Last Minute Tree

Art by: Leah Griffith

Last Minute Tree
By: Leah Griffith

I was about eleven when Alberta Hazard, took me along to help her buy a Christmas tree. It was the night before Christmas, pretty late to be buying a tree, but I was excited to go. This would be my first time breaking away from the nest and seeing how other people did Christmas—discovering that our family wasn’t the center of the holiday universe.

Although only eleven, I was Alberta and Rob’s babysitter, and a good one at that. I was old for my age, having no choice but to grow up quickly because of a complicated home life.

The Hazard’s had five kids back in the day when that was considered an average sized litter. They weren’t your conventional family. They had a fully stocked bar that took up their entire dining room and they kept a vicious Doberman named, Ranger, chained up in the kitchen. The children were well behaved, but who wouldn’t be with parents as stern as Alberta and Rob. They were whiskey serious—you could smell it each time they spoke.

Behind the bar Rob kept a leather strap hanging in full sight. The kids said it looked like a long black tongue waiting to give them a licking. It did. I felt bad for the Hazard kids. Their parents were mean, their dog was mean, and they spent most of their little lives on full alert—like deer sensing danger, tiptoeing around, trying not to piss off Rob, Alberta, or the dog.

When Alberta and Rob would leave for the evening, I’d spoil the kids, giving them “horsey” rides, sharing my snacks, and letting them choose which TV shows we watched. They loved the fun, and I felt like a mini god exercising my power of good over evil. That’s why I was excited to be able to have some say in what kind of Christmas tree they had. Their last year’s tree had been a boney disappointment.

Alberta wasn’t a big talker so we walked in silence, leaving me to watch the snow fall and wonder how something so delicate could make such hard crunching noises under my boots.

The guy selling trees was bundled up against wind, standing under a streetlight chewing on a cigar. Alberta spoke first, “Where do you keep the cheap trees?” Her words sounded crude, absent of holiday manners. Mr. Cigar was just as bad, not bothering to answer, but simply nodding his head, directing us to a dark corner where skinny pines roped in twine, were stacked on top of one another, looking more like a pile of hostages than Christmas trees.

I could imagine the flat line of disappointment in the kid’s eyes if we brought home one of those trees. Lord knows I was pretty familiar with that “let down” feeling myself, praying every night that my perverted stepfather would disappear from my life, only to find him at the breakfast table each morning fresh-faced and ready to rule the roost. I piped up, forcing out my words in big steamy breaths, “These trees are pathetic, Alberta. You guys need a pretty tree to go with that nice house of yours.”

There house was nice—on the outside, but on the inside it was as stark as a cell. Alberta wandered over to a “pretty” tree and lifted a branch, meeting it with her nose and sniffing as one sniffs a rose. I held my breath, afraid of breaking the spell. Dropping the bough, she hollered over her shoulder, “What’s this one cost?”

Alberta wasn’t a girly girl, she wore her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, carried a wallet like a dude, and had one eye that traveled, so you were never certain what she was looking at. She jingled the change in her jeans pocket, waiting for an answer.

“Oh that there’s a Blue Spruce, came all the way from Colorado. That one will cost you twelve bucks.”

“Twelve bucks for a tree on Christmas Eve? You’ll be burning them by morning. I’ll give you six.”

The man shuffled over to Alberta, and lit his already smoldering cigar, sucking and puffing, creating such a cloud that his head disappeared altogether.

“I’ll give it to you for eight, but that doesn’t include rope or me helping you tie it to your car.”

Alberta flipped open her wallet and lifted a perfect tenner out, handing it over to Mr. Cigar Face. He snagged the bill and quickly added it to an ample roll of green, handing her back two ones. “You might want to get your husband over here to help you…” But before he could finish his sentence, Alberta had already lifted the tree and was heading out, with me running behind.

It sure was a beauty, with thick fragrant branches, smelling like every kind of holiday happiness a kid could imagine. I took the light end while Alberta held onto the thickest part of the trunk. We made pretty good progress trudging through the snow along Main Street, passing store after store, their windows burning with holiday temptations, until Alberta’s good eye fixed itself on a neon sign, advertising that Archie’s Tavern was open for business on Christmas Eve.

The tree train stopped abruptly with an announcement from Alberta; “We’ll hoist the tree up here in this doorway, and go get a quick night cap. It will be our little secret.” And then she winked at me, sealing my fate as her co-conspirator.

The floor creaked as Alberta led the way through a section of small tables. Heads turned and nodded as she found us seats at the end of the bar. I felt as though I had entered a secret society where serious drinkers, perched like a sullen flock, drowned their troubles in booze. I had to fight the urge to spin on my barstool.

Alberta sipped her whiskey, half listening, as a guy sitting on her other side slur-whispered into her ear. I drank my Coke, glad to be on the end where no one could sit next to me.

A black haired lady in a red sequin dress was busy plunking nickels into the jukebox. Her rump shook to the music like a shimmery lure, drawing a skinny guy from the crowd who pulled her into a slow dance. I strained to focus my eyes, trying to see her face, imagining pretty, but instead finding the face of an old hag fit for handing out poison apples. My stomach twisted as my mind tried to adjust to what it was seeing, and I wondered if she knew what she looked like to everyone else, or if she even cared…if anyone cared. This was a different Christmas.

We made it back to Alberta’s by eight, leaving us plenty of time to decorate. Rob was passed out on the sofa, the kids were in bed, and the only creature stirring was Ranger, licking his bowl clean in the kitchen.

Wilson Pickett’s voice scratched over the hi-fi as we strung lights, and tossed tinsel. We worked like frenzied elves on deadline. Finally finished, Alberta plugged in the tree and shut off the lamp. I had to catch my breath because of the beauty of it—the icy shimmer of Christmas reflected off the tinsel—dancing over everything, including Rob’s sleeping face, transforming their harsh living room in sugar plum softness.

We rushed outside in our stocking feet to catch a glimpse of the tree through the window. It was Rockwellian perfect, fit for a holiday postcard. Alberta smiled at the warm vision she had created, and whispered, "Let's go wake up the kids."

I remember Alberta loading her arms with the three youngest, while I tugged at droopy limbs and whispered, “Come see”. We half-circled the tree, the children’s eyes wide, their voices hushed with wonder.

I could sense the spirit of Christmas standing there with us—the joy, the togetherness, and even though it was temporary, and things would surely go back to normal, Christmas was visiting the Hazard family, waking up little hearts to the message of divine love, and the magic of hope, and change.

The Hazard’s left their tree up until January 22nd that year. Alberta begrudgingly agreed to take it down because Rob said it was a fire hazard. The next two years they had beautiful trees decorated well before Christmas Eve, after that they moved away and I lost track of them.

I like to imagine that the Hazard children grew up and created memorable Christmases for their own families, and that my childlike input on that snowy, tree-buying Christmas Eve, was enough to make a difference for generations of Hazards to come.

It’s always the little things isn’t it?

ELR wishes all our friends a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, and a most Happy New Year.

May the blessings we wish for be the blessings we give.

.

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As a Christmas special, my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, will remain on sale for just 99¢ on Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

On Transitions, Shifts, and Bed-Ins

For the last few months I’ve been enjoying a morning routine of slow awakenings—opening my eyes gradually then pushing myself into an upright position, propping a wall of warm pillows behind my back—viewing the day as a patient would from a sick bed, although I’m not sick at all, but rather in a place of transitions and ponderings. I wonder if our transitions should be allowed the same pampering offered to the sick, after all, transitions require quite a bit of adjustment and mettle. Actually failure to transition smoothly often results in all manner of ailments and mental collapses.

This winter I decided to make some changes, in order to help myself adjust to other changes, by staging a bed-in (sort of like John and Yoko’s) only with mine lasting just an hour or two each morning. Normally by springtime I would have headed out to the lanai to sit with the sunrise, and I have done that a few times, but this year most mornings beckon me back inside to gather and fluff—lingering in the nest with my coffee, cushioned by a drowsy gentleness with no sharp corners to navigate.

What is this transitioning? What does it matter, for life is a dedicated series of changes and shifts teaching us the freedom of detachment and the wisdom of uncertainty…over and over again. Each of us must faceoff with the great illusion of permanency and control—that tug-o-war between deity and flesh, and finally come to a place of surrender, where we discover the contented flow of life.

I used to leap from bed with the boldness of a bullet, but lately I’m not so daring. It’s been a bumpy year and I’ve seen what a day can do, so I solicit Divinity’s help before my bare feet have a chance to hit the cold tile floor, beginning my day with an hour of reading from an eclectic selection of inspirational writings (It’s amazing how a well-ordered dose of words can secure a shaky soul,) and then I take an amateurish stab at meditation, ending with a meaningful exchange with Spirit. After this, depending on the day, I laze for a little while and write…or simply be.

I’ve found bed to be a sensible place to transition, but it’s also great for other things, like engaging in intimate phone chats with best friends, doing my nails, not to mention escaping the world altogether by watching several episodes of Downton Abbey. I can pay my bills from bed; write a review, text a friend, exercise (leg lifts, crunches, and the subtle, but all important, kegel exercises), or invite family members in. As a matter of fact if I’m not careful I could easily become addicted to living in bed.

One day last month I stayed in bed till 2pm. My oldest daughter had slept over and in the morning she crawled in with me where we spent half the day chatting, playing with the dogs (I have very small dogs) photo’ing the dogs playing together, photo’ing each other’s morning faces, eating, leaning into each other tee-pee style while watching a movie on my 7” tablet—experiencing routine activities with great novelty from the perspective of our little nest.

I like the fact that I can go straight from bed to the shower without having to put on “morning clothes”. Morning clothes are the things I grab to keep myself covered while I do my morning routine; they are usually dirty, mismatched or ripped. If I stay in bed long enough I can eliminate the need for morning clothes and go directly from sleepwear (a wife-beater and undies) to daywear—properly cleaned and coordinated outfits with shoes and accessories.

Another benefit of hopping back into bed is that I don’t have to answer the door. “I was in bed.” Is always a legitimate reason for avoiding early morning visits from wide-eyed neighbors. Of course they may judge me as lazy, but who gives a chit. It’s my life.

Why the change? Like I said, I’m accommodating a transition. My life has shifted—and it is speaking to me. I need to listen. I need to marinate in the things that really matter in order to hear and see beyond the glaring illusions of fear and lack, which our world so steadily promotes. I’ve discovered that the things, which scream the loudest, are very often not real at all, but clever distractions drawing my attention away from the things that genuinely require my care. So, I’m doing this because I need it, and because I deserve this special time of catching up with myself. Who knows how long my schedule will allow for these easy mornings, so I intend to luxuriate in them like a hot bubble bath…until the last bubble pops and the bathwater grows cold.

Bruised Bamboo, a little help.

The suffering and despair of Japan’s people is incomprehensible to me. I watch as their desperate images appear on my TV screen, slotted between ads for Pop-Tarts and toothpaste, like a tragic prime time series. The imagines are too much too take in. I want to look away. Thousands of people’s lives have been broken to bits, their pieces cast to the wind. I shift on my sofa, seeking a more comfortable position. But there is no comfort, because my brothers and sisters are suffering. I continue to watch…. and sink into a hole of despair, where hope seems impossible. and loss the victor.

I begin to fear for myself and my family. Living at sea level in Florida, where an earthquake in another remote part of the world could trigger a tsunami and it could be us on TV, or the West Coast, or any other part of the world. I want to run and hide....go somewhere safe from calamity. But there is no safe place.....and Japan is devastated.

I force myself to feel the snake of despair that has curled up inside of me: depression, fear, grief, helplessness. I see an old Japanese woman shivering under a dirty blanket. Her face is twisted with sorrow as she stands alone….and I want to comfort her. I want to hold her and weep with her for her losses……take her home with me. But I’m here, and she is oh so far away.

I learned a long time ago that hopelessness is contagious. Letting despair and fear overtake me, disarms me, making me part of the problem rather than a key to the solution. So, as I sat on my sofa, choking back tears, I whispered a prayer for the people of Japan. It wasn’t an eloquent prayer, and I’m not even sure that my words made any sense. But it was a cry from the heart; a plea for help, and restitution, and I believe it helped.

The only other thing I know to do (other than sending them money; which is the first thing to do,) is to be willing to carry their terrified faces with me as I go through my refreshingly ordinary day, and let myself feel the bite of their sufferings. That is the only help I have left to offer. Sorrow inspires empathy and empathy inspires action. We are God’s hands reaching out to our brothers and sisters in Japan. They are a part of us..... no…..they are us.

Sundays, Bandwagons, and Beaches

As a kid I used to hate Sundays. It meant wearing stuffy clothes, sitting in a boring pew and listening to guy dressed in…well, a dress, ramble on (in Latin) while peering down at me like he knew every bit of mischief I’d been up to.

Being a kid and learning about God is akin to being a teenager and learning about love. You’ve got your preconceived notions, the stuff your parents and the church tell you, and then you have reality. I collected information on God mostly from my mother and catechism. Catechism is the catholic version of Sunday school, but it’s also a prerequisite for communion and confirmation, and you get tons of credit from God for going.

By the time I was fourteen I was completely confused about the God rules: what with menial and mortal sins, hell and purgatory, eating meat or not, all my protestant friends going to hell, so I kind of chucked it all and set out to find out the truth for myself, al la Leah.

Being the passionate soul that I am I found myself jumping on and off bandwagons more than a circus performer. I still have some bruises from the jumping off part. But after a lifetime of searching, and trying on different spiritual robes, I find that I have kind of come full circle and back to a bunch of basics….minus all the church accessories.

I believe that I am my church which conveniently lets me off the hook from having to actually leave my house and attend one. I am a temple, built in the image of God, living and breathing, being his available hands, and voice, on this troubled planet. I may speak with the tongues of a fallen species, but I also, through many a trial, have learned the language of love and compassion which guides my motives and usually keeps me spiritually healthy. I say usually because I don’t always do the right thing. That would make me perfect and perfect doesn’t exist for anyone.

So, now I love my Sundays. They are completely free and open, allowing me to flow with the moment. Today I am taking my church to the beach where I intend to soak up the sun, relax with my family, and take in the splendor of God’s creation. Did I mention that there are some fine Adams at the beach …hehe. Hey! Remember…I am perfectly imperfect!

Art provided by Fran Murphy

Unwrapping Christmas

People all over the world are preparing for Christmas 2010. Holiday specials tug at the heart strings, while citizens race to the post office, eager to mail their glad tidings. The rich, wrapped in cashmere and Gucci, sip from crystal goblets, thankful for another successful year. The poor, cocooned in worn parkers and hand knit scarves, toast with tumblers of spiked eggnog, inspiring hope for an even better year.
Lighted trees sit center stage in penthouse, and row house alike, circled with a wreath of festively wrapped gifts. Stockings stretched with candy and loot send a shot of excitement to little eyes; proof positive that Santa really exists. But these are only a slice of what the season represents. Love Joy, and Peace….these are the true golden rings of the season.
Christmas stimulates our senses, fanning the flames of hope after a long year of indifference and struggle. Some say that Christmas brings out the hypocrites. Folks go to church that wouldn’t normally attend, and give to the poor instead of visiting the pub. But I don’t think it’s hypocritical any more than it was hypocritical for Scrooge to give Bob Cratchit a fatted goose. People are simply responding from the heart. From a place of nobility that lies buried beneath the have to’s and oppression of every day life.
Wedding songs and funeral hymns harmonize with the jingles bells and Noels in a messy world that slows for no one, reminding us that Christmas is not the absence of troubles but the presence of hope. I guess you could say that Christmas is life dressed in her Sunday best.

Tantrum Yoga

A friend of mine talked me into joining a beginner’s Yoga class with her, so I in turn cornered my friend Susan and bullied her into going too. For some reason I felt I needed numbers to do this because everyone knows…..there is safety in numbers!
This was a huge step for me because I hadn’t engaged in any real exercise for a couple of years, unless you counted my frequent trips to the refrigerator and the bathroom.
My knowledge of Yoga was zero, and except for the mental visual I had of Gandhi sitting sedately in the Lotus position, I was clueless.
The entire concept sounded, well….boring. I like dancing around, shaking my giblets to hard driving music. In my mind the prospect of going to a Yoga class was the equivalent of going to exercise church.
This was an early evening class, so I was forced to eat my dinner on the road, woofing down a steak and bean burrito that my husband had lovingly prepared for me.
I met the girls in the parking lot so we could all walk in together.
The room was quite pleasant, decorated in an eastern style, with the slightest scent of bamboo lingering in the air. The floor was draped with yoga mats of various colors, like towels on the beach, and an exotic instrumental was being mysteriously piped in from somewhere….maybe heaven.
We found a corner of the room with space enough for us to spread our mats. An easy task for most people, but we fumbled and bumped into each other, giggling like fools and fitting in like Larry, Moe, and Curly.
The room was crowded with poker faced women all in various stages of stretching. I eyed Susan, and mouthed over to her: “We don’t belong here.” She intentionally ignored me while gracefully assuming the mad cow position. Traitor. Sitting nervously on my pink mat, with my chubby legs painfully crossed Indian style, waiting for the class to begin, I felt the first burrito bubble seeking the easiest exit. Never again! Yup.

Ordinary Insanity

Life is not a one night grand production where adoring fans applaud us, and the morning news heralds our praises for the entire world to see; thus validating our existence. Life is much more ordinary. But just because the bulk of life is ordinary, that doesn’t mean that it isn’t important. Some people miss out on life, always waiting for that one big thing to happen, casting away ordinary moments like unwanted ticket stubs. Is it even possible to measure our success by one attained goal?
Well, what if that one great moment never arrives? Or what if it already came and we didn’t recognize it because we were too busy searching the skies for fireworks? Real life exists in the breathe of the moment, it’s the words that we choose to speak and the thoughts that we choose to dwell on that inspire the steps that we take in life.
Most people have many successes in life, yet the bulk of them are very private; like getting over an abusive childhood, raising happy kids, or finding forgiveness for the people who have hurt them. These are great successes. Ordinary, well, if you compare them to writing a Pulitzer Prize winning novel, yes, but their value is immeasurable, and I doubt very much that they were easier to attain.
Many of us fall into the bad habit of measuring ourselves against the images on TV,… or the backs of books. Emaciated models, air brushed movie stars, and edited anchors dominate our media. Unfortunately these role models don’t even exist as we see them. They’ve been created by image consultants and script writers, and inside their heads, and skin, they are just as ordinary as the rest of us. We should only measure ourselves against ourselves, like a child’s grow chart penciled on the doorframe by a loving parent with their name above it. Our personal growth and successes are uniquely our own, like our fingerprints, and even though sometimes it may seem like nothing is happening or even worse, we are going backwards, we must stubbornly stand in faith trusting that the road that we are on is part of the plan, and will eventually lead us to where our destiny calls.