He stands alone
through all seasons
in silent vigil
The sun has set low
now bare limbs reach
into the cold blue
the barren fields
prostrate before his crown
Sleep for the Winter
beneath his watch
the earth where sisters once stood
where crows now set their perch
lives pass anon
Patient he waits
his memory long
for the return of days
that the till should fall idle
When the snows abate
and winds again blow gentle
the fertile earth unfolds
accepting the seed
a forest will reclaim
I'm feeling like we should still apologize for the Mariah Carey Christmas.
Anyway... here's my old buddy RW. You know... the maintenance guy from Trip Tank Studios?
They used to just refer to them as "the old folks' home". Convalescent centers, senior care facilities, any of a handful of titles to describe the same thing. There are varying levels of care and focus, from assisted living to full, around the clock care. Warehousing for a generation, as it passes from the harness pulling the wagon to the slow wait to be rendered into glue or paint. Our subject in this case is the Walker Road Senior Care Center of Sabine Falls.
The Walker Road Center, as it is known familiarly to the locals, opened it's doors mostly unnoticed in 1979. With eighty beds it was considered a bit over scale for a Sabine Falls retirement home at the time. The developers were looking at the rising curve of the WWII generation, and the treasure trove of baby boomers to follow for years to come. They weren't wrong. It was designed to provide a modest standard of comfort to a people who were of modest means and mindset. For most of it's history the Walker Road Center did just that.
In the ensuing years, the founders of Walker Road Center discovered that many others had identified the trend, and even though these others were late to the dance, they had surpassed what Walker Road Center could offer in care or comfort. Still, there was enough steady demand for them to tool along in their business. Profitability was eroding, however, until they succumbed to the offer of a buyout in 2009. They were hardly unique. This is a tale repeated thousands of times over across the nation.
Within a decade of their purchase the Walker Road Center, as it was still known, found that nearly half of the residents in their care were Medicaid or Medicare patients. That was a trend that continued until today, when at any given time the census may be comprised of as much as two thirds on some form of public assistance. Of course, the residents are still afforded qualified care. They just don't get the best care that money can buy. They get the best care that government money can buy.
Only a fool would attempt to sugarcoat any of these places as a house of happiness. To be fair, that is not to say that they are all pits of abject misery. Most fall somewhere in between. The Walker Road Senior Care Center is no exception to this rule.
Monique Willams had been part of the care staff at Walker Road Center since the first year after the buyout. She was a transfer from the parent organization, moving there from Louisville in 2010. She'd already had eight years with the company then and was now celebrating her twentieth year in their employ.
At the time of her transfer, some of her peers questioned her judgement in moving to the obscure backwaters of Sabine Falls, but she had no regrets. Being a single, working mother of two was an arduous task under any circumstances. That burden had been considerably lessened by escaping the South Louisville neighborhood off Heywood Avenue. Her two daughters, both grown now, had suffered no ill effect from being the only dark specks in a sea of lilywhite. Monique was pretty certain that she'd be a grandmother by now if they had remained. Thirty-eight was way too young to be having grandbabies!
It was the first Saturday after the Thanksgiving weekend, December 3rd. After rising through the ranks to become a nursing supervisor, Monique did not work a lot of weekends anymore. This day was unusual. She was appearing in relief for a nurse who had fallen ill. The digital clock in her Ford Focus read 6:44 AM as she pulled into the employee parking at the rear of the Center. As she began to turn into a parking space, she caught a glimpse of a dark blur in her periphery. It registered, but she hadn't seen it clearly. Once parked she looked about to see what it might have been, but seeing nothing she decided it had only been a shadow.
Monique did not have any reason to think that someone or something was lurking about the back lot. She was not of a suspicious nature and experience dictated that there was nothing to be afraid of here. She braced herself for the cold, gathered up her bag and then exited the warm car for the dash to the entrance. After stepping around the back of her car and onto the lot she was stopped in her tracks. Not afraid. Startled. There, ten feet before her in the lane, was a large, coal black dog. Maybe it was a German Shepherd? Except that it looked rather... wolfish. The dog was not threatening in any way. It just sat there, ears standing straight up, tongue wagging. It looked almost like it was waiting for some command. It wore no collar that she could see, no ID tags of any kind.
"Well! Where did y'all wander in from, huh? You're a pretty boy! Are you a boy?" Monique spoke to the dog in a childish, singsong voice. She didn't make any move to touch it, but as she spoke she began to step around toward the door. She continued turning her head toward the dog to watch what it would do, but it didn't move other than turning it's head to watch her passing. When Monique reached the entrance, she called back to the dog again. "You be a good boy, now. Go on home!" In response the dog licked it's chops and lay down to rest it's head on it's front paws. Monique shook her head in amusement and headed inside.
The rear door entered into a service hall that ran near the length of the building. On the wall opposite the twin doors was the time clock and the adjacent bulletin board with all of the requisite US Department of Labor postings. To the left of the time clock area was a row of employee lockers, faced on the opposite wall by a row of coat hooks and loose hangers. At this time of year Monique was able to judge staffing conditions just by the coat hooks. On this particular Saturday morning there were plenty of hooks available. She sighed as she hung up her coat and stowed her bag in a locker. When she clocked in, she knew this would be a long one.
She continued down the hall to the left, to the double doors at the end that were the entry to the front lobby, nurse's station and administrative offices. Along that path she passed the laundry, where she was hailed by Rhonda or Rhoda, one of the housekeeping girls. She couldn't remember which name was right.
"Mornin', Miss Monique! What are you doin' here today?"
"Oh, another covid casualty, you know...", Monique sighed, "How you doin', girl?"
"Well, I'm here, ain't I?"
"Hey, you know if anybody lost a dog?"
"Huh?"
"There's this big black dog out there in the parking area. He was just standin' out there like he was waitin' for somebody. Very pretty dog! I tol' 'im go on home, boy, an' he just laid down right there. I was wondering, like maybe he belong to somebody here?"
"I don't know, Miss Monique. I ain't seen it. You say it was out there just now?"
"Yeah, right as I come in here. Go take a look!"
Rhonda/Rhoda (it was Rhoda, actually) happily obliged her and went to have a look. She stood outside the back door, scanning all across the well-lit lot, but saw nothing. She even thought to give a whistle and call out "here boy". She gave it a minute or so and when there was no sign of the dog anywhere, she shuddered against the cold and raced back inside.
"Ain't no hound out there now, Miss Monique! He must have taken your advice and went on home."
"Well, I hope he did! Pretty dog like that must belong to somebody!"
Monique went on about her day from there, with little time to give any further thought to the strange dog. The worst of the pandemic had passed them over, but the lingering covid protocols were still very taxing upon their daily operations. That was, in fact, the reason for her being there that day. It seemed very peculiar to her that Fulke County, on the whole, had almost no covid in the previous two years, and yet the Center had continual positive testing for covid among their staff. Even now, nearly three years after the outbreak. There was a lot to be questioned about the past three years, but Monique was wise enough to just keep her head down and her opinions to herself.
By now many of the more draconian restrictions had been lifted. This, however, did little to raise the dismal spirit that resided inside the walls of the Walker Road Center. The severe isolation of 2020 and 2021 had done more to kill off their residents than any virus. For those remaining, who had been there through these years, there was little joy to be found in regaining half of their rights. Half of nothing was still nothing. Now, at the advent of the Holiday season, the emptiness and sorrow of the past few years was magnified. The Center had been without an activities director for nearly two years. Only the most sparse of seasonal decorations had been placed and there was not yet any Christmas Tree in the seniors' common area. The common area had only come back into use in April and there still seemed to be a good deal of confusion about what was or wasn't permitted.
It was nearly 9:00AM by the time Monique had an opportunity for a break. She took a bottled water and a coffee to the nurses' station and prayed she could have five whole minutes to sit down. She was joined there by one of their long-time aides, Marla Horn. From the station there was a view out to the common area. Monique was staring at it, only noting what she didn't see. Just that big, empty space where a Christmas Tree should be standing.
"You know what, Marla? Next time we got enough bodies on the floor in this place, I'm gonna come in here and get a Christmas Tree put up!"
Marla chirped up, "You might not have to, Miss Monique. We got a new volunteer on the sign-up sheet, supposed to be in here today to do decorations."
"For real?"
"It's what I heard Stacey say. They got the name up at the desk. Guess we'll see if they show up, huh?"
Stacey was Stacey Hutchinson, the Center's director. "Yeah, I guess we'll see. That's some good news. These folks need somethin', you know? There's a big weight of sadness here. I feel it every time I come in this place!"
Marla said nothing but nodded in agreement with a knowing look. Monique actually got her whole five minutes, finished most of her coffee and downed half a bottle of water. She told herself that it was just a little under six hours to go now, knowing that it was more likely to be nine.
A little over two hours later, about forty-five minutes before lunch service, Monique was back in one of the resident wings to visit with two of the Center's longest residents. Celia Bennett and June Barker had both been with Walker Road Center since the summer of 2018. Though neither of the ladies were in stellar physical condition when they had arrived, Monique had observed a frightening deterioration in each of them through the pandemic. They had reached a stage that she could only describe as fragile. Every time she saw them, more and more, they resembled delicate, glass replicas of their former selves.
Both of these residents were so physically frail that they could not walk. Of the two, Celia was still often lucid. June seldom spoke, except for sudden, occasional outbursts of gibberish. Celia was having a fairly good day, relating some account of her baby's first Christmas back in 1963. Monique followed her hoarse whisper as best she could. In the middle of this halting narrative, Marla Horn appeared.
"Miss Monique, I don't need to take you away. Just wanted to let you know our new volunteer showed up. When you get up that way stop and say hello. He's kinda cute!"
"A he?"
"Yup. Gotta run, see ya later!"
Monique spent another ten minutes with Celia as she reviewed both her and June's charts. She made notations as she followed Celia's wispy tale. A cute, male volunteer. That will cause a stir, she thought with a slight smirk. At a suitable pause she excused herself, reminding Celia that it would be lunch soon. Celia was still in 1963.
Monique worked her way back to the nurses' station rather deliberately, in part because lunch service would begin in about fifteen minutes. In truth, because she did want to get a look at this volunteer. There was some legitimacy in this. As the Nursing Supervisor she was the de facto MOD (Manager on Duty) for the facility at the time. It was proper protocol that introductions be made. When she arrived there, she was dumbstruck by what she saw.
Across the common area, over to that gaping blank space of two hours before, there now stood a small, sturdy platform, four feet square and about ten inches high. Resting in the center was a stunning eight-foot tree, planted in a skirted tree stand. Blue Spruce replica, with needle tips occasionally "frosted" by snow. It was only after absorbing this sight that Monique realized there were two other nurses and two nurse's aides also congregated at the station. They seemed likewise dumbstruck, though their gaze was not fixed upon the tree.
Monique angled around, unnoticed, to follow a line of sight over their shoulders. This directed her eyes to the bank of windows to the left of the main and ambulance entrances. These windows looked out upon the visitor parking at the front of the building. There was one thing dominating the center of that row. It was the largest, shiniest, silver pickup truck she had ever seen. If the sun had been shining that day it would have been blinding to behold. As she continued looking out that window, she saw what these ladies were watching. It wasn't the truck.
There emerged from the rear of that truck a tall, dark figure of a very well-dressed man. In black, from head to toe with a smart, wool overcoat. No hat or cap, just a wavy mane of jet-black hair. He had some strands of lights looped around one shoulder and a couple of boxes nestled beneath his other arm. And he was headed up the walk towards the entrance. Before she was even aware of saying it, Monique heard herself utter, "That is our volunteer!?" She startled the girls from their apparent reverie, some even caught blushing.
"Alright, ladies. Y'all got someplace to be?" It was enough to chase them off. She looked at the truck again. She couldn't tell what state it was from, but the plate was a vanity: KRISTOF. Then he was in the doorframe, nearly filling it. Six foot four if he was an inch, broad shouldered and.... so dark. "My Lord! He's near dark as me!", she couldn't help thinking. Seeing her there he flashed a brilliant smile, his eyes twinkling.
"Merry Christmas! You must be Miss Monique? I'm Kris. Come to set up your Christmas display."
The man was perfectly chiseled, like some Greek demi-god rising from the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. His hair was a glistening black, like a sable cap upon his head, with just a breath of silver-grey at his temples. His twinkling eyes like a kaleidoscope, at once amber or gold, flashing to aquamarine, then jade. They were... hypnotic.
"Yes, I am Monique Williams, Nursing Supervisor. Pleasure to meet you, Kris. It looks like you have this well underway..."
"Thank you. Miss Monique?" He placed the lights and boxes down at the platform and approached. When he was at an arm's length he continued, "I wonder if you would be so kind as to bring June Barker, Celia Bennett, Patrick Carmichael and Warren Woodhouse up here? I'll arrange some tables for them so they might enjoy their lunch in the common room today." He spoke it in such a matter-of-fact tone, so fluidly.
Monique blinked and stood silent for a few seconds, then replied, "Kris, would you please set up some tables for four? I would like to bring June, Celia, Patrick and Warren up here to join you for lunch today."
"It would indeed be my pleasure, Miss Monique."
Monique did not even recall Kris asking her to do it. In her mind she believed that this had been her own idea. There was a Christmas Tree now! Kris had come to help them. Now she must do her own part. She had said she would, right here at this nurses' station only hours before. She had a flash of memory, her grandmother reminding her, "Ain't no time like the present, child!"
The selection of those four residents was right. Her two ladies and their male counterparts, Patrick and Warren, were the only remaining residents from before the pandemic. Patrick had joined them in 2017 at the age of 73. Diabetic. Now 78, Patrick was their youngest charge. Warren Woodhouse, ironically, had been with them the least amount of time of any of the pre-pandemic survivors, while still being their eldest resident at his current age of 88. Warren had come to them in May of 2019. He was completely blind.
By 12:15 all four of the seniors were seated, as comfortably as possible, arranged in a semi-circle before the Christmas Tree platform. Their hot lunches had been delivered there for them, today it was cornbread with ham and beans. There were two aides present to assist with their lunches, though none of them exhibited any enthusiasm for eating. Monique suddenly felt dizzy, for a moment paralyzed yet ready to pass out. She blacked out for an instant, then blinking her eyes she returned to consciousness. She knew where she was, recognized who was present and... had absolutely no memory of how they had all arrived here. Still disoriented, Monique steadied herself at the back of Celia's chair. And there was the mysterious Kris, holding court up on the platform like it was his stage.
"I am so happy that you are all here. I was greatly honored by your invitation..."
Monique thought, but could not speak, "Wait...what? Invitation?"
".... I thought that perhaps we should begin with these lovely lights I found. I think you'll all really like them. Especially you, Celia."
It didn't appear that any of the four were listening to Kris at all. They were barely paying any attention to the meal set before them. Undaunted, Kris proceeded with his task, moving with grace and purpose as he unwound the strands about the tree. In a matter of minutes, the lights were in place and lit up.
"These are rather special lights. They'll take a few minutes to warm up, but definitely worth the wait, as you will see." Kris moved over to the left side of the stage, smiling broadly and looking very pleased with himself. The smile faded as he stood there so straight, his hands clasped behind his back. He waited there for the warmup to occur, but he could not keep a little grin from creeping to the corners of his mouth.
All of the lights were shining; they had been since they were plugged in. What were they waiting for? And then, after several minutes some of the bulbs began to flicker. Then there were still more. From the side Kris now pointed excitedly, "See! There they go! They're starting now!" True enough, it was and soon the entire tree was ablaze. With bubble lamps. Such vivid colors, red and pink and orange; green and blue and sparkling bubbles. You could even hear their gentle gurgling within the tubes. There was a distinct glow that formed around each one of the lamps. It grew and grew into a single glowing orb, encompassing the tree first, and then the whole platform. It cast a warm, orange glow throughout the room.
Kris stepped down from the platform, still grinning. As he began to move toward Celia the glow from the orb surrounded and followed him. By the awestruck faces of the aides Monique could tell that she was not the only one seeing this. Kris halted right in front of Celia, within an arm's length. He reached for her just until the glow surrounding him brushed against her sleeve, then in a softer voice said, "I think Celia can tell us all something about these lights. Celia? Would you, please?"
The glow quivered upon her sleeve and then smoothly spread to envelope all of her. Monique could hardly believe it was happening, but right there before her eyes she watched the miraculous transformation of Celia Bennett. The white hair slowly bled into a soft, chestnut brown. Limbs that had been mere bone with skin stretched across were suddenly full and supple. The color of her face returned and her eyes, for the first time in three years, regained a spark of life. They were witnessing a Celia Bennett restored to the age of 23. Then Celia began to speak, not in a hoarse whisper, but the gentle lilt of a young woman.
"See Miss Monique? This is what I was telling you about before. In 1963 it was our first Christmas with our first child, Laura. The year before I had been pregnant at Christmas time and we were having some hard times. We didn't have a tree in our home that year, so the next year, with a new baby, my husband Carl tried to make everything very special. He went and picked up these bubble lights at Sears. I hadn't ever had bubble lights on my tree before. I just remember that Christmas night, all the other lights turned out in the house and sitting there in my rocker, with Laura in my lap, staring at those lights. This is my happiest Christmas memory!"
Kris returned to the platform as Celia spoke, opening one of the boxes he had brought in. "Isn't that lovely? Thank you for sharing your Christmas memory with us, Celia!" He removed two handfuls of tree ornaments and held them up for the room to see. They were rather small, not shiny or colorful at all. It really wasn't possible to see any of them in any detail. "Now here are some tree ornaments I have found. They look rather old. Do any of you recognize these?"
The orange glow slowly separated from Celia and formed to hover in the air between her and June Barker. Celia slowly melted back into her current day form, though her eyes seemed to retain some of that glow. The little glowing cloud drifted over and settled upon June, starting the same transformative effect as they had just seen with Celia. The rigid, moribund form that had been the June Barker they all knew, was slowly transformed into the 33-year-old version of a woman none of them had ever met. Her white hair reverted to it's original black, the lines fading from her face and, again there was that gleam returned to the eyes. No longer staring lifeless, her brown eyes were animated for the first time in years. She even sat up, unassisted, and began to speak.
"Those are mine! I know those ornaments! My son made those for the family when he was ten. The year before we lost him."
"Oh my! Thank you, June. I wonder, would you be so kind as to tell us more about these while I hang them up on our tree?"
"My, yes! They were from an ornament kit, from the Leeward's craft store. They were in pre-cut shapes from balsa wood. There were sheets of colored Victorian prints. The prints were cut out and decoupaged onto the balsa shapes. They even had a little gold string to tie a hanger onto the top of each one. There were twenty-four of them, all scenes from a Victorian Christmas. He was so proud to put them on our tree. He'd worked on them for weeks, trying to make sure each one was perfect! That was my happiest Christmas ever, that last one with him! We kept hanging those on our tree for years after. Wherever did you find them?"
Kris pretended not to notice June's question, just went on hanging the ornaments. "My goodness, look! She's right! They still have the little gold strings. Here's one. A horse-drawn sleigh in the snow, a Victorian gaslight with Christmas bunting wrapped around the post, carolers in Victorian dress. You have a sharp memory, June! Thank you for sharing with us! These are quite delightful!" He was practically giddy.
The same process repeated itself, with the glow fading from June and gathering as a wispy trail in the air, reforming again to a small orb suspended above Patrick Carmichael. Kris returned once more to his small pile of boxes, rummaging about for his next treasure.
"Oh, will you look at these? An old favorite from yesteryear! We have a set of tin soldiers and nutcrackers, and a ballerina... look at the extraordinary painting on these!" Kris pulled out several pieces from the box to display before his captive audience. They were indeed some exquisitely crafted pieces, painted with great detail and brilliant colors. They appeared to be quite old, though they were in pristine condition like they had just been opened from their original box. "Do any of you recognize these figures? I think we can fit these onto our tree as well!"
As it had with the others, the mysterious orange glow descended gently upon Patrick. The rough and cantankerous Vietnam vet of 78 years, the double amputee with no legs from the knees down, slowly melted away within the orb. Patrick was transformed to a mere boy of 11, as he had been in 1955. Legs and all. He then spoke to the room in the breaking voice of the pre-adolescent.
"That was my best Christmas ever! When I was a boy all I ever wanted to be was a soldier. There was the set of soldiers, I would play with using the nutcrackers as the enemy. There was a cannon too! Do you have the cannon there?"
"A cannon, you say? Let me look again..." Kris returned to the boxes and searched a little further. After a moment, "Why yes! Here it is!"
"Yes! That's it! I haven't seen these in years!" The light of wonder shone from the boy's eyes. It was that innocence before a boy becomes a man and realizes that soldiers and cannons are serious business, not just playthings. This was a lesson he would learn ten years later when he went to Vietnam, but for just this moment Patrick got to relive that wonder.
This vision lived on for a few more minutes, until the magical orb slowly departed Patrick as it had the others. It seemed to have gathered a bit more mass with each visitation. Patrick resumed his current form and the orb then hovered about the last chair, where Warren was seated. Kris returned to his hoard of Christmas trinkets gathered beneath the tree. The strands gurgled away, casting their multi-colored light upon the ornaments and toy figurines arranged throughout. Kris returned to the front of his little stage with one final piece from his collection.
"This is the final piece I've brought to share with you all today", he announced. He held it up for all to see. It was large enough to be seen clearly by all. Except for Warren. It was an angel, one clearly intended as a tree topper. It was different from your typical angel figure. There was no flaxen hair or cherubic cheeks normally assigned to angels. She wore all white, had wings of white, but any similarities ended there. This angel figure had black hair and skin like fine china, but a face that was clearly Asian. It looked almost like a Geisha girl. "I think we shall place this at the top of our tree! What do you think, Warren?"
At this, the glowing orb settled upon Warren Woodhouse, a man who had been completely blind for nearly five years. It slowly folded around him until he was glowing with it from head to toe. Before their eyes he was transformed to the young man he'd been in 1952, at the age of 18 and attired in his dress uniform. The young man they saw in that chair slowly removed the dark glasses from his face and stared up at the angel being set atop the tree. He could, for the moment anyway, see once again. He rose from his seat to stand and point up at the angel.
"That is her face! I never thought I would see her face again. I never learned her name." Warren gushed this out, staring up at that angel. He turned and addressed the room then. "When I was 18, I went to fight in Korea. I was full of piss and vinegar! I was gonna whoop some gook's ass! Heh..., funny how that worked out. On November 5, 1952, I got my ass all shot up. They were gonna leave me for dead, or so they tell me. I don't remember nothin'! I was in a coma for forty-nine days. Think of that! Forty-nine days! And on that fiftieth day? That fiftieth day was Christmas Day, friends. I woke up for the first time in fifty days!"
Warren stopped there for a moment, either searching words or collecting his thoughts. He remained standing erect in that crisp uniform. He wasn't done.
"I didn't know where I was, other than I was in a bed. I was suddenly awake and I started looking around. I could see I was in some kind of hospital. Somewhere. Turns out it was Tokyo, but I didn't know that just then. I started checking myself. I still had bandages on my head, on my left shoulder and arm. Had IV tubes stuck in me. Things were not looking good. And then she came. This nurse just shows up at my bedside. This is the first person I had seen since getting pulled off the line. Her face was perfect, her skin like porcelain. I hadn't tried talking yet and all I could think to say was ' What day is this? '. In perfect English, with a voice as sweet as an angel, she answered that it was Christmas Day. She was Japanese, I think. Maybe South Korean. I don't know, I never found out. I have always remembered her as my Christmas angel. I've seen her face for years in my dreams."
Warren stood there a moment longer. That youthful face grew a little sheepish, perhaps fearful he had shared a little much. The glowing orb slowly began to fade from him and he returned to his seat. The crisp uniform faded away into drab, grey flannels and the hair once again receded from his head. Once he had returned to his current form, he placed the dark glasses back upon his face, blind as he had been moments before. The orb floated up and reformed above him for one final time before, in the blink of an eye, it simply vanished with a little pop of light, like a camera flash.
Monique had been staring right into that flash. For a moment she saw spots floating before her eyes, then the strange dizzy spell as earlier. As before, she blinked her eyes free of it and looked around her feeling she had just arrived. She remembered everything she had just seen, and yet now she was seeing the four residents being cleaned up and readied to return to their rooms. Kris was gone. His boxes had been tidied up. She looked at the tree, still there with lights, ornaments and an angel on top. There was no one else around at all.
She wanted to ask the aides what they had seen. She wanted to ask anyone what was going on, but she didn't. Maybe she was afraid of the answer. She searched the eyes of her aides. They weren't looking at her like she was crazy. That was good.
She went over toward the entrance, looking out into the front of the lot. The giant, silver truck with the vanity plate was gone. Then she thought of something else. She went over to the receptionist's desk outside the admissions office. There was a sign in sheet there. She got to the desk and right there it was. The last entry was from 11:00AM that day. A Mr. Kristof Maspiritos, volunteer. So she wasn't crazy. He had been there.
Monique was certain of all the things she had seen that day. She knew what she had seen but somehow, she knew that she was one of only a few who had seen the same thing. And that she dared not speak of it. Her day continued along through the afternoon hours, with it's mundane routine. She found her charting very difficult, unable to focus as her mind kept drifting back to that magical lunch with Kris and her four special residents. By 5:00 it had grown dark again and the evening shift had settled in. It was time to go home.
She worked her way back to that door she had entered ten hours ago, saying her goodbyes along the way. At 5:15 she had put on her coat, gathered her bag and clocked out for the day. The back door scraped loudly upon the frozen concrete and let in a fearful gust as she prepared to leave. She had to stop to catch the door from the wind and push it shut. She felt the door latch and she turned to head for her car. There was that big black dog again, just as she had left it that morning. Ears pricked up, tongue wagging, he was looking rather pleased with himself.
"You been here all day, boy? Whyncha go on home?"
The dog inched closer to her, not threatening at all, bowing it's head in submission. She had no reason to fear. Monique leaned down closer to the dog and gave him a gentle pet behind the ears.
"Ain't you got a home, pretty boy? What you doin' here, huh?"
The dog raised it's head and licked her face. Caught her quite by surprise, but still she laughed. Then the dog simply turned away and padded off into the darkness. Monique chuckled to herself, "Ain't that a thing? Monique seen it all today! Heh-heh-heh.."
We have all heard a reference made to the "happy place". It's that room in one's mind palace that is the retreat, the Alamo, that last line of defense against the unthinkable. Or worse. It's that psychological escape hatch from whatever madness assails you.
There is also such a thing as one's own, personal Christmas happy place. Everybody has one. Well, most of us. It's that one special memory of Christmas, the one year when it really mattered. The one you can never forget.
Kristof Maspiritos delivered and decorated a tree for the Walker Road Senior Care Center, but he brought more than that. We think of that Christmas happy place as being the province of children. This tale shows us that, even if only for a moment, this happy place may be kindled at any age.
Blue and white capsules floated on the surface, while the heavier, more dense tablets sank to the bottom of the bowl. The bottles had been pretty full. If the flush didn’t sweep them all away the rest would dissolve. Everything dissolves eventually.
The house was quiet, save for the hum of appliance motors, ticking clocks and other devices marking time and distance in their circular precision. A collection of inanimate objects assembled in a way that breathed a mechanical imitation of life into their existence. These things at least were spared the burden of consciousness. There were four walls and a roof with a staggering inventory of items contained therein, yet it was empty, hollow. Echoes of thousands of words whispered from the shadows, mindless chatter that in the end said nothing. This was how he would remember it, if at all.
The car was already loaded, it’s share of household inventory on board to be transported to the next hollow shell they were destined to inhabit. Once there, these would continue their mute existence as before, oblivious to the change of scenery to which they would become a part. Unlike their pilot they would remain unchanged for the journey. He drove away with nothing in the rear view mirror. Rear view mirrors are illusions: what is behind remains behind.
March in the Midwest is suicide season; the light at the end of the tunnel dims even as arctic air recedes. The white blanket spread upon the land in the preceding weeks is no longer sparkling, pristine crystal. Roadsides are lined with the accumulated removal, skulking mounds shuddering around their icy core. They are weary, turned the same bleak hue as the clouded skies bringing the slow thaw of their pervasive damp. Away from the road in open ground, patches of land are revealed in their sickly brown pallor. Though daylight hours grow, the cold ever returns with the night, unwilling still to relinquish it’s hold. The sleeping earth is unfolded still lifeless, awaiting renewal. For those who make winters an annual soul cage the faltering light of hope on the March horizon is a fragile thing, easily extinguished by an early spring snowstorm. Each new cloud front carries with it the threat of extermination.
The monotonous landscape played in the car windows for miles. The only escape from the gaping maw was southbound now. I-75, a piece of old Ike’s interstate system which ran along the route of the old Dixie Highway, marked a trail of tears for the many and varied rites of passage for generations of restless youth. It marked a route for spring break for many, a path of flight to anonymity for others: both escapes, distinguished only by their differing durations. He had himself traveled this highway as an economic refugee in the early ‘80s, one of hundreds of thousands of young people from the rust belt who descended upon the sun belt for work. They came, worked, then returned to Norma Jean or Betty Sue, or whoever waited for them back home. They went on to make the rest of their adult lives there, only to then sell off the home, pack up the RV and once again flee to the lands of fairer winds.
He’d forced himself to push on past the cold, inhospitable rust of Cincinnati. Even here, as far south as the Ohio River, the land was still held in the clutches of that ubiquitous grey. Low, grey cloud pregnant with the cool grey mists, inviting the parting season to linger on under protection of the shroud. Truck trailers, cars, the streets themselves, all were dusted in a fine grey powder of salt. Snow piles here had been relegated to those few mounds still cowering in the corners of mall parking lots, like a rearguard covering the flank of winter’s slow retreat, they stand as the final snows to melt. As he crossed the river into Kentucky, he noted that even the bloated, brown waters of the Ohio had taken on a grey cast from the dull reflection of the skies. In twenty minutes he was beyond the north Kentucky suburbs of Newport, Erlanger, Florence, approaching Walton and the 71/75 split. Six hours. It was a good place to stop. Get fuel and decide: onward to Louisville to pick up 65 south or remain on 75 and make for Florida.
He found a BP station with a Mini-Mart that was easy off/easy on from the interstate and wheeled into the first pump available. As he stood by the pump, blankly staring at the digits rolling by on the display, he considered what else he might want to grab from inside. Occasional gusts swept across the lot carrying the faintest hint of warm, salt water as borne upon the winds from the far distant Gulf. On that particular day it smelled like freedom; on another day it might just have smelled of low tide. With the tank filled he replaced the nozzle to it’s cradle and headed into the store for a bathroom stop and a soda. He still had not decided which route he would take ahead.
He’d advanced to within ten or twelve steps of the door when he first took notice of the girl. A couple of steps to the left of the exit door she was propped up against the wall, slumping downward as though she were melting off the side of the building. She was clad in an olive drab, army surplus jacket, with the pastel pink of a hooded sweatshirt blooming from behind the collar. From beneath the hem of the jacket her legs protruded in the “skinny” jeans that were in fashion, terminating in the incongruous pair of black Converse sneakers. She was a little waif of a thing, surely not an inch taller than five feet, and were it not for the bright splash of the sweatshirt about her neck she would have simply blended right into the wall. As he neared the door he gained a better look at her. She had a thick, brunette mane of somewhat wiry hair, tossed about unruly in the gathering breeze. A tiny hand emerged from one of the sleeves to brush her hair back, revealing the sunken and hollow eyes of a junkie.
“Hey mister! Ya got a cigarette?”
At first he wasn’t certain that she had been speaking to him. He heard the question and was close enough by then to get a look into those eyes. Within the sunken and dark-ringed sockets deep brown orbs still flickered with a trace of the plaintive charm of her youth. They were the one aspect of her emaciated face that still showed signs of whatever fire of life still resided in her.
“Uh, no, sorry, I gave ‘em up sweetheart.”
She managed a weak smile, nodding in acceptance, though her body language seemed to slump further in defeat. He moved past and entered the store. Encounters like the one he’d just had were fairly commonplace and typically forgotten within moments. He found the restroom, finished his business there and then searched the cooler doors for Mountain Dew. After retrieving a 20 oz. bottle from the shelf he walked across the aisles to quickly survey what junk food was on offer, but decided against anything. A bit of a line had formed at the register. He took his place at the end of the line to patiently await his turn.
With only so many things to look at inside of a gas station mini-mart his gaze was inevitably drawn outside. Over the shoulder of the cashier there was a window with a clear view to the lot beyond. Through there he could see that the girl was still out front in the same spot. As he waited two more people came to the entrance, each of these also greeted with what he assumed were further requests for cigarettes. The next customer in line decided to buy a sampler package of lottery tickets and there were yet two more customers ahead of him after that. It was obvious there would be a few more minutes to wait. For no reason he could think of he stepped away from the line and went over to the door to poke his head outside.
“Hey! What’s your name?”
She seemed startled at first and then the smile. “I’m Tammy.”
“What kinda smokes ya like?”
A light came upon her face like a child opening a present. “For real? Uh, Camel filters...”
She was still saying something else as he ducked back inside. He grabbed another bottle of Mountain Dew and then resumed his previous place in line. After a few more minutes his transaction was completed and he exited the store with the sodas and a pack of Camel filters.
“Hey Tammy. Here ya go. I got ya a pack of smokes and I hope ya like Mountain Dew.”
“Holy shit! Thanks! I don’t have any money, uh… ”
“No, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it.” He was ready to wave it off and return to the highway when suddenly, for no cause he could fathom, he decided to talk with her further. She had the sickly cast of skin common to junkies, a Goodwill wardrobe, begging cigarettes outside of an interstate gas station. He might just as easily have found this girl at a downtown bus station. She was running from something. Then again so was he. “ So… ya waitin’ on somebody?” A brief shadow of suspicion crossed her face.
“Yer not a cop, are ya?”
“Me? Hell no! What, do I look like a cop?”
It was the first time he had seen her smile. It was electric, a broad, kind and innocent smile that would seem better paired with freckles and pig-tails. It was at one time: some missing teeth rendered it to broken toy status in her mind, causing her to self consciously bring a hand to cover her mouth. “ Yeah, ya kinda do!”
“Really? Shit, man! That sucks!”
“Well, okay… ya don’t look like a cop, but you look like you could be.”
“You wanna see some ID?”
She laughed again, now careful to keep her dental imperfections obscured. “ No, we’re cool, uh… what was your name?”
“I’m Vic.”
“Okay, Vic. So, seriously, uh,thanks for the smokes.”
“Oh, no problem. So, uh… you need a lift somewhere or something?”
“I’ve always been more of an or something girl. Where ya headed?”
He couldn’t say he didn’t know. Could he? Really, what difference did it make? “South. No point certain. Just south.”
She drew from her cigarette impassively, affecting a Gallic indifference. “No point certain. Yeah, that’s kinda where I was headin’.”
“Well I’m getting ready to go, so if I can give you a lift somewhere?”
Her face suddenly brightened. “Can you take me back up into Cincy?”
He wasn’t really keen on heading back into the city, but he had asked. It wouldn’t take that much time and he didn’t plan on pushing too much further before he would stop and get a hotel for the night. “Sure, I can do that for you. Come on, I’m over here”, he gestured towards the deep blue sedan at pump number 5. “You can smoke in the car, but ya gotta crack the window. Passenger side should be unlocked.”
Inside the car was still warm as he turned the key. The fasten seatbelt chime had just begun to ring as she pulled the passenger door closed. They exchanged a brief and awkward eye contact, there in such a confined space, as they engaged their buckles. Smoke had just begun to gather in rings about her head when she found the switch to crack the window. The sudden updraft caught thin wisps of her wiry hair, drawing them up to entangle with escaping smoke to form a wreath about her face. For the first time he noticed that there were shadows of freckles on her cheeks.
“How old are you? Do I need to ID you?”
She giggled. “What?! I’m twenty-seven. How old are you?”
“Old enough to be your daddy.” His response came out a little more gruff than he intended.
“You ride me up to Cincy and you can be my daddy. For a while.”
This was a response loaded with implications. He had not offered the ride with the idea that she was a prostitute. There was perhaps some part in the back of his mind that recognized the possibility from the moment he’d spotted her outside the station, but he had not entered this as a solicitation arrangement. As he pulled off of the lot and back towards the northbound on ramp he was asking himself if he would pay to have sex with this girl. It seemed she was offering and he could not find a single reason to say no.
“So what’s up in Cincy that’s so important?”
She pouted, ignoring the question. “You don’t wanna be my daddy?”
“You want me to be your daddy?”
She grinned, again drawing up a hand to hide her smile. “Maybe I do. We’ll see. I need to get some of my pills.”
He’d had her made as a junkie from the start. Oddly he was a little relieved to discover her poison was pills instead of the needle. So she wasn’t a prostitute by trade; just by opportunity.
“What kinda pills, sweetheart?”
“Oxys. Ever try ‘em?”
“I’ve had vicodin. Those are pretty good.”
“No shit! You like to party?”
“I’m an old stoner who went legit.”
“Yeah? What does that even mean?”
He had to stop for a time to consider the broader implications of this question. Was it a matter of her not being familiar with the term? Or was she questioning the general premise?
“It means I went over to the dark side.”
“Gotcha.”
He had answered while still considering the premise of going legit. What does that even mean? His flippant reply had seemed to satisfy her curiosity on the matter. The fact that she accepted the answer so readily somehow affirmed his suspicion that it was, in fact, an unvarnished truth.
Here is one fished out from another archive. We hope you will enjoy. It's a tale that should ring familiar...
Once there was a peaceful realm of woodcutters and farmers. It wasn’t a kingdom so much as a loose collective, assumed by general consensus. Peaceful must always be understood as a relative term, as petty quarrels will always arise. Thus is nature and likewise the nature of man. Nevertheless, we may say that within this realm good will and honest toil to the general benefit of all prevailed. There were no princes or kings among them as there was found no need for these.
Life continued in this happy fashion for some generations. The inhabitants of the realm were content to apply their various talents and enjoy the fruits thereof; in short, to prosper. They did not concern themselves with those quarrels outside their realm and dealt in their own fashion with those which should arise from within. Their’s was not a paradise, for inequality and injustice still existed within their borders. Still, they had no need of code or statute; accepting that natural law is realized, for good or ill, as Nature will ever find her own balance. Thus was it that their society, while as imperfect as any other of man’s creations, was more just than that of all others.
As the virtue of their industry multiplied they became known to other realms. Their people prospered further from trade with those outside of their own boundaries. This indeed led to an exchange in human capital as well, for they welcomed those from kingly realms to join in their good fortunes. No titles did they wield, nor banners did they fly. Their home was known only as the land beyond scrutiny.
Kings and princes of other realms observed this fair land of woodcutters and farmers, and with time grew concerned that as the reputation became more broadly known to their own subjects, they should become aware of their rulers’ shortcomings. Among the various courts of these realms it was thought for some time that there should be a net benefit in the exodus of their people to this strange and distant land beyond scrutiny. However, over time they learned that the opposite was true. The tradesmen, artisans, the skilled of their populations were the ones to leave. As news of their successes in their new home spread back to their peers there were still more queuing to leave. Finding their extravagant treasuries sagging in tax collections, the kings and princes convened to plot a solution. Being over leveraged, they invited the money-changers to join them in forming their plans.
King Archos was the greatest among them and assumed the direction of their royal confab. With him was his chief money-changer, Neotoma, and the rest of his beady eyed associates. There were many ideas debated in this forum. Some suggested that they should combine their navies, or perhaps contract mercenaries and pirates, to disrupt their trade upon the seas and lay blockades upon their ports. This led in turn to the idea that mercenaries might be employed to raid and pillage those lands, stealing their treasures and terrorizing their people. There were those who favored the approach of barring the exit of their skilled subjects and instead export their own human refuse as a burden to their economies. All of these ideas and more were found to have merit. Inevitably it was asked, “Why not do all of these?”
King Archos was the most shrewd of them all. All of the suggestions were sound, in his opinion, yet he considered that even with all employed at once they might only be setting themselves up for a prolonged battle. In the grand scheme of things this did not suit his ultimate objective. Prolonged battles are taxing upon the treasury. Further, and most importantly, a prolonged battle increased exposure of the idea that others might prosper absent the benign rule of their leaders. He alone saw clearly that this and this alone posed the greatest danger to their interests. There was still something missing from these plans.
After a time Neotoma cleared his throat and rose to address the assembly in his reedy voice. “You are all making this too complicated. What you need here is a dragon.” From the sudden murmur that arose from their number some were heard to ask out loud, “A dragon? What should a dragon accomplish?” King Archos, intrigued at this, rose to quiet the room.
“Please, my brethren. Let us have order”, he exclaimed, and turned to Neotoma. “Please go on, Neotoma. Explain.”
“Thank you, my liege. I and my esteemed colleagues may, for a nominal fee of course, conjure a dragon which we shall loose upon these simple peasants. Their people may already know of our navies and armies. If we should employ those, or even mercenaries under no banner at all, they may learn more of them and imitate these methods. With their demonstrated industry and known resources they will in little time be able to effectively resist. A dragon is not known to them. A dragon will strike fear into even their boldest hearts. And they are unable to conjure dragons of their own to defeat it. Only another dragon may defeat a dragon. A dragon will plunder their treasures and store them into a hoard and once there is enough? We will then conjure another dragon to wrest away that hoard for our own.”
The room was silenced, so in awe were the kings and princes of this diabolical plan. Heads began to nod at the brilliance of it and voices began to cry out, “Yes! Send the dragon!” King Archos was pleased, though he solemnly weighed this plan and was left to conclude one shortcoming.
“Neotoma your idea has found favor. Indeed, there is little fault to be found in it, yet I fear that you may be too focused upon only the treasures. What of their peoples? Do you suggest that your dragon may slay them all? “
Neotoma’s eyes squinted into ever narrower slits. His hands folded upon themselves at his chest and he offered a gracious bow. “Ah, my liege, herein lies the true brilliance of this remedy. The dragon may very well slay them all, but that is not required. We may slay one half and enslave the other. Once they become aware that they may not defeat the dragon, we shall come to afford them our protections and be welcomed as heroes.”
King Archos was instantly struck with the sheer and beautiful simplicity of this plan. His mind leaped instantly to it’s ingenious conclusion. To assure the others present who may not have reached it, he encouraged Neotoma to continue.
“Yes, for you see once we should come as saviors we shall inform them all that we too have suffered this scourge, but that our law and custom (under your wise rule, of course) has saved us. We will teach them to institute a lottery to appease the dragon. They will see that submitting to this rule shall permit them to still enjoy a share of their labors, whilst our rule will spare them utter destruction. If they will accept this most barbaric tenet in exchange for their safety, then surely it will be no time at all until they should destroy themselves. Then we shall be left to rule and take from whatever is left.”
Thus was the end of natural law and the ascent of the rule of man, until the land beyond scrutiny was forever lost. It is now known only in legend, like the lost continent of Atlantis. Men still dream of it, others still seek it, but her history now sleeps beneath the waves where only fish may know.
Hope you will enjoy today's feature, Ugly
That's it for us this week. We will have a few shorter features over the next few weeks, hopefully with another Christmas holiday tale to post on the Solstice. If you are in that frame of mind, until then, we might recommend last year's Christmas tale, A Night at the Parliament, found in our December 2024 archive.
Before you begin, friends...
We recommend that you watch the video first (that's why we put it at the top). The whole thing is a bit past fifteen minutes. You'll get the whole entree in about fourteen. I stumbled across this and found that it stirred some thoughts I have had around this general topic: why is the modern world so damned ugly? It's a good question and a discussion worth having. So, what follows are my thoughts, for whatever they're worth. We would encourage you to visit Mr. Quirke's site, linked in his video.
I'll have to admit that I have often used this quote as, "Art exists that we do not go mad." To cite either of these as the actual quote is an imprecise translation. Nietzsche arguably expressed this idea in various ways and times in his life, but generally this quote is pegged to his 1888 work, Will to power. The proper translation is rendered as, "We possess art lest we perish from truth." These are eight words that speak volumes.
The overt suggestion of this phrase offers the idea of art as an object to possess, as a physical shield from truth. The more subtle, though no less profound suggestion being that truth may somehow be harmful, even unto death. The phrase becomes an allegory to support the broader thesis that truth is ugly:
"For a philosopher to say, 'The good and the beautiful are one,' is infamy; if he goes on to add, 'also the true,' one ought to thrash him. Truth is ugly. We possess art lest we perish from truth." (Will to Power; Section 822)
Ugly is one of those words, like art, which is generally subjective. The best we can do in assigning a definition is to arrive at a broad consensus as to what exactly constitutes "ugly". Sometimes, in fact most times, the best understanding of the meaning of a word is to go back to the word's origin. Ugly was born of Middle English, first appearing in the thirteenth century. It has an old Norse pedigree, from the word uggligr; to be dreaded. This descends from the verb ugga; to dread. According to the lads over at OED the prime definition of the adjective ugly is: unpleasant to look at. There is a tiny bit of nuance, but essentially the original intent shines through.
Without wading into the murky waters of personal opinions and preferences, we will err to the side of caution and operate with this as our definition. Nietzsche could have said those very words, not ugly, instead that Truth is unpleasant to look at. Everyone can grasp this idea, in any language. It is with this spirit of the word that we arrive at young Mr. Quirke's observations, beginning with the simple lamp post.
by their fruits ye shall know them
Ah, here is an oldie, but a goody! Remember this one from your Sunday School days? Matthew 7:16. Now don't get alarmed and go checking for other signs of the apocalypse. I have not been ordained by any religious order, nor do I plan to be. This is less a matter of an aversion to the faith, more a matter of not wishing to be in any club that would have me as a member. I cite this scripture because it is illustrative to this discussion. Good trees bear good fruit, while bad trees... bear bad fruit. Or none.
Early in his presentation Mr. Quirke makes an observation about lamp posts, lamp posts which are 150 years apart from one another. He then reminds us: "If you want to understand any society, don't listen to what it says about itself. Look at what it creates." What a society creates is the manifestation of those things which a society values.
The selection of the filming locations, as well as the filming itself, was brilliant throughout this feature. Quirke walks down centuries' old alleys, describing how that very space had once served as a canal of human waste and disease, a segue to his tale of Joseph Bazalgette's modern sewer system. We are given the visual of the place in it's modern iteration, though it is a look to the quaint Victorian past. The stark contrast captured between Victorian Era and modern London is quite striking. It hammers home the broader theme throughout. While Mr. Quirke's subject case is London, we can easily examine any modern city in the western world through the same lens.
Quirke observes that at the time of their initial lighting, in 1870, the lamp posts installed atop Bazalgette's embankment were the first public lighting project in London. It was a big deal, like the I-phone in 2007. For lights on a sewer embankment. Which are still in service today. Anyone still have a first generation I-phone? And, aesthetically, is there any difference from whatever number I-phone they are on to now?
We are further introduced to another piece of Bazalgette's legacy, the Crossness Sewage Pumping Station. Quirke reminds us that this was infrastructure, a facility dedicated to the sole purpose of processing human waste. It has long since been removed from service yet stands today as a museum. A sewage pumping station. We are also shown the replacement, which is by comparison certainly, at least, unpleasant to look at. Well, one should not expect that things dedicated to performing what is an ugly task to be attractive. Or at least we don't, but Quirke shows us that the Victorians thought differently. They valued craftsmanship. There was pride in even the mundane and ordinary. As Quirke concludes, echoing an earlier sentiment: "If you want to know what any society really believes in, look at how they design their sewers."
These artifacts are but a taste of the Victorian legacy. These are their creations, the fruit of their tree if you will. It is by their works that we may know them. Even something as unpleasant as sewage, something so ugly, still bears their aesthetic values. These things stand as a testament to the wealth and technological prowess of a society that could deliver such advancements, while still emulating a classical tradition. There is no good reason, technically speaking, for placing such adornments upon the management of waste, other than to demonstrate that such things mattered to them.
What then of our modern age? What do our creations tell about our society? Quirke starts with the ubiquitous air conditioning unit as the contrast. It's as good a place as any to begin, a post Victorian innovation manifested in our modern infrastructure. It cries out to the world that we have not only mastered the science of wastewater management in the ensuing 150 years. It projects a society that has mastered a technology of climate control, so much so as to have the capability of mass production of the technology for delivery to the masses. I don't know that the Victorians even had electric fans. If they did, I'm certain that it was a luxury only enjoyed by the upper strata of their society. With beautifully detailed, ornate design, no doubt. As Quirke notes, it might cost a little more, but we absolutely possess the ability to produce AC units that could at least attempt to be more aesthetically pleasing. But we don't. Instead, they are ugly and worse: they're boring.
It is profit over pretty. Quirke states it, and I happen to agree, that maybe that is okay. Profit is not a dirty word, as some might have you believe. Within our theme of trees and the fruit they bear, this model is best illustrated by an actual fruit tree. If one were to cultivate a fruit tree, let's say a pear tree for example, and the only goal was for the tree to bear the maximum amount of fruit, then this is surely done. With proper care and nurturing the goal may be achieved. What must be understood, however, is that one is not making better fruit, just more of it.
In a competitive marketplace, manufacturers have an incentive to produce a product that is superior in performance, thus providing their customers the incentive to choose their product as the best value. In a monopolized market, this dynamic vanishes. In the monopolized market one need only produce the most pears for the lowest cost. The decisions taken by a producer in such a market are based solely upon what is convenient for the producer. There is no consideration of the desire of the market, the convenience to the consumer.
There is no better example of a monopoly than the BMV. Their customers are compelled by law to purchase their "product". They have no competition. There is not another BMV that customers can go to. When one goes to a retail establishment, the closest parking is reserved for their customers, while employee parking is relegated to the back forty. Not so at the BMV! Front rows reserved for employee parking. The customer's convenience be damned. If your renewal is in January or February be prepared to hike one-hundred yards through the frozen slush. Much of our modern world has been relegated to the BMV model.
The creation of our society says that we are technologically advanced. Convenience is king. And that we are, in fact, rather dull, unimaginative and wasteful. Add lazy and severely compromised in attention span. Somehow all of that adds up to ugly. This ugliness has infected every facet of our modern society, even the arts. If we hold up a mirror to what our society has created, the image in that mirror will reflect the truth. This truth is too ugly for us to behold. Let us have art that we do not perish of our own reflection.
Here we are, at the other end of the time warp known as the Thanksgiving weekend. For much of the previous four days, at least in the US, time has been suspended. Though not universal, the four-day Thanksgiving weekend has become the norm for a fair majority of Americans. While each of the four days are not officially designated as holidays, it is generally accepted that they are not in any way productive and reserved for the pursuit of sloth and gluttony. We here at Midnight and other beasts sincerely hope that you all got your share.
For those familiar with the Roman Catholic (and some Protestant) traditions, one knows of the Liturgical Calendar. For those not familiar at all, this calendar serves as sort of a season program for church services. In addition to a weekly schedule, the calendar has distinct demarcations of various seasons and feasts, alternating between penance and celebration. Those days within the calendar, which are not within any of these demarcations, are known as "ordinary time".
The final day of this Thanksgiving weekend, 30 November, marks the first Sunday of Advent in the Liturgical Calendar. It also, as Advent does, marks the start of a new liturgical year. Within the modern, secular reality that most people navigate this means nothing. We're still on someone else's calendar, wrestling against one or more arbitrary deadlines set by others, or by ourselves. We are attuned to the Christmas shopping season, which actually overlaps the Thanksgiving weekend, beginning as it does on Black Friday. With sloth and gluttony already well represented, it hardly seems right that greed should be excluded.
The spirit of Advent is lost. The season that was meant for quiet reflection, patient and careful preparation for the light to come, has been supplanted by a frenzied season of commercial indulgence. For most, the only remaining vestiges of Advent are the calendars, stuffed with everything from stockings to shortbread. We've left ourselves little room for patience and quiet. We've abandoned the ritual of preparing that wreath and lighting the candles every Sunday. The Christian holy days have been overtaken by the secular holidays.
To you, our readers, this may seem to be little more than another of countless laments voiced at this time of year, every year, for the erosion of our holiday traditions. You're not entirely wrong. It is a lament, of sorts; yet it is not. You see, this has happened before. Many of the Christmas holiday traditions to which we have grown accustomed, are in fact pagan traditions which were co-opted by the Roman Church during their first "World Conversion Tour" (590-1095 CE). This goes down right to the very date of Christmas Day, the birth of the Christ. December 25 just happens to coincide with the more ancient Feast of Mithras, a common custom among the Gentiles of the region. Other pagan traditions marked the Winter Solstice as a feast day.
I'm confident that most of our audience is already familiar with these facts. I will take this occasion to add yet another aspect to consider surrounding the Nativity story. In the season of that blessed event in Bethlehem, the Julian calendar which we know today, had only been established by Rome a mere forty-five years prior. We'll call that two generations. In a world where maybe five percent of the population could read. Despite Rome's proclamations, most indigenous peoples of the region, if they operated under any calendar at all, it was likely one based upon the lunar cycle. The ultimate point being that no one can say, with absolute certainty, what date Jesus of Nazareth was born. And so, we settle upon this date, December 25, as being the day, for right or wrong. Christmas is the only religious holiday that is also designated a federal holiday. The Romans would be proud.
When one starts to examine the calendar of federal holidays, it would seem that it approaches the character of a liturgical calendar, albeit with dates spaced more evenly throughout the year. There are federal holidays, weekends and those odd days strung in between. Then there is ordinary time. They are better to stick with the model of co-opting the prior regime, adopting the term ordinary time. A better term for these days would be "slave days", but that is another conversation.
I can easily imagine a progression here. Eventually there will be a federal holiday, known as the Feast of Saint Halas, which would run from Thanksgiving Day until December 24. Hell, it's not like there are any federal employees working those dates now. The feds can auction off naming rights every so many years for this, and other extended holidays. This Easter/Vernal Equinox celebration brought to you by the makers of Wegovy. Independence Week celebration sponsored by the Gates Foundation, because... fuck you! And all of the other little days and weeks between will be officially designated Ordinary Time.
Until that happens, the Monday after Thanksgiving still feels very, very much like a return to ordinary time.
Hope you all have a great week. At least an okay week. Or don't and you could always lie about it. We'd never know the difference. Coming up this week on Midnight and other beasts...
An article titled Ugly. And maybe some other stuff...
