenty-one years earlier, on December 14, 1799, George Washington died at Mt. Vernon at the age of 67, after five decades of service to his country.

Somehow I find these two events richly parallel. I’m not suggesting that Joe Biden is a Washington-like figure, far from it. Rather, I find the parallels (or anti-parallels) in what many consider to be Washington’s greatest achievement.

After serving two terms as President of the newly formed country, and guaranteed of unlimited future terms, Washington turned his back on power for the good of the new country. In order to avoid a de facto monarchy in the new democracy, he stepped down gracefully and completely in order to set the model for the peaceful transition of power that became a hallmark of the new nation, and something that set it apart from its European ancestors.

To say, “My time has passed, now it’s time for someone else to take the plow,” is one of the most difficult abnegations of self. For those for whom power and governing became a profession, it meant an end, a death long before true mortality. I am certain that many Presidents did not want to do this. I wonder if Franklin Roosevelt, if his health had held out, would have every stepped away. But in every other case apart from death or assassination, the incumbent either didn’t run or accepted the results of the election (see where I’m going with this).

Washington passed away prior to the contentious and acrimonious election of 1800. John Adams did not attend the inauguration of his successor, partially for legitimate reasons and partially out of rancor toward his former friend. If Washington were still alive, however, I’m sure he would have advised Adams to step aside and put aside hatred for the stability and success of the new country.

Calling George Washington!

Be safe, be strong.

I’ll start with a non-original idea (no comments please). Since March this year has gone slowly. The movement from the workplace to home, the lack of contact with other people, and the crushing consistency of living under threat day after week after month have overwhelmed all of us. We live in fear, yes, but we also live in boredom as so many of the things that gave our lives movement have dropped off and left us stranded in an ocean of paralysis. For many, even the things we should do feel pointless in the year’s dance with mortality.

All that, we know, but I was thinking today about that sweet day in the future when we are finally able to throw off the shackles and define life much more the way we choose and less as it is dictated for us. Is it going to seem like our lives suddenly hit the accelerator pedal and went from paralysis to the fast lane? Will the sudden contact with so many be overwhelming, will the demands seem unreasonable, will the choices be too many? Will we no longer be able to accommodate the pace of our former lives?

A lot has been written (and much more will be written) about the effects of the pandemic, or more accurately, the effects of quarantine on all of us. I suspect there will be a similar flood of studies on the “crawling from under the rock” syndrome of (goodness, I hope) 2021. If we have been substantially changed by this experience, then as changed beings we will react unpredictably to anything resembling our former world. It should be fascinating

Be safe, be strong.

As you enter my house, to the right of the front door there hangs a cribbage board, and countless memories of my dad.

Dad and I made the board together when I was in my early teens. If you look closely at the holes, you can tell that I was involved, particularly where they go crooked on the middle right side. While dad was a true craftsman, I never had the patience or coordination to match his level of competence. I remember when I mis-set that hole. Dad didn’t say anything, he just guided the drill press back into line. Afterward when I mentioned it, he said that once the board was sanded and stained that no one would every notice it. Of course it is the first thing I see every time I look at it.

I don’t know what put the idea in my head that I wanted to learn cribbage. I came from a card playing family, and dad played when he was young, but this board was essentially starting from scratch for both of us as we read the rules and began to play on evenings when I was done with homework.

Later, after I moved away, whenever I came by the house to visit mom and dad, there would always be a moment when one of us would say, “Time for a game?” And off we would go. I remember for a while that we kept score on wins and they were very close, but we stopped that after a few years. The game was all that mattered, and bragging rights for the night were based on who won the best two out of three.

The wonderful thing about playing cards is that it is togetherness without the pressure of conversation. Dad and I always got along, but it felt at times that we communicated more through playing cribbage than through any deep conversation. The game was a symbol of our relationship, its long roots and dependable future.

Dad was a better card player than I (just as he was a better craftsman); however, there is just the right balance of luck and skill in cribbage to keep our overall wins close to equal. Though each of us went on streaks, they never lasted for long. Ironically, dad was a terrible loser. As soon as he would start getting behind, he would start complaining about his luck. Too often I fell for this and let down my guard only to have him come from behind and beat me.

He played my brother and sisters as well, and we kids sometimes played each other, but at core the board was ours as was the game.

In the last three years of his life, we were able to play more than ever. By then I had shifted from the office job to consultancy, and I would go over there virtually every day I wasn’t traveling. It was our routine. I’d walk in, say hello, and go for the cupboard to grab the board and cards. We would play the best two out of three, and then usually I would leave, having barely talked at all, except about that last great play.

As dad’s health failed, I was extraordinarily blessed that he maintained the ability to come to the table and maintained his mental acuity to play as well as ever. I can recall one game where he was making foolish mistakes and I feared that his illness was taking its toll, but the next game he beat me completely and mercilessly.

As the weeks of hospice passed, it was becoming clear that time was getting short. I started to face the fact that one of these games, after literally thousands, was going to be our last. I wondered if I would know it while it happened, and I wondered who would win the last game.

The last game we played was during the weekend before he died. In retrospect, it should have been clear to me, but it felt like any other game. There was no phony sentimentality, or any words said, for that matter. Dad won the last game, as was completely appropriate, and I put away the board for the next time. During the next day hospice care put dad on morphine, and two days later he was dead.

When my sisters, brother, and I started talking about what to do with everything, I was clear on one point. I wanted the cribbage board. It is the one thing that I have from their house that means the most to me, and wherever I live it will hang on the wall as a memory of two well-matched partners through life.

Be safe, be strong.

I’ve written before about the two versions of the classic Christmas song, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The original version from the 1944 film Meet Me in St. Louis is sung by Judy Garland to Margaret O’ Brien to cheer up the little girl as they celebrate Christmas by moving from their beloved home. The little girl is putting up a brave front, announcing that she will be taking all of her dolls, “even the dead ones, “ (not sure what that’s about), and her mother comforts her by essentially saying that this Christmas is not going to be very good, but they should enjoy what they can and hope for a better Christmases to come.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light
Next year all our troubles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the yuletide gay
Next year all our troubles will be miles away

Once again as in olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithfull friends who are near to us
Will be dear to us
Once more

Someday soon we all will be together
If the fates allow
Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas, now

Soon after the movie’s release and immediate popularity of the song, Frank Sinatra re-released “Merry Little Christmas” with the much more familiar and merry lyrics, eliminating all references to a future Christmas and insisting that all good things start now. What this has to do with a Little Christmas has always been lost on me.

As I heard this song today in its modern incarnation, I was suddenly struck by how appropriate the original lyrics are for this year. Few, if any, are going to have the Christmas they remember or the Christmas they want. I even believe there will be a pall over large gatherings of deniers, feeling their celebration is forced and undercut by anger.

So let’s listen to Judy this year (or one of the many other excellent versions of the original lyrics). Let’s put away the forced optimism and recognize that we are all muddling through, and all we can hope is for another year when we truly all will be together.

Be safe, be strong.

Dorothy Parker is one of my favorite characters of the 20th Century. I like her writing fine, but like her personality more. She encapsulated the brilliance and pathos of the wit who sees through the veil of existence and laughs to keep from crying. She certainly would be on my list of persons from history to share dinner (preferably at the Algonquin), though deep down I fear that she would verbally destroy me.

“The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue.”

“This wasn’t just plain terrible, this was fancy terrible. This was terrible with raisins in it.”

“Tell him I was too fucking busy– or vice versa.”

I understand the need to turn every occurrence or statement into a diamond…or a knife. It is a type of mental gymnastics, and sticking the landing feels like little Christmas. But it also comes from a place of profound pain as it is a safety valve to avoid acknowledgement of facts or people one faces. Both lose some reality when they become raw material for the mill wheel of the brain. And while the resulting product can be a thing of beauty, it is always once removed and comes at a cost.

“I require three things in a man: he must be handsome, ruthless, and stupid.”

“Take me or leave me; or, as is the usual order of things, both.”

“Ducking for apples — change one letter and it’s the story of my life.”

One doesn’t associate Dorothy Parker with Christmas, except in a “blitzed under the mistletoe” kind of way, so I was surprised to discover that she wrote an almost sincere Christmas poem titled! “The Maid Servant at the Inn.” Relating the reactions to the nativity of a character who didn’t exist.

“It’s queer,” she said; “I see the light
As plain as I beheld it then,
All silver-like and calm and bright-
We’ve not had stars like that again!”

And she was such a gentle thing
To birth a baby in the cold.
The barn was dark and frightening-
This new one’s better than the old.

“I mind my eyes were full of tears,
For I was young, and quick distressed,
But she was less than me in years
That held a son against her breast.

“I never saw a sweeter child-
The little one, the darling one!-
I mind I told her, when he smiled
You’d know he was his mother’s son.

“It’s queer that I should see them so-
The time they came to Bethlehem
Was more than thirty years ago;
I’ve prayed that all is well with them

Remarkably sincere…were it not for the last lines of the last two stanzas, t would be unrecognizable as Parker’s. Whatever her own ideas and beliefs about the Christmas story, she has given us an outsider’s perspective, as she did in life

Be safe, be strong.