Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home! -Charles Dickens #######################################
Merry Christmas to you and yours. Thanks for the weekly musings/confessions/wildlings throughout the year. I so look forward to, and enjoy our Friday time together.
So, Christmas. Ah. My favourite time of year. I mean, I dig summer and fall, but the mini unto itself “holiday” season feels extra special. Of course, the second I wake up on New Year’s Day I’m already pining for spring. Because fuck the cold and the grey skies and S.A.D. is a bitch. But that magical month between Thanksgiving and Christmas is a warm and fuzzy one for me. I welcome the many ghosts of Christmas past. Christmas present is always a here and gone blur, but the memories… The older I get the more random they seem. Or maybe not. Maybe there’s a greatest hits that plays throughout my Christmas brain that only seems random because why this and not that. Christmas Eve 1967. Watching “The Smothers Brothers” and listening to the “Little Drummer Boy” album with it blue painting of the titular character rum-pah-pum-pumming while looking skyward; drawing pictures of how I remember George looked on the cover of Sgt. Pepper (those frilly sleeves; the tri-corner hat), because that’s what I’d asked for for Christmas that year; so desperately, achingly wanted/couldn’t wait for. Christmastime 1982. Driving through a snowfall shopping for my girlfriend. A cute black and purple mini skirt outfit and matching sweater. Those striped leg warmer because, hey man it was 1982. Coming across the 12” import of The Kinks’ “Come Dancing” at Record World, a good five months before it would be an MTV hit; that roller rink organ sounding amazing the first time I heard it; never as authentically roller rinky after. Grabbing two cheeseburgers at McDonald’s and eating in the car before continuing my shopping. The sloping snowy front lawn of that girlfriend's house in the dusk, windows aglow with Christmas cheer. *My* Christmases. Before I was Dad, before I was Gampa. Christmases of my youth. Christmases past. The distinct smell of Scotch "magic tape". That what Christmas means to me these days. Lovely memories. More family gone now than survived. Building memories with/for my own now-adult children and grandson.
I dunno. I'm rambling. As I often will.
Anyway, once again, Merry Christmas to you and Arle and all
Merry Chrismas to ya Serge, and to your whole tribe. There a whole new year just around the corner waiting for you!! Keep knocking it outta the park with your great stories. You should think more about getting them bound and in print I think......cheers!
Perfect quote with which to end!!
Merry Christmas to you and yours. Thanks for the weekly musings/confessions/wildlings throughout the year. I so look forward to, and enjoy our Friday time together.
So, Christmas. Ah. My favourite time of year. I mean, I dig summer and fall, but the mini unto itself “holiday” season feels extra special. Of course, the second I wake up on New Year’s Day I’m already pining for spring. Because fuck the cold and the grey skies and S.A.D. is a bitch. But that magical month between Thanksgiving and Christmas is a warm and fuzzy one for me. I welcome the many ghosts of Christmas past. Christmas present is always a here and gone blur, but the memories… The older I get the more random they seem. Or maybe not. Maybe there’s a greatest hits that plays throughout my Christmas brain that only seems random because why this and not that. Christmas Eve 1967. Watching “The Smothers Brothers” and listening to the “Little Drummer Boy” album with it blue painting of the titular character rum-pah-pum-pumming while looking skyward; drawing pictures of how I remember George looked on the cover of Sgt. Pepper (those frilly sleeves; the tri-corner hat), because that’s what I’d asked for for Christmas that year; so desperately, achingly wanted/couldn’t wait for. Christmastime 1982. Driving through a snowfall shopping for my girlfriend. A cute black and purple mini skirt outfit and matching sweater. Those striped leg warmer because, hey man it was 1982. Coming across the 12” import of The Kinks’ “Come Dancing” at Record World, a good five months before it would be an MTV hit; that roller rink organ sounding amazing the first time I heard it; never as authentically roller rinky after. Grabbing two cheeseburgers at McDonald’s and eating in the car before continuing my shopping. The sloping snowy front lawn of that girlfriend's house in the dusk, windows aglow with Christmas cheer. *My* Christmases. Before I was Dad, before I was Gampa. Christmases of my youth. Christmases past. The distinct smell of Scotch "magic tape". That what Christmas means to me these days. Lovely memories. More family gone now than survived. Building memories with/for my own now-adult children and grandson.
I dunno. I'm rambling. As I often will.
Anyway, once again, Merry Christmas to you and Arle and all
the assorted little ones.
Merry Chrismas to ya Serge, and to your whole tribe. There a whole new year just around the corner waiting for you!! Keep knocking it outta the park with your great stories. You should think more about getting them bound and in print I think......cheers!