I get it.  There’s the stress of family, gift buying, the songs, the charities, all the ugly sweaters…the list goes on.  I understand when people look at Christmas as a giant commercial fiasco that forces obligation on you and picks your wallet.  Yes, an experience like that would leave you a withered husk by Christmas Day.  If that’s what the holiday was for me, I’d be fetal.

For me, though, Christmas is more.  But this year, the drive has been the focus.  You see, I’ve been lapse in my torch bearing duties.  Not on purpose, mind you.  I’ve been logging a pretty fantastic amount of overtime recently, which is great financially, but sucks for the Christmas festivities.  If you take it upon yourself to infuse your friends and family with the Christmas Spirit, but you’re not around, what do you do?

You PowerFest.

Yes, my answer this year (in my mind) was to PowerFest.  Maximize every gathering and take any opportunity to make a random event into a full fledged Christmas Party.  Because, after all, I can show people what the Christmas Spirit is all about by example, right?

If you’re going to PowerFest, preparation is key.  Set the scene, create the right mood, and make sure the evening says what you want to say.  So, in October I started planning.  In November I went into overdrive.  In December I scrambled.  But the entire time, I asked myself one simple question:

What does Christmas mean to me?

If I’m going to relay what Christmas means to me, I have to know it.  I’ve always felt it, and I’ve always lived it, but I’ve never been able to put my finger on it.  This year was the time–in fact, it was critical.  There’s no spare time to guess!

My friends act as good mirrors.  The Atheist, with an over-preached Southern Baptist background, has been blasted with the pop culture of Christmas as well as the religious background of it.   Naturally, she’s picked this apart.  After chewing on her perspective, I realized that, while religion is at the core of my beliefs, it’s not the origin of my love of Christmas.  Or maybe it is–more later.  It’s definitely not the pop culture.  We all get hit with it, and over time we realize the mechanics behind the magic.  That’s where Santa Jr. comes in.  Coming from a family where Christmas is a business, I can definitely see why he’d be a little…tired of it after a while.  But you can’t work the holiday without having some love for it.  He loves the glitz, but loves the meaning behind it.  So, while we both dismiss the glitz to focus on the meaning, I think he’s there with me–what does it mean?

My friend the Monk offers a side angle that makes focus a little easier.  As a religious devotee as well as a fellow po kid, she remembers what Christmas was like without overt religion and without money.  She loved Christmas, but lost some zest for it as she got older.  Recognizing the crap that goes to make the holiday solid for kids goes a long way to jading you.  She’s perked up since hanging with us, but still–what’s the key?

There are movies, songs, and plenty of media that address this issue.  Plenty of people want to know what Christmas is all about.  They come to different conclusions, usually depending on what they’re looking for in the first place.  For example, many will talk about Jesus.  Let’s not go there.  I do respect this perspective, but this is a wormhole into another debate that you can have elsewhere.   Then there’s the joy, peace, love angle.  John Lennon singing “War is Over if you want it”, “Joy To The World”, or whatever—there’s plenty of sources.  This is a little closer to home.

I’ve pondered this as I’ve watched opportunities to celebrate fall to overtime.  I’ve drilled deep into my past, into philosophy, and into every feeling to try to understand what makes this the best time of year to me.  And while I drone away in my job to pay for plane tickets and car repairs, I ask myself–what am I hunting for?

In my deep dive analysis I looked to my shining example of Christmas.  It comes from my single digit youth, when my divorced parents would pass me off over the course of a day by taking me from home, to one grandparent’s house, to the other grandparents’ house, and finally home with the other parent.  Over the course of a day I got to see a litany of family, all still bratty and snipey and bragging, but also having a pretty good time.  It’s like Christmas redefined the rules of engagement with each other juuuust enough that you enjoyed the day.

In this snapshot I get what I’m hunting for, what I have, and what I’m trying to share.

The Christmas Spirit, as I’ve learned it, isn’t the garland or trees, or the gifts or the food.  It’s not about the service in the soup kitchens. It’s not about the birth of Jesus.  Christmas is about generosity.  Not that “generosity” that you use when you give something to the Salvation Army, or when you bust your tail to cook dinner for the family, or when you give a gift to someone as part of the general festivities.  It’s singing Christmas carols when you hate them and don’t believe in them, because someone you care about does.  It’s going to some place you hate and smiling though it all, because you’re with the people you care about.  It’s forgiving sleights, going the extra mile, and putting a little love out there for someone that, by all rights, doesn’t deserve it.

I think about each of my divorced parents suffering through the same trial.  3am, Christmas Day.  They’re up, either alone or with a significant other, trying to put some tiny sticker on some plastic toy that costs way too much to be broken, and they’re pulling their hair out.  They’re exhausted, frustrated, and cursing the company that made this thing, and cursing the commercial that made me want it.  Hours of overtime to pay for all of this, guilt over not being there more, stress of driving through traffic to get that picture of kid with Santa, and won’t it be great when all of this is over?

But it won’t.  You don’t want it to be over.  You’ll  be up, watching to see that first look of amazement as your kid lights up over that toy he never thought he’d get.  You’ll go through an entire morning without passing out, without coffee, without anything but this kid’s joy fueling the room.  And that’s enough.  You’ll go see the family and deal with all the complaining and one-upsmanship and never ending one sided talking because you know, somewhere deep underneath all the bullshit and bravado, that they’re thrilled to have you there.  And, on some level, in spite of yourself, you’re happy to be there, too.  So you forgive the subtle insult, you casually neglect to bring up the forgotten birthday, and you watch your kids play, and while it’s all grating on you, everything’s actually all right.

I’ve purposefully been ambiguous with my wishes this year.  When asked, I give answers to people that will satisfy–no gift, an ornament, or for my mother, who still sits up to watch me open my gifts, something easy to get.  The joy this year has been in giving to others–in being generous.  I’ve tried to be generous with what little time I have, I’ve been generous with money, and I’ve tried to be generous with my affections.  There’s always room for more.  But this is where I call in my Christmas Wish, for everyone and anyone who would read this post.  Here it is:

LIVE CHRISTMAS.

Take this holiday, this time of year, and make it yours.  Forgive someone you’ve had beef with for years.  Sing the praises of your unsung heroes.  Go the extra mile for those who already know you love them.  Tell someone that doesn’t know that you care.  Give of yourself.  Demonstrate generosity of spirit.  And don’t expect anything back—give because you want to give.

The best gift I could get this year, and every year, is to see this wish in action.  Show me and I won’t light up like I did when I was a kid with a GI Joe toy.  What I’ll do is smile a small and very warm smile, and maybe even water up a little like I am right now at the thought of it, and most of all, I’ll sleep the sleep of peacefulness.  And peace is what I really want this year.

I understand that we’re talking about politics.  Governments make sweeping decisions that change the shape of our lives, in major and minor ways.  Still, one has to consider the scope.  I’m usually listening to an argument about national politics.  National. Politics. That’s HUGE!  There is so much going on at that level!  We throw our weight around about politics the way armchair quarterbacks call plays.  Easy for you to say! Why don’t you get in the hot seat and try to make the calls?  You’ll find out pretty quickly that being a President, Senator, or Supreme Court Justice ain’t a piece of cake.

So going through today was, frankly, hell.

I work with a diversity of people, but there is a cluster of politically minded men that don’t share the same perspectives on politics that I do.  I knew, on the heels of the death of Osama, that they would have something to say.  I wasn’t wrong.  I heard everything along the spectrum, from how we need to go bomb Pakistan to how our current commander in chief is an absolute moron.  As usual, I exhibited an amazing amount of patience, and told those with differing opinions that I’d consider what they were saying.  I did–fair is as fair does.

But how extreme can you get?!?   I understand that, deep down, everyone fights for what they believe in.  When I hear these people tell me how they get sick to their stomach over the way America is perceived in the world, I understand that it comes from a place of patriotism.  But can you really look at our daily lives, complex as they are, and think that the goings on at the global level are that simple?  How many forces push against each other to make a moment happen?

I’m tired of the strife that plagues our country.  I’m tired of seeing members of Congress shot because they aren’t in the popular party of that state.  I’m tired of hearing people who are dedicated to this country talking about rounding up people that disagree with their politics.  Much of what I’m seeing, hearing, and feeling in this modern day of the USA is disturbing, and not what our Founding Fathers intended.  I don’t think any party out there has it right, and they’re not going to—it’s not their responsibility.  It’s our responsibility as citizens.  We have a role to play in our government, as the Founders intended.  Hell, even if you think the Founders were idiots, it boils down to one statement: It’s your country.

I’m going to spend the next few days dodging Obama talk and listening to what people have to say.  I hope, after all the rage, grief, and frustration is vented, I’m not the only one that finds a little peace in the silence.

The answer to this, dear reader, is yes.  Now is the age that defines us.

I won’t go into a diatribe on this seeming revelation, for you may have recognized this from birth.  There are others, however, that will die without understanding.  Thankfully, I am somewhere in between, and I find that some of my friends are the same.

There are many levels of understanding, as with many riddles.  Ultimately, though, this is truth: now is the age that defines us.

Beside him and to his left is a hispanic man drying his hands.  He wears his hair slightly long and curly—not in a way that suggests styling, but more of an efficient cut that’s grown out over time.  His goatee and thin mustache, however, look like they’ve seen scissors or a trimmer in the past couple of weeks.  Other than the facial hair, he’s clean shaven.  He wears a multicolor, oversized polo shirt that is primarily yellow.  It advertises the colors that many of the freshly transitioned Hispanic population wear–greens, yellow, red, and white.  An eyesore to most, but quite popular to others.  This particular mix could even be considered tame.  The shirt looks well washed but vibrant and meticulously pressed, as do the dark blue jeans he wears to match.  These jeans are also well fitting–not too baggy, not too tight, easy to move in. While he dries his hands he stares off, but his eyes seem slightly more focused and lively.  Whatever he’s thinking about seems to have his attention, and perhaps even a bit of heart, but the eyes don’t touch the corners of his mouth, set in a stoic downward turn.

As these men wash and dry in the Golden Corral bathroom, they navigate the tight quarters in silence.  There’s a natural conveyor belt of activity that occurs in such a place, a dance of position that eventually leads to you walking out the door.  These two men—who may not even speak the same language—move around each other within the narrow corridor without a word expressed to each other.  Yet there’s clearly enough respect between them to do so without concern.  In other places men like these could easily bump shoulders and look up with a glare, which in and of itself could be enough to ignite a fight.  Yet these two move with an air of respect.

Thirty seconds from now, when they’ve walked out the door and gone back to their tables, they will have completely forgotten about the bathroom, letting themselves sink back into the flow of their lives.  And yet, as I finish the cycle they began, I have to wonder.

I walk out of the bathroom with eyes to the wide room, looking for either of these men.  The effort is wasted–Golden Corrals are massive and regularly full of people.  I can’t pinpoint either of the men.  As I walk back to my seat the whole scene begins to dim and my attention returns to my own life.  Still, something about the entire moment drones on in the back of my mind, like a picture being developed in a dark room.  It’s only hours later that I can see the details of the picture.

_____________________________________________________________________________

The South has changed dramatically just in my lifetime.  I grew up in a tiny town buried in the forgotten south of a Southern state.  Southern towns tend to move through time slowly, and especially so when I was growing up.  Southern towns aren’t large, so there aren’t a bunch of people bumping into each other.  That lack of forced community means there’s less room for new ideas and less need for innovation.  There’s no major financial base to market to, so the latest items get sold in Southern towns right before they get sold overseas.  News travels slowly, with only the biggest stories making same day news—at least, that was before the internet.  Even then, why should anything but the big national stories matter?  It doesn’t trickle down to the Southern town.  The only people that could bring the freshness of the times to a Southern town are the children that leave and decide to come back, all educated and indoctrinated into big city life, but returning to home with all they have learned.  That almost never happens.

Time moves slowly in the South.  When I grew up the eighties were fighting with the fifties for real estate in downtown.  The few night clubs in town were a mix of metalheads playing pool in one bar while country boys danced with their girls to Waylon Jennings in another.  The furniture store on the corner–private, and the biggest in town–displayed flower print couches from the seventies in the window alongside a black and white stripe print chair considered to be tres chic.  Next door was a men’s clothing store—also locally owned—showcasing the finest in men’s suits, paired with hats and tie pins that men stopped wearing twenty years ago.

The families walking the streets were no different.  Kids were trying to break free from the stagnant small town life and futures working the jobs their parents worked.  The hair was tall, the clothes rebellious, the attitude strong.  The parents were infuriated at the style, so radical from their own, seeing no problem with the jobs they worked at the local factory or courthouse.  The work was steady, the benefits good, and their job security guaranteed for a lifetime.

And yet, no matter the discrepancies between generations, they stood together in the amber of small town life.  The types of jobs never changed.  The politics never changed.  The biggest race issues were between black and white, especially poor black and poor white, which was most of the town.  The threatened conflicts were explosive, but most involved fist fights, with an occasional knife or pool cue involved.  Guns made for a major town threat, broadcast in the local and regional paper—the primary news source, other than your aunt’s pinochle group.

One of the things that didn’t change between these generations was the ethos of the Southern Gentleman.  The concept had somewhat eroded with the onset of the sixties—damn hippies—but in towns like mine men still thought of themselves as gentlemen.  It wasn’t this goal that was set ahead of them, with heroes and milestones.  It was simply a way of life.  Men opened doors, took off their hats in houses, and treated each other with respect.  You could argue, but you didn’t let the women get involved.  You could fight, but you didn’t draw a weapon unless you were drawn on.  You did your job well and got paid well for it.  You came home to a home cooked meal more often than not, and you took care of your family.  In the eighties small towns like mine felt the friction of faster moving times, but the momentum of history carried it on regardless.  Somewhere along the way, things changed.

___________________________________________________________________________

The South is a coal mine.   The South is a tobacco field.  The South provides, giving its best for use all over, decade after decade.  And, eventually, the South wore out.   The mine ran dry.  The field became dust.

The South was a 34 Ford pickup.  In its time it was both utilitarian and a hot rod.  Then it became obsolete.  By the time the millennium turned, it was a rusting wreck the family forgot about.

_________________________________________________________________________

As a late twenty I made my requisite pilgrimage to the old homestead, as is required of young Southern men.  When you’re in college it’s acceptable for the family to come to you-after all, if you’re at a good school on the Southern standard, the parents can score good football or basketball tickets.  But when you’re settled and working, you go to the parents.  I would drive to mine and spend time at home, talking and helping out with household chores.  When the lulls eventually hit in conversation and the work was done, the family would pile up in whatever family sized vehicle available and head into town.

There’s nothing like the shock of returning to your roots and seeing them rotted.  My home town, when I returned to it, hadn’t changed—it had grown hollow.  The people walking the streets were the same people, but older and more feeble.  The cars were smaller, older, and in poorer repair.  Many of the most prosperous local businesses were closed down, their buildings left vacant, or sold out to tiny businesses struggling to make it.  The old shops were replaced by big chain stores, usually with the lowest end products.   The old houses owned by the richest were still intact, with big American luxury cars in their driveways, but no signs of the smaller cars that would signify children.

In the place of those children were new people.  Migrants moved into town.  In place of the old restaurants were new Chinese and Mexican restaurants.  When I got my burger at the drive through, a Latino woman of some thirty years gave it to me instead of a greasy faced teenager.  Many of the businesses formerly run by locals had been given up to people from other countries.  It wasn’t just a matter of the type of work, as the media says.   For every black, Latin, or Asian gas station attendant, there was a local.  Same for mechanics, gardeners, and construction workers.  There was also the fact that there weren’t as many people around to work the jobs.  Someone had to.

Crime was up.  Drugs were flowing through town–like many, it sat on the crossroads of a couple of highways, making it a perfect stop for traffickers.  Local police weren’t equipped to handle it, operating on the tax base of a smaller town.  Murders were more common.  Neighborhoods that were once luxury neighborhoods of town were run down, old, and had a very different set of people living in them.

Change has never been welcome in the South.  It’s hard to say why, really, and the lack of reason opens the door for a lot of critique.  Some say it’s because Southerners are traditionalists by nature, working traditional jobs and living conservative lives.  Some say it’s an inherent laziness to Southern people.  Needless to say, the most popular rationale is that Southern people are stupid.  All you have to do is look at any popular joke that involves Southerners and see the joke in motion.

As a Southerner who has lived in the South for the majority of his life, I can give you a different reason—change, for the South, hasn’t been positive.  The South was, for a long time, the breadbasket of America.  The profits made on the backs of slaves made the South rich.  After the Civil War the South not only had its labor force stripped away, debts to pay, cities to rebuild, and a generation to replace.

Just when the South seemed to regain its groove, war hit again.  Since the South has historically supplied more soldiers than any other place in the country, it was left with another generation to replace.  After that, desegregation hit.  Then modern farming techniques eliminated the need for most farmers.  Then cheaper labor took away the factories.

No, change in the South isn’t good.

________________________________________________________________________________

I’ve caught up with many of my friends from home on Facebook.  Many live in the same urban area I do, some in cities across the state.  Some of the best and brightest have moved to New York, Atlanta, San Francisco, and other, more expensive zip codes.  Most of us talk about home and the memories of high school, and then drop out of touch.  Most of us rarely, if ever, go back.  We visit parents if they’re still there, we go home for Easter or Christmas, and we return to our own homes.

I still make the pilgrimage because I can.  I was raised more traditionally than most, so I go home like a good son.  My mother, stepdad, and I go to Golden Corral for Sunday dinners when Mom doesn’t feel like cooking—which, to her credit, isn’t often.  I ride into town with them, talking about high school days, and look around at the rusted wreck.

_________________________________________________________________________________

The image of the men in that bathroom kept coming into my mind, day after day.  Something about the look in the eye, the fall of the clothes, the way they carried themselves kept repeating on me.  Something was familiar.  And just like a picture pulled out of the development bath, the full power of the image struck me.  These were the modern Southern gentlemen.  Somewhere, somehow, the new people that had moved into the South picked up more than the jobs.  These men carried themselves with dignity and respect.  They didn’t have the money from pensioned jobs, nor did they have the stark suits sold in the old store front.  But they took care of what they had and wore it with class.  They worked their jobs with quality, and carried themselves like it.  Their eyes were the eyes of the responsible ones.  Dinner at Golden Corral was Sunday dinner for them, too.  They would go home to different kinds of families, but the roots of me recognized them as my own.  Somewhere along the way someone went out to the rusted wreck and started patching her up.

Road trips are great.  After getting a couple of unexpected days off (an issue in itself), I decided to make the most of it by grabbing the roommate and taking a road trip.  Road trips are great sources of stories.  While we were grabbing a bite to eat, my next story/essay simply fell into my lap.  When these things happen, I get the urge to write.

Now, pretty much everyone that knows me knows that, when it comes to writing especially, I am far from consistent.  Some could say that I’m consistent as the tides or the moon—I ebb and flow as time passes.  Some could just call me slack.  Whatever title you choose, we all know that I’m not on here often, which is a source of guilt.  So, when I thought about where I would write this essay, the guilt surfaced.

What was I to do?  Start a new page?  I could line an internet birdcage with the pages I’ve started, and all it does is scatter my writing and frustrate my friends to no end.   But I’m looking for something fresh, and I’m looking for something a little more organized.  What do I do?

Apparently I change the theme of the page and ask for help.

Who knows WordPress out there?  My goal here is to customize the page a little bit and split up the previous entries, creating pages for journal entries, poems, and essays.  I’d like to be able to add a little personal style to the page as well.   Now, I understand that there are constraints with WordPress, but any additional knowledge is better than my current skill level (which officially qualifies as “rudimentary”).  Help!

I love that stuff also because I like to think I’ve got soul.  I love me some Motown, I love singing, and I love the passion that goes with it.  Soul encapsulates raw feelings and moments in life.  It’s not hard to get–in fact, that’s against the grain of soul.  Soul music is something that everyone gets, because you feel it in your soul.  Since I’ve always felt like I’ve led with my heart in life, I’ve always resonated with that kind of music.

Nights like tonight, I don’t particularly feel like I’ve got soul.  I feel cold inside: distant.  Conversation runs dry, connections feel withered, and I frankly try to remember what made me feel good before.  All my mistakes, all my unresolved conflicts, and all the frustrations of life leave me in a stone shell thick enough to dull anything coming through or going out.  It’s like a bomb shelter for negative emotions.  Bitterness gets to have a chat with Rage, while Despair hides in the corner and sips on a Caprisun.  It’s a sucky way to live.

Some of it comes from the daily situations I deal with, but ultimately, the issue is with me.  I’ve lived with a lot of this crap all my life.  My childhood was so solitary that no one saw me long enough to know these sorts of things went on, or else they dismissed it as part of growing up.  During undergrad the feelings got blamed on a bad relationship.  After that the things to blame started running out.  I remember sitting in my apartment in 2000 in a virtual fugue.  I had no direction, little happiness, and was cruising on momentum.  I had no clue what to do to make myself get up and go.

Life’s come a long way since then, but nights like this make me wonder what the Hell I’m doing, and what kind of guy I am that swings from soul to shell in less than a week.  Hell, maybe it’s just part of growing up, and being an older man.  You just don’t burn like you did when you were younger–which is good, because that is a hot and inconsistent flame.  But I don’t want to be cold, either.  I think coming to keys and writing what I do is my method of stoking the flame, but not too hot.  After all, our passions—not the raw passions, but our motivations—are what keep us warm at night, what get us up in the morning, what get us through the day.  They are the fires that we keep to stay warm, and that we learn to keep the right size, for fear of burning down the wooden scaffold we call our lives.

I just need some wood.

I’ve tried to keep myself busy with various mental exercises, but it’s not the same as really pushing yourself.  Having something for your brain to wrap around, to sharpen and mold it, is an irreplaceable exercise, and I’m feeling the hurt of the lacking.  So, I’ve decided that I’m going to discipline myself (ooh, kinky) on a daily basis.  If it’s one of my “furlough” days, I’m going to sit down wherever I can and simply work.  Mental exercise, writing, professional training, and of course job hunting, is going to become an 8 hour profession.

Another major project of mine is putting my family documents online.  About a month ago, the family got together to sort through some of our grandparents/parents items, handing them back to the people that gave/sent them.  However, there are some very special photos and items that are just too special to the family at large to sort out to a few people.  So, my cousin and I are now custodians of these items.  I have the documents, she has the photos.  Once we get them all online and available, it’s going to be pretty spectacular–my family has a lot of history, and being able to share in it online is priceless.

So, add all of these to my usual middling efforts to stay in touch and push my prospects forward, and you have a guy with plenty to do.  I’ve enjoyed all that I’ve done so far, but there’s plenty more road to cover.  There are also, as usual, some Big Questions running through my mind, and the answers will chart me to some interesting places.  But for now, it’s steady as she goes, and working to hone my crafts.

Turn off the Joan Baez.  When I walk in and hear Portishead playing, I’m thrilled.  Even when I don’t recognize the music, I’m typically pleased with it–yet another highlight.  Stop this chick’s singing or I will snap my own neck. It will be amazing to see.  It’s a rare trick, a powerful one, and one you can perform only once.  But you and your customers will be amazed.  And when the applause for my trick has cooled, everyone will realize what’s happened, and they will leave.  And you will have no customers.  And you can blame Joan Baez.

I’m sure she wouldn’t be surprised.  I think it’s part of her master scheme to turn the United States into an Amazon state.  No, not the sales site, but the original, all-women country, where men were used only to spawn and were then destroyed.  You know, like praying mantises, or Angelina Jolie.  Same difference, really.  It’s a brilliant plan on Joan’s part.  Create a virus–let’s call it “music”–that generates a sensitive, feministic feeling in the subjects.  Women are pushed towards a greater feminine edge.  Men with the least inclination towards the feminine are shoved that way as well, turning them gay, or ponytail sensitive.  Same difference, really–they won’t be breeding.  Red-blooded men will be driven to snap their own necks.  Well, maybe not snap their own necks–that’s my trick–but something equally final, if not equally creative.  The women (and she-males) remaining will be trained by Joan’s legion of Amazon warriors, trained in secret Northern California warrior camps, and organized into her new American Amazon forces.  They will get their sperm donors from the descendants of Mongol warriors, for good fighting stock, and from Irish men, for more musicians.  Joan will then launch her legions across the world, reshaping it in her image.  With the exception of France.  France is a lost cause.

Well, Joan Baez, I refuse.  I will stop the music.  Or I will snap my own neck.  And it starts at Bean Traders.