Happy New Year?

Celebrations change with age. My New Year’s progression has been as follows.

It started as a night when I was allowed to stay up but mostly failed to do so. I would fall asleep on the couch while my parents watched Guy Lombardo. They’d wake me a couple of minutes before the ball dropped in Times Square, to watch it happen on TV, but while they made a big production of the countdown, I was usually back asleep before midnight.

Then I was old enough to stay awake, but not old enough to drink. That was sort of like being given a yummy hot pizza, but being told I couldn’t eat it. So by the time I was legally able to get drunk, I did so with a vengeance — and became a jerk, albeit a legal one.

Sex entered the equation, too, and New Year’s was viewed by me as a holiday when “getting busy” was a prerequisite. That sure didn’t alleviate any tendency toward jerkdom.

In my late twenties, I wasn’t getting enough of a kick from just drinking and having sex. I used drugs, also. I became a wide-awake drunk because my drug of choice was cocaine. I was even more of a jerk than before, and now not even a legal one.

After age 32, I stopped doing cocaine and mostly stopped drinking. I got married, too. In other words, I finally grew up. Now on New Year’s, my wife and I would order Thai food, watch “Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve” (with me complaining about how none of the bands were really rockin’ much) and then we’d have a kiss at midnight and usually a bit more.

Around age 45, it got to be that we’d order Thai food, watch some of Dick Clark (but more of the annual Three Stooges marathon on TV), have a kiss at midnight, then maybe some sex or maybe not. We both knew there were 364 other days in the year.

By 50, we ordered Thai food, ate it, and then my wife would go read or maybe even go to bed while I settled in to watch the Stooges. If she was awake at midnight, I’d switch over to Dick Clark for her (although Dick Clark wasn’t really on his own show much anymore) and we’d have a quick smooch. If she slept through the ball dropping, though, no big deal.

Last year, I ordered the Thai food knowing full well that Curly having a saw raked across his noggin would be the highlight of my evening. That was OK because we BOTH went to bed before midnight and felt no guilt whatsoever.

We didn't even order any Thai food this year. As I write this, MY WIFE is asleep. She had a couple of glasses of wine earlier while I was watching the Celtics lose to San Antonio. She said she'd be up later, so we'll see. If she isn't, I'll watch Moe abuse Curly.

If you’re younger than I am, and still making a big deal out of New Year’s Eve, don’t make fun of me. You’ll do something similar, eventually, but only if you’re blessed with a partner with whom you’re extremely comfortable and still in love.

What you’ll discover, with maturity, is that trying to squeeze as much debauchery as possible into one evening isn’t the best way to start a new year. Also, you’ll find that no matter how crummy the previous year has been — and this was a pretty crummy one — you won’t be in as big a rush to have had yet another come and go so damn quickly.

I wish you happiness, whether it's the beginning of a new year or just some random date in the middle of April or October. If turning the page on a calendar gets your rocks off, more power to you. As for me, meh.

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.

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

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!

A Christmas Confession

[Originally published in the Boston Herald, 2013, but it's still 100% true.]

I am about to make an extremely shocking confession. You should probably be sitting down. It might even be advisable to take a drink of some sort; otherwise, the enormity of the truth I'm about to divulge may send you into immediate cardiac arrest.

Are you ready?

I love fruitcake.

[photo of a Colin Street, Texas, fruitcake - one of the best]

There, I’ve said it. It's not something a lot of people would admit to, but now that it’s out in the open I feel better. I am a man with no secrets. I may have marked myself out for scorn and derision, maybe made myself a pariah, what with the fruitcake bashing that goes on every Christmas season, but I’m willing to take some lumps for my beloved.

I am Humbert Humbert and fruitcake is my Lolita.

Some folks have no use for fruitcakes. They launch them with catapults, use them as doorstops, or perhaps pass one around as a joke gift at the office Christmas party. I, on the other hand, love little pieces of unidentified fluorescent green fruit embedded in cake with an approximate weight equal to lead. Bring it on! Cherries of a red hue unfound in any part or portion of nature? I can’t get enough. Feed me fruitcake from now until Epiphany and I’ll still not be satisfied.

Say what you will about my taste (or lack thereof) but it pains me every time someone makes the blanket assertion that nobody likes receiving fruitcake as a present. My eyes tear up at the very thought of such a kindness being done for me. Saying that no one eats them makes it harder for me to get one and I don’t appreciate that. Many are unwilling to risk embarrassment at the hands of the snarky jokesters who have made "fruitcake" some sort of holiday swear word. Every year, more and more fruitcakes sit forlorn on the shelves of stores, awaiting a nice home for the holidays, while receiving only insults from ignorant and unfeeling passersby. With all due respect, to hell with those jerks. I want my fruitcake!

Due to this rampant fruitcake bigotry, I find myself more and more fruitcake-deprived. I’ve received a few as presents, from brave relatives and friends willing to incur the wrath of hipper-than-thou 20-something clerks at the checkout counter, but these gifts have become fewer and farther between than my insatiable desires demand. I haven’t had to break down and actually buy one myself, but the prospect looms large and I don’t like it.

Are you a fruitcake hater? Take pity! If you have a fruitcake you wish to be rid of, please don't hurl it into space or relegate it to anonymous doorstop duty. Send it to ME. I'd love to give it a nice home (in my belly) and I promise I will not besmirch your reputation by telling anyone you actually once had one in your possession. Here's an address:

Sully’s Home for Wayward Fruitcakes

93 Winsor Avenue

Watertown, MA 02472

No joke – send it! I’ll gladly sacrifice my own health and well-being in order to keep the rest of America fit and trim.

Addendum: MY WIFE raises the possibility that eating fruitcakes received in the mail from strangers may result in my eating a poisoned fruitcake. I contend that the poison has yet to be invented that can take a fruitcake in a fair fight. Nevertheless, to ease her mind, I have promised to only eat those fruitcakes that arrive securely wrapped in their original packaging. The rest I will forward to other deserving parties; perhaps the state legislature. Thank you.

Soon, with more better stuff.

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 lived in a large greenhouse with his poinsettia family and other plant friends. He liked it very much.

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) and 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. I'm sure you get the idea, though. 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 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 up Pointy, 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

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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.

Solomon The Milkman

In honor of Hanukkah, a combination of two tales from my life.

Solomon The Milkman is about my grandfather. He wasn't Jewish but he pretended to be in order to do a favor for some real Jewish people. Oddly enough, as I relate in the second story, he was married to a woman who was Jewish but he probably had no idea that she was. Even more odd, she probably had no idea that she was, either. It was only through DNA testing of their offspring - my uncle - that our Jewish roots were discovered. Still later, DNA testing on My Mom also found Jewish roots.

Anyway, here are both stories, told in the order in which I originally told them. Solomon was published in the Boston Herald. The other tale was submitted for publication to many places, but rejected by every last one of them. I couldn't possibly tell you why. I think it's wonderful (but, of course, it's about ME, so I would.)


Solomon The Milkman

Let me tell you about my ersatz Jewish roots.

My grandfather Sullivan was a milkman for H. P. Hood. He told this story, which took place during the long-ago days when he did his route on a horse-drawn wagon.

His route traveled through the Mattapan section of Boston, which at that time was heavily populated with Jewish families. Now, some of the people to whom he delivered milk thought he was Jewish. They thought his name was Solomon, not Sullivan.

I'm not positive how this assumption came about, but it's not a stretch to imagine what might have happened. Someone in the neighborhood probably asked what his name was and he (or, more likely, one of his customers with perhaps an Eastern European accent) said, "Sullivan", and whoever had asked the question, with the idea already in mind that he might be Jewish, heard it as "Solomon". That person told someone else, and so on. It was possible. My grandfather didn't have the map of Ireland on his face like I do. He could have passed. Since he delivered milk in a Jewish neighborhood, his customers might naturally have assumed that he was Jewish, too. I don't suppose he would have had any reason to disabuse them of this notion. He probably figured it wouldn't hurt business to let them keep on thinking it.

Anyway, one day while he was doing his route, some older Jewish men called for him to come down off of his wagon so that he could help them meet the required numbers for a minyan; that is, so that they could have enough for prayer service, which required at least 10 men.

They yelled to him, "Solomon! We need another for a minyan! You got time?"

My grandfather was sharp enough to know what they were talking about. He had been delivering milk in that neighborhood for many years, so he was familiar with words and phrases and customs that an Irishman might otherwise not be expected to know. The question was: What should he tell these men? Should he spill the beans and let them know that he wasn't really named Solomon, but Sullivan? That he wasn't Jewish, but Catholic, and that his ancestry was Irish and French?

Well, my grandfather figured it this way: Who did it hurt if he helped them out? As long as they thought he was Jewish, God wouldn't be mad at them for including an Irishman in their prayer service, and he also figured that God would probably look kindly on him for doing the old Jews a mitzvah. So, my grandfather parked his wagon and joined the minyan.

He faked his way through by following the lead of the others. Having attended Catholic mass for many years, he knew he could probably get by with indistinct mumbling as long as he did the right body motions, so he kept his voice low, bowed when they did, and so forth. Afterward, the old men thanked him. He then got back on his wagon and finished his route. Of course, from that day forward there was little doubt along Blue Hill Avenue that Tom Sullivan (that is, Solomon the Milkman) was Jewish - and a fairly devout Jew, at that.

So, if someone calls me "Solly", instead of "Sully", I won't complain. My grandfather wasn't really a Jew, but he played one on his milk route.

Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam shehecheyanu v'kiyimanu v'higi'anu laz'man hazeh. (Amein)

Unexpected Roots

You might assume, from my name, that I have Irish blood in me. True. But let me tell you the rest of the story.

What you likely wouldn’t guess, either from my name or my looks, is that I am of 25% Spanish blood; what some would term Hispanic. My grandmother, on my mother’s side, was Spanish; somewhat dark-skinned, whereas I am pasty white. And I’ve had folks make disparaging remarks about people with Spanish roots in my presence because they were ignorant fools and they assumed I couldn’t possibly have that blood in me. Even if not meant as an insult to me personally, I took it as one. If I let it slide without punching you, it’s because I gave you the benefit of the doubt that, deep down, you weren’t just a reprehensible bigot with no redeeming value.

I have a nephew, Darian. He’s a sweet kid. I love him. His mother is white, his father is black. So, I have black people in my family, too. I don’t suppose I have to tell you I’ve heard lots of nasty jokes about black people told in my presence. I’ve usually let them slide, too, much to my discredit. I may not be as forgiving in future, so consider yourself warned.

Now let me tell you what my uncle, my father's brother, told me on the phone last night.

It seems he has done some genealogical research. During the course of that, he decided to get a reading of his DNA. By doing so, it can be determined what ethnic groups are in your bloodlines.

He told me what we already knew – lots of Irish. There were some other Northern European folks among our ancestors; nothing surprising there. Then he dropped a bombshell.

His results came back as 18.6% Ashkenazi Jew, with that blood from his mother’s lineage.

This means that I am, one generation further along, at least 9.3% Jewish.

Well, when he told me this, I had to laugh. This is because I grew up among family who were not averse to making jokes about Jews and who had no compunction about dragging out the most reprehensible generalizations concerning them. They didn’t hate Jews, per se; they weren’t mini-Hitlers who wanted them destroyed. Many of them actually had Jewish friends for whom they would have gladly gone to the wall. But they weren’t known for gracious use of the language when it came to them, either. When I was growing up, I heard many a derogatory term for Jewish people thrown around. Never, in my wildest dreams, did I imagine they were talking about themselves. Or about ME.

My father, God rest his soul, went to his grave believing he was purely Irish, Scot and French. Never once did it enter his mind that he could have been one of The Chosen People.

For my part, I now feel a whole lot better about being circumcised when I was a baby. I was kind of mad about it before yesterday, but now I realize it’s part of my cultural heritage.

The serious point here is that science is proving most of us are interrelated in ways we may never have imagined. And if you’re the type to indulge in racial slurs or ethnic jokes, you may not only be insulting the guy next to you without knowing it, the joke may also be on you.

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And, as I said earlier, I've since found out that Jewish blood also flows in My Mom. Therefore, getting it from both sides, I am the most Jewish living person in my entire family.

L'chaim!