Kathleen McCall:
Occasional�� Muse�

2001-12-26 - 11:37 a.m.

Sugarplums and Coal

Christmas lights: some bright, some missing bulbs. Some blinking, some broken, some blazing. As it is, as it has been, as it will be; and all will be well, and all will be well...

My Colt, home safe, now making horrible engine noises that my optimist voice says is fan noise and my pessimist voice says is the noise a hammering valve makes shortly before a rod goes right through your hood or something. We'll see.

Christmas Eve Day, my first job interview in years; maybe, maybe not, okay either way - but I did it, I did it, and I don't think I even drooled once. At least, she didn't hand me any tissues.

The gift of sight. My best friend, reading that I still could not afford the needed bifocals, gave them to me for Christmas. No thanks will suffice; it's all right, she already knows.

BF and I sang, over the course of three days, every Beatles song we knew. And again I discover that in this total sieve I call a brain I still have, perfectly preserved, every word and nuance to "Rocky Raccoon". I commented that I'd trade some of those lyrics files for a little more mental storage space, but then I recanted. Rocky Raccoon is important, too.

Christmas Eve hackers for BF to deal with. What's with that? Happy, people? Happy that you got some poor SOB out of his warm bed on Christmas Eve and kept him up half the night assessing damages and repairs? Merry Christmas, you idiots.

Wrapping together. With the girls at their Dad's, there was no last-minute up-too-late Christmas Eve back-aching grumpy wrapping marathon. BF and I wrapped the girls' gifts from me and from Santa, at leisure, in my livingroom, listening to my new Dave Matthews cd, taking breaks, laughing.

Listening to my mother ask my to take her to the eye doctor, because she can't see too well out of her right eye. Understanding that she has no recollection of the diagnosis two years ago of macular degeneration, of the referral to the specialist, of the many visits for retinal photography and laser surgery. That the past few years have now slipped completely from her grasp. That this year I must steel myself to force her into changes that she can't understand.

Beet soup. I'm sorry for all you people out there who think beets are not food, because I make the best borscht, and beet soup with beet greens in it is a wonderful colorful Christmas dish. You're missing something good, folks. Beets. It's what for Christmas dinner.

Christmas dishes, finally. I finally used the set that Alice gave me. Christmas dishes are a real one-shot deal. If you remember that you have them in January, you've missed the bus. This year I actually remembered and got them out and used them. It felt absolutely Martha.

Goodwill. Lots of it. I got a wonderful e-mail from a friend in Ohio; I had a lovely dinner with my best friend; my neighbor offered to work on the Colt for me. And I hugged my ex-husband when he picked up the girls and told him Merry Christmas, and it didn't kill me, and I think it was a pleasant shock for him.

...and all manner of things will be well.

Happy Holidays, all.

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