With the Holiday-That-Must-Not-Be-Named behind us for another year, the secular/politically correct/mainstream media world can at last stop using the politically correct “Happy Holidays” and begin wishing us all a specific “Happy New Year.”
With next week’s big celebration in mind, the only time I’ve ever thought it would be fun to live anywhere near the city of Las Vegas is on New Year’s Eve. I mean, if you’re looking for a good time, that place must throw the mother of all parties to ring in the New Year, right? The blinding bright lights, the head-pounding music, the human crush of drunk-out-of-their-skulls party goers … um, never mind.
On second thought, what happens in Vegas can happen to someone else, as far as I’m concerned. Our family’s own New Year traditions have always been much milder and, well, subdued. How mild? Let’s just say they usually involve Dick Clark on the tube, a few minutes pre- and post-midnight standing on our balcony overlooking the Crescenta Valley, a bag of “exploding” confetti poppers and a glass of Martinelli’s non-alcoholic sparkling cider for each of us. But wait, there’s more. If we’re really feeling festive and rowdy any particular year, our big celebration may even include the banging of pots and pans with wooden spoons. I know … woo hoo! We don’t exactly need a doctor’s clearance to participate.
It’s not like we don’t ever socialize, though. The past couple of New Year’s Eves we’ve actually spent the evening with some great friends in Altadena and haveenjoyed a wonderful dinner, excellent conversation, a somewhat sedate card game or two and a quick side hug at midnight. Then it’s back home to warm, flannel sheets and hopefully enough sleep to get up early enough to watch those shock-jocks, Bob Eubanks and Stephanie Edwards do the pulse-quickening play-by-play on yet another Rose Parade. Again, woo hoo!
Least you think I was born old and boring, I have been known to camp out all day and night along the Rose Parade route on several past New Year’s Eves. Yep, there’s nothing like sitting for days in a broken down lawn chair and “sleeping” on a damp grass median or filthy concrete sidewalk with the soothing lilt of air horns lulling you to sleep and Silly String wafting all around you through the cold night air like flying neon-colored spaghetti.
Then again, being right there when a 200-plus member high school marching band passes by close enough to count the pimples on the tuba-players’ cheeks has always been worth any hypothermia, loss of hearing and superficial wounds inflicted by flying tortillas and stale marshmallows. Good times, indeed.
My all time favorite way to welcome in any New Year, however, is to do it in the mountains above Mammoth Lakes. I like nothing better than to leave the warmth of our family’s log home a few minutes before midnight, walk out into the middle of the street – usually lined with shoulder-high berms of snow at that time of year – and simply gaze up at the inky blackness of the midnight sky while one year ends and another begins. That high up in altitude, the nighttime sky is filled with a blanket of stars that are simply not visible down here in Southern California. As I look up, I like to say thank you to God for the grace that helped me make it through the past year and to pray for His blessings throughout the new one.
Next Monday night, we unfortunately won’t be up in the Sierras or at our friends’ home in Altadena, and thankfully, nowhere near Las Vegas. Barring a surprise invite to a party, we’ll likely be out on the balcony again with our sparkling cider in one hand and a party horn in the other. But the prayers for the coming year will be the same, nevertheless. Happy New Year, and I’ll see you ‘round town.
Maybe I can blame it on bad eggnog, but the other night I dreamed that I bumped into Dr. Seuss and Clement Clarke Moore while we were all searching for Christmas lights at OSH. (they were sold out, of course). For some reason, the three of us got to kvetching about the holidays. When I awoke from my slumber, the poem that follows was scribbled on the notepad on my nightstand. Yeah, that was some funky eggnog:
Deck the (Empty Nester) Halls
‘Twas the week before Christmas, when I said to my spouse
“It’s probably time to start decorating the house.”
“Ya think?” she exclaimed with a roll of her eyes
And then walked away while exhaling loud sighs.
Our neighbors had all done their homes weeks before
With lights on their shingles and wreaths on their door
Inflatable snowmen stood poised on their lawns
But passing our house produced nothing but yawns.
It’s not that I don’t want to join in the fun
And I certainly love the whole look when it’s done
But the boxes and crates and assorted gewgaws
All the lights and the garland – it gives me such pause.
I can’t climb a ladder with speed like I used to
And hanging from rooftops? Well, why would I choose to?
Our kids are all grown, it’s just me and my mate
This old empty nest is one great big blank slate.
And here’s something else that is no longer fun
Those new LED lights that are bright as the sun
They use much less power and help save the planet
But the glow they emit is as stone cold as granite.
So we scrounged and we hunted like highly trained canines
‘Til we found enough strings of the old-school type C-9s
We hung them all up and we turned them all on
And I have to admit, my reluctance was gone.
Then out on the street, there arose such a clatter
I ran (okay, walked) down the driveway to see what was the matter
Our mailbox was bursting, its door off its hinges
The mailman was there with his face full of twinges
He had mountains of catalogs stashed in his pack
With a gruff, Grinchy voice he intoned, “Oh, my back!”
He was sweating profusely and starting to quiver.
It was sad the poor soul had so much to deliver
But I thanked him and wished him a world of good cheer
(Though I’m sure he would rather I gave him a beer!)
Then I went up the driveway and back to our house
To finish my chores and make happy the spouse
Once the house was aglow and my wife, she was too
Our progress was good, but we’d still lots to do.
There was fudge to be fudged and eggnog to be spicing
And cookies to bake and then painted with icing.
We trimmed up our tree with ornaments so shiny
Was it festive and cheery? Oh, you bet your hiney!
We wrapped enough presents to fill up a sleigh
Then hung up our stockings and called it a day.
We were tired and sore and I needed a nap
When there came at the window a soft tap, tap, tap!
I looked up and saw him, that Jolly Old Saint
With his snowy white beard and his costume so quaint.
He gestured at all of our trappings outside
Then flashed a “thumbs up” and got back in his ride
Ol’ Rudolph and company then put it in gear
And took to the sky that was so cold and clear
I was feeling quite good (for one who is older)
When Santa turned back and looked over his shoulder
Then I heard him exclaim, as he turned back around
Merry Christmas to all, and I’ll see you ‘round town!
It’s that most wonderful, horrifying time of the year: time to decide who gets a Christmas card and who doesn’t. Do we send a card to everyone in our address book, or just close friends and relatives? Do only those people who sent us a card last year get one this year?
I’m not quite sure, but I think that’s how it worked in my childhood home. I remember that mom had this special hardbound address book with a rubber band around the outside and tattered pages inside. Every year sometime after Thanksgiving, she would bring it out from whatever super-secret place it hid all year, blow the dust off the thing, carefully remove the aging rubber band and slowly lift its faded green cover.
Don’t hold me to it, but I could swear I heard the sound of angels singing each time mom opened that book, revealing pages of beautifully hand-written names of chosen family and friends. Talk about your naughty and nice list. This thing was like the Christmas Card Book of Life. There was a small square in the columns next to each name to check off the years not only when our family sent that person a Christmas card, but more importantly, whether or not the recipients sent one to us that year, as well.
Again, I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure that if there was a blank square in the “received” column for last year, that poor schmo was gettin’ squat in their mailbox from us this year. Booyah and bah humbug.
I’m not even sure if mom still has that book. If she does, I live too far away from her house these days to hear the angel chorus when she opens it up. But times are changing when it comes to sending traditional cards, anyway. With the near universal use of the Internet, more people are sending e-cards or my personal favorite – custom-printed photo cards from one of several online services that let you insert your own family photos into pre-designed card formats. You can even upload your own address book data and have each card preaddressed and mailed for you without ever touching the things. It’s certainly convenient, if not exactly personal and heartfelt.
I still prefer to hand write each address and include some sort of note with our cards. Although I do dread each year when we address the last of the envelopes (I have a tendency to order exactly the number of cards on our list), affix the last of carefully counted “holiday-themed” stamps from those politically correct folks at the U.S. Postal Service, and drop the entire stack into the mailbox.
So why such trepidation? Because it never fails that – when all the cards and stamps are in the mail – I’ll go home and find a card or two from someone who hasn’t sent us a card in years, or ever, and who we didn’t send one to this year. Arrrghhhhh! Will they hate us now because they aren’t getting a card from us? Should we rush out and buy one just for them? Grit our teeth and hope they don’t notice and be sure to send one next year? What if it’s too late and they cross us off their card list? Oh, the pressure.
As I write this, my wife and I haven’t decided if we’ll even send out cards this season. With our kids spread out further and further across the country each passing year, it’s almost impossible to get a photo of all of us to put on a card. Last year for the first time, in fact, our “family” photo card featured just my wife and me. No kids. Quite honestly, it made me feel less than holly and jolly to send them out.
Yep, it looks like we may be on several naughty lists next year. I’ll see you ‘round town.
This past weekend while my CV Weekly colleagues were dog paddling down Honolulu Avenue during the Montrose Christmas parade, my wife and I were having our own weathery adventures out of town. We drove north on Highway 14 late Friday afternoon, stopping in Mojave to fuel up and getting our first clue of the wild weather ahead. Getting out of my truck at the gas station, I had to hang onto the door handle with both hands to keep the wind from blowing the thing out of my hands and off its hinges.
Our first clue of the strength of the gathering storm should have been the fields of towering windmills spread far out across the horizon, their triple blades spinning like airplane engines at takeoff speed and the setting sun backlighting their massive whirling silhouettes.
The wind grew progressively stronger the further north we drove, building to a sustained and buffeting blow by the time we merged with Highway 395 near Pearsonville. Not surprisingly, we passed scores of tractor-trailer rigs pulled over and parked in sheltered areas of towns like Independence and Bishop – their drivers wisely waiting for the worst of the winds to blow over.
Arriving well after dark in the town of Mammoth Lakes, we followed slushy tire tracks up Main Street as the falling snow thickened the higher we climbed above town. After some slipping and sliding and many thanks sent aloft in appreciation for our truck’s four-wheel-drive capabilities, we pulled up to our family’s log home to find a thigh-high blanket of wet, dense snow covering the 50-or-so feet of driveway from the street to our front porch. Apparently, unlike the gentleman who has been plowing our driveway for the past many years and who automatically cleared clients’ driveways of snow after six or more inches had fallen, the new guy our family is using requires that you call and leave him a message 24 hours in advance of your arrival. Who knew?
But no matter, the richest adventures often happen when you least expect them. Like in the darkness and biting cold of an early High Sierra winter snowstorm when you suddenly find yourself shoveling and muscling a snowblower up and down the driveway for hours to clear a path to the house.
As much hard work as it was, we wouldn’t have traded the effort expended to get into the house last Friday night for any other experience. Coming in from the freezing night outside, we collapsed on the couch – exhausted, but warm with a sense of rewarded efforts (the crackling, sputtering logs burning in the stone fireplace contributed a welcome bit of heat, too).
Another weather-related adventure last weekend was even more memorable, if not nearly as enjoyable. Driving back home early Sunday afternoon, we were caught in a windstorm the likes of which I have never seen, much less driven through. Several miles south of the town of Lone Pine we were caught between two massive columns of tornado-like wind carrying huge amounts of debris – uprooted sage brush, whole branches and whirling walls of sand and dirt. As these angry funnels of fury pummeled our truck and blacked out the daylight, we couldn’t see our own hood or even the road directly beneath us. Let me tell you, at 70 mph, that gets your undivided attention.
We hurtled through the seemingly solid brown cloud until a particularly violent fist of air punched our truck up onto its two left-side wheels. As my wife did her best Steven Tyler impersonation and I fought to keep us from rolling, another vicious blast of wind, this time from the opposite side the highway, slapped our truck back onto all four wheels. Over the next thirty seconds or so – it seemed much longer – we emerged from the worst of the windstorm and could once again see the lines on the highway and brightening daylight through the remnants of the cloud.
As we slowly continued south on 395, caught our breath, and nervously laughed about the experience (my wife said she felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz) I realized that our windshield was now pitted from one side to the other, top to bottom. But it could have been worse. We passed a couple in a Volkswagen camper van who had made it safely to the side of the road, the entire roof of their vehicle torn off and hanging to one side.
Yep, it certainly could have been much worse. Next year, I have a feeling we’ll be staying in town for the annual Montrose Christmas parade. Whether (weather?) it’s dumping rain or not.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
