A Christmas I’ve Already Forgotten

Well that was a Christmas not to remember. 

First there weren’t any presents under the tree that I didn’t put up in the living room, and I remembered to not decorate it without any ornaments. 

On top of that, I was in lousy company: alone with me. 

NOTE: This column will be a great big long list of things that were not very Christmas-like in 2023 and if you’d rather read the classifieds, now’s a good time to make your move. 

I was in North Carolina for the holidays and Christmas 2023 was about as festive and filled with holiday spirit as National Artichoke Day. The AM radio was cooperating by declining to play holiday music, no doubt because advertisers reap greater financial rewards from Classic Rock! than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, even on December 25. I understand. 

No I don’t. 

Took a morning walk. High point of the day, that. Or maybe not. I was already rather pleased with myself for not putting up a tree, and in making no effort to string lights around the outside windows and porch. 

The result: I won’t have to spend a January day dismantling a dead tree or standing on a ladder to take down the exterior lights. Those dreary chores would have probably fallen on today, when I’ll already be trying to write a column, sufficiently depressing all by itself. 

Instead I took an early morning walk, and got to see my second favorite canine in the world, a hangdog old golden lab. She plodded across the neighbor’s yard, tail swinging low and slow with an Aww Shucks saunter and her squinty eyed old dogface that looks so southern and friendly that if she ever barked it would come out a long lazy drawl, ending in “Why, bless y’all’s pea-pickin’ heart!” 

She was glad to see me. She always is. 

Her name is Ginger, not that it matters to you, but when she dies I’ll slip this newspaper clipping under the front door of her family home to remind them of the dog they’d always ignored. Then they’ll be sorry. 

I scratched behind her ears and grumbled affectionate stuff at her. I gave her too many treats and promised I’d see her again tomorrow. I’m counting those treats as gifts so I can pretend I maintained at least one cherished holiday tradition, even if it didn’t include wife and kids. 

They are also having Christmas, but this year we are in three different states and four different counties, 3000 miles away and three hours later. 

This is what happens when we get older and the holidays drag by, almost unnoticed, because they aren’t so important. If feeding biscuits to a stranger’s dog on Christmas morning is the high point of your day, let’s all hope you’ve got a whiz-bang New Year’s Eve planned. I did not. Surprised? 

Bleak, blighted holiday seasons eventually lead to living alone in a crummy motel with a black-and-white TV, your bicycle parked inside, surrounded by neighbors who do drugs. 

To make things joyful and bright you’ll prop an upside-down broom in the corner and pretend it’s a Christmas tree. Nobody visits and nobody even knows you’re there, or that your “tree” has neither ornaments nor gifts under it. 

Is it a happy ending or a sad one? You’ll find out some day. 

* * *

First sign of decay… 

Been here in Los Carolinas off and on and back and forth a few times, and finally spotted a tiny bit of graffiti in my Tarheel State home town. 

In back of a neighborhood dry cleaning shop is a bluish-gray metal door. Someone has scrawled “LUV” and other indecipherable hieroglyphics that may mean something to someone. 

What’s intriguing is that all graffiti all over the world is done in that familiar, angular, edgy, blocky style that is probably known as “Gangsta Bold” among typesetters and monks composing Illuminated manuscripts. 

You see it in Ukiah and in New York and Seattle. I’ve seen it, sadly, in Italy, France, Spain and Germany. It does nothing to enhance culture no matter where it appears. 

A wide-awake community addresses graffiti when it first sprouts its ugly blossoms, and keeps it from metastasizing and overwhelming its host. Ukiah would have done well to squelch tagging years ago when confined to the fringes of certain kinds (ahem) of neighborhoods. 

Now the stuff is everywhere: Todd Grove Park, downtown School Street, random buildings and signs. Not too late, but the city ought to get on it. 

* * *

What is a “Tarheel” anyway? 

(It has taken Tom Hine many years to realize just how bleak and soul-crushing is the task of removing the holiday paraphernalia. TWK agrees: all that work, and when done you’re right back to zero.)