My New Year Resolutions for 2018

I generally don't make New Year's resolutions. That's because I don't really care for New Year's as a holiday.

Don't get me wrong. I like having the day off, and I truly appreciate any day wherein the main activity is watching football. It's just that I find it a very flimsy type of holiday. Wow! We're turning a page on the calendar? Let's get drunk!

(You would think, from some of the stuff I've confessed to, that it would absolutely be my kind of holiday. Well, yeah, OK, maybe it should be. But it isn't. New Year's is amateur night. I went pro years ago, had a stellar career, retired, and was elected to the Hall of Fame on the first ballot. Watching the neophytes stumble around on December 31st is just painful.)

Be that as it may - and if you have more than three on New Year's Eve, but never more than two on any other day, it is - I have decided that this is the year I will actually make a list of resolutions. And keep every damned one of them, too.

I promise to smoke at least 7,000 cigarettes.

Yes, that's a bold one to lead off with, but I'm going to do it. I know it seems highly improbable, and I dare say that there are few of you who could do it, but I'm basically willpower personified.

I will eat at least 100 pounds of red meat.

I could have gone higher - heck, that's only about 1/10 of a cow - but the first resolution was so stunning, I'm willing to cut myself some slack on this one.

I vow to drink 100 gallons of milk, 15 gallons of cream, eat 25 pounds of refined sugar, and swallow at least 3 pounds of chocolate bon-bons.

This will not be easy, but I've got a plan. I'm going to do it gradually, meting out a bit of the task each day. Except for the bon-bons. With any luck, that part of it will be completed by January 4th.

I will spend a minimum of 600 hours on my couch, sluglike, watching other men sweat on my television.

Actually, that sounds as though I'm going to invite guys over to exercise and then drip all over my set, but you understand what I mean. I expect to have a full 5% of this one completed by the end of the first day. Yes, it will take a gargantuan and superhuman effort on my part, especially considering that I'll have to get up every so often to light cigarettes, eat hot dogs, put cream in my coffee, and grab another bon-bon, but I have faith in myself.

Now, some of you are no doubt saying, "Good Lord! This guy is going to be dead before May!" Yes, it may seem as though I'm setting the bar a bit too high for myself, and the stress associated with completing these tasks might kill a lesser man, but I figure if you're going to make resolutions, you may as well make them worthwhile and a true test of your character. If I fail, it will be a noble failure. Anyway, I'll relieve a bit of the pressure by lowering the bar a bit on my next resolution.

I promise to flip the bird to at least 12 other drivers.

That's only one a month. I have no doubt that opportunities will abound, and, if I put my mind to it, I could probably finish this one off in a single day. But, I'll let moderation be my watchword.

I swear to, at least twice, let the laundry pile up on my bedroom floor to a minimum height of four feet.

This one seems rather easy, but the laws of physics tend to work against you. Unless you let stuff get really stiff and crusty, the pile tends to topple before reaching the required height. I'll try my best, though.

I will look at the broken air conditioner, the broken television, the fourteen empty packing boxes, and the frame leftover from the no-longer-used futon in the back bedroom, and think about throwing them out.

Even without making a resolution concerning it, I've done this one at least 100 times over the past two years. I'm sure I can make enough of an effort to do so one more time in 2018.

OK, so some of you (all of you, if you have any brains) have come to the conclusion that I'm being facetious. I can't help it. I was born that way. However, in order to make your trip here something other than a total waste, here are some resolutions that, while actually hard for me to keep, I'll really and truly give my best shot.

During the roughly 52 trips I make to the supermarket to buy groceries, I'll actually NOT buy the cookies 5 times.

Every time I hit the cookie aisle, I tell myself that I don't really need to buy any. This year, I will steel myself and NOT buy the cookies once or twice. No, wait a minute, I said 5 times, didn't I? Whew! That was a fairly rash promise, but I guess it's too late now, having declared it in a public forum and all. I guess I have to do it. 5 times it is!

I will tell myself to start getting in shape for softball season, once every week, between now and April 10th.

You do realize that the expenditure of energy involved in this mental effort will burn a bare minimum of 15 calories, right? I'm exhausted already! And I should note that this will insure that, by the time the season begins in April, I will have done more than 90% of my teammates.

Finally, I absolutely vow to write a minimum of 100 blog entries that will be of interest to nobody, utterly inane, and serve no other purpose than to entertain myself. As a matter of fact, I promise to be so damned lazy that, at least once this year, I'll take an old post from years ago, change a couple of things in it, and pretend that it's completely new!

Hmmmmmmm. One down, 99 to go!

Soon, with more better stuff.

My Writing

As some of you already know, the recent bankruptcy declaration by the Boston Herald impacted me directly. Being a freelancer, I was an "unsecured creditor". All of the pieces I wrote for them during late October, all of November, and early December end up as a total loss for me. I was not paid for them and it's unlikely I'll be getting that money from the new owners, GateHouse Media. I'd like to be pleasantly surprised, but I have the chance of that proverbial snowball in hell.

Having said that, I've been told that there should be no problem receiving payment for the one piece I've had published since the bankruptcy. Yay. However, until I have that check in my hands, I won't be submitting any work to them. If you might have been wondering why you haven't seen a post about my stuff being published there recently, now you know why.

With that having gone down, I don't feel much like writing at the moment. I will, again, some time soon, I'm sure.

Meanwhile, we'll be OK. MY WIFE, as always, has been a rock. She is a blessing - and always has been.

For now, I'll be re-publishing some things. Some of these may make it into a book someday. Who knows? In any case, I hope you enjoy them as they make a reappearance on this stage.

I'll start with this...

UNCLE JIM'S STOCKING

Grand Uncle Jim

First things first: This is a story about an Irish family. While my name is Jim, and I’m an uncle, I also have an Uncle Jim of my own. There is an Uncle Jim mentioned in this story, but he’s not that Uncle Jim, although that Uncle Jim is the one who told me this tale of the other Uncle Jim. Actually, he’s Uncle Jim’s Uncle Jim, making him my Grand Uncle Jim (and some folks prefer the title 'great uncle', but let’s not open that can of worms.) It’s very confusing to the uninitiated, I suppose, so if it will keep you from getting a headache, feel free to think of him as Uncle Aloysius.

Anyway, when my father was very young – five or six - his Uncle Jim taught him a very valuable lesson.

My father had hung his stocking on Christmas Eve, as did all of the family. This included the older relatives, and that group included his Uncle Jim. Come Christmas morning, everybody took down their stockings and looked inside to see what Santa Claus had brought them.

The usual things were found inside the stockings - little toys, tasty candies, and other such trifles. Nice, of course, but nothing unusual. That is, until Uncle Jim inspected the contents of his stocking. He turned it upside down, and out rolled a lump of coal and an onion.

While good little boys and girls receive toys and candies, a lump of coal and an onion are, by tradition, what bad boys and girls receive. Seeing those things come from Uncle Jim’s stocking, my father laughed and laughed. Uncle Jim was a bad boy! He got a lump of coal and an onion!

While my father was laughing, Uncle Jim said, "Oh! This is wonderful! A lump of coal and an onion? These are just what I needed!"

My father thought his Uncle Jim had gone round the bend. How could someone be happy to have received a lump of coal and an onion in his Christmas stocking?

Uncle Jim picked up the lump of coal, then took my father’s hand and led him to the basement. They stopped at the furnace. Uncle Jim said, "It’s so cold today, this lump of coal is the perfect gift. I can put it in the furnace and we’ll be nice and warm all day!"

Uncle Jim then led my amazed father back upstairs. They returned to the family parlor, where Uncle Jim now picked up his Christmas onion. He led my father into the kitchen. While my father sat and watched, Uncle Jim chopped up the onion, and then mixed it with celery, bread, and spices. During all of this, he went on rapturously about how his stuffing for the turkey would have been no good whatsoever without an onion.

Later on, as my father sat in a warm house eating delicious stuffing with his Christmas dinner, the lesson was permanently burned into his memory: It doesn’t matter what you’re given. It’s what you do with it that matters.

Soon, with more better stocking stuffers.

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.

*********************************************

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.

*******************************************

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.

******************************************

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.

*******************************************

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!

Pointy The Poinsettia

Once upon a time, there was a poinsettia named Pointy.

(His given name was Poindexter Poinsettia, but everybody called him Pointy for short.)

Pointy liked living in a large greenhouse with his poinsettia family and other plant friends.

The world was a wonderful place full of bright sunshine, all the water he wanted to drink, and dark rich soil for his roots. He thought that he couldn’t possibly be happier.

Then, one day in November, some of Pointy’s friends weren’t around anymore. Pointy wondered where they had gone. He also wondered how they got wherever they went. They were plants, after all, and thus only able to walk extremely short distances.

Pointy asked his uncle, Pedro Poinsettia, where his friends had gone.

"Oh, it’s a joyous time of year, Pointy!" said Uncle Pedro.

"What do you mean?" asked Pointy.

Uncle Pedro leaned close to Pointy and whispered in his ear (or, at least, what passed for an ear on Pointy.) He said:

"In November, all the poinsettias who have grown big red leaves are taken from the greenhouse and sent all over the world to give joy to the people who celebrate Christmas. The people are very happy to have a poinsettia in their home or school or office. They smile and say things like, ‘What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty it is, with its big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!’"

Pointy was very excited. He had never considered the possibility of travel, but now he hoped that he might be able to go far away and see many interesting people and things. He enjoyed the thought of bringing great joy to people celebrating Christmas. He packed his bags and waited to be shipped.

(Well, OK, he didn’t actually have any bags. As a matter of fact, even if he did have bags, he wouldn’t have known what to pack in them. But, you get the idea. He was excited and ready to go.)

Finally, the day came when Pointy was planted into a big pot, all trimmed with pretty gold foil.

He felt extra-special now! He was then loaded into a truck, along with about thirty other plants. As the truck was driving away, he waved good-bye to his Uncle Pedro.

(No, he didn’t, really. No hands, you know? He did what he could, though. Uncle Pedro understood.)

*********************************************

As they were bumping down the road, Pointy looked around. He appeared to be the only poinsettia plant in the truck. He struck up a conversation with the flower next to him, a girl. He knew she was a girl because... well, he just did, that’s all.

"Hi, I’m Poindexter Poinsettia, but everybody calls me Pointy. What’s your name?"

"Rose."

"You're really pretty, Rose."

"Thank you. You have nice big red leaves."

Pointy blushed.

(To be truthful, he didn’t actually blush; his leaves were already red. But he WAS a bit embarrassed. Rose really was pretty, and it was nice to get a compliment from her.)

Pointy asked, "Do you know where we’re going, Rose?"

"Yes, I think so, Pointy. My Aunt Petunia said we’re all going to office buildings in Newton."

"Newton? Where’s that?"

"I’m not entirely sure, but I believe it’s east of Worcester."

"Oh! Is that a good thing?"

"It’s better than being in Worcester," said Rose.

Pointy looked out the window of the truck. Having never been out of the greenhouse before, he was amazed at how many plants there were everywhere. He saw great huge trees, and big green hedges, and large bunches of scary weeds, and gigantic expanses of grass, and even a few pretty flowers, like his new friend, Rose. However, he didn’t see a single poinsettia anywhere. This worried him a bit.

He asked Rose, "Am I going to be the only poinsettia in Newton?"

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

(Nah, not really. She didn’t have shoulders. She did indicate she didn’t know the answer to Pointy’s question, but shoulders never entered into it.)

The truck turned off of the road and into a parking lot. After it stopped, the back door of the truck opened and a man reached in and grabbed Rose.

Pointy said, "Good luck, Rose! I hope you bring much joy to the people in this building!"

Rose blew a kiss to Pointy, and then she was gone. The man carried her inside of the building where they had stopped.

The man had left the door of the truck open, so Pointy was able to see Rose being carried by the man. The man stopped and handed Rose to a woman sitting behind a desk. The woman immediately became very happy, a big smile appearing on her face.

As the man who delivered Rose was walking back to the truck, Pointy saw the happy woman carrying Rose all around her office, showing Rose to all her friends. Everybody smiled as soon as they saw Rose, and Rose was very happy in her new home. Pointy was also very happy, for now he was extra excited about how happy he was going to make the people where he was going.

The man closed the door to the truck. Soon, the truck was moving again. Pointy imagined being carried into an office where all the people would smile and say, "What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty it is, with its big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!"

While Pointy was imagining this, the truck stopped in front of another building. The back door to the truck opened and suddenly Pointy was in the man’s hands, being carried outside.

"This is it!" thought Pointy, "I’m about to make many people happy! I can’t wait to see their smiles, and hear them say ‘Merry Christmas!’"

The man brought Pointy up some stairs and then through a glass door. There was a woman at a desk just inside the door. Pointy tried to make his big, red leaves stand up as straight and proud as possible. As he did so, he heard the woman say:

"What the hell is that?"

The man said, "Gift from your landlord. It’s a poinsettia."

"Duh! I can see it’s a poinsettia. What are we supposed to do with it?"

"I don’t know, lady. I just deliver ‘em. Merry Christmas."

Pointy didn’t understand. The woman didn’t seem happy at all. Had he done something wrong?

The woman yelled to someone, "Hey, come see what we got."

A man came out of an office, saw Pointy, and rolled his eyes. He said, "Ugh! Another poinsettia? Every year, we get a friggin' poinsettia and every year we have no place to put it. What in the hell are we going to do with it?"

"Don’t look at me," said the woman at the desk, "I don’t have any room for it here."

Other people came out of their offices to see what the noise was about. As each one saw Pointy, they laughed and made faces and said mean things.

Pointy wanted very much to be back in his friendly greenhouse. This wasn’t at all as he had imagined it, or as Uncle Pedro had told him it would be. He wanted to just shrivel up and make himself as small as possible.

Finally, the woman at the desk took him and placed him on a wobbly table, near some stacks of old yellowed paper and bent paperclips and dried up pens that nobody ever used. Every so often, someone who hadn’t seen Pointy would walk by. At first, Pointy tried standing up proud and showing off his pretty red leaves. However, it was always the same story. Either the person just walked by without noticing him, or laughed and said something mean about him.

After a while, Pointy just gave up. He stopped caring what the people said. He started losing his big red leaves that he had been so proud of. As he did so, the people in the office started saying even worse things about him. They kicked at his fallen leaves and, when they picked them up, they threw them in the garbage, cursing. He could feel his roots drying out. Nobody gave him any water. Nobody cared about him. There was no sun; just a cold bit of light from some fluorescent tubes. As much as a poinsettia had a heart, Pointy’s was broken.

Pointy lost many more of his leaves. He was dying. He wanted to die. Life was a miserable thing. Christmas? It was just a cruel joke. He had imagined much love, and had received none.

**********************************************

One day, about a week after he had been delivered, a new person came into the office. Pointy hadn’t seen this person before, but he expected to hear more of the same insults and derisive laughter. He didn’t care. What could this person say to hurt him more than what he had already lived through?

The new person said, "Hey, who gave us the poinsettia?"

The woman at the desk answered, "Oh, the landlord gave us the damn thing. It’s been shedding leaves ever since it got here."

Pointy listened disinterestedly.

The new person said, "Well, heck, maybe he needs a little water. Has anybody given him a drink?"

Pointy’s ears perked up (or, at least, what passed for ears on Pointy.)

"Let’s give him a drink," said the new person.

"Knock yourself out," said the woman at the desk.

The new person went into the kitchen and Pointy could hear water running. As much as he thought he was beyond caring, he felt himself thirsting for a drink. The new person came back out carrying a cup full of water. He poured it into Pointy’s dirt.

Pointy was shocked by how good it felt.

The new person said, "There you go, guy. How’s that?"

Pointy wanted to jump out of his pot and give the person a hug!

The new person said, to the lady at the desk, "Hey, do you mind if I take him into my office? Maybe I can bring him back to life."

The woman at the desk said, "Give it your best shot, Jim, but I think it’s a lost cause."

Jim! That was the friendly man’s name! Pointy tried to make what leaves he had left stand up a bit for Jim, but he was too weak to do very much. He noticed with gratitude that it didn’t seem to matter to Jim. Jim was picking him up and taking him into his office anyway.

************************************************

Every day, Pointy waited for Jim to arrive. Every day, Jim did something nice for Pointy. He gave Pointy a drink of water, or put him where he could get a bit of sunshine. When one of Pointy’s leaves was withered and painful, Jim gently removed it, giving Pointy space to grow a new, stronger leaf.

Finally, it came to the day before Christmas. For all of the love Pointy was receiving from Jim, there was still the pain of knowing that what he had heard about Christmas was untrue. Nobody had seen him and said, ‘What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty it is, with its big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!’

Pointy had grown back some big, green leaves. The few red ones he had left were strong and bright now. He wished that someone would get to see them for Christmas. He wished that he could bring someone some joy. Of course, Jim liked him, but he still wanted to believe in what his Uncle Pedro had told him during that time which seemed so long ago now. He wanted to be a plant that made people smile at Christmas.

It was December 24th. There had been a party in the office and now Pointy saw lights being turned off and he heard people saying cheery good-byes, wishing each other happy holidays. Well, he had been lucky to find one new friend, he supposed. Maybe that would get him through the holiday. Jim would be back in a couple of days, and that wouldn’t be so bad. At least he made Jim happy.

He heard the door lock. It was dark and cold now. His leaves drooped a bit. Even though he expected to spend Christmas alone in the office, he had still hoped...

(*CLICK*)

Pointy heard the door to the office open and he noticed one light come on.

"Probably the cleaning people", thought Pointy.

But then, there was Jim! Jim bent down and picked Pointy up, carried him out of the office, down the stairs, and out into the... SNOW! Jim put Pointy down into the cold white stuff!

Oh, no! Was Jim tired of him, too? Was he leaving him to die in the snow? What a cruel world!

Pointy only had a few seconds to entertain such morbid thoughts. Jim picked him up again, put him into the front seat of his car, put a seat belt around Pointy's container, and turned on the heat. Then Jim started driving. Jim was taking Pointy home! For Christmas!

And so Jim DID bring Pointy home for Christmas, and Pointy saw Christmas lights and Christmas trees, and he had sunshine and warmth and as much water as he wanted to drink. He had a seat of honor by the fireplace, where the stockings hung, and he was given some lovely ribbons to wear. And love. Pointy was given love. And on Christmas morning, Jim (and JIM'S WIFE) said to Pointy...

"What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty you are, with your big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!"

Pointy was the happiest poinsettia in the whole entire world!

THE END

**************************************************

Text by Jim Sullivan, who wishes to thank Meghan Wilson for her wonderful illustrations.

Remember, if you get a happy poinsettia for Christmas, it doesn't have to be thrown out with the old tree and discarded wrapping paper. With a bit of love, it can keep growing for years. It probably won't have big red leaves all that time, but green is a nice Christmas color, too!

Soon, with more better stuff.

I Hope My Buddy Likes This

About a week ago, I was not a happy camper. But then someone went out of his way to do me a favor. And that's the topic of my column in today's Boston Herald.

Robby and me, prior to a cold game in The Fens about four years ago

He refused any payment for his good deed, so the best I could do was give him some ink. So that's what I've done. And here it is, if you click on the link.

Thanks for stopping by. I do appreciate you reading my stuff, whether here or there or elsewhere.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Pearl Harbor

Pearl Harbor happened on December 7th. My column about it ran yesterday, the 6th. My editor - who knows her history, so don't think unkindly of her - thought that running my column on the day before would work also, perhaps as a reminder to remember the following day.

Here it is.

If you enjoy it, and want to share it with others on the 7th, I won't complain.

Thanks very much for taking the time to travel where my columns show up. I do appreciate it.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Looking For Holiday Gift-Giving Ideas?

Well, if you're in the Boston area, or you want to give a gift to someone in the Boston area, you need look no further than my column in today's Boston Herald.

Anthony Mitchell Sammarco

Seriously, the person I talk about is an amazing writer of Boston histories loaded with fascinating collections of vintage photographs and illustrations, and anyone in this area - even SPECIFALLY in their own neighborhood - would find them extremely entertaining. At least, I certainly have.

As always, thanks for reading.

Soon, with more better stuff.

A Day (Six Of Them, Actually - All Saturdays) In The Life

Some well-meaning people - including MY WIFE - have been hectoring me for years now to write a book. They are swell people - especially MY WIFE - but I've mostly brushed them off because I wasn't quite sure of how to do it. Now, however, I have an idea for the general outline.

What follows was first written in 2007, when it contained only five days. Now updated to six days, since I've gone past age 60, it will be the preface to my book. My plan is to then fill the gaps in each decade with two or three stories concerning what I did during that time to reach whatever state I was in entering the next decade.

I don't know if it will sell but, while I'm putting it together, I'll be able to imagine myself making the rounds of all the major TV talk shows while promoting the book. I think I'd enjoy that. I don't know if the talk show hosts would, but screw them. This is my fantasy.

**************************************

A Day (Six Of Them, Actually - All Saturdays) In The Life

AGE 10 (1967)
5am – I wake up. Realizing that it’s Saturday and there’s no school, I literally bounce out of bed and hit the ground running. I take a pee and haphazardly brush some of my teeth. After bounding downstairs, I turn on the huge black-and-white Admiral television.



While waiting for it to warm up, I go to the kitchen, feed the cat, and then pour out a huge bowl of Quake. I drown the cereal in whole milk and sprinkle three tablespoons of sugar on top of it, even though it’s already 50% sugar.

5:10am – I carry the enormous bowl of cereal to the living room, possibly spilling a bit along the way. It’s a cold summer morning, so I turn the thermostat up to 80. The TV is showing an Indian Chief test pattern.


Turning the knob that changes channels, I find nothing but static on any of the other three Boston stations. I settle down on the shag carpeting and eat the cereal, waiting for the fan-forced gas heat to come out of the vent in the wall. I stare at the Indian Chief and wonder why he’s on a test pattern.

5:15am – The heating system makes the distinctive sound that tells me the heat is just about to come on. I get my body right up next to the vent, in anticipation. The heat comes on. Ahhhhh! Nice! The cat, having finished her breakfast, comes into the living room and curls up next to me - and the heat.

5:20am – An announcer comes on and tells me what station I’m watching, how many megahertz they’re broadcasting at, and where they’re located. He has a distinctive and soothing baritone voice. I wonder if he owns the station and maybe, if I write to him, he’ll tell me why there’s an Indian Chief on the test pattern. Finishing my cereal, I drink the sugary sludge of milk from the bottom of the bowl while listening to the National Anthem and the Morning Prayer. Mom and Dad are sleeping soundly upstairs. They don’t get up until at least 9:30 or 10 on Saturday morning. I am king of the castle!

5:25am – Farm And Market Report comes on. It’s complete gibberish but somehow soothing, anyway, because I know that something to actually watch will be coming on next. I wonder if there are any real farmers in Boston, listening to this stuff and saying to themselves, “Corn ain’t gittin’ a good price today. I’ll wait fer next week to sell it.”

5:30am – Public service program comes on, produced by UNICEF. It wants to tell me about dam building in Africa. I get up and switch the station, to see if any of the other channels have cartoons yet. Nope. It’s either UNICEF or test patterns. I watch a test pattern of (no doubt many glorious colors, but on our black-and-white TV, gray) bars for a minute or so, then decide that dam building in Africa isn’t so bad. While it plays in the background, I open a volume of the Golden Book Encyclopedia (Volume XIII, Rabbits to Signaling, as a matter of fact.) A gift from my grandfather, it is my favorite set of books. This particular volume tells me all about the races of man (Caucasian, Mongoloid, Negroid) and shows a drawing of an Asian in colorful silk robe and funny tasseled hat in front of a pagoda, while a black man is tap dancing. A Caucasian, meanwhile, is pictured in front of a Frank Lloyd Wright split-level with a neatly manicured lawn. He is sharply dressed in suit and tie, staring off into the middle distance as though the cure for cancer lies just beyond his square jaw and steely-blue eyes. I think Caucasians MAY have been the target audience.

6:00am – Boomtown comes on. While Rex Trailer and his sidekick, Pablo, are in the bunkhouse deciding what to do today, I go out to the kitchen and start mixing some Aunt Jemima batter to make pancakes. I put bacon in the frying pan.

6:10am – Popeye is saving Olive Oyl from Bluto. Meanwhile, I’m saving bacon grease in a tin can we keep on the kitchen counter. I have no idea why. I don’t remember us ever using that grease for anything. I guess we just didn’t want it down the drain. I pour pancake batter into the greasy pan.

6:35am – I take the bacon and stack of pancakes (smothered in maple syrup) out to the living room. I eat them while watching Rex and Pablo. I give a piece of bacon to the cat.

6:55am – Rex and Pablo leave the bunkhouse and ride into Boomtown. I go get the newspaper that was just delivered on our front porch. I read the funnies and the Red Sox box score. My favorite player, Tony Conigliaro, hit a home run last night. The Red Sox are in first place for the first time ever in my entire life. The Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner Hour, The Wacky Races, and Tom & Jerry await me.

The world is a miraculous place full of laughter, friendly well-fed cats, good things to eat, fan-forced heat, interesting people, loving parents, and the promise of a sunshiny day playing baseball with friends. I couldn’t possibly ask for more.


AGE 20 (1977)


7:15am – The radio is playing something by Barry Manilow. I roll over, curse the DJ, and shut it off. I light a Kool and lay back in my bed, smoking. I then realize that it’s Saturday and I don’t have to go to work. I sit up on the edge of the bed and roll a joint. My Mom and Dad have been divorced for about five years now, and my Dad is out of town on a business trip. I figure to carry a steady buzz all day, but I especially want to be stoned for the Saturday morning cartoons. Being stoned gets me closer to how I felt when I was a kid and watched them. Not completely, but closer than when I’m straight.

7:25am – Get out of bed, take a pee and brush my teeth. Go downstairs and put the heat under the coffee. While waiting for it to warm up, I go out on the back porch and smoke the joint. Go back in and pour the coffee, adding three teaspoons of sugar and a lot of cream. Feed the cat (a different one) and then go to see if the newspaper has been delivered yet. It hasn’t.

7:40am – Flip around through 20-or-so channels on cable. The best thing available is Boomtown, with Rex Trailer and (now) Sergeant Billy. A Popeye cartoon comes on. Popeye is still beating up Bluto and eating spinach. The spinach looks delicious. I realize that the buzz is creeping up on me.

7:50am – Mix pancake batter and put bacon in frying pan. I decide that I can’t wait that long. Put pancake batter in refrigerator. Leave bacon in frying pan. I can heat it up later. Eat cold leftover egg foo yung.

7:55am – Eat cold leftover pork strips and egg rolls in living room while flipping through channels. Hear big crash from the kitchen and then see the cat come running by with half-cooked bacon hanging from his mouth. Go out to the kitchen and mop up grease from the linoleum. Stop cursing only when I hear the Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner theme song start playing. Yay!

8:01am – Laugh like a loon as Wile E. Coyote gets caught in one of his own traps.

8:02am - I then begin to wonder if Wile E. Coyote has a charge account with ACME. How does he buy all that crap? Why doesn’t he just have a side of beef shipped to him and save himself all this trouble? And what does the ACME delivery guy think when he carts a crate of birdseed, a see-saw, and a two-ton weight to the middle of the desert, and a coyote signs for it?

8:03am – Laugh like a loon as Wile E. Coyote gets hit on the head with his own two-ton weight.

8:04am - Smoke another joint.

8:23am – Come to realization that there is only one Pepe Le Pew script, recycled for each new cartoon. Heavy, man!

9:00am – It’s another hour until The Three Stooges come on, so I plug in my bass and put Master Of Reality on the record player. My band has a gig tonight, so this counts as practice. Halfway through Children Of The Grave, I hear the newspaper hit the front porch. I unplug the bass, shut off the record player, and go get the paper. I read the funnies slowly, admiring the artwork. I read the Red Sox box score and then it’s time for The Stooges.

The world is a miraculous place full of laughter, larcenous cats, good things to eat and smoke, interesting coyotes, loving (if absent) parents, the promise of a day watching baseball on TV, and an evening of being on-stage playing rock-n-roll, with an order of sex and drugs on the side. I could ask for more, but I’m not that greedy.


AGE 30 (1987)

11:05am – The radio is playing a paid program about bowel cleansing. I realize I’m awake. I have a vicious headache. My skull feels as though someone filled it with shredded brown paper bags and then lit them on fire. My nose is clogged beyond belief and there’s a spot of blood on my pillow.

I remember that – again - I have spent every penny of my paycheck on cocaine and vodka. I have no desire at all to leave my bed, but my Dad is downstairs and he hasn’t seen me since Thursday evening. He probably waited up until 2 or 3 in the morning, hoping to hear me pull into the driveway safely, but then gave up and went to bed. The least I can do is drag myself downstairs, force a bleary-eyed smile, and try to eat a bite or two of the lovely breakfast he’s cooked – and for which I have absolutely no stomach.

I light a Kool and shuffle into the bathroom. I pee, dark yellow and foul smelling. I brush my teeth, but it doesn’t help much. I climb into the shower and turn on the hot water full blast. I stand there, letting the steaming water hit me, hoping to quell the headache somewhat and loosen the crap in my nose. My father waits patiently downstairs.

I have a dead-end job and an ongoing dead-end relationship. The only thing I look forward to doing is drugs. I sometimes enjoy playing softball, but half the time I’m coked up when I’m doing that, too. I haven’t played the bass more than three or four times in the past year, and I haven’t been in a band in ages. I don’t give a damn about the Red Sox or anything else. The funnies aren’t funny any more and the latest cat just died from feline leukemia.

The world is a place full of times to endure until I get more money for drugs. I have the promise of a day filled with lying on the couch, blinds drawn, feeling guilty. The only reason I don’t want to die is because I’m already dead. I wouldn’t ask for more because I don’t deserve it.


AGE 40 (1997)
 
7:00am – The window is open and the birds are singing. It’s sunny, but cool. I realize it’s Saturday and I don’t have to work today. I get up, go take a pee, and brush what’s left of my teeth. MY WIFE is still asleep. I have a doubleheader this morning at Smith Field in Brighton.

7:05am – I light a Kool and sit in my underwear, going over the scorebook from the season thus far. I’m the manager of the Bombers, a good group of guys to play ball with. I’ve played ball with them on Saturday mornings since moving to Watertown in 1994. Today we play at 9am. I’ll be at the field by 8am at the latest. I’ll have 10 minutes, at least, until anyone else shows up. It’s nice to sit there in the cool morning, listening to the birds sing, doing some light stretching and imagining all of the possibilities that the day might hold in store.

7:15am – I finish my cigarette, strip down, and hop into the shower. I turn on the hot water full-blast, letting it wash over my body and loosen the muscles. While standing in the shower, I reflect on how much my life has changed this decade.

I have a good job, which I got as a result of having gone to broadcasting school. I’m off of drugs. I play softball in two different leagues full of good people. Best of all, I’m married to a beautiful and supremely funny woman.

My Dad is dead. He died three years ago. I was clean and sober, and pretty much had my act together, long before he passed away. I thank God for that. If he had died while I was still an asshole, I would now have unbearable guilt. At the time of his death, though, he was proud of me and of what I had worked to become. I had a chance to pay him back for some of those times he stayed awake worrying with a broken heart.

I’m sporadically playing the bass again, as well as keyboards. I also have a collection of other odd instruments, courtesy of MY WIFE. She gives me one every Christmas. I have a thumb piano, a chanter, a triangle, an ocarina, a ukulele and a tongue drum. Someday, I’ll get my act together and make a recording using all of them.

12:15pm – I stop and buy a newspaper on my way home from the games. When I get home, MY WIFE asks me how we did. She likes it best when we split, because then she thinks everybody is happy. After a shower, I settle in, reading the funnies and checking the Red Sox box score. Later today, we’ll go out for Chinese food with my Mom and stepfather, Bill.

The world is a miraculous place full of laughter, good things to eat, lovemaking, caring relatives, good friends and co-workers, and the promise of many more years playing fast-pitch softball. There’s no cat, because MY WIFE is allergic. I’ll take that trade any day.



AGE 50 (2007)

 

7:15am – I started writing this piece.

1:00pm – I’m finishing it up now. I’ve taken breaks for coffee and cigarettes, to talk to MY WIFE, to eat some leftover sushi, and to play the bass a bit. Still no cat, but later on I’ll watch the Red Sox play some Tigers. I've got new uppers (implants) that are way better than my old rotten teeth. We’ve got three air conditioners, two televisions (with 80+ channels of interesting stuff on cable), all the food and drink we could possibly want, 49 teddy bears (or reasonable facsimiles thereof) and I have - at the very least - a few more sunshiny days of playing fast-pitch softball to look forward to this year.

The world is a miraculous place, indeed.



AGE 60 (2017)



My softball-playing days are behind me. Last year, at age 59, I stroked a line-drive single to right field and started jogging to first base. Then something happened that I had seen happen to other people but which had never happened to me before. The right fielder charged the ball and came up throwing to first base.

As I saw him doing so, my softball life flashed before my eyes. I was fast enough, when I was younger, to occasionally stretch singles into doubles. Now, though, I was about to be thrown out from right field on a clean hit. And I had sworn to myself, years ago when I saw it happen to other old guys, that if it ever happened to me I would quit the game right then and there. It happened, I was out, and I stood on first base with my head down knowing it was over.

(Since my manager was nice enough to not immediately remove me from the batting order, I did take one more hack at it a couple of innings later. I shouldn't have. I hit a slow dribbler back to the pitcher and didn't even leave the batter's box. I just stood there and watched the pitcher throw me out. Not even running was perhaps even more disgraceful than being thrown out from right field. At that point, I told my manager I was removing myself from the line-up. He didn't argue.

I was fool enough to take a few at-bats and play a couple of innings at first base after I turned 60. I mostly embarrassed myself by doing so, but in another ten years I'll tell younger players I played when I was 60 and they'll be impressed.)

I now have new uppers AND lowers. Still better than my originals.

MY WIFE is still MY WIFE. That's the best thing in my life, of course.

As for other less-important things, I lost my job of 20+ years at the age of 55. The company I worked for was sold and I was the only employee fired. I was the highest-paid person on the payroll, so I imagine that had something to do with it. Anyway, I had to find something else to do to earn money, so I decided to see if I could make a buck writing. I had been blogging for more than 10 years, getting a good response, and I had sold a couple of op-eds to newspapers in the year before my firing, and I also had no idea what the hell else I might be able to do at my age besides go flip burgers someplace, so I started writing and sending stuff off to various newspapers and magazines. I was blessed to have a few kind editors buy my stuff.

And now here you are reading my book. The world is still a miraculous place, maybe more so than ever before.

On the following pages, I'll be filling in some of the gaps between the decades. As you've probably gathered, it has been a roller-coaster ride. Here's hoping you'll find it enjoyable.

The following is what I usually closed with on my blog. It's illiterate, but by the time I became ashamed of it I had been doing it for too long to stop and my readers expected it at the end of each column. However, it's what God keeps telling me. Sometimes, when I said it, it was a lie. When God says it, never.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Only 29 Shopping Days Until Christmas!

My piece in today's Boston Herald is all about the countdown to Christmas. There are now 29 shopping days remaining.

Knowing my feelings about such abominations as Black Friday, you might expect me to say exactly what I say. Or maybe I've thrown an unexpected curveball and I've said the exact opposite of what you might expect. Or maybe you don't spend every waking moment wondering about what I have to say (which I would find extremely disappointing, I must say.)

In any case, you can click onto this here link and find out what I have to say, rather than spend all day wondering about it.

Thanks for coming here, and for going there, and for - basically - just being you.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Happy Thanksgiving!

If you've been coming here for any appreciable length of time, you're probably getting tired of me saying, "If you've been coming here for any appreciable length of time." Be that as it may - and it probably is - long-time readers know Thanksgiving is my favorite day of the year. I've rhapsodized about it before, I'll do so again, and today's piece in the Boston Herald is more of the same.

Here's a link to it.


I hope you enjoy the piece. More importantly, though, I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving. Your coming here means the world to me. May God bless your day and may you be well aware of those blessings.

Soon, with more better stuffing.

MY WIFE

If you've been coming here for any appreciable length of time (which is a puzzler, but I appreciate your mental illness) then you know that I always refer to MY WIFE as MY WIFE; that is, in capital letters. It is a form of respect.

The Boston Herald, which I am proud to be published in, does not allow me to put MY WIFE in all capitals. Oh, well. They pay me, so I won't get all pouty about it. Otherwise, they are remarkably accommodating of my peccadilloes (and I'm not even married to them.)

Anyway, today's piece in the Herald is mostly about MY WIFE. You should click onto this link and go read it. As a bonus, there's a story about me being a dope. What more could you want? Before you do, though, here is a selection of photographs and/or caricatures of MY WIFE, just in case you want to picture her while you're reading my love letter.

(There'll be another link later, so you don't worry about scrolling back up. I'm always thinking of your ease and comfort! Note: these are not in chronological or even logical order. Enjoy the random love!)

Here's the link to the article, as promised. Thanks for stopping by!

Soon, with more better stuff.

Thanksgiving Comes First

If you've been coming here for any appreciable length of time, you know what the headline is about. If not, you can find out by reading my piece in today's Boston Herald.

As always, I love you (unless you disagree with me, in which case I still love you but I don't have as much respect for you as I would have the other way around.)

Soon, with more better stuffing.