Month: December 2022

December 2022

By Richard Fleming

The end-of-year holidays are a time of joy. Family gatherings abound. Festive tables encourage gluttony. Crackling fires and warm blankets are an invitation to watch holiday classics on TV. Cold winds blow through the streets, and I shiver and smile when returning to the cozy warmth of home. Hot coffee tastes better on cold holiday mornings than at any other time of year. Joy is defined by our grandchildren running to the front door to deliver snug hugs while whispering, “I’ve missed you so much, Papa” and “I love you so much, Mama.”

Joy.

For the past 10 years, my wife and I have baked holiday goodies in mid-December and delivered them to the eleven houses on our home court in Benicia. When we deliver our treats, we are always repaid with neighborly smiles and thanks. This project was inspired by my mother. She made holiday cookies and cakes for our neighbors in Topeka when I was growing up. It felt like a nice tradition to continue.

This year we discovered our decade of holiday baking has become an ingrained part of our neighborhood’s culture. One neighbor, a lady who lost her husband two years ago, called us after Thanksgiving to say she would be spending the holiday in L.A. with her son, so we should not deliver treats to her in December. But she added she would be back home in early January just in case. Another neighbor asked in early December what we would be making for the neighborhood this year. He then smiled and said, “No pressure. If you don’t bake anything, that’s OK. But…” The comments of both neighbors made us smile. It is not a big project to make holiday goodies for our home court. And the fact it is a neighborhood tradition is satisfying beyond measure.

Joy. It rules the season.

But it is inseparable from its twin, whose name is sadness. As I grow older, I notice sadness plays a larger role with each holiday season.

Joy’s twin reminds me of my parents’ absence. The sights, the sounds, the aromas, the emotions of joyful childhood holidays are imprinted deeper in my brain than memories from random weeks in February or August. My parents were integral to my holiday memories for so many years, even long after I left home. It is during this time of year I feel their absence the most.

Yesterday’s joy is linked to today’s sadness. They are twins. Inseparable.

Joy’s twin also likes to murmur in my ear that my holidays are numbered. And its voice grows louder as each year passes by. Every holiday season is filled with warmth. But each one I cherish means one fewer ahead. The holiday season is too joyful to miss out on. But miss out I will. How many have I still? Four? Ten or twenty? Who can say? Who can know?

Today’s joy is linked to tomorrow’s sadness. They are twins. Inseparable.

As I age, it would be easy to let sadness overwhelm joy. Especially during the holidays. But I fight back. I struggle to understand the lesser twin. I have learned – I’m still learning – to spend some time communing with sadness. To know its depth. To not feel threatened or intimidated. Sadness abides, but does not ask me to forsake its twin. Rather, sadness illuminates the power of joy.

And so it comes to this. I accept that sadness will accompany the holidays. But I stand up for joy.

I think about my children and grandchildren living through another fun holiday season this year. They are creating and embedding their own holiday memories, which will grow richer over time. And my wife and I are integral to their joy. Our kids and grandkids will look back at the delicious feasts we prepared, and laugh at how they ate too much. They will fondly recall us awaiting them in the warm doorway, our arms extended, as they run into our tight embrace. They will remember us whispering in their ears, “I missed you so much” and “I love you so much.” And perhaps they will start neighborhood holiday traditions of their own creation.

Time will pass. Our children, and then our grandchildren, will themselves grow old. They too will experience the holiday seasons with an evolving mix of joy and sadness. My wife and I will be part of their joy. And we will be part of their sadness. Hopefully they will treasure the joy and come to understand that its bittersweet twin means them no harm.

*    *    *

If you enjoyed this post, please consider subscribing to be notified of future posts. Subscriptions are free.

December 2022

By Richard Fleming

I’ve never been handy with tools. When growing up in Topeka, many of my friends learned how to build things and fix broken gadgets. Their parents taught them these skills. Usually their fathers. It was the early 1960s. Other kids my age learned how to replace door hinges. Attend to leaky pipes. Build small stools for their younger siblings to sit on while watching the old black-and-white.

But not me. I knew how to rake leaves. I could change batteries as adeptly as any young person. But anything involving tools was outside my realm. My parents preferred I focus on mental construction projects. When I had the option to take Mr. Huber’s Industrial Arts class (we called it “shop”) as an elective at Roosevelt Junior High, my parents made me take Art with Mr. Burgess instead. My friends in shop class learned how to use various and sundry tools. They produced small devices made out of wood and metal. Over in art class I learned how to apply random swaths of watercolor to blank pieces of paper. I have utilized the skills I learned in art class exactly never in the past 54 years.

To avoid any misunderstanding, I want to say I admire artists and I love art. Even watercolors. But I must also say my enrollment in junior high art instead of shop class has haunted me my entire life. Actions have consequences.

Over the years, my attempts at repairing broken doors, clogged drains, and malfunctioning toilet flush handles frequently went awry. My efforts to assemble beds from kits and install overhead racks in the garage were exercises in frustration. I usually succeeded eventually, after several trips to the hardware store for advice and strained wrists from using tools incorrectly. Each project took hours to complete, far longer than the instructions claimed.

As my age has increased, my adventures in home repair have become even more difficult. The obstacles are both physical and mental. My body no longer readily contorts into the posture needed to address a garbage disposal which has gone on strike. My neck objects to the prolonged hyperextension required to work on a recessed light fixture in the kitchen ceiling. What happened to the nimble fingers and flexible joints I possessed just ten years ago? When I was in my 60s.

But the cognitive challenges are more humiliating. I recently discovered that in the third decade of the 21^st Century, you learn how to fix broken home fixtures by going to YouTube and searching for videos demonstrating how to proceed. When assembling home furniture kits you need to – listen to this – use your cell phone to scan a little square filled with weird dots which takes you to a video demonstrating what to do! Can someone please tell me how a video on a cell phone’s tiny screen can be the least bit helpful? Whatever happened to simple written instructions with clear diagrams? Honestly, I don’t mind putting on reading glasses to carefully read written instructions on large pieces of paper.

Last week I had to replace a broken spring in a dishwasher door. I dutifully searched for, then watched several videos on this subject. Each described the repair as an “Easy Fix!” or a “Simple 5-Minute Repair Project.” After 45 minutes alternating between trying to dislodge the broken spring and replaying the two most relevant videos, I was making little progress. My knees and ankles were threatening to report me to Adult Protective Services. The videos incorrectly assumed I knew the right tools to use. I just learned what an Allen wrench is one month ago. How can I be expected to know what a Torx screwdriver looks like?

My wife is patient with my difficulties restoring sick appliances and fixtures to good health. She suggested I call someone in to take over the dishwasher door repair job. I was on the verge of doing so when the broken spring popped out of the door (largely of its own accord) and went flying across the kitchen. This miracle allowed me to complete the project after an hour and a quarter.

If I had taken shop class in junior high, no doubt I could have finished this “simple 5-minute repair” in half an hour, leaving valuable time to work on my many pending mental repair projects. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my parents and they raised me well. Overall. But they misunderstood the importance of learning how to use hand tools.

*      *      *

Now that I’m in my 70s, I see more clearly that the chickens are coming home to roost. This phrase conveys two meanings and both apply to me. First, as most folks know, it indicates we must live today with the consequences of past mistakes. Or to put it another way, those who don’t take shop class in junior high are destined to be embarrassingly inept in home repair projects, and this problem worsens with age.

The second meaning may be more familiar to those of us who grew up on the Great Plains. When chickens come home to roost, they are returning to their shelter to rest and prepare for sleep. At present, I am fortunate to still have a fair amount of energy. And I have many projects yet to complete. But there is little doubt that I too am on the verge of coming home to roost.

*    *    *

If you enjoyed this post, please consider subscribing to be notified of future posts. Subscriptions are free.