The Door to December 23rd: Bah! Humbug!
“TWAS A BOB CRATCHIT KINDA DAY”
‘Twas a Bob Crachit Kinda Day.
Nose hard to the grindstone.
No tuppence in my pocket.
Hand dampened cold,
Chilling my bones down.
Doing the things I must.
O’hers depen’n onnit.
Christmas wages all but spent.
Peace and hope.
Hope and peace.
I’ve seen a courier.
A scene by Currier and Ives.
Salvation Army Bells.
For whom the bell tolls.
The Christmas Spirit.
Visiting as needed.
Once, twice, thrice,
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The Door to December 24th: Christmas Eve
“28 ST. MARTIN STREET”
My advent calendar project hit a buzzsaw called Christmas Present. Christmas 2018 swallowed me up, and I couldn’t spare the creative space needed to close out my project. I back ended some pretty important memories to the end of the calendar for dramatic effect and because it is emotionally hard to write about these things. It leaves me exhausted, yet grateful for such heavy lifting. Please forgive an ambitious man for a late delivery. Sometimes when you let something marinate and breathe a bit, it becomes better for it. I certainly hope so.
I am blessed to have lived through many treasured moments in my life, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t express how very warm and full of heart I become when I recall these times, our times. Merry times, happy times, unknowing times, taken for granted times. Holding short moments for a fraction of time.
We simply inherited a sense that tradition is and always has been important. It is a gift from those that came before us. It is a gift full of wisdom and righteous remembering, and the action of choosing to be together. Blending family and the precious commodity of time creates magic.
The town where I grew up was small, but seemed large to me as a child. It is full of history, and I could walk to any of my near relatives homes within 3-5 minutes. This reality provided me with a false sense that I would always have this convenience of access throughout my life. It wasn’t until I set out into the world that I experienced how small my world truly was and just how lucky I had been to have had such access and time with my closest relatives growing up. It’s not the kind of thing you become aware of, until it changes.
Life moves, life breathes, nothing stays forever, and that is why upon reflection of the holidays of the past, I warmly remember Christmas Eves spent at 28 St. Martin Street with the special people you see in the photograph above.
Sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas, a Christmas Card/Invitation would come to us from Uncle Mike, Aunt Donna, and Cousin Christy. It would invite us up to their place at 28 St. Martin Street, to celebrate Christmas Eve. Festivities would begin promptly at 6ish. We’d meet, eat, make jolly, and tell stories of the past year. It was a great pre-cursor to Christmas Day celebrations.
Much of the revelry would take place in the kitchen, as it generally does in Irish-American households. Never entering through the front door, but only through the back door, which you would arrive to after you had to walk down a short walkway abutting the house.
Generally, those visiting knew to come to the back door. If they didn’t, we knew they were strangers.
Many great Christmas Eve’s were spent in the company of the Hickey’s, the Lane’s, The Connolly’s, The Warner’s, The Blakie’s, The Dowling’s, The Merullo’s, and any and all that I may have neglected to mention. I’m so grateful that we were a part of something so memorable, that has sustained the fire of memory in my heart. The ghosts of Christmas Past are never too far away.
Although, we’ve lost some of fellow travelers in this life, our family still sustains. We are so lucky to still have opportunities to gather, and we make great use of the examples of living revelry that are evidenced in the photograph above. I look at all of our eyes in that picture, and I see a million different stories and thoughts. I never knew I would be where I am now, but I know for certain that it was a damn wonderful thing to be there then.
Merry Christmas to Uncle Mike, Aunt Donna, and Cousin Christy. Thank you for sharing your home with all of us, and for creating a lasting tradition. Whenever I look at this photo, I know how perfect a moment can be, and how very precious it is to capture it.
Love to Richie, Irene, Paul, Kathy, and Kevin.
The Door to December 22nd: The Legend Of The Turkey Platter
The Legend of the Turkey Platter
It is known in these parts, that when my mother left my father in the Summer of 1995, she left with the clothes on her back and this turkey platter. In a sense, I find it brilliant. Basically, , I’m leaving and I’m only taking this plastic platter with me. Of course this is a gross reduction of that circumstance, but for the purposes of this blog, it serves. It will definitely make it into a story at some point. For all my parent’s troubles, they loved each other and loved us. Life sometimes upstages young love, and causes it to grow apart, and that is okay, because they were both able to find happiness after that part of their lives.
But, I digress…It is also known, that the platter is rumored to be in one place, believed to be in another, and it remains to be determined if the photo you see here is of the actual platter. I may or may not have this platter. It may or may not be the real platter that accompanied my mother on her trek to the South Shore of Boston. My Step-father may or may not have this platter. My Sister may or may not want this platter. I’m awaiting a visitation by three spirits on Christmas Eve; at which point I hope to have the answer to any and all questions regarding my Mother’s cherished service ware. We should have tucked it in her casket, or at the very least, had them carve it into her headstone.
If anyone does or doesn’t have information regarding the whereabouts of this platter, please feel free to send any and all leads to my Sister @ firstname.lastname@example.org
And please, only serious leads and information wanted.
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The Door to December 21st: “The Decemberists”
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.
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