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 the 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 and whispered in Pointy's ear (or, at least, what passed for an ear on Pointy.)

"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 was really 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 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 the building where they had stopped.

The door of the truck was still 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.

 

My Favorite Day of the Year

I have published this piece before, multiple times. The last was in 2019, so necessarily a few things have changed. Lovely people have passed on. Others have joined the feast. The day is now spent mainly at My Mom's home, rather than ours, but I still do the bulk of the cooking. In any case, Thanksgiving is still what the title says, and I felt I should say it all again. Here goes...

fris‧son / Pronunciation [free-sohn; Fr. free-sawn]
a sudden, passing sensation of excitement; a shudder of emotion; thrill.
(Random House Unabridged Dictionary)

My favorite day of the year is Thanksgiving.

I like all holidays. Any day off from work, or during which people come together to celebrate, or when you get (or give) gifts, is a good day. Some days, however, are more special than others.

Christmas used to be my favorite. When I was a kid, I went straight from one frisson to another during the week leading up to Christmas. The celebration of Christ’s birth was magical and there was no end to the ways that the world delighted me. As I’ve grown older, that magic has ebbed. I haven’t changed, though; it’s the world that has.

When I was a child, nearly every house in the neighborhood sported pastel lights of red, yellow, green, blue and orange, either as decoration outside or via a candle or two in the windows. The streets were bathed in an embracing warmth, a welcoming glow. Nowadays, the lights of choice are mostly cold; icicles and clear starbursts. I guess a lot of folks like them – otherwise, why would they have them? - but all they do for me is make the night streets too much like daytime. Those bright white lights don’t do anything but remind me of how cold it is in winter. The colorful lights of my childhood made me feel warm inside, even during the meanest of snowstorms outside.

I love Christmas music. I always have. Every year of my youth, I looked forward to it beginning, sporadically, after Thanksgiving, then building bit by bit until there was an entire glorious day and night of it from Christmas Eve through to Christmas Night. It then played on the radio all day, but only all day on Christmas and most of the day before. In the morning, while opening presents with my Mom and Dad, we played the two or three vinyl Christmas records we had at home. It was rare and therefore special.

Now the trouble is in trying to avoid it. Some radio stations start playing it 24 hours a day in October. Walk into any store and it's possible you'll be assaulted with it before Veterans Day. Seriously - and I mean this - if you like that sort of thing, God bless you. To me, though, Christmas music is like chocolate. A few pieces, rich and creamy, are delightful. Feed it to me non-stop for sixty days? All that is, is a sick stomach.

The final nail in my Christmas coffin is driven in by the greedy merchants who don't wait for Thanksgiving to be over before they start spewing forth their hideous advertisements.

I rail against it every year on my Facebook page, Thanksgiving Comes First. MY WIFE tells me to relax, that I can’t change it, that there really isn’t anything all that bad about it. I love MY WIFE dearly, but on that score she’s dead wrong. I’ll go to my grave cursing the theft of innocent joy from a lovely day. I try to ignore it, and I try to keep the spirit I believe in, but they keep throwing haymakers at me and a few do connect. I keep getting up off the canvas, but it isn't easy. Some reprehensible stores have taken to opening on Thanksgiving Day itself rather than having the decency to wait until so-called Black Friday, denying their employees a well-deserved holiday. The people running these companies have no soul.

Christmas still has charm. The real importance of it, for someone like me, is spiritual, and nobody can rip that out of me unless I let them. The people I share the day with, and with whom I eat good food and exchange lovely and loving gifts, are dear to me. They still make it a wonderful day, but that frisson I spoke of earlier, that I used to have in multiples during the season, hasn’t been felt in quite a while.

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

The only holiday I can count upon to deliver a frisson is Thanksgiving.

(I’m trying to set the world record for frisson mentions. Am I there yet?)

I've never had a bad Thanksgiving. As a matter of fact, I’ve had nothing but good ones.

For every other holiday, I can recall a bummer. There have been New Years Eves with toothaches and New Years Days with hangovers; Washington’s Birthdays with flu; Memorial Days with sunburns; July Fourths with car accidents; Labor Days with the dread of returning to school; Halloweens with stolen candy; and even Christmases with “Dear John” letters thrown into the mix; but never a bad Thanksgiving.

(I hope I’m not a victim of selective memory. Somewhere in the past there may have been one horrible incident I’ve tucked into a corner of my mind under lock and key. If so, and you know about it, don’t tell me. I’d rather be ignorant and happy.)

One of the reasons it’s so easy to have a good Thanksgiving is that nobody’s trying to sell you anything. It’s just good company, some football, great food, and maybe a nap with your belt loosened. The biggest thing anyone can put up for sale is a bird. There are no bogus guilt trips laid on you by manufacturers trying to make you feel as though you haven’t done right by your loved ones. All you have to do, to do right by your loved ones on Thanksgiving, is show up.

Oh, the smells of Thanksgiving dinner cooking! There is no perfume in existence that matches the fragrance of turkey, stuffing, gravy, squash, turnip, sweet potatoes, hot rolls, pumpkin pie, and all of the other mouth-watering aromas that emanate from the kitchen on that day. It is the smell of pure love. The one doing the cooking isn’t doing it because he or she is guilt-ridden. It’s being done because the people who will eat the feast are near and dear; as simple and lovely as that.

MY WIFE and I have hosted Thanksgiving at our place for the past 20+ years. It is the most sublime pleasure of my year to plan that meal and then prepare it. I’m the luckiest man in my family. I get to enjoy those smells longer than anyone else. And I get the lion’s share of the leftovers, too.

I remember lovely huge tables full of food at my paternal grandparent’s apartment in Roslindale, the vegetables served in great green ceramic bowls and topped with big pats of yummy sweet butter. I remember other times of waking in my upstairs bedroom to the smell of a turkey roasting in my childhood home in Dorchester. Later, after my parent’s divorce, I ate TWO huge dinners every Thanksgiving – the first cooked by My Father and the second served at My Grandma’s in Weymouth, where I would eat with My Mother. It wasn’t easy but, since I loved both of them too much to disappoint either of them, I did my duty. I even ate a couple of pieces of pie at both places so they’d have no doubt about how much I loved them.

I try to remember what the name of the holiday calls for – the giving of thanks. I look upon my preparation and sharing of food as a sacred rite. There’s no skimping on this meal. If money’s tight, it’s a way of showing my faith in the idea that God will bring better times. Always, it’s a time to be thankful for the good people who are sharing the table with me, and also for remembering those dear souls who shared the table in past times but, for whatever reason, are no longer gathered here.

There are lovely constants at Thanksgiving. For instance, every year the Detroit Lions play football. Well, at least they try and they ought to get credit for that.

The same stories sometimes get told at the table. There's one that never fails to get mentioned, concerning turnip and a Danish friend of the family.

Seems that one year, when this Dane was a holiday guest, my grandmother was preparing the food and one of the vegetables was turnip. The fellow laughed and said, in his Danish accent, “Turnip! Ha-ha! Very funny!” and when he was asked why he was laughing, he said, “Ho-ho! Yes, the joke’s on me! That’s a very funny joke. OK, you can take it away now.” Apparently, they only served turnip to pigs in his region of Denmark. He thought it was a joke for his benefit. When he found out it was something we actually ate and enjoyed, he became somewhat indignant (if not sick to his stomach.) Every year, when I bring out the turnip, that story returns for it’s annual telling. And I love it.

When the meal is over – well, at least that part of the meal which doesn’t involve pie – I turn my attention to the end of the Lion’s game. Meanwhile, the other folks have good conversation, coffee, tea and, yes, pie. I'm a New England Patriots fan, but I root for the Lions on Thanksgiving (unless they're playing the Patriots, of course.) If the Lions win, I have a piece of pie to celebrate their good fortune. Since this rarely happens, I console myself with a piece of pie when they lose. It’s all good.

The playing of some sort of board game is generally part of the after-dinner fun. Conversation is friendly and relaxed. Football is in the background on the TV. The desserts remain on the table for anyone who wants a bite more of anything.

Soon, it gets to be late afternoon and folks start leaving. We pack up some yummy leftovers for each person to take home and then finally it’s just me and MY WIFE, all alone in the house. At that point, I do what any manly red-blooded American male would do. I take a couple of the leftover rolls, slice ‘em open, stuff them with turkey and dressing and gravy, and eat them while I watch the end of the Dallas game (and if they'd lose as often as the Lions, I'd be a happier man, but, once again, Pie!)

The evening is usually spent cleaning up at a very leisurely pace, interrupted every so often with another snack (generally rotating between a small turkey sandwich with gravy and stuffing, then another slice of pie, then some more turkey, then pie, then... you get the idea...) although we have been known, on occasion, to bring a nice meal of leftovers to some friend or another who has to work. If I'm just home and doing dishes and such, whatever football game is on TV that night accompanies the clean-up (and if I feel more like watching the game, and snacking, than I do cleaning up, the clean-up can wait until morning. This is not a day for rushing through anything.)       

I wish you a Tremendously Happy Thanksgiving. Say your prayers, eat much, show love, enjoy the friends and relatives, and do yourself a favor by remembering that the stores will be open for another 32 days this year, after Thanksgiving and before Christmas, so no need to hurry.

Amen.

Uncle Jimmy

 

                                                       L to R - John, Molly, Uncle Jimmy

 

When this blog was actually alive and kicking, so was my Uncle Jimmy.

My Uncle Jimmy died a couple of days after Christmas in 2021, age 80. Today, we laid his ashes to rest.

It was delayed for a number of reasons, chief among them being that one of Uncle Jimmy's wishes was that he and his partner of almost 50 years, John Walsh (who predeceased him) desired that the cremated remains of their many beloved pets be included in their burial. However, one lovely cat is still with the living. Rather than spend possibly several years looking at the cat, then looking at our watches while tapping our feet, it was decided that we should go ahead with the service now and let McGee (the cat) not feel as though he was holding things up by continuing to live.

Anyway, Jimmy loved this blog and often gave me good family stories to share here. I feel it's only right to mention his service here. We celebrated Jimmy and John's lives via a burial service at Forest Hills Cemetery, one of the most beautiful resting places in New England. They bought the plot decades ago. Now they are there, forever together.

As part of the service, I wrote a personal remembrance of Uncle Jimmy. I didn't totally stick to the script, but I did use most of it. I now put it here and I hope Uncle Jimmy, and John, will like being (possibly) the final entry on this blog.

 

UNCLE JIMMY'S EULOGY 

My Uncle Jimmy was, in two ways, the coolest relative I had.

First, he was the uncle I looked up to as being totally hip. When I was a young teen, he was doing all sorts of things that made him appear awesome. Some of them were illegal, but coming from the neighborhood I came from and in the time period I was living in, that made him even more cool. It was the late 60s and early 70s, and he had shoulder length hair, a mustache, wore the latest fashions, listened to music on the cutting edge, had friends in high places (both politically and metaphorically), and could be counted on to do you a big favor if you needed one.

For instance, because of his high political connections, he secured a summer job for me with the city of Boston, at a time when I was hurting for work. Because of his other type of high connections, he got me and several of my friends tickets for my first real concert; second row seats for Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. He got those tickets directly from the promoter. He asked nothing in return from me other than a thank you.

He could be counted on to have the latest and the best of anything. He was the first person in my family to have a color TV, for example, in the 1960s, and it was top of the line. He had the best scotch - and the best weed. He was a daring pilot. And he had an almost unerring ability to spot humbugs, scams, hypes and liars. He was the hippest person in any room he entered.

The other way he was cool was in the sense of being reserved. He was, for all of his outgoing political ways, a very private person and not especially easy to get close to personally. If you knew enough about him, you understood why. He grew up at a time when his sort of lifestyle wasn't considered in any way normal. Not that he made a big secret of it; he was too cool to worry about what narrow-minded people thought of his choices. Everybody in the family knew and didn't care. But there were some situations where he considered it prudent to not be open and it no doubt contributed to him being so guarded in other ways.

Despite his cool demeanor, Jimmy was a generous person. He always offered help, if he felt someone might need it. He paid for a few things, for a few people I know of, while never expecting repayment. I admired that.

Another way he was generous – and this of course applied to John also – was in regard to animals. They loved animals and all of the many animals they took in hit the jackpot in terms of being loved and well cared for. I remember the first cat they had together. His name was Kitty Cat. Kitty Cat was a lovely purebred cat, an Abyssinian, with one giant flaw. He had one ear lopped off. Jimmy and John found him, as a kitten, in a trash barrel. The conjecture was that some heartless soul threw him away because his purebred status had been compromised with the injury to his ear. Anyway, Jimmy and John took him out of the trash, brought him home, and gave him all the love they possibly could, and Kitty Cat turned into a fine handsome big cat, extremely loving and friendly, and had a long full life because of their generosity.

Jimmy loved me, and I loved him. For whatever reason, I was just about the only Sullivan with whom he stayed in contact following the deaths of his siblings. Others made overtures to him, trying to establish relationships, but he almost always stayed aloof. I don't know why I was his chosen go-to for family, but I felt honored by it. Like I said, he spotted fakes a mile away, so it was a big compliment that he and I kept in touch so much. Jimmy didn't suffer fools gladly, so that was a compliment, also. Jimmy could be, if there's a best sense of this word, vicious. Generally, it was humorous; he'd make a joke or quip, but there was always a point and it was often that the person he was talking about was a jerk. He could be rough, and as a result it was a running joke among the Sullivans that, should Jimmy and John have separated, some wondered if we could get custody of John.

Small brag: I had a very popular blog for a number of years, and Uncle Jimmy loved it. He would call and tell me great family stories that he thought I could write up. I appreciated that, and I got a lot of material from him, some of which made its way into print on bigger stages when I had some success as a newspaper columnist. He also sent me any family ephemera he came across – photos and such, but also odd things like my father's catechism, a Sullivan heirloom of a kit for the Catholic sacrament of extreme unction, my great uncle Jim's handbook from when he was a Massachusetts state representative, political campaign buttons, and other odds and ends. He knew I'd enjoy seeing them and would treat them with some respect.

One trait Jimmy had, and I like to think I share with him, was loyalty. The most successful relationship of any in his generation in my family, was the one between he and John. Once Jimmy committed to someone or something, he was all in. You could count on his loyalty through thick and thin. Of my mother and father, and all of my aunts and uncles and their spouses, Jimmy and John's was the only relationship that lasted from start until a death. Everybody else had divorces, separations... Jimmy and John were solid and loyal. Donna and I have the second-longest relationship in our families, and maybe we'll be blessed enough to surpass the longevity of Jimmy and John.

I could go on, but just one other thing I'd like to mention in closing. Donna and I both love fruitcake. For many years, without fail, Jimmy and John would send us a fruitcake at Thanksgiving. This continued even through Jimmy's final illness. Despite both of their misgivings concerning organized religion, the fruitcake always came from the Trappist monks in Kentucky (the same ones who fashioned the urn for cremation...) We loved receiving it, enjoyed eating it, and will always be reminded of them around Thanksgiving when we don't receive that treat.

Thank you, Uncle Jim. May God bless you and John.