Understanding My Place: A Letter and Neil Gaiman

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 26

The other day my husband brought home a glossy, four-color, eight-paged publication he’d found on the sidewalk in our neighborhood. He intended to toss it into a recycling bin, but when he realized what it was, he knew he had to share it with me first.

I pawed through it—picture after captioned picture of one senior couple’s 2012 activities: celebrating milestones with grandchildren and former exchange students; vacationing with friends and family in Italy, Monaco, and China; learning to surf in Hawaii; hosting Union Rags and the Wyeths at the Kentucky Derby; acting as professional photographers for a wedding, building custom furniture, and so on. And so on…

Was it a self-published booklet to commemorate these events?

NO! It was their Christmas Letter to friends and extended family!

It’s exactly why people have come to hate such correspondence. It was so over-the-top it could have been a parody of the genre. But it wasn’t. It was a chirpy report of all the stellar 2012 moments one family experienced. And they sent it to someone in MY neighborhood, which can only mean (or I HOPE it means) that the recipients lead similar lives and didn’t take said Christmas Letter as the disturbing show of pretentiousness I did. Once again, I felt quite removed from my neighbors.

I had just been reading about Cabal, a dog rescued from a roadside by author Neil Gaiman. I learned that Cabal suffered from the same condition my pooch did (degenerative myelopathy), that British-born Gaiman now lives in the Midwest, that his relationship with Cabal was of the unexpected and nonpareil variety… Heck! I have more in common with Neil Gaiman than I do with these Christmas Letter–sending neighbors.

Hmmm. Maybe I can work Gaiman into my own Christmas Letter this year. Maybe I, too, can incite envy and head-shaking during the holidays.


This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

[Photo of Cabal and Neil Gaiman by Kimberly Butler and titled Unconditional Love.]

The Best Part of Christmas?

“For it is in giving that we receive.”
―Attributed to St. Francis of Assisi

Riding High on Christmas Spirit

Need a little help with your holiday spirit? Here are links to FREE Christmas e-books, courtesy of Project Gutenberg and mediabistro:

1. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
2. The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry
3. The Children’s Book of Christmas Stories
4. The Night Before Christmas and Other Popular Stories For Children
5. The Story of the Other Wise Man by Henry Van Dyke
6. Life and Adventures of Santa Claus by L. Frank Baum
7. Christmas Stories And Legends
8. The Christmas Angel by Abbie Farwell Brown
9. The Chimes by Charles Dickens
10. A Kidnapped Santa Claus by L. Frank Baum
11. The Abbot’s Ghost, or Maurice Treherne’s Temptation: A Christmas Story by Louisa May Alcott
12. The Haunted Man and the Ghost’s Bargain by Charles Dickens
13. A Budget of Christmas Tales by Charles Dickens and Others
14. The First Christmas Tree by Henry Van Dyke
15. Betty’s Bright Idea; Deacon Pitkin’s Farm; and the First Christmas of New England by Harriet Beecher Stowe
16. In the Yule-Log Glow, Book I
17. A Little Book for Christmas by Cyrus Townsend Brady
18. Christmas Comes but Once A Year by John Leighton
19. Peace on Earth, Good-will to Dogs by Eleanor Hallowell Abbott
20. The Romance of a Christmas Card by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin
21. Christmas Tales and Christmas Verse by Eugene Field
22. The Birds’ Christmas Carol by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin
23. A Christmas Mystery by William John Locke
24. A Little Book of Christmas by John Kendrick Bangs
25. On Christmas Day in the Morning by Grace S. Richmond

The Countdown Is On!

We’re only 12 days away from C’mas—after which we’ll begin the traditional Twelve Days of Christmas.

Confused?

For another take on the Twelve Days, check out Linda Carson’s 7MSN Ranch. She’s dressing her critters for the holidays one by one, just as she’s done in the past. For example, pictured here is George. Click on his name and you can see his conversation with his photographer/blogger/rancher (Ms. Carson).

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

The Early Bird Gets the…

In late June, a large box arrived in the mail with a warning: Do NOT open ’til July 4th!

The box was from my mother, who made a big deal of most holidays—gifts not only for Christmas, but also for pre-Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter, and Halloween. This was a first for Independence Day, though.

But I was wrong. My mother’s brainstorm was to separate the birthdays of her daughter (Christmas Eve) and son-in-law (Boxing Day) from the holiday crush. As a child, I longed to have a summer birthday largely because I wanted to hold an outdoor scavenger hunt. However, Mother held fast to the official birth date. Until now.

Now she saw the benefits of shifting the celebration: She didn’t have to shop during the holiday frenzy, she could find colorful items that weren’t red or green, and we wouldn’t be getting yet another sweater. Now she could give her daughter what was asked for long ago. After all, there was precedence and a track record: A family friend had for decades celebrated his December 24th birthday on June 24th without incident. Plus, this shift felt tinglingly subversive.

Mother promised the early celebration wouldn’t affect our ages. We wouldn’t be getting older earlier or advance in age twice in one year. Nope, that numbers game occurred only on our real birthdays.

All good. Until now.

Not that what I’m about to say isn’t good; it just strikes me as curious. We’re celebrating Christmas tomorrow.

That’s right. We knocked off the 2 in December 25th and are just going for the 5th this year.

Actually, there’s a good reason for this craziness: Each member of my family lives several states away from one another and we rarely see each other. This week, my sister is visiting my mother and hatched a plan to meet with us halfway between the Land of Lincoln and the Bluegrass. And since it’s so close to Christmas, why not celebrate while we’re together?

Why not, indeed?

So tomorrow I’m headed for Story. You know—near Gnaw Bone and not far from Bean Blossom? Indiana, that is.

Ho Ho Ho…

[I’m hoping for a turtle on wheels like the one on the postcard.]

A View from the ’Hood

It may be the first of December, but as you can see in the photo, no one told the roses.

On a walk toward the grocery store, a tent sign stood outside near a dog groomer’s business. On one side, the sign read: Full Grooming Packages $45.00. On the other side was—well, you can see for yourself in the photo.

The groomer isn’t SELLING just any puppies but CHRISTMAS puppies! Ohsospecial. Like there aren’t enough puppies looking for homes already. I could go on about the pitfalls of trying to housetrain a pup in winter, but I’ll let it go.

Fortunately, to revive my good mood, there’s usually a splendid sunset to watch in the Bluegrass.

Snoop Dog’s CuddleDog

When I was searching through my half-organized photo albums for a pic of the bakery donkey, I found this:

As I’ve said before, we have precious few pics of the camera-shy pooch so any photograph of her becomes a gateway to a flood of memories. And this particular photograph includes memories of my father.

You may recall that my father had a penchant for sending me Peanuts-related gifts and cards. I can only guess that it had something to do with my role in a small-town production of You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown.

One holiday, when I was well into my fifth decade, my father’s Christmas gifts to me included the Snoopy pillow pictured above. As I lifted it from its box, my pooch posed other ideas for it. To her, it was a splendid megaversion of the plush playthings that overflowed her Dogtoy Basket. Naturally, she assumed it was meant for her.

She nosed it and nudged me and politely waited for my permission to mouth it and call it her own. I didn’t worry too long about how Dad would feel if I regifted his gift. The very thought of a “dog’s dog” won out and I encouraged the pooch to play with Snoopy.

The experiment of carrying the pillow around and fetching it lasted about a minute. Clearly, it was too unwieldy for her gentle bite.

However, it became (or reverted to) the next best thing: a cushy creature to cuddle with.

I never found the donkey pic, but that’s okay. The donkey led me to a sweeter moment.

It’s Here! Now You Can Relax…

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas…

Whew! I didn’t find a tree, but I purchased a 99¢ poinsettia and a wreath of mixed evergreens from the Blue Ridge Mountains, which I took apart to fashion into several holiday arrangements. Instead of a month of Christmas in our home, we’ll have it for a few days.

When my father was a child, Christmas decorations didn’t come out until Christmas Eve. His mother would take him to a church service in the evening. When they returned home, my father would wonder at the swiftness and thoroughness of Saint Nicholas—who had visited during the church outing. The Bearded One left behind an ornamented tree complete with presents beneath it.

I guess that by waiting until Christmas Eve to start celebrating, I’m carrying on (sort of) a family tradition of old.

Tired of the usual Christmas film fare?

Most of us have a favorite Christmas film classic we have to watch each year—Holiday, Miracle on 34th Street, A Christmas Carol (my husband is partial to the 1951 version with Alastair Sim), It’s A Wonderful Life.

My list is influenced by the fact that A) I’ve never had cable or satellite service, B) Every place I’ve lived has had poor television reception, and C) I’ve not seen many other Christmas movies. Until this week.



Double-click on the video for full view.

Our public station here broadcast an old black-and-white film I’d never heard of: The Great Rupert. It features Jimmy Durante and a philanthropic vaudevillian dancing squirrel. The film (now in the public domain) captures an era not unlike the one we’re currently in—people losing their life savings, old industries giving way to new ones, families struggling to make ends meet. The difference is Rupert, the squirrel.

I’m not sure The Great Rupert will make it onto my perennial must-see list, but it held my interest from an historical perspective. It’s worth watching just to see the filmmaking (i.e., the squirrel-making) of 1950. Plus it’s sweet and nonviolent and stars an animal. All good.

Start a Christmas Tradition à la Tolkien

After dropping off books at the library this week, I scanned the titles in the holiday display. Naturally, one called out to me and I couldn’t ignore it. I took home J. R. R. Tolkien’s Letters from Father Christmas.

You don’t have to be part of the Tolkien cult to enjoy this book. It’s a collection of letters and illustrations (and thereby characters and fonts) Tolkien created and sent to his children each Christmas season from 1920 to 1942—letters his wee ones understood to have been written by Father Christmas (or by his elves or his executive assistant, Polar Bear).

F. C. seems a tad cranky to me so far in my reading. Nonetheless, I can imagine what it must feel like to be a kid writing to Saint Nicholas each year, knowing that he will soon respond.

If you have small children or grandchildren, this could be a delightful family tradition to start. Check out the book for ideas, then adapt these to your own writing style and to the Father Christmas you want your progeny to admire.

Bullish on Christmas

Oh, the humiliation for the pooch pulling the cart. But the pups don’t seem to mind.


[I found this pic online eons ago and no longer have info on it. If you know these dogs or the person who deserves credit for the photo, please let me know.]

Obligations of a Pet at Christmastime

I don’t have a dog. Or a horse or a cat. Not even a turtle or a fish.

When I was a kid sans live companion animals, I collected figurines and stuffed animals to fill the void. Today I read about them.

My current read is Christmas Dogs: A Literary Companion, which opens with a litany of the unfortunate results of mixing dogs with Christmas—white puppies slobbering on the red bows tied ’round their necks that soon turn said white canines into pink ones, dogs who treat the indoor tree as an outdoor one, dogs intent on redecorating the tree.

My pooch never caused a problem at Christmas. She enjoyed herding us when we brought in the tree and when we took it out; she displayed rapt attention and excitement whenever we opened a present intended for her. Otherwise, she didn’t touch or eat or bother a thing. Perfect pooch.

One of our cats, on the other hand, made Christmas difficult every year of her too-short life. She licked and chewed the wrappings: paper and bows. She ripped them open if she hadn’t already eaten them. Not only did she make a mess and endanger her life, she also gave us a peek at our presents and spoiled the surprise I so love about Christmas morning. What’s more, my family’s gifts are as much about presentation as they are about appropriate giving. The paper and bows my imp of a cat destroyed were often handmade, impressive creations.

We were soon trained to keep all presents on tree boughs and atop the mantel, out of her reach. (Yes, I know she could have climbed the tree to reach the gifts hidden in it, but she chose not to for some reason. For that matter, she was such an incredible jumper she could easily have scaled the mantel and shoved every present to the floor. I was grateful in both cases that she exhibited restraint.)

Obviously, our pets’ perceptions of Christmas pageantry often differ from ours. Do you have a holiday memory or anecdote involving your animal companions? Won’t you please share it with Lull readers in the comments section?

I’ll leave you with a poem from one of my favorite children’s book authors.

Christmas Dog
from Falling Up by Shel Silverstein

Tonight’s my first night as a watchdog,
And here it is Christmas Eve.
The children are sleepin’ all cozy upstairs,
While I’m guardin’ the stockin’s and tree.

What’s that now—footsteps on the rooftop?
Could it be a cat or a mouse?
Who’s this down the chimney?
A thief with a beard—
And a big sack for robbin’ the house?

I’m barkin’, I’m growlin’, I’m bitin’ his butt.
He howls and jumps back in his sleigh.
I scare his strange horses, they leap in the air.
I’ve frightened the whole bunch away.

Now the house is all peaceful and quiet again,
The stockin’s are safe as can be.
Won’t the kiddies be glad when they wake up tomorrow
And see how I’ve guarded the tree.

[Dog photo from A Usable Past.]

Deck the Halls with … Pumpkins?

I realize Christmas is just around the corner. Retailer music has been reminding me since October. But the tall, strangely narrow pumpkins that grace my window ledges still look so great that I don’t have the heart to remove them.

I paid WAY too much for the pumpkins, and the woman selling them knew it. Then she warmed to me and started telling me about her life.

She raised her daughters the “Country Way”—that is, to be self-sufficient without electricity, plumbing, and running water. When she married, she told her husband she’d do anything for him except cook chicken. She’d had enough of it, for it was her job at the tender age of 6 to kill three chickens every morning. Her uncle—who, with his wife, raised her and her many older brothers—loved to eat chicken. It was served every day for breakfast and supper; the children were spared chicken for lunch because they ate at school.

From this point, the tale turned dark and uncomfortable as it focused on the wrath and unsavory desires of the uncle. While the woman shared the grim details of her hardscrabble upbringing, she insisted on cleaning my pumpkins in bleach water—“They’ll last longer.”

She was right. Those pumpkins look as shiny new and orange as they did the day I bought them. And really, with the woman’s storytelling thrown in, I got a bargain.

Even so, I’ve grown accustomed to their Stan Laurel–like visages outside my windows. I’m thinking a couple of Santa hats atop them could help their transition to the next holiday.

Another Christmas Eve, Another Year Older

Yup. Today was my birthday and my mother asked if I felt a year older.

“A YEAR older? I feel TEN years older!” I cried. And right then I knew I had to turn back the clock. I had to have a good day in spite of how I felt.

So I did. I took my husband to Paris for a few hours. Kentucky, that is.

Horses dotted every snow-blanketed hill on the way and stone fences paralleled our route. Not much was open in the small downtown, but it was a pleasure just to stroll the sidewalks.

Tonight, as Christmas Eve becomes Christmas, it’s snowing—apparently only about the 13th white Christmas the area has known since 1872.

Now I feel young again. Feel like I should put some cookies out for St. Nick…

[Art courtesy of the Graphics Fairy.]

He’s Headed This Way…

Are you ready?

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 7

A Link Between Kissing and Hunting

I’ve always fancied the look of mistletoe—its small pearlescent berries, its delicate rounded leaves. But I never thought much about where it grew, only that I could usually locate it at a local florist come Christmastime. I guess I presumed it to be a cousin of the holly bush.

But I was so wrong.

Am I the only one who didn’t know that mistletoe is a parasite? Grows high in the branches of majestic trees? Is hunted here in the South? Yes, hunted.

Folks actually seek out trees where the mistletoe has rooted and shoot at the evergreen to bring it down. Shooting mistletoe and taking it to market can be a lucrative pastime; it can also be a frustrating endeavor.

I noticed that the discovery of a new type of mistletoe in Mozambique made the news this week. And when looking for a photo I could post on Lull, I learned a bit of mistletoe history (it’s the floral emblem of Oklahoma and was used on gravesites when other flowers weren’t affordable or available).

Well, ain’t that somethin’? Now when you sneak a kiss under the mistletoe ball, you’ll know the lore and travails behind the Christmas tradition.

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, type Stranger in a Strange Land into Lull’s search function on the right.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Last week, I drove alone to pick up the dinner my father ordered from a favorite restaurant. His hearing has diminished as his cancer has progressed. Consequently, I spend most of my days speaking at a volume that makes me feel as if I’m enveloped in a giant tolling bell, my body in constant reverberation mode.

So driving alone is a small relief. I thought I’d take advantage of the moment by listening to some music, another pleasure of my father’s that’s gone the way of his hearing. Since there were no CDs in the car, radio was my only option.

I didn’t mind. It would be good to find a station or two I liked in the Bluegrass State. But outside of Christian and country formats, the first station that played anything familiar to me was—not classical, not jazz, not indie—Christmas. There I was trying to savor a rare moment alone on a colorful autumn evening and holiday music was already clogging the airwaves.

As I turned onto the street leading to the restaurant’s parking lot, a sleigh scene stood sentry; another sleigh stood in front of the mall the restaurant was housed in.

I shouldn’t have been so surprised. A boutique in my neighborhood has been festooned with Christmas decor since before Halloween; Christmas candy and novelties cluttered pharmacies’ aisles months ago waiting to be shelved; Sears brought out its nodding reindeer in August. Mostly, I think, I was incensed that untimely sights and sounds had ruined my precious car time.

Days later as we were rearranging my father’s space for mobility and safety reasons, my husband stumbled upon an artificial Christmas wreath. Yet another sore spot for me: About 20 years ago, I ordered it from a local florist for my father. It was supposed to be REAL pine and holly and mistletoe. I didn’t learn of the mistake until the next year when my father reported that he hung “my” wreath on the door again. I asked why in the world he’d do that. I’ll let you imagine the miscommunication that ensued.

Yesterday my father made a joke about hanging the old wreath on the door this week—before Thanksgiving. The joke segued into an idea we’re still noodling on: Why not celebrate all the coming holidays now while my father can still enjoy them?

I’ll let you know what he decides. Until then, I have to prepare for every possibility.

Do you hear what I hear? “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer…”

5 Days 'Til Christmas

The countdown begins. Retailers have been reminding you since August.

But don't despair. Keep these words from philosopher Immanuel Kant in mind as the season of giving and getting approaches its climax:

"One is not rich by what one owns, but more by what one is able to do without with dignity."