Christmas 2018

Christmas was on Christmas Eve this year--that's when our son (Steve), our daughter-in-law (Melissa), and their two (peerless!) sons (Logan, 13; Carson, 9) came over for the cooking, preparation, appetizers (sourdough tree-bread, fruitcake, fondue), stuffing-faces (standing rib, turkey breast, carrots, smashed potatoes, sourdough bread, cornbread), clearing dishes, laughing, teasing, presents and pudding, gas fire in fireplace, unwrapping, cries of surprise and even pleasure, a bit of clean-up, departure of family back to their home in Green to prepare for Christmas #2.

But after they left, I realized we'd forgotten to perform one ritual: reciting "A Visit from St. Nicholas" ("The Night before Christmas")--a ritual we will have to enact the next time we see them, for if we don't do it, all sorts of evil will rain down on us, hurled by the indignant spirit of Clement Moore, 1779-1863, or, maybe, from Henry Livingston , Jr., 1748-1828, who scholars now believe wrote the poem. (Link to some info about that.)

Joyce and I cleaned a little more, then fell into bed and grieved for the energy that has somehow escaped us without our noticing--until recent years.

Christmas Day. Joyce was up about 6:15; I heard her; I knew I had to go help with the rest of the cleaning-up: the dish washing, the cutting-down of boxes for recycling, the removal of the leaves from the dining room table, the return of chairs here and there, the trips to the trash bin outside, the ... you know.

After we cleaned up (the house, ourselves), we headed over to Starbucks (my home-away-from-home, Open Door Coffee Co., was closed for the day), where we (miraculously?) got chairs next to the fireplace, and there we sipped coffee, read, and I wrote a dozen holiday cards to people who had written to me (Joyce would mail them later in the morning).

Home a little after 10, and I lay down, where Morpheus immediately found me and wrapped me in his arms until lunch time.

At which time we decided to go see a movie--a Christmas tradition (Christmas = going to see a bad movie). This year we chose Holmes & Watson (Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly, the team from Talledaga Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, et al.). We drove over to Kent, where I was certain there was a 1:00 showing. I was wrong. (Can you imagine?)

I re-checked my movie app--saw the 1:00 showing was actually back in Hudson, but we didn't have time to make it ... but there was a 2:30-ish one in Aurora, so ... we drove around Kent, where we'd lived the first decade of our marriage, driving up to KSU's Satterfield Hall, where Joyce first spoke to me in July 1969--a summer-school class. And we marveled about the improbabilities/impossibilities that had brought us to that same classroom that summer.

Then we headed out for Aurora, driving up Kent's Lincoln Street, where our dear friend of 50 years--my wonderful colleague--the late Andy Kmetz--was living when we were first married.

And off we went--through Twin Lakes, where Andy subsequently moved, and where my immensely influential middle school principal, the late Mike Lenzo, had lived for years with his wonderful wife, Mitzie (also now, sadly, deceased). Mike was a life-changer for me as a teacher.

Then into Streetsboro, past Seasons Road, where once lived my terrific colleague Eileen Kutinsky, who taught 6th grade science at the middle school in Aurora. Oh, did I learn a lot from HER! (She's now 90 and still operating the family farm north of Alliance.)

And on into Aurora, where I began my career in the fall of 1966 and where I retired from public education in January 1997. (I was gone a few years--trying other teaching--college--high school.)

We drove by the house where we'd lived from 1990-97, looked at some other emotional sites, then headed to the Cinemark, where we watched the wretched movie (more in blog on Sunday) and ate the great popcorn (our real reason for going!).

And then home for a light supper (well, not too light) + a phone call to my brothers in Mass.

Then up to bed to read and unwind and stream some British detective shows.

Our son called with more Merry Christmas.

And then ... Dreamland ...