Christmas in New England

I spent many of my pre-teen years living in the New England States and my Mom was arrested right before Christmas one year while protesting the construction of the Seabrook nuclear power plant. She was out of the pokey in less than 2 days but it impacted that Christmas severely. We lived next to the state highway in a small town called Marlow in a 3 story Victorian farmhouse built in 1843 and last improved in 1920-something. I think the population is still 200 shy of a thousand total residents. It had an annex and a barn, both attached to the main house so one could walk from the kitchen through the annex into the barn without going outside. It also had a crooked chimney which caused no less than 5 chimney fires in 3 winters, but the only heat came from the woodstoves, so it might not be that surprising. One of my chores as the oldest child was to start the morning fires in the 3 woodstoves downstairs, so most every day when I woke up I would put on all the clothes I owned and walk downstairs to the ground floor of the house and through the annex into the barn to collect firewood.
The winter my Mom was arrested at Seabrook, she and my step-Dad got this brilliant idea to buy half a hog from the Champney’s hog farm down the road. It was a full half hog, cut right down the middle from tip to tail and strung up in the annex on a wire by the snout. When it was first hoisted up and secured on the main joist to start that lazy spin I was fascinated, I pulled on the dead tail and stood on a broken dusty beehive to get a better look at the teeth inside the half of a mouth. I soon began to recognize the different cavities like the empty cranium, and would occasionally stop the slow rotation in order to check out the single eye.

When the days became shorter and I had to walk (then run) through the annex to get the firewood in the cold dark mornings I stopped calling out “Hey Piggy” and just tried to ignore the shadowy dancing carcass. As the winter wore on pieces started to disappear from the hog, and by the time Christmas came it was just the forelimbs, some ribs, the neck and head. I ate that ham for Thanksgiving with zero regrets though. Still, the creepy sprint from the kitchen door to the woodpile in the barn began to cause me anxiety, so much so that I started walking out the front door and around the house to the barn to get the wood.

Step-Dad had to go bail out Mom from the lock up on Dec 20th, and I was old enough to grasp the impact of this, but despite the strange conditions I would take every opportunity to wax long and wide about Santa and his amazing feats of heroism to my siblings. At the bus stop, doing dishes in the kitchen, feeding the cows in the pasture and going on and on about how the fat guy in the red suit could control animals, the weather, even time itself.

So we had a big dinner Christmas eve, with a tree that all of us went to cut down together from the forest near the famous ‘old man on the mountain’, my step-dad swearing at the dull chain saw and my Mom scolding and laughing by turns.
I remember that night how my Mom gave us a big speech about how ‘Santa might be real busy this year’ and maybe would get back to us sometime in January with a great pile of gifts. Of course we didn’t listen much, most of us too excited to even care about the words that drifted out of our Mom’s mouth like grey snow clouds on a windless night.
Christmas morning came and I could see my breath in thick plumes as I lay in bed.
I was excited but also somewhat nervous, right in between the age of reason and the fits of magic. I grabbed some clothes and shoved them under the covers with me to warm them up a bit and started off in the early morning gloom to grab an armful of split cord wood. That morning I was too tired and cold or just plain didn’t care enough to get my boots on so I ran through the kitchen and into the annex. Too late I realized the shocking hog spin was there to greet me, but so was something else…..
A giant burlap sack normally used to take horse feed from the grain store to the barn was lying right in my way. It was all distended and bulky, angular, like it was filled with giant salt crystals. I pretty near passed it up but my foot struck the bag while skirting the hog carcass and I heard the sound of bells, jingle bells.
I grabbed up the bag and it was heavy, and I heard that sound again. Sweet light and crisp like fresh hot toast in my ear I shook the bag and just felt tremendous goosebump joy surge through my body. I streaked into the house from the kitchen and started yelling loud as possible, “There’s a bag from Santa, he left us a bag near swingin piggy!!!” I was practically hysterical. The packages were wrapped so nice and tight with shiny bows and crazy curled ribbons. Everyone came down breathing huge steam clouds like they were all dragons and before my step-dad could even yell at me for not lighting the fire he took a look at the sack and said “glory-osky and god damn pilgrim pie,… what the hell do you have there red?”

Well my Mom was just about bawling as she took the packages out of the sack one by one, like they were made from the finest china, and she gave a look to my step-dad that was half love and half terrible anger. He shook his head and looked wide eyed around the room like he was going to see Old Saint Nick pop up from behind the chair and wink at any moment. I swear I saw waterworks well up in his eyes too, but I can’t be sure as I was too excited.

My memories get a little sketchy about this point, I remember I got one of those giant Shogun Warriors, the kind that stands about 2 feet tall and shot plastic darts from his hands, and I got a Star Wars Han Solo Figure and my first 45 record (KISS – Rock and Roll all night! B/W Beth),..my brother got some cool games and a couple of books which we both read over and over, one of which was The Hobbit.

Well I do remember that my step-dad went and got the wood for the stoves that morning, shaking his head the whole time like it wasn’t hardly attached anymore, and my Mom didn’t stop crying until at least about noon. Me and my brother and sisters got the best toys out of anyone in the whole town practically, and were sort of celebrities for the rest of that winter. So in all honesty, that’s why I still believe in magic, and Santa Claus.

burning, wishing, walking, soaking

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Trees. They become part of the scenery at this time of year don't they?

Yet,... do you see them, feel them,..... do you breathe in their husky myth?

They. Have been here much longer than you. And are most quietly listening.

What you say and do to them is unavoidable, no ducking or running option.
Just passive intense strength - choosing not to decide is still a choice.

think of the senses they touch in you if you have a mind:

smell, sight, touch, taste, being..... just like your teeth. only as strong as you let them
be.

How strong do you let them be?

A massive number that quietly listens - quietly massive, listening number.

foreshadowed in grey

"Dear Roberta Sparrow,
……….....I hope that when the world comes to an end I can breathe a sigh of relief, because there will be so much to look forward to."

I had the dream again. It's been so many years (gawd like 20?) since it came I had forgotten all about it, seared it's visual portent away behind layers of glass and smoke. Burned from so many cells as to escape recall and momentum of presence.

The clouds move away and I am flying and free, so far from everything so much like an arrow, a glider, a spring loaded grifter arcing through the sky.
I must be clearing the horizons terminator as my eyesight seems to dim and grow colder, it seems as if I am slowing while my limbs become heavier and heavier. The stars seem to evaporate in mist and as I turn my head realize that there is incredible weight bearing down, that I can see now the closing ring of light so far above me what must be the surface of the water I am now sinking more deeply than I have ever been. The last pinhole of sunlight reaches to me from far above and as it closes in diameter the world becomes still and dark and I can choose to stay this way or lose my shape and merge with the heavy still blankness. I feel the soft crush of millions of gallons squeeze every drop of oxygen from my body as I pass into oblivion and then wakefulness.

I am never left with that breathless post-nightmare feeling, it's more a slow burn; like I just got over a knock in the head.