My wife and I took down our Christmas tree this afternoon. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. We should have left it up until Easter. However, it was time, even though the snow's still flying and it's colder than the North Pole tonight.
It's actually really early for us to take down our Christmas tree. We usually don't undeck our halls until March or April. It's not laziness. It's a love of everything yuletide. I listen to Christmas music all year long. Bing Crosby singing "White Christmas" makes me feel...happy, warm, calm. My five loyal readers know that very few things calm me down.
Christmas music. Bailey's Irish Cream mixed with hot chocolate. A Robert Frost poem.
A perfect night for Saint Marty: "Do You Hear What I Hear?" on his radio. A mug of spiked hot cocoa in his hands. And miles to go before he sleeps. Miles to go before he sleeps...
The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten!
I may have already written about this little paragraph about the Ghost of Christmas Past. If I have, forgive me. It's hard to keep track of what part of the book I've already posted on. However, this passage really touched upon an experience I had this morning.
Every Friday morning, I clean, disinfect, and vacuum the business office of the surgery center in which I work. It takes me about an hour-and-a-half to complete. It's a mindless task, requiring no amount of focused concentration on my part. Therefore, I listen to music on my iPod as I go about my chores like Cinderella. Since I started my little Carol blog exercise, I usually listen to Christmas music while I clean.
This morning, as I was emptying the garbages, Perry Como started singing "Do You Hear What I Hear?" in my ears. Before I knew it, I was humming, relaxed, and happy. I was thinking about my childhood Christmases in Detroit (before we moved to the Upper Peninsula). I was in our living room, in front our fireplace, listening to my mom's LP of Perry Como on the record player. The tree was a green tinsel monster with revolving lights shining up from the floor into its branches. Along the mantel above the fireplace, my mother's manger scene sprawled. Delicate shepherds and angels. Plastic and ceramic sheep. In the center, a wooden stable, looking like it belonged in Little House on the Prairie instead of the Middle East.
And I was surrounded by my siblings, before the divorces and kids and spouses. Before my older brother had his stroke. Before my sister moved to Utah. Before mental illness and addiction became a part of my daily existence. It was when my biggest worry was whether or not there was going to be enough snow overnight to cancel school in the morning.
It was, literally, a warm fuzzy feeling. I felt physically warm, and my mood was noticeably lighter for a little while. Perry Como was my Ghost of Christmas Past, leading me back through time, filling me with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten. It was wonderful. Joyful even.
And then Saint Marty had to pick up a snotty tissue someone had shoved into a seat cushion. Reality sucks.
