Once upon a December sky,I made a wish and closed my eyes.Muted blues and drabbest grays,Out beyond, beyond.A lifetime obligation’s breach,Out beyond horizon’s reach.I could not go there,Out beyond, beyond.Trapped on a rolling road,World all around exposed.I could not get there, Out beyond, beyond.Decemberists know it best,Heart pounding beneath the breast, The journey hearkens those who hide,Out beyond, beyond.
Check out a recent post here: Advent Adventures: The Door to December Twentieth, 2022 – ProCrasstheNation
Be careful what you wish for. The holiday shopping days are disappearing quickly. Let me bring you down my memory lane and recount the time my mother fought in earnest to make sure that a certain toy was under a certain tree on a certain day.
Open…
MOTHER CHRISTMAS VISITS THE CABBAGE PATCH
My Mother was a woman of vernacular. She had ways of saying things and words to say them. Over the course of our lives together, it became apparent that not everyone shared these words and expressions. In conversations with others, I’d often say things that would get puzzled looks, or giggles.
The Boston “dropped R” only enhanced and amplified the effect of conversing with her. You might get something like “Hi! Howahya? You comin ovah tommorah? Jaysus Christ, it’s wicked hawt. Christophah! Christophah! I saw a patient at the hospital last night with a broken leg, bone sticking out. Skeevatsah!”
I grew an appreciation for the cadence and dance of conversing with her over the years. She “nevah” used punctuation, but ended most phrases with a “ya know?” Which was pregnant with reflection, concession, and a hint at sought validation; though mostly rhetorical.
My Mother doted on my sister and I to an extreme. Most especially, at Christmas. We were spoiled. It was her thing. It is one of the lasting memorable characteristics of her personality, along with her speech patterns that I remember fondly.
Well, a story she was particularly fond of retelling, or enjoyed hearing others tell of it, was that of “The Great Cabbage Patch Kid Doll Carnage of 1983”
The Cabbage Patch Doll Craze of 1983 was a national phenomenon. My sister had it in her lusty child sights. I didn’t care so much about it, except a passing acknowledgement that it was “a thing”, G.I. Joe was more in my wheelhouse. I really don’t recall how it became known to us, but somehow without internet, the message got out. Stores didn’t have them to keep up with the demand. Clandestine shipments, ravaged shelves, my mother had contacts everywhere, searching high and low for one of these damn dolls. I repeat, this was before internet, yet she managed a network of contacts through landline telephones, a calendar date book, and the yellow and white pages. I’m pretty sure she also enlisted help from the Hood Milkman, Meyer the owner of the Family Shoe Store where we got our bobos (generic shoes mocking name brands), and the entire St. Francis de Sales Parents Guild Association.
As days fell from the calendar, so did my mother’s hopes of presenting the perfect Christmas morning for my sister.
She was wicked desperate.
I don’t know how, but one of the many leads she had, developed into her taking a bus to Manhattan with my father sometime in December before Christmas 1983. It was a precision operation that involved getting to the correct store, waiting in line, and having the right money for the purchase.
When I think of my father being dragged from his weekend slumber to traipse down to Manhattan on the chance of a hope and a prayer that they might get a doll for my sister, I heartily laugh. I don’t think he was a believer. Ma was, though. My sister’s Christmas joy depended on it.
His only consolation was perhaps a few hurried stops at a bunch of New York Street Hot Dog vendors, so he could stuff a Sabrett’s Hot Dog in his restless maw. Not my mother, she was not to be distracted from her mission.
The Blues Brothers were told by God that they had a mission to complete. Conversely, my mother told God, she had a mission to complete.
So, after the long bus trip, the long city blocks, the foot long hot dogs smothered in relish, they finally arrived at the correct place at the correct time. The line was long, but not impossibly long. Somehow, others knew about the shipment, much to my mother’s chagrin. They padded along. advancing another few steps. At the pace of one complaint and anxiety at a time. My Mother spent her time in the line giving the gooch and stink face to anyone coming back down the line with a sizable box like brown paper bag in their mitts. Each person coming down the line displayed a satisfaction that my mother hadn’t tasted as yet, and she grew antsy.
Down the line. People in. Bags out.
Blood pressure rising.
After what must have seemed an eternity to my parents, they finally crossed the threshold and made their way to the counters.
Behind the counters were little brown men screaming and yelling at a fevered pitch. New York was and is the melting pot of America, so it stood to reason that my parents would meet up with some people they were unfamiliar with, having spent most of their lives in an insular community.
So, the moment of truth occurs:
Salesclerk: So whatchoo, want, lady?
Ma: How much ah, fah the Cabbage Patch Dolls?
Salesclerk: one hundred dolla.
My Mother turns to my father, “did he say $100 dollars?”
My father nodded. She didn’t intend on paying $100 dollars for a doll she thought was could be bought for less. Although, desperate times called for desperate measures.
She turned back to the salesclerk and said:
Fah each? Awhr fah two?
The clerk looked stunned, then started talking to his associate. My mother thought she was not heard. Both salesclerks looked bothered and started gesticulating at my mother. Again, she said:
Fah each? Awhr fah two?
Well that just about did it. The salesclerks said:
Get out, of our store, filthy lady! How dare you talk to us like that!
My father getting a hold of what was going on realized what my mother had said and put together that they thought she was offering “favors” for the dolls.
Dad: They thought you said you would eat them for two dolls, Kath.
After a good laugh, and some explanations, my mother reluctantly paid the $100 dollars for the doll.
So, 1983 was one of the best Christmases ever for our family. My sister got her doll. My Mother got to see the expression of joy that came of my sister receiving the doll. We all got a story to tell, and two Indian/Pakistani gentleman in Manhattan who had a harder time understanding my Mother’s Boston accent than she had in understanding them, were canonized saints for not having thrown my mother out of their store before she had the chance to drop her r’s, and some cabbage on some Cabbage Patch Kids.
In my mother’s version of the story, she believed that the gentleman got it wrong, but if you knew my mother, you would have heard what they heard, as she had a phenomenal Boston accent. It was wicked pissah! Ya’ know…
I stand in solidarity with you. It is tough to have a December Birthday. I know because my sister suffers from the affliction. It’s a champagne problem in some measures, but it can really get to you if people don’t keep the Birthday and the Christmas Holiday separate. Each has its own distinct joys and reasons for celebrating attached. So, I implore any of my readers that try to double-up on Birthday and Christmas gifts to kill two birds with one stone; don’t do it. It’s not nice. And Santa is taking notes about who is naughty and nice. Give the people in your lives that have a December Birthday all the special attention a Birthday deserves without any association to the Jingles or Merries.
Open…
Happy Birthday to my kid sister. She is still fresh, full of mischief, and a great all-around character. She’s true blue. I just want to make sure that she knows how special her birthday is to us, even though having a birthday in December can sometimes be tough. I hope she had a great day.
Also,
Alexander Ignatius Connolly, or Bubba
My maternal grandfather, Bubba, was born on December 23, 1914. Another relative with a December birthday. I wonder how he found that. There are so many memories to touch upon that one post won’t do it justice. I’m happy to say that this gentleman was a driving force of good in my life, and one hell of a storyteller. He used to rivet us with tales of Sean-Sean the Leprechaun, as well as intriguing war stories about his time as a Marine in WWII’s Pacific Engagement with the Japanese. He loved his sports, and his cop shows, but most of all his family. He is sorely missed. I gave my first-born son his middle name in honor of his great-grandfather.
Peripheral relatives affect our lives as in many ways. My maternal great aunt Eleanor White lived above my grandparents at 288 Bunker Hill. She was an enigma in many ways and I’m sorry I never got to know her as well as her could have. She was wonderful at Christmas and one time she fell asleep on my parent’s bed and all of our guests’ piled coats on top of her not knowing she was there. A breathing mound awoke and went back to 288. The past is weird and fuzzy, but full of wonderful memories.
CPH
Open…
Ode to Aunt Eleanor of 288 Bunker Hill
Things I enjoy about this photograph…
My Aunt Ellie is in it.
I was giving the camera a stink face
There is a can of Sanka in the foreground, which someone received as a gift
My sister’s sweatsuit
The collars on my shirt
The puffy blue coat beside the chair that was a gift for me
The stereo on the cabinet table
The tapes on top of the stereo (Michael Jackson, Men at Work, Billy Joel, Kenny Rogers, Perry Como, Willie Nelson, Perry Como, Mitch Miller)
My sister’s expression
The wallpaper meant to look like paneled wood
The sun catcher hanging in the window
The alarm clock in front of the stereo
The reindeer decoration
The garland under the reindeer decoration indicating the reindeer’s power of flight
The segmented Merry Christmas Decoration below the reindeer decoration
That this pic represents what Christmas looked like in my home circa 1983-1986
I come to you from an Irish-American perspective. I am several generations removed from those of my family that emigrated to the United States from Ireland and the United Kingdom during the second half of the nineteenth and early twentieth century.
Yet, the roots to those customs and cultures are still strong and hold a place of honor in my Christmas Traditions. I had a strong indication from an early age that we descended from Irish roots on both sides. It wasn’t until recently that I learned that there was an Irish root that took hold after a time in Glasgow before that branch emigrated again to America.
Although I’ve identified mostly as Irish-American, this newly discovered detail of my genealogical record has allowed me further exploration into the near and distant past.
A rich tapestry of music, poetry, and storytelling has preceded me and found me as a voice in time that recounts the mystery and wonder of simpler times.
There are lots of romantic notions I associate with the stories of my forebears and I long for a day when I can return across the ocean to the places my family called home before America became home.
My father was instrumental with keeping the embers of those hopes alive. Despite many opportunities in my life, I’ve never made it to Ireland or Scotland. The only times I’ve traveled there is in my imagination.
The season of Christmas is a time when I feel the compulsion to go there more keenly. We owned many records, tapes, and CD’s over the years that helped us to learn and enjoy the traditional cannon of Irish fare. The fight songs, the patriotic songs, the rebel songs, were all accounted for in some shape or form; but the Celtic Christmas songs were truly special and held a certain reverence of their own. Steeped largely in the ideas and rites of Roman Catholicism that bound so many of my family for generations in faith, the music has a very ethereal nature and often inspires solemnity and reverence within me when I listen.
Two albums that were fixtures in my home during the years of my development were Paddy Noonan’s “Christmas Time in Ireland” and The Chieftains “The Bells of Dublin”.
These albums were heavily leaning in the traditional sense of what many Irish-Americans consider Irish Music. They held a certain magical realism for me as they added an audio component to an imagination already busy with staging imagery of a place I had never been to.
The music and the stories told by these artists allowed me to imagine what Christmas was like in Ireland. I return to that place every year as soon as I play these albums.I look forward to the day when I can travel to Ireland to find out for myself.
I’ve added some audio below of featured artists telling stories.
The first is from Paddy Noonan’s album. It is of the famed Irish Storyteller Eamon Kelly as he recounts what Christmas Time in Ireland was like in his childhood.
The second is from the Chieftain’s album and it’s the traditional song- “Don Oiche Ud I mBeithil” first spoken in English by Actor Burgess Meredith, and then sang in Irish by Chieftain Kevin Conneff.
Please take some time to give them a listen. You won’t regret it.
The photo above is of what has remained in place on my chalkboard painted wall above my half-bath door for five years. I wrote it as a reminder to myself that I was going to attend an additional meeting with my writing colleagues, but not the main meeting, but rather a meeting of members of the group who wanted to get really serious about our writing and tighten up the critiquing and back and forth that would conceivably come of a more focused group.
It was my suggestion that we call the group: Touched by Fire. This was in homage to a book I had read in college about how much creative art derives from those of our population that suffer mental health issues or have trouble with battling addiction. Not that many of our small group openly proclaimed belonging to either category; but the idea of madness giving that spark of creativity held a romantic part within me.
If we could only but channel a piece of it, then we too would be on our way to becoming famous writers. Hopefully, not at the expense that many had.
Regardless of the intent. This reminder was set. This reminder was useful. This reminder was observed.
I met my writing colleagues at the Melrose Starbucks. After a quick meet and greet, I went up and grabbed a libation and holiday snack for myself.
Once I got both and returned to the table that my colleagues were seated at, I sipped and nibbled.
Sipping and nibbling is serious business, and in short order I got halfway through both items. Suddenly, an incongruent cacophony burst forth from my breast pocket.
It was quite noticeable by my party. I had forgotten to turn my ringtone down. I made the gesture that I was going to ignore the call, but then I thought to myself maybe it was someone that hadn’t showed up; even though all members of the party were accounted for.
For whatever reason, I answered the phone. It was a 781-area code number. So, I thought it was fair chance it was someone in the writing group.
“Hello!”
“Hello, Mr. Hickey”
“Yes?”
“This is Dr. Lee from the Melrose Wakefield Emergency Department”
Now I had just left my house not twenty minutes prior, so in my quick brain rushes to understand what was going on, I ruled out the possibility that whatever Dr. Lee had to tell me, it didn’t involve my wife or children.
“Yes?”
“You are listed as the Emergency Contact for Kevin Connolly.”
I instantly knew what would follow despite all of myself playing lightspeed games and jedi mind tricks to bargain with my mind for what my heart already knew, and my gut knew.
“Yes, I’m his emergency contact. He’s, my uncle.”
“Yes, Mr. Hickey, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your uncle was brought here earlier this evening unresponsive after a wellness check at his residence, and he passed at…”
I didn’t hear what Dr. Lee had said after “passed at…” I mean I heard it, but I didn’t allow myself to hear it, as if that would change the reality of it having occurred.
My writing colleagues were close enough to me to hear and understand what was happening. An amazing sort of surreal moment shared by people that make it their business to manufacture scenes like this very one.
This was not Fiction. It was a first draft. and there were no edits. The facts remained the facts. Long after that night.
I was touched by fire, but it wasn’t the fire I had intended. It was a slow burn, and still burns to this day.
I thanked the attending physician for the kindness of the notification.
At this point I had to divest myself of the group of writers and start making phone calls. Being an emergency contact has many responsibilities, and a few burdens. This particular burden was being accountable in knowing something that others in my family didn’t: that our beloved Uncle, Brother, Cousin, etc. had died.
Trying to recount that blur of the phone call with Dr. Lee, something about myocardial infarction, blah, blah, blah.
The burden became holding the information that no one else knew but the duty was to call others in my family and touch them with the fire I had been told was just extinguished. One of the truest moments of being alone, as you are the only one that knows something that must be shared but are not in a position to share it easily.
Every day, I walk by this wall and see that reminder: TBF 12/12/17. Now five years later on 12/12/22, I caught myself looking up and reflecting on it. That. The night. The call. The life. The death. All that followed that moment.
Why haven’t I erased it? Have I somehow believed that if I erased it, it would make it less real? Do I think somewhere within myself that if I erase it, that I erase him?
These things have crept into and out of my mind, my heart, my gut, and what five years has brought me to realize: it’s time to erase that goddamned reminder.
It was a moment in time, that bookended a lifetime. I was there and the impermanence of it has somehow become permanent, and ironically, in the cast of chalk dust no less.
Somehow in my busy life, with my busy home, and busy family, no one else has even come close to erasing it. Not even by accident.
I think that perhaps it was because I needed to be the one to erase it. Because it holds no sway over me and the significance of it to me by no means exceeds the beloved memory of one so dear that was, “suddenly” (as they say) gone.
The Smiths were right; there is a light that never goes out.
CPH for KPC
Dear Travelers,
Losing a loved one during the holiday season only amplifies the shock and grief you feel from such an event. In many ways it is hard to endure the absence of that loved one as there are so many lovely memories tied to the life and love you shared during this special time of year. Although it hurts less as time goes on, it can still be hard to view things in the same way as you used to when things were different. The only thing that worked for me was to lean into all of the feelings, good and bad. Let them wash over you and embrace you and a wonderful thing happens: the loss is gradually replaced with the intensity of love forged in those memories. No one ever really leaves us without leaving a lasting imprint on our hearts and minds. Christmas is a wonderful opportunity to love those people again.
Depending on the strength of the gods surrounding us.
We could do anything and seemed robust.
Time distorted the truth,
and aided in ourfall.
What once defied the setting sun,
grew less with each passing year.
Until, finally the world swallowed the moments whole.
There was a time high on the mountain,
when living seemed forever.
It was remarkable, but short lived.
Today marks the bittersweet anniversary of my maternal Uncle Kevin’s death. He is sorely missed, and I do my best to honor his memory as much as I can. I’ve added some links below to other poems and posts related to him, that I’ve written in the last few years. When I think of an Advent Calendar, I think of looking forward to something, and now in a sense, looking back. There was a lot of mystery behind Uncle Kev’s doors. He was easy to know, but at times kept his cards close to the vest. Thinking fondly of the many ways in which he enriched my life. He lived a life of patience and tact and used these talents to teach his young niece and nephew game theory, or as he called it “STRAGEDY” There is many a night when I look at an empty cribbage board and smile within the glow of the memory it brings forth. There are many gifts in life that we are lucky enough to receive, but it is entirely true, that the gift of time is the most precious. Kev gave us as much time as we needed and wanted.
If you liked this post…perhaps these might appeal to you as well:
Are you looking for the words to say, but can’t quite find them?
Let us give you a hand during a busy Holiday Season. We specialize in writing Holiday themed poems, messages for your Christmas Cards, and even Holiday Toasts. We travel the road from holy to irreverent, but always tailor our content to meet your needs. Looking forward to helping spread some Holiday Cheer.
seasonedgreetings25@gmail.com
Seasoned Greetings 25 – Price List
Holiday Poem – $5.00
Christmas Card Message – $5.00
Christmas Haiku – $2.50
Christmas Limerick – $2.50
Christmas Party Toast – $2.50
Festivus Grievance – $1.00
Festivus Frenemy Insult – $1.00
To order an original Seasoned Greeting, either email me @ seasonedgreetings25@gmail.com or DM me with a few details about the recipient to whom you’d like to send a Seasoned Greeting to.
