Merry Christmas, My Friends

I try not to do any work on Christmas, so I'm writing this on Christmas Eve (when I also try not to do any work - hell, I try not to do any work 365 days a year, but on Christmas nobody questions it.) Anyway, I have a column in today's Boston Herald and I think you'll like it. It's not a Christmas story, per se, but it tells a tale about some people who certainly embody the spirit of the holiday.

Here's a link to it, if you have five minutes.

Thanks for stopping by and thanks for reading my stuff. I do appreciate you doing so.

Merry Christmas!

Soon, with more better stuff.

A Big Bunch O' Weihnachtsbäume

I have a column in the Boston Herald today. In the abstract, it talks about traditions. I'd love for you to go read it, so here's a link. Meanwhile, if you want something else to look at, here are some parts of a certain long-standing tradition - Christmas trees! These are a few I've known and loved...

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First off, some of you may be laboring under the assumption that the German for Christmas tree is "tannenbaum", since there is a nice Christmas song called "O Tannenbaum" which is usually sung in English as "O Christmas Tree". Actually, "tannenbaum" just means "fir tree". A rightly decorated and venerated Christmas tree is "weihnachtsbaum", and thus the plural is "weihnachtsbaume". Don't say you never learn anything when you come here.

Second, you may recognize this as a rerun (especially if you go to make a comment and see one of yours from a couple of years ago already there!) Hey, the NEW stuff is over at the Boston Herald!

Third, there is no third, so here goes!

A few of years ago, MY WIFE bought me a Christmas tree. It is silver and shiny and I love it.

This is not my new shiny silver tree. This is a really old shiny silver tree. It belonged to my Grandma and Grandpa on my Mother's side. The first time I saw it, I thought they had lost their marbles. My eight-year-old brain could not process the idea of a Christmas tree that wasn't green, smelling of pine, and otherwise traditional. I was a staunchly conservative eight-year-old. Anyway, there it was in their living room, with the only lights on it coming from one of those spinning disks of color (not seen in that photo, but here's one...)

Once I got used to my grandparent's weird aluminum tree, it was kind of cool and I looked forward to seeing it each year. Having such a thing in a house full of people who love you, and give you presents, will tend to make you like it, I think. I've had fond memories of it for many years, but the last remaining vestige of the thing is the photo I just showed you. The tree itself is long gone.

The person standing next to this somewhat odd-looking bush is my Aunt Pat, sister of my grandfather on my father's side, a.k.a. Aunt Agnes to some others in the family. You may ask why she was Aunt Pat to me and Aunt Agnes to others. It seems she didn't care for the name Agnes. She decided that she preferred Pat. I never knew she had the name "Agnes" until I was a teenager. Therefore, she was at least successful in convincing me that her name was Pat.

Aunt Pat had an outstanding physical characteristic that I found utterly fascinating as a child. One of her eyes was a milky sort of light blue, while the other was hazel. This came about via an accident at the eye doctor. He mistakenly put ether into her eye and she was immediately blinded on that side, permanently. To show you the non-litigious nature of things in those days, she did not immediately sue him for everything he owned - which she no doubt would have won - but instead just chalked it up to a human mistake and went on with her life.  Can you imagine that happening now? No, neither can I, not even at Christmas.

This Christmas tree was at my paternal grandparent's apartment in Roslindale. From the curtains, the wallpaper, and the date on the back of the photo, I'd say it was 1961.

One of the things I've always liked about the Sullivan side of my family is that they're mostly not sticklers for symmetry. Whatever branches the tree came with would likely remain with the tree for the duration. Also, if a bigger clump of tinsel was on one of the branches than was on any of the others, so what? Live and let live (and if you don't like it, drink until you do) was the motto.

Note the clump of branches hanging over the doorway. Waste not, want not (especially when it comes to the drinks) was another motto.

I don't want to leave you with the impression that they were a bunch of totally drunken inebriates. They weren't. They were wonderful people whom I dearly loved. Many of them did enjoy their alcoholic beverages, though, and that sort of pleasure does tend to bring out the beauty in sparkly things and perhaps lead to pinning up the trimmings over a door frame.

For what it's worth, I think it's lovely, too, and I'm disgustingly sober right now.

From my childhood in Dorchester comes this photo of the best use for any tree: as a giant toy for a cat to play with. Another shot of the same thing...

I could watch that sort of action for hours at a time when I was a kid. Heck, I'd love it now. I'm still very easily amused.

A tree of more recent vintage, perhaps 1995. You'll notice that I took the classic Sullivan approach to things like trimming off branches and distributing the tinsel evenly.

Actually, I did prune this tree a bit. When I got it home, I discovered that it was too tall for our room.

I had to cut about six inches off the trunk. The problem was, the only tool I had to work with was a coping saw. If you're not familiar with what a coping saw looks like, here's a photo of one.

Notice the very thin blade. A coping saw is used to make intricate cuts in thin pieces of wood. It is not meant to take the place of a rip or crosscut saw, the types usually used to tackle such things as logs. Also, a coping saw blade builds up heat very quickly and snaps very easily because of that.

It took me a good 45 minutes and I went through four blades. I think I lost two pounds in sweat and five years off my life due to the aggravation. My hands were covered in pine resin and as sore as if I were a 112-year-old arthritic. Of course, I could have hopped down to the hardware store, bought a big cheap saw for ten bucks and saved myself a half-hour, but where's the fun in that?

This was the year that we used Pointy The Poinsettia as our Christmas tree.

Some of you may be wondering why I haven't re-run that story and instead only gave a link to it. I hate to break the news this way to those of you who may be fans of Pointy, but Pointy is no longer with us. He went to poinsettia heaven, a few years back, due to a case of root rot.

I had been so successful in anthropomorphizing him, even to myself, that I actually cried when I put his remains out for the trash pickup. Anyway, it just seems wrong to re-run the story, with its happy ending, since I know he's gone. What can I say? I'm a sentimental goof. It's still there at the link, though, if you want to read it (and I still think it's a really good piece although I haven't been able to convince anyone with the title of "editor" to part with cash in support of that proposition.)

The Grove O' Tree (trademark pending) from four years ago. Here are a couple of previous incarnations...

MY WIFE once worked in retail. She had an opportunity to attain five trees of varying heights that had been in window displays. For most of ten years, we used those five trees (or random combinations of them) for our Christmas tree.

But now, I've got a SHINY NEW SILVER TREE and I guess it's about time I showed it to you!

I'm being deadly serious here. I think my new tree is THE most beautiful Christmas tree ever. Your mileage may vary, and that's allowed (if not enjoyed...) I won't pop a gasket if you believe the best trees are green, smell of pine, shed needles, and present a better place for cats to play. Those are all good things, mostly. For me, though, this is the one.

So, what was/is your favorite Christmas tree?

Soon, with more better stuff (right now, actually, if you go to the Boston Herald!).

Boston Herald Today

A Christmas story about me and My Dad.

Hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading!

Soon, with more better stuff.

The Gift

[Christmas, 1965 or thereabout]

The boy was very young; perhaps 7 or 8 years old. He loved everything about Christmas - the lights, the music, Santa Claus, the trees covered in tinsel and shiny ornaments - but especially the snow. For as long as he could remember (which wasn't very long, but it was a lifetime) there was always snow at Christmas. The whole thing was magical.

He walked down the street, on his way to a store near his home, and it was beginning to snow again. There was already an inch or two on the ground from yesterday and it was shiny, bright, white, and made everything it covered pretty. He opened his mouth and turned his face to the sky, trying to catch a couple of snowflakes on his tongue. He thought he succeeded, but it was hard to tell because snow melted as soon as it hit your tongue, so you couldn't collect a mouthful of it to prove that you caught some. He jingled a couple of nickels in his pocket, sliding his green rubber boots along in the snow as he walked with his face to the sky.

He was on his way to the store to buy a gift. He enjoyed receiving presents, of course; what child doesn't? However, he also very much enjoyed giving them to others. He loved to see people's faces when they opened their gifts. It was another magical thing about this time of year. He rarely saw anyone unhappy around Christmas and he never saw anyone unhappy when they opened a present.

Being very young, the boy didn't have much money. He received an allowance, but only one dollar. He had already bought presents for his mother and father. For his mother, it was some cheap perfume. For his father, it was some cheap cigars.

(Realize that when I say "cheap", I don't mean to imply that the boy had gone out of his way to buy inexpensive and shoddy presents. He hadn't. He had lovingly picked them out, albeit within his modest budget. The cigars and perfume were cheap, though. Being a young boy, he had no appreciation of perfume and thought they all smelled pretty much alike - stinky. He also had no idea that some cigars, when lit, smell like innertubes burning. However, these had come in a package with a big white owl on the front, and he did know that his dad liked owls.)

He had ten cents left over from his original dollar, which will give you an idea of the value of the cigars and perfume. In any case, he now wanted to buy a present for his aunt.

His aunt was the older relative closest in age to the boy. She was around 19 or 20. She had lived with the boy and his parents for a short while when the boy was much younger. They had grown very close during this time. She was close enough in age to have been the boy's older sister and, in some ways, that's what the boy thought of her as.

The boy reached the main street. The store was on the other side, so he pressed the button that made the light red to stop the traffic. He loved how even the traffic lights joined in with the season, flashing red and green and yellow just like the lights on a Christmas tree. He looked both ways and then crossed the street.

He walked through the parking lot of the store, again noticing how people were so much happier this time of year. Everybody had a cheery "Hello!" for the people they met. As he entered the store through the automatic door (how did it know?) he heard Christmas music playing over the store's speakers.

He felt great. He was in love with the world.

Now he had to find a present for his aunt. He hadn't really given thought about this part of the task. He just assumed that he'd be able to find something nice. After all, a dime would buy a comic book, or two candy bars, or even twenty of those 2-for-1 Mint Julep candies. Certainly he'd be able to find something his aunt would love.

What sorts of thoughts go through the mind of a small boy? Many and varied, of course, but some are unfathomable. As he was walking down one of the aisles, he spotted something very colorful and pretty. He had always liked how these things looked. They were useful, too. And, when he checked the price, it was ten cents - just right! This is what he would get his aunt for Christmas.

He brought the gift up to the checkout and paid for it. Now there was nothing to jingle in his pockets, but that was OK. His Christmas shopping was done.

He made his way back home, enjoying the big colored lights that were on just about every house in the neighborhood, again catching (or trying to catch) snowflakes in his mouth.

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When he got home, he took off his boots (which was always troublesome – he always seemed to leave one sock inside of a boot) and then ran upstairs to his room, to wrap this newest gift.

He was an only child. He spent many hours by himself, in his room, and he very much enjoyed that privacy. He didn’t dislike other people - far from it, in fact - but he did enjoy dreaming and using his imagination. He discovered early on that it’s almost impossible to dream when someone else is in your room. Someone else almost always wants to talk, and you can’t carry on a decent conversation with someone else and dream at the same time. Anyway, as a result of spending much time alone, he became fairly self-sufficient.

(Whenever anyone asked him if he wouldn’t rather have a brother or sister, he would firmly say, “No!” and he hoped that the people asking him these questions would see to it that the proper authorities – whoever was in charge of bringing brothers and sisters – did not make any deliveries to his house.)

Being such a self-sufficient boy, he mostly wrapped his own presents. He had already wrapped all of his other gifts for family. Many of his relatives got handmade gifts of one sort or another. For instance, every year since he was able to handle crayons, he had made his grandfather a hand-drawn calendar, which his grandfather treasured receiving. Now, he wrapped the gift for his aunt in colorful paper, once again admiring how colorful the gift was, too.

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That night, Christmas Eve, he did what many Christian boys and girls try to do. Almost immediately after dinner, he went to bed. He tried to go to sleep at an abnormally early hour, hoping to thus wake up sooner and make Christmas come quicker. Before going to bed, he hung his stocking on his bedroom door (since there was no chimney or fireplace in his house.) He turned on the little transistor radio he had received as a gift on his last birthday and searched out a station playing Christmas music. In those days of his youth, it seemed the only time they ever played Christmas music on the radio was starting on Christmas Eve and he loved hearing all of the songs he heard (and loved) a year ago. His favorite was “Silver Bells”, and they played it not long after he lay down, much to his delight. Slowly, to the strains of “Do You Hear What I Hear?”, he drifted off to sleep.

(A curious thing about being a boy is that sometimes you can will yourself to dream what you want to dream. Not always, of course, but sometimes. You might think it an odd thing to dream, but the boy had dreamed of Yogi Bear and Huckleberry Hound every Christmas Eve [that is, every one in the memory of his short life] and he hoped that he’d have that same dream again this night, as it was great fun running around with cartoon characters. He did.)

Since he had gone to bed so early, he awoke at 3 am. He got up to go to the bathroom, but when he opened his door, he felt the heaviness of a full stocking on the other side of it, so thoughts of peeing suddenly took a backseat to seeing what Santa had left. He gently took out the tack that was holding the stocking to the door, making doubly sure he had a firm grip on the stocking and it wouldn’t fall on the hall floor (in case there was anything in it that might break) and he took it back to his bed, flipping on the bedroom light switch as he did so.

He wasn’t a greedy sort of a boy and so he didn’t just dump everything out on the bed in one fell swoop. Instead, he took the items out one at a time and carefully, lovingly, examined them. There were candy cigarettes with little bits of red food coloring on the ends to simulate their being lit; a set of jacks with a small rubber ball; a wind-up dog that did backflips until there wasn’t enough wind-up left (so then it landed on its head); a pinkie ball (great for three-flies-out on the front steps); one of those puzzles that you have to move around the pieces until you get it to read 1 through 15 in order; and a pencil with his very own name engraved on it! He attempted to solve the puzzle for a little bit, but then he remembered that he had to pee, so he did.

(He went to the bathroom to do so.)

After washing his hands and brushing his teeth, he went downstairs and plugged in the Christmas tree. He considered a Christmas tree the most beautiful thing on earth, and this one was filled with enormous colored lights, ornaments of all shapes and sizes, big handfuls of tinsel on every branch, and a long garland of popcorn (which he and his mother had strung one evening last week.) Topping it off was a white star with a red bulb inside it. He sat down on the floor and just stared at the tree for ten minutes, bathing in its warmth, both real (from the gigantic lights) and metaphysical.

He probably would have stared at it a bit longer, but his cat came along and started playing with one of the low-hanging ornaments and that broke him out of his reverie. He loved the cat very much and he loved watching her play - even more than he liked looking at the tree. After she failed to defeat the ornament - it still hung on the branch and she now wriggled on her back, enjoying the pine needles that had fallen - he went out to the kitchen and opened a can of cat food. Hearing the opener whirr, she came running like a shot - for a cat will take food over ornaments, every time (thus proving, once again, their innate intelligence.)

The boy poured himself a glass of milk and added some chocolate to it. He then took this back upstairs, drank it while eating a candy cigarette, and went back to sleep, listening to “The Little Drummer Boy” and imagining himself a poor boy playing drums for Jesus. The cat came upstairs and joined him in sleep, though what she dreamed of remains a mystery.

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When he awoke again, it was 7am and his mother and father were also awake. They all went downstairs and opened presents, enjoying some cocoa while they did so. The boy received wonderful presents of games and toys, as well as a couple of shirts and such that he knew he should be more thankful for than he was. The cat received a catnip mouse (from Sandy Claws) and was very thankful for it. The parents exchanged gifts with each other and were thankful for those, and they received the stinky perfume and the smelly cigars with warmth at the thought behind them.

Now it was time for mass, after which the family would head over to the aunt’s to exchange gifts, before heading off to the house of the boy's grandparents.

Mass was as mass usually is – something which cats are thankful not to have to attend. It wasn’t that the boy didn’t want to wish Jesus a happy birthday and all – he really loved the bible stories very much, and he admired to no end someone who would lay down his own life for that of his friends – but the priest saying the mass this morning just went on and on and on and on. Even though he had slept close to ten hours, the boy could feel his eyes drooping as the interminable homily crept, s-l-o-w-l-y, towards a conclusion that had stopped being meaningful to all but the most die-hard some ten minutes before. Finally, after the homily died its excruciating death and communion was served, and after everyone had sung a rousing “Joy To The World”, it was time to get on the road and go exchange presents with other family members.

After a 15-minute drive, the boy and his parents arrived at the aunt’s house. They went inside to a warm welcome from the aunt and the rest of her family gathered there, which included a few other adults and a couple of infants, the boy's cousins. After a few minutes of small talk (mostly complaints from the boy’s father concerning the length of the homily at mass) it was time to open presents.

The boy watched with delight as everybody opened packages and smiled. Here was the magic again. Everyone went "Ooh!" and "Ah!" in the appropriate places as they received the presents that others had purchased for them. And now, his aunt had his gift in her hands and she carefully removed the wrapping paper, revealing the gift for all to see.

There were some smiles. Not that the boy noticed, but there were also a couple of glances exchanged by the grown-ups with some muffled laughter included. The aunt looked at her gift, then looked lovingly at the boy. He looked back at her with love in his heart.

She said, “Oh, Jimmy, they’re just what I needed! Thank you, darling!”

She reached over and kissed him. He blushed and said, “You’re welcome.”

Never before had a package of red and green kitchen sponges brought such joy to two people.

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True story.

My Auntie Ba could have laughed at such a ridiculous gift. Some of the other adults might have joined in and then I would have been mortified. Instead, she gave me a marvelous gift that Christmas and she did so just by being her wonderful loving self. I don't even remember what her store-bought present to me was that year. What I remember is her giving me the knowledge that there is no such thing as a bad gift so long as there is love behind the giving of it.

May the gifts you give, whether large or small or precious or ludicrous (like sponges) be received as lovingly. And please receive with love every gift given you. You never know how profoundly your love might affect someone.

My Auntie Ba is gone now, and I miss her, but her spirit lives on with me every Christmas because of the gift she gave me.

Merry Christmas!

My Latest In The Boston Herald

My latest in the Boston Herald...

My Latest in the Boston Herald.

Thanks for reading!

Jim Sullivan

 

P.S. I know. This is a mighty poor excuse for a blog post, I'm just tired and I'm going to back to bed for a few more hours. I do appreciate you coming here, though. Pretend I said something witty.

P.P.S. Soon, with more better stuff.

P.P.P.S. Well, that certainly doesn't qualify. Sorry!

Happy Thanksgiving Day!

As is usual for me, this is a day of rest, relaxation, good food and football. I wish you the same.

Meanwhile, I have a column in the Boston Herald today. It contains some advice concerning how to keep your celebration restful, relaxing, tasty and... whatever adjective applies to football in your case. I hope you enjoy it.

HERE'S A HANDY LINK!

Thanks for stopping by. And Happy Thanksgiving!

Soon, with more better stuffing.

Veterans Day

Veterans Day is supposed to be a holiday wherein we honor our veterans. I’m going to name a few that matter to me. Maybe you’ll read the names, as well as the bits of information I give, and be spurred to give your own version of thanks to those in your life who deserve similar recognition.

I’ll start with a couple of veterans who are no longer alive.

Tom Sullivan was my father. He served in the Navy, during the Korean conflict, aboard the USS Mindoro, an aircraft carrier. He was an enlisted man who didn’t see action in combat areas, so far as I know, but he was damned proud of his service and he kept a framed copy of his honorable discharge hanging on a wall for the rest of his life. He earned a couple of medals and received a partial disability, for which he got a check from his government every month. It wasn’t much monetarily, but it was a reminder that he had lost something for his country - and that the loss was at least remembered and appreciated.

Later, I had a stepfather. He was an Army veteran of World War II. Bill MacDonald served in Italy and suffered greatly. He had a partial hearing loss from the big guns. His toes were frozen and frostbitten, from weeks in a cold and muddy encampment, while his unit tried to capture a German-held hill. He took shrapnel that left permanent scars. Awarded a purple heart and a bronze star, he was sent home with what was then known as “battle fatigue” – now renamed “post-traumatic stress syndrome” - and he thought it was just a polite term for cowardice, God bless him. Despite his unquestionable bravery, he believed people might view him as having shirked his duty in some way. He carried that psychological burden with him for years. What a damnable shame.

Others who have gone to their rest include: Bill Purin, my father-in-law, a Coast Guard vet with a great sense of humor who raised - along with his wife, Eleanor - four of the nicest and most intelligent people I know; and Buck Pennington, an Air Force master sergeant from New Mexico, who is still dearly missed around these parts for his always-cogent (and kind) commentary.

Remembering those who have passed is important, but maybe the best to be done on a day such as this is to honor those still with us. These people are dear to me and I want them to know I love them and appreciate their sacrifices on my behalf.

I have two uncles who did peacetime duty - Jim in the Air Force and Rick in the Army. My sister-in-law, Luann Sweeney, and her husband, Charlie, who was… excuse me, I learned long ago you don’t use the past tense with these guys… IS a Marine. He carries a steel plate in his skull from his tenure in the armed forces. Skip O'Brien, of the Navy, who never fails to make me laugh. My friends from Southie, Leo Greeley and Joey Magee, who did stints in the Middle East, as did John King from Milton (a veteran of TWO branches – Navy first, Army later.) Chris Goodrich, from Rhode Island, an Air Force Master Sergeant who did 24 years and who has written some of the most engaging histories it has ever been my pleasure to read, on his blog Chant du Depart. Rich Snider, a Naval officer, is a Vietnam vet, good training for having been my boss for some 20+ years. Dean Cook, a Marine and one-time Libertarian candidate for governor, whose campaign I was proud to manage.

I know there are others I’ll regret not having mentioned as soon as this publishes. If you're one of them, please forgive me for that. Thank you ALL for serving. Enjoy the day and God bless you.