Switching Seasons

There is a sweetness to Christmas, no question. Once I get past the frantic consumerism and the old-world religion of it -- the fables taken so seriously yet clearly invented at least a generation after Jesus' death -- and everyone is seated about the living room opening a modest number of presents, fire in the hearth, brightly lit tree watching over all, it's a nice and sweet time. And I love to give. My boys now have top of the line smartphones, as needed in their busy lives, and other well-thought gifts were sprinkled about, and massive amounts of food was had, and all is well.

But that was yesterday. Time to move on.

Except. I haven't yet quite gotten past Christmas Eve. Nothing in it resonated with me; it was just a sad sort of spectacle. Mom and I went to a church that was clearly a leading light in its day but has since lost much of its base. Suburbanite believers are looking for entertainment, not just guidance, and certainly not the comfort of traditional styles. The pews were a good three quarters empty; while me ex's church had sixteen Eve services spread over a week, with acrobats and rock musicians and tickets for thousands.

That wouldn't be my style either. My style is to sing. I sang. I threw people off because I sang parts like as not (typically bass, sometimes tenor) and at normal volume, whereas most everyone else sang melodies only and apologetically at that. Even the choir sang apologetically. Their timidity was not just because they were six old women, two old men, and one young man with a misshapen head. Neither they nor the congregation nor the reverend himself had any discernible spirit beyond the usual Episcopalian politeness.

Not a bad thing, just sort of pointless.

After a spate of carol-and-hymn singing we broke for cookies and coffee prior to the real service. I found the sparse collection in the parish hall fascinating. It actually looked and felt very familiar. Everyone was a character -- the dapper old man who talks to everyone, the rough old man who talks to no one but has smiling eyes, the gracefully aging women who gossip gently and happily introduce themselves to the tall stranger, the extended family of black people who have no trace of a "black American" accent, the well-combed middle-schoolers being guided quietly by a gray-bearded father of professorial appearance -- a cast of characters that could easily have come from my own childhood church. As I looked around I had the peculiar feeling I had stepped into an alternate life of mine, where everyone is familiar and known if I could just remember.

I wonder if I'll have that same impression when I have Alzheimer's.

The service itself was pretty much rote, no complaints, no spirit, no substance. Episcopalians proceed from a prayer book that defines the service tightly, and the call-and-answer is performed slowly and quietly. Always, even as a youth, I tried to sound as though I meant what I was saying, perhaps to counteract the monotony of the crowd. But all that became was a practice of play-acting and self-amusement. No one notices such things, no one cares. Everyone is there for the comfort of the familiar, of rituals and pleasant company. There's nothing, of course, wrong with that. But it clearly reminded me the only reason I was there, and a good one, was to accompany my mom.

Driving home late on Christmas Eve sparks different memories now. As children we were driven home by Dad after an evening with his folks, playfully looking out for the sleigh and reindeer as he dropped us off. As a young parent I drove sleepy children through fog-bound streets, happy within the quiet peace of a magical well-lit night. Recently it has just meant going back to my apartment, content enough with my children's satisfaction, and hopeful that the magic I often knew is still alive in the houses around me.

Sadly, I know it is not, not everywhere, but Christmas is no time to reflect too deeply on the unfairness of life. (And it seems having written of it, I am now past it. Excellent.)

* * *

So anyway, that's over. Next? New Year's Eve? Got plans? I don't. For various reasons, last years' awesome experience is not to be repeated this year. The logistics don't allow for that. So I am hanging loose for whatever comes together, so long as it includes the Sunny one and at least one good snoot of single-malt.