nedful things

There are places that are beautiful in any season or in any weather.  Well-groomed gardens, nature's magnificent mountains, canyons that were carved by glaciers but now eternally reflect the orange glow of the sun and exude warmth.  These places end up on postcards and calendars, and sometimes on Christmas cards. They fit the commonly held concept of natural beauty.

I get a lot of Christmas cards.  I am ashamed to say I never send any, but that is my peculiarity and for some reason forgiven by most (which I think is rather decent of them and in-keeping with the general holiday spirit).

I love the artwork on Christmas cards.  There is always a peaceful winter scene, golden light shines from windows onto soft, rolling drifts of snow.  The stars glow bright against an azure sky.  We are overcome with beauty and the warmth of home.

Snow. Definitely beautiful.  A snow can transform the most ordinary spot into something you wish you could paint.  Or put on a Christmas card.

But how about a couple of days later?  What about when the plows have made high walls that line the streets, and sand and salt spray from the wheels of passing vehicles have splattered them brown and black like old and dingy paint that needs a fresh coat?  What about when the delicate lacy edging on tree branches and the hollow tubing of long-dead vegetation has been stripped by bitter winds, leaving nothing but gnarled and angry fingers pointing at a sun that lends no warmth by its shining? Does anyone want to paint this?

I do.

Winter transforms the world daily.  It grants it beauty, takes the earth as its young bride and bedecks it in white; fresh and clean, a sparkling vision.  But the course of winter, like that of life, makes no guarantee of eternal beauty and peace.  It teases with a rise in the thermometer, it slaps down optimism with the cold wind of its hand, it rains down pebbles of ice and chases the blood from your fingertips.

I love the indecision of winter in New England.  I love the way it  pushes and punishes with arctic blasts, pummels the  body and spirit until in a capricious moment, it leaves off its bitter cruelty and lifts its icy roof to allow  the sun and an errant wind to warm and restore.  

Yes, I would like to paint the winter that is not beautiful, the one that reaches an icy finger into your soul and sends the wind to tear its own white coverlet off the shivering trees. I want to paint the muddy slosh of sanded parking lots, the dried salt that leaves a powdered sugar finish on every car, the puckered skin on bloodless hands, robbed of their warmth by subzero temperatures.

Of course, this is December.  Catch me around the third week of February after the 24th snow storm of the season.  I may find it all a little less enchanting.

Michael brushed the sawdust from his sleeves and worn denims. He slipped into his quilted flannel jacket and slipped out the door of his cabinet shop into the street.  A light snowfall was painting a picturesque Christmas Eve in the town square.  The flakes that danced under the streetlights made a lacy confetti, a decorative edging on the wreaths that hung from every lamp post.  He hurried down the street, eager to get home, eager for the smile on his wife's face and the peace it brought him.  He smiled at  the nervous excitement of Michael, Jr., whose bedtime would be voluntarily early, so concerned was he that Santa may come and find him awake.   He knew that would mean no presents, for Santa could never be seen.  Michael Jr. was so like his father, and at six years old, still lived in wide-eyed wonder.  He might believe in Santa forever if it were not for the inevitability of other children sharing their discoveries.  A sudden yearning for the simple joy of his childhood swept over him, awash in memories of his own days of wonder and magic so long ago. And so, it surprised Michael a little bit when he turned in at the door to Joe's Bar instead of walking straight home.  

The only difference in atmosphere between the deserted bar and the deserted street was the temperature.  The bar was as dark as the dusky street and inside as well as outside,  the night was illuminated only by   strings of Christmas lights. They twinkled around the doorway and over the mirror behind the bar but did little to dispel Michael's cheerlessness.  Joe looked up and nodded at him.

"You just made it Mike. I was about to close up.  What'll you have?"

Michael opened his mouth to answer Joe's query but another voice rang out ahead his.

"You should have an eggnog with a little rum to warm you.  It's fitting for the season", came the suggestion.

The voice that spoke to him was deep but tremulous.  It belonged to the only other patron, the only other soul who was not at home this evening.  An elderly man sat on a stool, square in the middle of the bar. He didn't turn around but addressed Michael's reflection in the mirror beyond him as he spoke.

"It's a cold night and a long walk home."

"Yeah, it is".  Michael sat at the bar, deliberately leaving an empty stool between him and the stranger who had invited him as if he were the host of the evening. "I'll have a beer, Joe".

"Gonna have to be a bottle tonight Mike, I pretty much have everything shut down. " Joe set a glass and a bottle of beer in front of Michael.  "How's that little guy of yours? Looking forward to Christmas morning I'll bet".

"Yeah he sure is" Michael answered. "Reminds me of when I was a kid, you know? Christmas was always this magical time.  You believed everything and expected everything, and no matter what you got, it was everything you wanted.  It's different now."

"It is different now", the old man chimed in.  He stroked the bristly whiskers on his chin. They looked as though they once made a magnificent appearance but now grew like scrub across his jawline.  "Christmas once meant something, but now it is just a lot of lights and glitter.  No one understands what it means anymore, no one believes..." His voice trailed off into a gravelly whisper.  He gestured silently and nodded his head in agreement with his own inaudible points.

Michael shot a concerned look at Joe who leaned over in a conspiratorial huddle. "Don't worry, he's alright", Joe said. "Been here all evening and he's still on the one rum and eggnog.  I won't make any money on him but he doesn't seem dangerous, just a little titched in the head".  Joe tapped a finger on the side of his head to emphasize his opinion.

"You know, you believed once Mikey", the old man looked straight at Michael this time as he spoke. "You know you were one of the last ones to get a real crafted toy, before Christmas came from a store."

Michael stared at the old man, taken aback at his familiar address.  Of course.  Joe had called him by name when he came in, that was how the old man knew it.  Still, it was a little disconcerting to be called Mikey, he hadn't been called that since he was a little boy.

"That's where Christmas is now you know", his voice rose and he spoke excitedly.  "It's at the mall.  It's sold on television,  commercials pounding the name of the "in" toy for this year into the minds of children.  Children who know what to demand from the laps of eight-dollars-an-hour store Santas. It's a fad, a gimmick, it's not real anymore."  

The old man shook his head sadly and repeated the words slowly and to himself alone now. "It's not real anymore."

He sipped a little eggnog, still shaking his head; his hand shaking on its own as he lifted the glass to his lips.  "Even still", he said.  "Even today, the children that sit on such laps might believe if someone gave them something really magical to believe in.  But their parents have long forgotten the dreams they dreamed as children, they cannot remember what magic they once held in tiny hands."

"Do you see that?" the old man pointed a bony finger towards the door.  There, on top of the jukebox, a four-foot animated Santa sang disco versions of Christmas carols and danced to the beat, his electronic hips swaying provocatively.  Someone had crowned the figure with a headband that sported reindeer antlers."That's what Santa is these days, a comical figure; shaking his booty and looking like the office clown at the annual Christmas party."

The old man rose and with groans announced the enormous effort it was to unbend and straighten to a standing position.  For the first time Michael noticed his clothes. They were tattered, worn and several sizes too big for his wizened frame.  He pulled on a long overcoat and wrapping it against him in folds, tied a belt around his waist to keep it closed against the cold.

"Keep the spirit alive Michael, you are one of the rare ones.  Give that rocking horse to your son, pass on the magic inside you."  

Michael eyed the old man half in wonder and half in suspicion.  How did he know about the hand-made wooden horse he had kept all these years?  He had wanted to pass it on to Michael Jr. but his wife had convinced him that there were newer and better rocking horses at the store.  In the end they had chosen a plastic rocking horse in those bright primary colors that were said to visually stimulate children and he had left the wooden horse in the attic, a reminder of the Christmases of his childhood.  

The stranger reached the door and paused. He jerked a thumb at the dancing Santa.  

"It's a good thing he's a mythical figure", he said. "Otherwise he'd be pretty embarrassed when he sobered up".

He winked and a sly smile crept over the worn and wrinkled face.  "Merry Christmas, Michael", he called as he walked out into the night.