Under The Tree

Twilight had come and gone and the emptiness of darkness was starting to pass for the morning sun to cast a Christmas opening song that she could try to hear from a reminder of a time when she was waiting opening presents.

Are there kiddies everywhere with bright eyes. Do they love it like she did when she waited at the hall door for her baby sister’s bedwet pants to be fixed. Are they all filled with anticipation at what is behind the closed door — anxieties of delight among the fragrant pine. What are they getting — roller skates or bikes — four wheel drives? Do they still believe in Santa or is Santa’s writing looking a lot like Mummy’s?

Are their mothers in the kitchen already cooking and their dads drinking beer or is everyone getting ready for church — Christ’s mass?

From where she sits she can’t see any bright lights that are multiple colors. She can’t see the blow up china dolls waving or hear their sucking motors pushing air to hold their snowman arms up. All she can see is the light coming from behind mountains and buildings that are filling what used to be beautiful, empty spaces that would let her see the mountains.

Ticktock, time moves or what’s under it does and everyone is waiting for a new president to change things again — back or forth from what another did to ruin them. Maybe if January gets here fast enough things will get better or next January or next Christmas in a package under the tree or it can all be kissed away with someone under the mistletoe.

But nothing does. Nothing ever changes other than where things are imported from that  anyone gets for Christmas.

Here comes a runner with her dog. She might not have any kiddies.  She might be like the one looking — getting old enough to know it’s good enough to move along to move along.

All the presents must be open now. It must be time for coffee.

“And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow,
stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”
― Dr. Seuss

Open On Monday

Everyone’s gone missing. The streets seem to be rolled up. Kids are out of school. Santa’s coming.
Walmart and Denny’s are full. They ain’t nobody’s fool.
Must be a lemming thing — everybody else is going that way.
Seems like an opportunity to make a killing if nobody else is open but you are. Except that — nobody that is looking for something that is open is looking for something to be open on Monday because they’ve been conditioned too and they also stay off of the rolled-up roads except the roads that go to Walmart and Denny’s on Mondays.
It would seem that if someone loves something enough, having Christmas off, or Mondays, would be a good excuse to do that thing they love. Maybe they don’t love it like they say they do and they’re just in it to win it or make a lot of money.
Vlog, Blog and Facebook heroes have closed shop except to say, “Have a Merry Whatever” as they look back while running to get away until the new year comes and they are expected back to promote their new adventure for new moneymaking.
Where is everyone when you need them the most — like lonely-making holidays and Mondays.
Do it every day. Every day do it if you love it. Especially if you’ve made money doing it because you’ve made that money because of others and those others might not be on vacation. Some fans quit a thing that leaves them.
That’s one reason holidays are depressing because anyone that does have family and/or friends goes in and leaves all the lonely ones who don’t alone, out in the cold, on their own — looking for the fix that kept them going — watching how others do to get some inspiration. There is probably a huge market for off-market drugs Christmases and Mondays.
It might just be the right time to figure out exactly how to be alone any day, but especially on Christmases and Mondays because that is a practice that might just save you — especially from yourself and all the complications of a brain that doesn’t have a place to project the thoughts upon — they stay in the brain instead and try to cause a lot of havoc. Practice, practice, practice getting good at doing any holiday or Monday all alone. Or any day for that matter and then friends and family coming by will be a bonus and wonderful surprise and light up the sky and then you’ll have that kind of havoc to try to manage.
Just imagine the havoc it would create if Santa decided to not show up for Christmas because it fell on Monday.

We Hunted Bottles

It was a nickel for milk and I remember our mother struggling to find three of them for us to take to school for when lunch time came. Now I just hope they have nut milks for the children.

We hunted bottles for deposits and were excited to get a dime to spend at the candy store. The girl up the street got a quarter handed to her from her father, who owned a furniture store. She never hunted bottles. She had lots of candy. She got very fat.

The year three new bikes were lined up under the Christmas tree, we were re-convinced Santa was real — because our parents could never have afforded three new and shinny bikes with saddle bags upon their fender racks. That was before any awareness of credit even though the from Santa tickets were really starting to look like Mom’s handwriting. We wanted to believe and she’d just tell us she was helping Santa. She liked to string us along.

Bought clothes cost a LOT, so everything was handmade — except for the girl whose father owned the furniture store who bought her clothes at the People’s Store. It turned out that she envied us. She learned to sew to try to make it up to the children she’d have later.

We rode those bikes all over the neighborhood. There was never any fear of where we’d go. I used to ride alone around a four or five mile square that lined a giant potato field and was below and in front of a hill we called a mountain and never saw a car. I don’t think I even told my mother I was going.

The thing about collecting bottles is that it requires walking or riding a bike and bending and lifting and talking to strangers and risks of looking in and under things and negotiating with the candy store owner and then feeling mighty pleased at all the hard work paying off so well for a brown paper bag full of candy.

It’s too bad that there aren’t deposits any more and there isn’t freedom for children to roam.