In For a Penny, In For a Pound, So another re-run!

[tponetom]

As a maverick Catholic, I have little identification with the commercial hoopla that inundates the Holiday Season .
I remember, extremely well, the dedication and regimentation that the Church demanded of us during our green years. The pomp and ceremony of the Church that dominated the Holy Days in those early years, relegated Santa Claus to a supporting role. Of course, the lack of money did not allow for the plethora of junk toys and fad clothing that seems to determine a successful Christmas in the present era.
Christmas was not just a day or a long weekend. It was a two week adventure of devotion, duty and exhilaration. The mystery was both spiritual and temporal. "Was Christ really born in a manger. Will I really get that Lionel Train that costs Seven Dollars." Many depression children had nothing but faith. Getting that one single toy was a catalyst for the ultimate expression of faith. There really must be a God!
With that thought in mind, we would go to Mass and give thanks. Getting the toy was the penultimate Christmas celebration. The ultimate climax was going to Midnight Mass, not with your parents, but with your peers. The pyrotechnics of the Fourth of July paled by comparison to the display of splendor and majesty that was, Midnight Mass.
This year we will give a very special thanks to our immediate neighbors and friends who helped us through a troublesome time. Peggy has regained her voice and we are walking again and that says it all for us.


Christmas, 2007.

In recent Christmas Holidays, I have waxed sentimentally and enthusiastically about all of the Christmas seasons of our youth. I described the pageantry and excitement of all the venues that were open to us during those two wondrous weeks.
The Church, the Department Stores, the Neighborhood front yards, the decorated delivery trucks, the streetcars and buses, and sometimes the evening sky with a dazzling display of stars and moon, would all get into the act of mesmerizing the onlookers. Snow was the singular enhancer for all those things.
My wife,,,,[[hmm, what’s her name?) has been accusing me of suffering from dementia. I was flattered thinking that it meant I was Adorable, Beautiful, Cute and Delightful. When my Doctor used that word on me, I told him, he better explain himself, quickly. I forget what he said.
This year we got many cards with “Christmas Letters.” I decided to get even with them.
“Every Day Is Christmas Morning”
[[Me and What’s Her Name?)
Another ‘Good’ Morning.
I awake in a cloud of a slumber. Sleepy cobwebs ensnarl my brain resisting my efforts to achieve a modicum of consciousness that will permit me to exit my bed and maintain a stance of verticality. This day I am propelled out of bed by a chronic muscle spasm in my right calf. It brooks not a second’s delay in making me stand upright to relieve the viselike pressure and pain.
In the half light of dawn I stagger through the hallway to the thermostat mounted on the wall. A cool 64-degree setting is boldly increased to 74. The magnetic gas valve sounds its familiar ‘click’ followed by the ignition of the gas flame. In 90 seconds the blower will begin its huffing and puffing, purging the warm air from the plenum of the furnace and chasing it through the variety of ducts that deliver the warmth and comfort to all of the rooms.
The hallway leads to the kitchen where my chores await me. The choreography that has been programmed into my senses begins.
Flick the switch on Mr. Coffee. The ingredients had been prepared the night before. Then I am confronted with a decision, which is, often, variable. Do I fill a glass with water and take my medications or do I head for the ‘head’ and whizzz? The whizzz wins out most of the time to my consternation because, sometimes, upon returning to the kitchen, I forget about the pills. Today, I remember.
From the cabinet I retrieve two small sauce dishes, two cups, one clean glass, two luncheon plates and two cereal bowls. From a drawer I remove two forks, two cereal spoons, a butter knife and one serrated knife. From the refrigerator I take out the cache of prunes, some cooked raisins, frozen bread, butter, jelly and milk for the cereal which is nesting in the cupboard.
While the super heated water spits out of its reservoir and begins its spiritual conversion with the coffee grounds, I am busy metering four prunes in one sauce dish and three in the other. Each dish will be equipped with a fork.
The other utensils and supplies will be used depending on the optional breakfast selected by us later.
I sit in my chair and turn on the television set and watch Diane and Charley. I mute the sound and read the closed captioning. In a few minutes, the coffee is cooked and I pour myself a cup and pour the rest into an insulated carafe. I eat my prunes. I do not need them but I like them.
My vigil begins. From my chair I can look down the hallway into our bedroom and I can see the lower half of our bed. I can see the hump of blankets that reads, “occupied.”
Her time of resurrection is indeterminate. Sometimes it takes ten minutes, other times, an hour. I am nothing, if not, patient. To anticipate, is to relish!
I am the sole observer of the impending volcanic miracle. It does not erupt abruptly. First there is a small quiver under the hump. Sometimes a timid squeal or whimper of protest is emitted. Then the blankets are thrown to one side and half of a body begins a grim tug of war with gravity. The body achieves a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
Then the laments begin. She says, “I have to brush my teeth, comb my hair and wash my face and I have to do it all standing up!” But then the “whizzz” imperative gets her going.
I get my second wind and spring back into action. I go to the refrigerator and get the orange juice to fill her glass and place it on her table with the prunes and her eyeglasses. Her robe is draped on the back of her chair.
I keep my eyes glued to the hallway. Then, the epiphany! She appears! I surmise her condition in an instant. A waver or wobble suggests that she may be comatose. Other times, she walks briskly and with purpose and it brings a smile to my face. When she gets near her chair I stand up and embrace her and scratch her back. She goes limp and is content to stand there as long as I keep on scratching.
And 62 years of excitement continues for another day.
Tom and Peggy O.
May you all have a “Merry Christmas Morning,” every day of your life.

[gazhekwe]

Love the morning ritual and its celebration of togetherness. <3 <3

Peggy has regained her voice and we are walking again and that says it all for us.
This is true cause for celebration!

[Ravine]

The fact that many readers will not gain, from that little tale, what I gained is pleasing, to me, in a way which I am certain is somewhat selfish.

So sue me. Folks enjoy Christmas in their own way.
Thanks for the present, Tom.

[Kathleen]

Merry Christmas, Tom and Peggy!!! And many good wishes for a happy and healthful 2012!!

[tponetom]

Kathleen,
I know not of you, but I have followed your posts and replies. Especially the ones about the Belle Isle Picnics. They simply endorse my singular attitude, that being, if you want to get something done, get a good woman to do it.