Month: December 2021

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Wrapping Up 2021

With apologies to Paul Simon, there must be 50 ways to wreck your wrapping. And I know them all.

Just cut it too short, Mort.

Tie the tape in a ball, Paul.

Make it crude and uneven, Stephen, and listen to me …

You get the idea.

To be fair, my periodic battles with tape, scissors and brightly colored paper have become more hopeful over the years. With much fussing, cussing and desperate prayer, I can finally produce a package that looks like it was wrapped by a 10-year-old. With a blindfold. In the final car of a roller coaster. Hey, it’s progress!

So yes, I have a signature style. So much so that when the bookstore I worked at offered free gift wrapping at Christmas, I was asked to stay at the register. It seems that at “free,” my wrapping was still overpriced.  

Every year, someone suggests gift bags. Every year, I refuse to surrender. 

And every year, the week after Christmas becomes the most magical time of all.

It’s weird to write that because I’m not a huge New Year’s guy. Even before COVID-19, I didn’t hit the parties. I rarely do resolutions. I definitely stay up ‘til midnight, but I’ve never needed the excuse of Dec. 31 to do that, just a night owl’s instincts.

But in an odd way, that last week of the year is a microcosm of what’s about to come.

Start with Christmas Day. The time leading up to it builds with anticipation, curiosity, even anxiety. The holiday’s offerings lie hidden behind boxes and paper. The presentation may be beautiful or clumsy, but it gives only the broadest hint of what lies ahead.

But come Dec. 26, the wrapping no longer matters. By the time you’ve torn into it, all you remember is what was inside. Over those next few days, anticipation is replaced by experience.

And then we get to unwrap one more gift. The biggest one of all.

We’ve got a whole year ahead of us, wrapped away, out of sight. After the last couple, many of us are hesitant to poke the package. (At least, not without a mask and some Clorox wipes.) Don’t predict, we’re told. Don’t project. Just take a breath, walk ahead carefully, and try not to break anything.

I understand the worries. Heck, I share a lot of them. But  one way or another, the box will open. The bag will be cast aside. And the hopes and fears that we wrapped 2022 in will give way to the reality.

No, we don’t get a receipt. (“Hello, customer service? Someone broke my 2021 in delivery; do you give store credit?”) In the case of this present, we’re both giver and receiver. We have to do the best we can with what we get … and that includes giving the best we have in us to make it better for everyone.

It’s demanding. It’s difficult. And it carries no guarantees. But if we keep at it, we can be the best present that someone else has ever received.

If enough of us do that, then 2022 becomes a gift worth getting, no matter what crises and challenges may lie ahead.

So best wishes to all of you for the New Year. Thanks for visiting here each week. I’ll keep the light on for you.

Assuming I can untangle myself from this wrapping paper first.

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Gift of the Season

‘Twas a time close to Christmas, that season so manic,

When good aunts and uncles were starting to panic,

The family perused all the kids’ lists with care,

But grandparents dear had already been there,


The questions were spinning in everyone’s brains,

“Have they got this?” and “Can we beat those supply chains?”

So Scott at his keyboard let out a quick yelp,

And messaged his sisters just one quick word – “Help!”


 OK, so I’m not Clement Clarke Moore. But the fact remains: my parents are way too good at the Santa Claus thing.

To be fair, they’ve got a lot more experience and much closer proximity. For the last few years, my folks have lived in Washington State, just within shouting distance of my sisters’ children. This was not a coincidence. When it comes to attractive force, a trio of young grandkids has enough power to pull meteors out of their course, so Mom and Dad didn’t stand a chance.

It’s great for everyone. But it does mean that very early in the holiday season, the lists of the young’uns get run over with reindeer-level force.

Thankfully, both my sisters are matchless CIA agents: Christmas Intelligence Agency, that is. Suggestions and updates were soon in my hands – or at least on my screen – along with a growing sense of déjà vu.

“He devours books like you do,” Leslie told me as we discussed my nephew Simon, “and he has a thing for books that are part of a series. And dragons. Lots of dragons right now too.”

With each item, I kept hearing echoes. I saw epic fantasies. I noticed a book about Broadway musicals. Some of the entries were things that Carey, Leslie and I were asking for back in the 1980s. Others, we would have gladly stolen a time machine to get. One thing became quickly clear: my sisters had raised ‘em right.

A second thing also grew obvious: there is no better mirror than a child’s Christmas list.

I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise. Back in 1970, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young were making a similar observation: that children and the adults who came before them are a closer reflection than either can realize:

And feed them on your dreams,

The one they pick’s the one you’ll know by…

But even with the musical warning, it still makes me blink to recognize the pieces of me and Leslie and Carey that are growing up in Ivy and Simon and Gil – with their own unique spin, of course. Seeing them takes me back to older Christmases … and makes me wonder how much of the same thing Mom and Dad saw in us then.

That’s the power of the season, I suppose. At its best, it can connect time to time and generation to generation, reaching back through years or even centuries to echo a theme. It’s a reminder that we are tied together by bonds stronger than habit or circumstance, with a little of all of us living in each other, and that there can be a love powerful enough to enfold all of it.

I know it’s not a magical time for everyone. For some, the echoes bring back more painful memories. For others, there’s a link missing in the chain, someone who should be sharing the season and isn’t there. But for all of us, it can still be a moment to listen carefully to the chords of those around us and recognize the common notes. To open doors, look past fences and see the neighbor inside.

That’s a gift to all of us. And it’s one we can always give.

No matter how many expert Santas have come before us.


And I heard him exclaim as he finished this rhyme,

“Happy Christmas to all! Now, let’s check dates on Prime …”

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Deck the Halls With Heads of Holly

At long last, Holly Hobbie smiles at us from the Christmas tree.

And from slightly lower down, so does her long-lasting head.

This may take a little explanation.

Long ago, like many a little girl, my wife Heather had a Holly Hobbie Christmas ornament, the big-bonneted pioneer girl of many a greeting card. This Holly was designed to hang from a tree branch with arms open wide, gazing benignly at passers-by.

It was much loved. And like many much-loved things, she got broken a bit too soon. One Christmas, the family unpacked its ornaments to find that 90% of Holly Hobbie was missing – everything except her well-known head.

With normal people, this would be the end.

My wife and her siblings are not normal people.

Holly Hobbie endured. In fact, Placing The Head of Holly Hobbie became a cherished Christmas tradition. With many giggles, The Head would come to rest on a suitably flat bit of pine, looking as though orcs had visited the American prairie and left behind a sign of their passage.

When Heather married me, The Head came with her. And from that day forward, our Christmas tree has been a Head above the rest.

Weird? Maybe. But in a time of year where we plant trees indoors and eat food out of our socks, I don’t think the rest of us are in any place to talk. That’s what traditions are: weird things you don’t do at any other time. I mean, ‘tis the season for a reindeer with an LED nose, for Pete’s sake.

But even so, Heather kept a watch. And with the rise of the internet – and just as importantly, the rise of 1980s nostalgia – her dream finally came true. She found a source, made the contact, cheered as the mail arrived.

Holly Hobbie had come home!

Triumphantly, Heather placed the full-bodied Holly in the tree. Just a step or two away from The Head of the old one, gazing up at her new sister.

After a moment, we both laughed.

“Kind of looks like she’s been left there as a warning to the newcomer, doesn’t it?” I said, to more helpless giggles.

A Christmas tradition would continue. Stronger and weirder than ever.

And with it grew just a bit of joy.

Joy’s kind of weird itself. It hides in odd places, lurks around strange corners. You can try to cultivate it for weeks with ribbons and music and Hallmark movies without success, and then, bang! Up it pops without warning.

Sometimes it’s the sudden connection that a tradition makes between past and present, briefly restoring something thought lost.

Sometimes it’s the out-of-place detail that makes us stop, think and wonder at the world around us, a star burning where it has no reason to be.

Frequently there is no obvious explanation. It pounces like a tiger, ambushing us on a deeper level than simple happiness. It’s a sudden rightness, or an excitement that won’t be held back, or a warmth that colors everything nearby.

It’s an inspiration. And like many inspiring things, you can’t really force it – but you can leave yourself open to it so that you don’t miss it when it comes.

Eyes open. Heart open. Seeing and experiencing and reaching to those nearby.

It might mean changing the usual or daring to be thought strange. That’s a risk. But it’s one worth taking to break beyond the expected and really live.

So be alert. Keep your head up.

Hey … it works for Holly Hobbie.  

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Absence of S**w

I’m crossing every finger I have before I write this. After all, Colorado’s teased me before. But the signs are finally starting to appear.

A chill in the air.

Frost on the windshield.

Forecasts that ever-so-tentatively but undeniably invoke the S-word.

No, not THAT one. (This is for a family newspaper, after all.) The other one. The four-letter word that Coloradans say with just about as much fervency.

Snow.

Yes, that’s my cheering you hear in the background. And yes, I’m THAT neighbor, the one that everyone always warned you about.

I am officially a Winter Weirdo.

Now before we get too far into this, yes, I remember the blizzard we had last March. And the hours I spent shoveling. And the industrial-size quantities of ibuprofen that my back required afterward. This isn’t a Hollywood special effect that gets cleaned up by the props department afterward.

But still: snow!

There’s something about a snowy winter that turns me into a little kid again. The heat of summer saps my strength and my spirit; spring and autumn bring lengthy to-do lists as everything wakes up or slows down.

But snow? Snow brings me alive.

It’s transformative, making familiar landscapes into new vistas.

It’s reflective, adding an extra sparkle and shine to holiday lights

And yes, it’s cautionary, warning the world to only go out if you mean it, to be careful if you do, and to pay attention to the neighbor – or stranger – who needs an extra hand.

But mostly what it’s been this season is “not here.” And that’s felt a little off-balance, like a dance that’s missing a step.

In that sense, of course, it’s oddly fitting. Everything feels a little out of kilter and has for months, in the world and in ourselves.

So maybe it’s appropriate to be entering a season of peace.

Yeah, I know: ha, ha and ha again. Peace is something we sing about at this time of year but often have trouble feeling. Everything seems calculated to  raise our stress and anxiety, whether it’s preparing for family or looking up shipping times for gifts in an age of supply-chain stress. (“It arrives WHEN?”) And that’s without figuring in the Ghosts of Christmases Past – the folks who should be present  and aren’t, leaving a hole in the holiday cheer.

I get it. I really do.

And that’s why reaching for peace has become more important than ever.

I don’t mean peace in the sense of “all is calm.” That’s comparatively easy – any time you get the kids to quiet down for two minutes or so, you have that sort of peace. But there are older senses of the word. One of my friends, an author, likes to point to the Greek word “eirene” which refers to weaving or tying – peace is when all are woven together. Another friend, a former pastor of mine, goes to the Hebrew “shalom,” where peace is when things are whole or complete, when everything is as it should be.

Both are lofty goals, the work of a lifetime rather than a season. So it’s good to have a time where we’re reminded. That the goal isn’t to fight to de-stress, but to reach out, to hold together with one another, to be the missing piece in a puzzle that needs you – or to rejoice when someone becomes yours. To be at peace in the best sense.

That’s a holiday gift worth giving.

But if anyone wants to throw in a couple of inches of snow to go with it, I’m more than ready.