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continued from p. 21
Further in the forest, we find a glen, a sanctuary. Our
entrance seems to have cued up the breeze to come in to
conduct the orchestra of late autumn. I’d forgotten that
sound, the crisp rush of so many leaves falling simultane
ously, flooding the air so heavily and completely that we
might be standing in a dream, or under water, even, dry as
old bones in a khaki colored waterfall.
“They play whether we notice or not,” the old man says.
“You can bear witness even in the city. You will see more
when you look through your son’s eyes.”
I remember the time I once saw a hawk snatch a mouse
from the street, and how it used a telephone pole top to
perch in victory. Cars clunked by underneath where I stood
on the sidewalk. The hawk struck a pose over its prey,
spread its wings and gaped its beak as if to gloat before the
feast. I knew I was lucky then to be right where I ought to
be.
I feel similar fortune today at home with my son and the
old man in the white oak woods.
The trail leads out of the forest to a pasture where we
meet a young black bull. From my left hip, the boy smiles
and watches the bull with blue eyes wide enough to receive
all of the beast. This bull approaches us at eye level and is
enormous, by far the largest creature my young son has
ever seen. With each step, his hooves sink slowly in the
mud. He breathes in and exhales loudly with the quick
strength of a gust of wind, as natural a force as wind too,
only it blows from a more grounded source.
The foothills philosopher is gone on into his cabin, but
I understand what he means. The sound of the bull’s nose
is one unchanged in the millennia that massive mammals
have roamed the earth, sniffing out grains and blowing
away hard dirt and snowpack to get at the sweet, get down
to the good. But my son and I don’t have any food to offer,
so we just admire him awhile before we leave him be in his
pasture.
Right when we turn, though, the young bull wails his
horn, and we spin around to watch him finish his long
call, a meandering bellow strange to urban ears. It is noth
ing like the make-believe moo the boy’s learned in Old
MacDonald’s song. It is the real thing—one of the old man’s
primordial chords, the kind that makes us believe.
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
By Sharon Wright Mitchell
“Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays...”
There’s a lot of pressure associated with the holidays. If you
have multiple parents, step-parents and in-laws, it’s worse.
Throw a couple of kids into the mix, and winter holidays
can become a logistical nightmare, with each branch of
your extended family playing not-so-subtle war games over
where you quaff your eggnog.
As a young adult, I always worked Christmas Eve, which
made getting to my family’s Christmas Eve celebrations
challenging. I remember one Christmas morning in partic
ular—not because of the thoughtful gifts or the pancake
breakfast, but because I was so exhausted I woke up crying
(and I was an adult, not a cranky toddler).
I had worked at the mall the afternoon before and then
driven two hours to partake in two family gatherings. I
hadn’t had enough sleep and was facing driving another
two hours to join my husband’s two family celebrations,
and they couldn’t understand why I wasn’t giddy to see
them. Maybe it was because they always insisted I sample
every dish along the 12-foot folding table and then sing
Christmas carols for them afterward, on a full stomach.
By the time I made all the rounds each year, I was
exhausted, overstimulated and driving a car full of gifts
I appreciated but didn’t need. I always enjoyed the spirit
of the season, but when you’ve been observing Christmas
mall-style for eight weeks, you kind of just want to keep it
simple. Once I was an adult and could furnish most necessi
ties for myself, I didn’t really need that family-sized all-in-
one breakfast station with coffee maker, griddle and toaster
oven.
Then there were the behind-the-scenes dysfunctional
shenanigans, like the aunt who always arrived at family
What the foothills philosopher sees.
gatherings mid-argument with her husband. I guess it was
tough to weather the long car ride together. After my par
ents divorced, there was always a tug-of-war over how long
I’d spend with each side of the family. I don’t know why
my mother cared. She always professed to hate Christmas.
Every year, she’d procrastinate about buying gifts, and then
we’d end up waiting for her on Christmas Eve while she
wrapped them. Good times.
Sound familiar? So, this was why, when I became a
parent, I put my foot down about being at home with my
daughter on Christmas Day. I decided I didn’t want my
holiday or hers to be an annual reenactment of Planes,
Trains and Automobiles. Gradually, I bowed out of many of
the gatherings and traditions that made the season a chore
instead of a joy.
These days, our celebrations lean more toward the mini
malism of Yule than the traditional commercial Christmas.
I find a simple Christmas without driving hours is just what
my spirit needs. “Home for the holidays” means my home.
Home for you can mean wherever you feel good and safe
and happy. For some, that’s with family. For others, it’s the
last place we feel welcome or accepted or at peace. Your
home is where you make it.
In our part of the world, this is the time of the winter
solstice, when nature settles down to sleep. Enjoy the gifts
of the season—no wrapping paper needed—and take some
time at home for rest and renewal.
“If you want to be happy in a million ways/ For the holidays/
You can’t beat home, sweet home.”
GADGETS LIKE ME
By Kathryn Kyker
In my world, the word “remote,” as in “The Remote,” was
first in regard to remote controlled cars—the toy your
12-year-old brother got for Christmas. Remotes were not
a ubiquitous part of our lives until a couple of decades ago,
when they entered the living rooms of ordinary folks and
took aim at our chunky, four channel TV sets.
Remotes quickly rose in cultural importance. They sym
bolize power dynamics of relationships—who controls the
remote in your household? They define personality types—
are you a restless surfer or a more patient watch-and-decide
type? One type for each household keeps things fun.
Remotes progressed from cultural gadget to essential
tool to access culture. But the impact of a remote on my
daily mood? I never saw that coming.
Confessions of persons struggling with a technology
22 FLAGPOLE.COM | DECEMBER 25, 2019 & JANUARY 1, 2020
JOHN BEASLEY