The Ghost of Christmas Past

(Pinewood Social.  Opened today at 2:00 p.m., including the Creme coffee bar.  The place is rocking, as I drink my coffee at the community table directly across from the bar.)

Every year, I plan on taking time off from work leading up to Christmas and in between Christmas and New Year's Day.  And, every year, it seems like something comes up that prevents me from doing so.

This year was no different.  A legitimate emergency arose in a case I have with a new client, so it was all hands on deck leading up to Monday, December 23.  I also had an emergency hearing set on Monday afternoon at 2:30 p.m.  Fortunately, we were able to work out an agreement and avoid the Monday afternoon hearing.  Although the judge approved our agreement in court when I announced it Monday morning, I found myself at my desk, crossing items off my "to do list" as mid-morning turned into early afternoon.

I closed the office - or at least my part of it - around 2:00 p.m. and what remained of my staff practically ran out the front door.  They turned out the lights as they left and I found myself, alone, sitting in my office gazing at what was, for me, a reasonably clean desk.  Still, I couldn't really bring myself to leave.

Why?

I'll tell you why.  Because I knew that the minute I got up to leave, I would be walking right up to the Ghost of Christmas Past.

My mom loved the holidays.  She especially loved Christmas.  The decorations.  The music.  Church.  The basketball and football games on television.

Most of all, she loved getting together with family on Christmas Day.  Cooking.  Sharing a meal together.  Watching the kids and, later, grandkids, play in the backyard.  And, of course, the opening of presents, which can only be described as pure chaos.

Every family has its holiday traditions and every family does Christmas a little bit differently.  

When it comes to opening presents, some families - like Jude's - typically open one present at a time while everyone else looks on and murmurs with approval as each present is opened.  It's a very deliberate process.  

That's not the way it was at my mom's house, however.  Not by a long shot.  First, we ate lunch, usually in the mid-afternoon.  Scattered throughout the playroom, den, and kitchen, we sat together as an extended family and shared a meal together.  Always, we had to remind my mom to make a plate for herself, because she was here and there, making sure everyone else had enough to eat.  After we finished eating, the real fun began.

The youngest children - David Clark and Alice in the early days - delivered the gifts to the recipients, usually gathered int the playroom, from under the Christmas tree in the living room.  In later years, Kaitlyn and Matthew took over until, finally, they passed the delivery responsibilities on to J.P. and Joe.

After all of the presents were delivered, everyone began opening them.  At the same time.  So, in roughly 10 minutes, all of the presents had been opened amidst a cacophony of "thank you's" and "I love it's".  Balled up wads of wrapping paper flew everywhere in the playroom, as we (well, usually I) tried to peg any unsuspecting or unaware relative.  The key, of course, was to look innocent after pegging someone, so they didn't know who had hit them with the wrapping paper ball.  Predictably, it was a game I invented, and perfected.

I passed my skills along to all of the grandkids, of course.  And especially to my boys, J.P. and Joe.

Always and I mean always, my mom feigned anger and irritation when she was hit by a wrapping paper ball.  "Stop it," she would growl at us.  Secretly, though, she loved it.  At least that's what I told myself then, and that's what I'm telling myself now.

It was pure pandemonium and my mom loved every minute of it.  No formality.  Just fun.  She was in her element on Christmas Day, presiding over the festivities.

I can see my mom, right now, sitting on the couch in the playroom, probably wearing a Christmas sweater of some sort, with her presents piled all around her, watching contentedly as everyone else open up their presents.  Tracy, Alice, and I always had to nag and cajole her to open up her presents rather than simply watching others open up theirs.

But, see, that's who my mom was in a nutshell.  She couldn't have cared less about what presents she received.  That was an afterthought to her.  Christmas, for her, like so many other things in her life, was about everyone else.  Their happiness.  Their joy.  That's simply who my mom was.  I can't describe her any better than that.

This Christmas, of course, is different.  The last two or three have been different, too, but this one is really different because buy mom is not here.  I've found myself slipping away to be alone more than normal - at church yesterday after communion, I walked outside and watched the sun set.  Last night, as we sat down to eat dinner with Jude's family at our house, I walked out onto the back deck with a drink and sat quietly and, well, just remembered.

It's been a difficult holiday season for me, as I suspected it would be.  I hate it, too, because it's my favorite time of the year.  I've tried to be present, as much as possible, for Jude and the boys, but it's been hard, at times.

Merry Christmas, Mom.  I miss you.

   

 

Running the Table

As I've mentioned, I changed by diet about a year and a half ago.  No bread, no potatoes of any sort, no pasta, very little sweets and, as it turns out, very little beer.  My plan was to try it for 30 days and see how I felt.  Now, here I am, almost 18 months later, still at it.  It shouldn't be surprising, I guess, since I gave up meat and chicken on a lark - for almost five years - in my mid to late 20's.

It seems I have that kinds of personality - stubborn, obsessive, maybe a little disciplined (about some things, anyway).

I didn't change my diet to lose weight.  Not really.  I was curious if I could do it.  The challenge of it, you know?  Also, I wanted to see if I felt better.  I do, by the way.  I did think, though, that as I head into my mid-50's and beyond, my knees, back, and hips might feel better if I was a little higher.

I didn't weigh myself until I got a physical last May.  And, of course, I had lost a significant amount of weight.  More than 20 pounds.  I had needed some new suits for work, anyway, but dropping so much weight made buying new suits a necessity.  Actually, it was kind of fun to step up my wardrobe game, so to speak.

People have notice, which for the mosts part is nice.  I laughed, of course (sort of), when a friend's legal assistant - whom I've known for years - asked me if I was okay.  She was worried I was sick.  I had to laugh.

For me, thought, the biggest difference I've seen has been my running.  I've run consistently, with discipline, for more than 30 years.  At times, I've run more yearly mileage than others but I've always run.  There's never been a time in my adult life when I've gotten away from running, absent a significant injury (torn iliopsoas, plantar fasciitis, low back/hip pain, etc.).  Even when I've been injured, I've been in physical therapy.  Why?  So I could get back to running.  It's just what I do and who I am.

Running, for me, is like an old friend whom I've known and been close to for as long as I can remember.  Always there for me.  Always.  Steady and dependable.  Never fails to make me feel better about myself.  Happier.  More self-confident.  Always the best listener.

So, what made me want to write this today was the neighborhood run I had yesterday afternoon, just after Jude's brother, James, and his family arrived for the Christmas holiday.

5 miles in my neighborhood - Belmont - 12South - an old route by the house we used to live in on Elliott Avenue.  A route I've run countless times.  The kicker is that I ran the 5 miles at a 7:48 pace.  Comfortably, without pushing myself in any way.

And that's the really cool thing, for me.  My runs as of late are almost all 5 or 6 miles and they're almost all under 8 minutes per mile, or right at 8 minutes per mile.  Having dropped some weight, I'm training at a pace I hadn't run comfortably in 20, maybe 25, years.  I've gone from causing at 8:30 or 8:40 minutes per mile to 8 minutes per mile, or less.  And, again, at a cruising, conversational speed.

I haven't raced in ages.  Right now, just getting out there and running, pain free, almost effortlessly, at age 53, at under 8 minute miles, is enough.

I'm thankful for good health.  I'm going to ride this wave as long as I can.

Running the table.  

Oh, Christmas Tree

Last night, we decorated our Christmas tree.  It's a beautiful blue spruce we picked out last weekend at Santa's trees.  Tall and thick, with lots of branches.  Almost a perfect tree, really.  Jude strung lights - white ones, this year - on it a few nights ago.  Last night, a Friday, was the first time this week we had a couple of hours free with nothing else going on.

As we unpacked our Christmas decorations, a wave of nostalgia almost knocked me down as I looked at all of our Christmas ornaments.  Many of them are ornaments from my childhood that my mom gave me over the years.  So many memories tied up in so many of the ornaments.  Some she had given as a child and we had hung them together on our Christmas trees at our house growing up.  Some she had given the boys when they were younger.

Damn.  I had no idea how hard it would be to see those Christmas ornaments again.  I hung a few of my favorites on the tree but, for the most part, I sat and watched Jude and the boys decorate our tree.  The intensity of the moment caught me off guard.  It stunned me, really.  Parts of this deal - the grieving process, I suppose - are so hard for me, even now.

My mom loved decorating the Christmas tree, especially when we were young.  I gave her such a hard time when she switched to an artificial tree after we were older and had families of our own.  Our tree always would be haphazardly packed with ornaments on nearly every branch.  There were no rules.  Just hang the ornaments wherever they would fit.  It was the ultimate family event for us.

On occasion, my friend and next door neighbor, Warren Lee Gilley and his sister, Terri, walked over and helped us decorate out Christmas tree.  There mother, Sandra, insisted on decorating her tree just so, with little or no help from her children.  It had to be just so.  At our house, everyone was welcome to decorate the Christmas tree and to hang ornaments wherever they would fit.  It was such a happy time every year.   So much laughter.  So much love.  

And you know what?  Our Christmas tree was beautiful every single year.  A sight to behold, lit up with the lights in the living room turned off, heavy laden with our family's Christmas ornaments.

When I think of it now, as I finish my coffee at Red Bicycle in the Nations, I realize that the way we decorated our Christmas tree when I was a child - and the way my family decorates our Christmas tree - perfectly encapsulates the essence of my mom as a person.

No pretense or formality.  What you see is what you get.  Happiness and laughter.  An openness to others.  And a love for family stronger than steel.

It's going to be hard but I'm going to try to remember that, this year and in years to come.