Month: October 2018

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Just Wild About Harry

“All right,” Heather told Missy, “hold still and don’t squirm, so I can draw this on you.”

With a big grin, Missy held still – barely. The excitement lit her face as, piece by piece, her transformation proceeded. The red and gold tie. The round glasses. The dark school robes with her House crest. And of course, the famous lightning scar on the forehead.

“Are you ready to go, Harry?” I asked.
“Yeah!”

Hogwarts Express, here we come! Or at least, an early Halloween party.

To anyone who knows our ward Missy, this should come as no surprise. After all, what she loves, she loves hard. That includes red purses filled to the breaking point, stereos turned to maximum volume, bowling on days that end in “Y,” … and always, always, anything that has to do with J.K. Rowling’s famous Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.

The discovery, like many, grew out of our nighttime reading. Heather and I had fallen in love with the world of young wizards and witches long ago, and decided to try out the first book on Missy on a whim. Which was kind of like introducing Clark Kent to phone booths. Soon, we had consumed the whole series amongst rapt attention and shouted cheers, and a powerful devotion had begun.

They became the first books she ever asked me to re-read. And then re-re-read. Potter memorabilia became the birthday gift most likely to generate smiles, from Gryffindor socks to coloring books. And of course, for three of the last five Halloweens, she’s been the boy wizard himself, her dark hair, green eyes, and slight frame perfectly suited to the role.

I’m sure there are at least a few parents nodding as I write this. Twenty years after the books debuted in this country and more than 10 years after the movies wrapped, there’s still a powerful following – kids, adults, maybe even cocker spaniels for all I know. Why?

Some of it is the basic pull of an exciting story, of course. Missy gets amped up every time we hit a sky-high Quidditch match, or pull out the wands for another desperate battle with dark forces. Adrenaline is powerful, and it’s fun.

But it’s not always what lasts.

At heart, I think Rowling’s words have lasted because they HAVE heart.

They remember what it’s like to be an almost-adolescent, entering a world you don’t understand and figuring out where you belong in it.

They bring back how wonderful and how painful it can be to tie your heart to someone else, and how hard their loss can hit.

They rediscover the moments when you find your heroes have feet of clay, and that things you were certain about may not be as simple as they seemed.

And most of all, they bring home the simple truth that everyone matters. That everyone is worthy of love. That closing yourself off to that only tears you apart and works greater harm. And that you can always choose to make a difference for the better – not because you have to, but because you know it needs to be done.

That’s powerful stuff. Whatever your age.

And it’s a power the best stories have always had.

In a couple of weeks, the costume will be put away. The trick-or-treat candy will be eaten. But the magic will remain, ready to be conjured back at any moment.

And when it is, Missy will hold still – barely – as the spell works its charm one more time.

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Opening the Present

You could call it a Hallmark card with bite.  In the midst of a silent night, wise men reached out with their gifts toward the Holy Babe … while from stage left, the walking dead were slowly closing the distance.

“Hey, it’s not my fault,” one of the Shoebox characters said, as he rearranged the crèche. “When stores start selling Christmas stuff in October, they gotta expect a few zombies in the manger.”

Um … amen?

It’s a chorus that’s become quite familiar, even without George Romero joining forces with Dr. Luke. Every year, from every quarter, I hear people lament how the ever-encroaching Retail Christmas Legions of Doom are laying waste to the calendar. Forget November – Thanksgiving surrendered its shelf space to the forces of Santa, Rudolph, and rooftop icicle lights a long time ago. Now, in parts of the holiday beachhead , it sometimes feels like the masks and jack o’lanterns are just barely holding the line.

Yes, Mr. Grinch, you can say it: “I must stop Christmas from coming! But how?”

But not too loudly, please.

You see, I’m not convinced we celebrate it early enough.

No, my brain has not been taken over by the forces of Neiman-Marcus. It’s true that in our home, our disabled ward Missy has been known to play Christmas carols in the middle of July, at a volume that leaves the halls well and truly decked. And yes, I’m currently in rehearsals for “A Christmas Carol” at the Longmont Theatre Company. (Set to open at the proper time, I might add, on the day after Thanksgiving).

So out-of-season holiday greetings aren’t exactly unfamiliar to me. But that’s not where I’m going. If the lights and merchandise stayed off the shelves until after Pilgrim season, I’d be as happy as anyone else.

It’s Christmas I want – not the retail.

Since I’m in the middle of Mr. Dickens, I’ll let him explain, in the words of Scrooge’s persistent nephew Fred:

“I am sure I have always thought of Christmas-time when it has come round … as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time, the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

It’s not the stuff we’re lacking. It’s the attitude.

The real Christmas isn’t getting earlier. If anything, it’s been retreating. The spirit of “Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Men” has been getting outshouted by the opportunistic, the angry, and the suspicious. Hands that should be welcoming, giving, and healing are encouraged to double up in fists as neighbors are portrayed as strangers, if not outright enemies.

If this isn’t when we need kindness and generosity of spirit, when is it?

With or without carols, it’s always the right season for the hope that can find wonder in unexpected places.

Without a single pine needle, we can still be lights in the darkness, bringing joy to a cold night.

And without a single crèche in sight, we can still make the decision to open our hearts to others, instead of leaving no room at the inn.

Without that spirit, it doesn’t matter if we ultimately celebrate the holiday in December or June. No matter how bright the ribbons or how tall the trees, if the heart is missing, it’s just an empty shell.

A zombie, in other words.

Let’s leave that to the Shoebox cards, shall we?

 

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On All Sides

Don’t look now, but we’re surrounded.

No, not by thugs and henchmen, like the heroes of a Batman story.

Not by the Decorations of Christmas Yet to Come, a prospect more terrifying than any ghost Dickens ever invented.

Not even by wild-eyed Mary Shelley fans – though with October marking the 200th anniversary of “Frankenstein,” that’s a closer guess than most.

No, when you live in Chez Rochat as I do, and you’ve just entered the month of October, there’s a surrounding horde more intimidating than all the rest on the way.

Birthdays.

You laugh. But it’s true. When Heather and I first joined forces 20 years ago, little did we realize that among the “for better and for worse” and “in sickness and in health” was an unwritten clause stating “And you shall spend October cornering the market on gift bags and Hallmark cards, and surrounded by ever-increasing Facebook reminders, til exhaustion shall you part.”

October is the month of our ward Missy, who would gladly celebrate each day of it with bowling and dancing (along with every other month, of course). It’s also the month of a grown sister, a young nephew, a frequently-visited aunt. It even holds the day for a much-loved grandma who left us at 93 and a much-loved cousin who left us at 21 … both of them sharing the same birthday.

Surrounded, I tell you.

Every family’s got some sort of similar coincidence, I’m sure. (Before I married Heather, February was usually the typical Rochat Family Danger Zone.) And when you think about it, it’s a rather benign mob. Besides serving as a dress rehearsal for the Christmas logistics that are oh-so-near, it’s a reminder that the ones we love are never far away, that family is nearer than we think.

It’s a reminder we could use these days. On a much larger scale.

True, this country has never quite been the Hands Across America, From Sea to Shining Sea that we like to celebrate in our national legends. Our nation began in a family fight and has found ways to stir up more – figuratively or literally – with each succeeding generation convinced that they’ve been caught up in the worst of it. Civil war. Depression-era strife. Riots and protests. The arrival of Hanson and Justin Bieber.

But without trying to rank it on some mythical internet scale (“You’ll Never Guess Where YOU Rank on the Nation’s Seven Most Strained Moments!”), it’s fair to say that we live in particularly divisive times. Many are hurt, suspicious, angry. And to be fair, many of the events in our headlines are things that SHOULD make us angry, many of them the very questions of justice and compassion whose answers define who we are as a people.

But in the midst of it, we can’t lose sight of something important.

Namely, each other.

When “who is my enemy?” becomes more important than “who is my neighbor?”, we lose.

When politics becomes a blood sport and a tool for revenge rather than a process for arguing our way to answers (sometimes, admittedly, with great rancor), we lose.

When we harden our hearts and block our ears … when we put our pride above another’s pain … when the team justifies any action taken in its name … we lose.

And every time we do, we become isolated in the midst of multitudes. Seemingly many, yet so alone.

We cannot neglect our larger family.

I’m not saying to roll over and surrender in the name of unity, like someone trying to placate an abusive partner. Some fights need to be fought, some stands need to be taken. But if the battle of the moment obscures why it’s being fought, who it’s being fought for, then even victory becomes hollow.

We must see each other as more than “other.” And act like it.

Don’t look now, but we’re surrounded.

By family? By foes?

That’s up to us.