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Meantime, we made Grandmama’s sweet potatoes and
shared a steak for Thanksgiving. Frying a whole turkey
felt extravagant for just us three. Nothing like a normal
Thanksgiving reunion in North Georgia. No falling leaves
in the white oak woods. But my little family played football
and watched Tommy Boy and Royal Tenenhaums.
We started painting the soon-to-be baby brother’s room,
too. But after the rain came we found a leak in the window,
so we stopped painting to argue some.
Seven hurricanes came this season, and the wooden
floor took a licking. John Prine tunes were playing, and we
wound up laughing with paint everywhere it shouldn’t be.
We forgot to worry about water damage and paint spatter
and were better off for it, thanks to the Singing Mailman.
COVID took Prine from us this spring, but first he wrote
and sang “Crooked Piece of Time” 42 years ago, and it’s
as true today as a fir tree’s leaves are green. Good thing to
fish and whistles still true, and wishing for a cigarette nine
miles long. And forgiveness, too.
Vaccines are coming, though. Thank you, Dolly Parton.
Soon, for the front lines. A bit of other good news is, Dec.
21 marks the winter solstice when days get longer—the
oldest celebration in human history, because at the
moment we’re furthest from the sun, it draws us closer
once again. Light. That’s worth celebrating.
Also, in winter’s night, Orion hunts in the sky and
reminds me of the iridescence I noticed in the sand earlier
this spring during quarantine: an arrowhead, wet and glis
tening, that deceased PFC Ryen King dropped there in the
creek for me to see.
Finally, we string lights on trees and give gifts to our
loved ones. Santa fills in for us where we’ve failed. We do
give for a reason, a tradition greater than any ad on tele
vision or any sing-along Bing Crosby inspiration. “Merry
Christmas” is a synonym for saying “Happy birthday,
Jesus.” The Prince of Peace, the perfect person of immacu
late conception, who served all without self-interest, only
kindness. An ideal for us to emulate. Happy birthday, Jesus,
and thank you. I’m sorry we don’t live up to your example
of selfless service.
Yet the reason for the season is still delivering us from
evil. He may be coming soon, but he hasn’t given up on us
just yet. The Casino Man lost the White House, praise God,
but it’s not likely that old cur learns repentance before the
last dog dies, so let’s fill his great void with fellowship and
forgiveness. Let’s wrap up in a quilt of kindness by the fire
and just gaze at the flame everlasting. The angel of John
Lewis feels close by. The smoke of the old wood smells good,
and the fire is warm. Watching it flicker is like sitting by a
river. A constant replenishing. We look on, enlightened.
Alpenglow comes first in the morning and, with the
blue dawn, a new year. If Sartre and the existentialists can
remake a life in a day, imagine what we can do with a whole
year.
We’ve a lot to grieve from 2020 and much to repair, but
the glimmers of goodness remain in their places. Let’s chase
after the light like the forest’s leaping Hart. We hold the
light of all those we lost inside us, and we have to shine it
for good. Let’s respect our differences and help each other.
Let’s light the paths forward as we stumble along in our
collective endeavor.
It’s About Time
By George Sibley
I came alive through no design of mine,
Enlisting in a Caucasian, non-wealthy
Family who enjoyed safe and healthy
Lives and never needed to define
Its racial status, nor to toe the line
Of heritage. There was no need for stealthy
Conduct, as we wore accepted belts—re-
Dundant badges of the “ins.” No shrine
Advantaged us with noble birth or place,
But we were never hassled due to skin
Hue. And yet, I saw dark-hued denizens
Corralled invisibly, though citizens,
And I did nothing, as I was an “in.”
My comfort zone no longer shows its face.
CELEBRATING
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2020
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DECEMBER 23 & 30, 2020 | FLAGPOLE.COM 21