White Knuckles

I wake up in an ice-cold bed, which matches my demeanor these days.  75 years into life, I’m not far from the cold finality of death.  On that note, this sleeping arrangement isn’t much wider than a coffin.

This is the same twin bed that I’ve slept in for half a century now.  It was a real splurge at the time, an acknowledgement of marriage, and a huge step up from the rigid cot provided during my adolescent years.

Granted, I had to wait another decade until my betrothed and I got to move our nest from the closet-size chamber of my youth to this master suite.  A regal space which still isn’t longer than 15 feet on a side.  Unfortunately, this accommodations upgrade required the passing of my parents.

It’s freezing, both inside and outside my humble abode, the thin walls providing little protection from the elements.  In typical midwestern fashion, especially here in the hollowed-out city appropriately dubbed the “mistake by the lake”, winter has set in even before the calendar year rolls over.  Today, per usual, it’s not snowing light and fluffy flakes, but instead depositing an icy sheet.

Considering my sore back, likely a product of the sagging, springless, sleeping setup, with my spine rendered rigid when chilly, it takes me a while to rise each AM.  Maybe I should just stay hunkered under these threadbare sheets.

There’s no reason to get out of bed this morning, or any morning, really.  My motivation is low, my mobility is limited, and my morale is lost.  However, as my father, and his father before him, God rest their souls, taught us, I must rally and reignite the dying coals in the old woodstove.  Which provides my only functional source of heat within this shanty.

This building was brand new at the time my forebearers moved in.  My dad, having safely returned from World War II, met my mom, quite happy to find a viable mate.  A child quickly materialized.  Me. 

The newly purchased residence, and my parents, were at the forefront of the 1950’s family creation wave, and subsequent baby boom, across America.  Sprawling housing complexes sprung up on the outskirts of most major metropoles in the U.S., each unit nearly identical, right down to the white picket fence.  This cookie cutter format now seems incredibly appropriate, especially during the holidays.

The quickly constructed lodging, made with cheap materials, was not built to last.  Like my own body, excessive age and lack of maintenance are conspiring to cause us both to literally fall apart.

White Collar

An hour later, I’m finally awake, freshened up, and dressed.  Despite getting up to pee multiple times a night, I still have a surprising amount of bodily fluids to dispose of each morning.

Per usual, I’m clad in all black: tight-fitting t-shirt under a wool sweater, and durable canvas pants held up by suspenders.  This wardrobe choice provides both simplicity and functionality.  My attire is fine in any setting, not that I venture out, or have company much. Most important, the monochromatic ensembled doesn’t require an ounce of extra thought.

Which is good, since I don’t have much mental capacity to spare, especially before my required caffeine stimulation.

Donning the furry slippers which are positioned on the floor at the end of my small bed, dark in color of course, I shuffle out of the bedroom.  With only 4 rooms, on a single level, encompassing barely 1,000 square feet, my home isn’t hard to navigate, even with my mobility challenges.

Reaching the squatty stove, which sits in the living room, adjacent to the entry door, I find the metal exterior lukewarm to the touch.  As anticipated, the fire has nearly gone out.  At least she’s not stone cold.  Hopefully, with a little coaxing, I can bring this blaze back to life.

There’s a decided irony that, after spending my entire a working life on or in various vehicles, my movement is now limited to slowly shuffling down the sidewalk, with maximum range restricted to a quarter mile.  Fortunately, there’s a few establishments of interest within this menial radius, as suburban sprawl has brought various shopping complexes into the area over time.

Most relevant is a diner down the street, which serves the coffee black, the eggs runny, and the bill cheap.  Even more importantly, the waitresses are good looking, and the patrons light on conversation.  I spend a majority of my mornings there, provided I can drag myself out of the house.

Content with the fire improvements, I’m ready to depart.  Until I look out the window, and see sleet streaking the glass at a 45° angle.  Wind and rain.  Great.  With nothing of substance in the fridge, I’ll have to venture out regardless.

Hefting the heavy winter coat off the peg, a formerly waterproof textile shell, with previously fluffy insulating interior, I don the jacket, and pull the hood up over my bald head.  Swapping my slippers for rubber boots, which are impermeable, aside from a few rogue holes I can’t locate to patch, I’m now prepared to brave the elements.  Provided a rogue gust off the lake doesn’t blow my withering frame over.

4 soggy minutes later, I’ve reached my breakfast sanctuary.  It’s an innocuous space at the end of a strip mall, generic diner signage outside, with just 5 stools, and 3 booths, housed within.  I’m a booth guy, a setting that gives me the choice between solitude and socializing.  Giving the door a tug, nothing happens.  I must be extra weak at this early hour.

Putting my frozen face up to the frosted window, I peer inside.  The interior is immaculate: pristine white floor tile, slippery red leather seats, and a shiny stainless-steel counter.  I’ve soiled all these shared zones many a time, but they consistently get recleaned.

However, today the interior is empty: no smoking griddle, no smoking waitresses, no smoking at all.  This is one of the few places in the entire city where they still allow me to partake in a cigarette, provided I post up in the corner booth, near the HVAC unit’s exhaust.

Confused, I bang on the glass, which produces no response, as there’s no one inside.  Have I arrived before the establishment opens?  That seems unlikely, since most mornings a bunch of burly tradesmen are departing for their various labors as I enter.

Finally, the situation becomes clear, as I spot a handwritten note taped to the inside of the window.  With my diminished eyesight, I’m forced to put my nose right up against the frosty pain to read the scrawling cursive text.  The message is terse and clear.

“Closed for Christmas.  God Bless!”

White Christmas

Well, that’s an interesting revelation.  Having been retired for many years, I don’t do a great job keeping track of holidays, or even days of the week, for that matter.  But Christmas is a fairly major occurrence.

I wonder what other establishments occupy this row?  And if any will be open on this special day?

Like my attire, I’m not too adventurous with my meal selection.  Strolling along the wall of brick slowly, still musing how I didn’t know today is December 25th, it seems most everything else is also closed and dark.  A bike repair operation.  A fragrance boutique.  A children’s bookstore.  A fine watch shop. 

Who frequents all these places?  There’s clearly a shopaholic culture in America that certainly passed me by.

However, as I reach the far end of the complex, activity starts to pick up.  People are bustling in and out of one specific storefront with vigor.  Getting closer, I realize this unit is the mirror image of my little cafe.  But decidedly different, aside from the fact that both operations are in the breakfast business.

Recognizing the logo on the backlight signage, I confirm this is a popular national coffee chain.  Popular is an understatement, based on the line, with extends from the rear counter service area all the way to the front door.  I need to get breakfast somewhere; how bad can this place be?

I stand outside the entrance awkwardly, contemplating my options, until a heavyset woman, clad in an absurdly puffy coat, and unnecessarily tight leggings, both clothing articles bright white, powers past me, and into the shop with purpose.  Seizing this opportunity, I follow closely behind this stark female blocker.

As soon as I enter the enclosed space, the entire atmosphere changes.  Wet, musty external air is replaced by dry, sweet aromas.  The sounds have also transitioned, from whipping wind and honking cars, to soothing music and boisterous conversations.  It’s like I’ve stepped into a different universe.

The interior decorations are incredibly overstimulating.  I’ve never seen these many red, green, and silver embellishments in a single setting.  Bold billboards.  Refined ribbons.  Seasonable signage.  Colorful cups.  Glistening globes. 

It’s clear all this holiday fluff has been produced and provided by the corporate overlords, with specific guidelines regarding product placement.  The distracting décor here is a far cry from my usual demure diner experience.

Hopefully, I can just get a coffee to go.  However, this seemingly simple task turns out to be quite difficult. 

Waiting patiently in the long line, I watch patron after patron move to the front counter, and be handed a cup by the barista, with no ordering or payment process involved.  Is this a not-for-profit institution?

A closer inspection of the crowd reveals pretty much every person in the place is on their cellphone, rabidly typing away with opposable thumbs, defining their drink of choice.  Apparently, the queue I’m in is for order pick-up, as opposed to placement, which offers no way for an aged electronic luddite like me to make moves forward.

As the same kitschy Christmas carol that was playing as I initial walked in starts back up through the overhead speakers, with seemingly increased decibel levels, I concede defeat.  This playlist can’t be more than half a dozen songs deep.

I can’t handle another minute in this sanctuary of cheer, with sweets smells, soothing sounds, and social stimulation.  Making for the exit door, I push through with such gusto that the metal holiday bell hanging there clatters against the glass, generating a sharp sound somewhere between a ring and a crack. 

Bah humbug and good riddance.  Except now I’m back out in the rain.

I’ve been away from my lodge for over half an hour now, which is pushing my maximum adventure duration these days, aside from hospital visits.  I need to get home and dry out by the stove.  What other, less joyous and crowded, shop will be open on Christmas morning? 

There is one place which I frequent that should work for getting some breakfast.  My local grocery. With normal folks looking to acquire last-minute ingredients for their festive feasts, this place should be operational.

While not directly on the way, if I cross the main intersection, I can hit this store, then loop back to my house.  Which proves more challenging than planned.

After getting soaked when an SUV with fuzzy brown reindeer horns stuck in the windows charges through a deep puddle on the roadside, then being forced to hastily scurry out of the way of a car’s grill adorned with a huge red bow, I make it across the busy thoroughfare.  Physically unscathed, but mentally traumatized.

Thankfully, the grocery outlet is open, though myriad signs posted in the entry warn of the early closing at noon, due to lack of staff.  It’s impossible to get reliable workers these days.

My wife of 50 years recently passed.  This woman, the love of my life, was also the family cook.  Since her death, my diet has really deteriorated.  I lack the knowledge of recipes, will to cook, and funds to procure fresh ingredients.  As such, cheap, processed, prepackaged, frozen, microwaveable offerings represent nearly all my meals eaten at home these days.

My freezer has plenty of such curated trays, so I just need to get breakfast items here.  Navigating to the bakery section, I find a box of mixed sugary sweets.  Through the plastic lid, there appears to be an éclair, a bear claw, a cruller, plus a few iced donut items, one solid, the other two with traditional center holes.

Even better, the orange sticker on the pink package signifies 50% off, with smaller print identifying these products as day-old fare.  I never turn down a deal.  The older the better, just like me.

Walking to the register, box of goodies under my right arm, one of the many seasonal display racks catches my eye.  Usually, I ignore these marketing gimmicks, but this slick presentation strikes my fancy.  Shapely black bottles easily recognizable for holding Irish cream.

I haven’t gotten myself anything for Christmas, so why not splurge a bit today?  Who doesn’t like a little booze in their coffee, especially during the holidays?

Early to bed, early to rise, as they say.  A sentiment I definitely adhere to.  In my case though, this timeline is because of bladder issues, which don’t allow me to sleep through the night any more.

On that note, I’m going to wet myself if I don’t get home soon.

White Washing

I return home soaked, but fortunately make it to the toilet in time to avoid getting wet from the inside as well as the outside.  Ditching my coat and boots, I stuff in as many logs as my menial firebox will handle, then open the damper wide to promote ignition of these new combustible materials.

Time for breakfast.

3 minutes later, I’m back standing at the stove.  In one hand is a piping hot cup of instant coffee, made drinkable by a dollop of boozy cream on top.  In the other is an éclair, the previously rigid frosting and firm dough rendered mouthwateringly malleable.  The marvels of the modern microwave.

As I enjoy my breakfast, an hour later than my regimented schedule dictates, and way more extravagant than usual, I contemplate my plan for the day.  Which doesn’t take long, since, per usual, I don’t have one.

Maybe I should put up some festive fare.  Perusing the room, I realize all the holiday ornaments are already up.  Or, more accurately, have never been taken down.  Our Christmas tree, granted, a generous descriptor, is still fully decorated.

This triangular object, jammed in the corner of the living room, has now become such a fixture of the décor that I don’t even acknowledge the holiday it’s intended to honor.  Sad but true, based on my diner closure incident earlier.

My wife, the lady in charge of all things home related, assembled and adorned this beauty, just a few months before she passed away from cancer.  Inundated with grief ever since, I still haven’t brought myself to tear down this spiritual significant symbol.

This shrub is a fake offering, composed of plastic and metal, as opposed to wood and needles.  While the inert object doesn’t require actual watering, it appears there’s still some maintenance needed, considering the sad state of the sapling.

Our synthetic tree is dying, both from absence of attention, and advancement in age.  Circumstances that serve as an obvious allegory for my own existence.  Substantial physical efforts need to be made in both cases.

When I was an adolescent, I earned the nickname Eager Ernie.  This moniker unfortunately wasn’t assigned for my excitement or motivation with regards to new experiences.  In fact, the exact opposite.  I was always trying to avoid hanging out with other children, and couldn’t wait to shoddily complete group tasks which involved socializing, allowing me to return to my own solo thoughts. 

In addition, also tied in my socially awkward nature, I’m a pathological liar, always weaseling out of chores, or pawning off my own insecurities on others.  My parents selected given name of Earnest has turned out to be quite a misnomer.

As such, it’s not surprising I still live in the same home where I spend those apprehensive formative years.  And many teenage traits have stuck with me.   Including my miserly simplicity regarding both food and clothing.  Understandable traits, considering the menial household resources I grew up around.

Sure, I could try.  By replacing the inevitable dead bulbs on this meager tree’s string of lights.  Or go look for extra ornaments in the garage.  Or create a handcrafted garland of tin foil and newspaper.  All activities which require me to make some effort.  Maybe once I get my energy levels back up, I’ll be rejuvenated with a festive fervor.  But probably not.

Turning on the TV, my main outlet for mental and social stimulation, I settle into my comfy chair.  With donut and drink both easily within reach.

My local cable station has changed up their usual repetitive programing of exaggerated news flashes, incorrect weather prognostications, and boisterous sports briefings, to cover national events in more detail.  Annual Christmas Day parades currently rolling through various cities throughout Ohio. 

With a skeleton crew on staff for this budget network, coverage is sketchy, with shaky camera shots, pointless participant interviews, and disjointed video transitions.  Plus, loads of obvious B-roll footage, captured on sunny fall afternoons, which in no way mimics the bleak and blustery conditions outside today.

How much do they spend on these extravagant floats, not to mention the security required to keep this multitude of main metropolitan streets clear?  Why is everyone in the parade, and lining the path, enjoying this charade, and impervious to the miserable conditions?

An inflated chipmunk, reaching out for a bowl of oversized nuts, both airy objects threatening to wander off in the swirling wind.  A shimmering ice queen, standing atop a raised platform on a flatbed truck, which is depositing white plastic snow and black exhaust particulates in equally absurd quantities out the back.  A gaggle of young children, all dressed as pointy-eared elves, scurrying away from Santa’s intimidating sleigh, that looks more like a repurposed plow truck.

This absurd trifecta of marching menagerie turns out to be the straw which breaks my metaphorical back.  As my physical spine is already in a sad state of disrepair.  Reaching over in anguish, both mentally and physically, I take a deep draw of doctored drink, then change the channel.

There must be a football game on by now.  Provided I’m willing to suffer through the onslaught of annoying commercials, all revolving around consumption of physical goods this time of year.

White Wedding

Just as I get settled back in under my wool blanket, with a sugary bear claw on the plate in my lap, and my 3rd cup of cordial laced coffee in the mug on my end table, a new distraction arises.  Even over the crackling of large logs in the stove, and television volume cracked up high near max output, the oppressive ring of the doorbell reaches my ears.

God damn!  What’s an old man need to do to get a few hours of peace and quiet around here?

Begrudgingly, I start to move my ancient frame; feeble right arm activating the wobbly wooden lever, which drops my boney legs to the worn carpet.  Before I can make the next series of aggravating steps to execute bodily transition from horizontal to vertical, my small sanctuary is inundated.

The hellions are here.

Half a century back, my beautiful Beau was fertile, and my manhood feral.  Which had a predicable consequence, though it wasn’t fully grasped at the time.  4 offspring, which have resulted in a dozen grandchildren, across 6 different marriages.  Wedlock commitment just isn’t as devout as it used to be.

Apparently, based on the commotion at the doorway, a substantial portion of this parental posse has arrived.  I don’t even enjoy hanging out with these spawned families individually.  Having the entire clan here all at once is really going to test my resolve, and heart.

The most frustrating folks of the group are not my own flesh and blood, but instead adults who have snuck their way into the collective through marriage.  Highest up on the list of offenders are the pair of blokes who married my youngest twin gals.  A huge hassle at the time of birth, these young ladies become the love of my life.  Until their own love life issues materialized. 

The tall man doing most of the heavy lifting, and coordinating the intense cargo unloading process currently occurring is Robert.  His managerial and logistic skills are understandable, having worked his way up to Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force.  Stationed out of Wright-Patterson AFB, which is located 3 hours away by car, in Dayton, OH, he and his wife, one of my beloved daughters, are here way too often.

As I watch this group unload, with their own troupe of rapidly growing children, I think back to my own time in the service.  In my heyday, I would have that large SUV, or the military Humvee, unpacked in 10 minutes flat.  Those spirited days of exertion have long since passed me by.

My better half and I entered wedlock at 26 years of age, shortly after I returned from a substantial stint of service in the Vietnam War.  The parallels with my parent’s life trajectory, especially my father, are eerie in many respects.

Over time, I’ve convinced myself, and those who ask, that I volunteered to be a soldier of my own accord.  In reality, I still keep that original 1969 draft letter in my bible, stealthily stashed within my nightstand.

Holidays were a thing, even while overseas.  Which makes sense, considering the global reach of Catholicism.  These wartime breaks, by default as opposed to decree, were a brief and insufficient hiatus from the relentless harshness of war.  

I lost many soldier friends during that bloody jungle conflict; their names and images continue to bounce around in my brain at times.  The other linkage that I’ve been unable to shake from those tough times is an alcohol addiction.

In the trenches, and the tents, all provisions were limited, including booze.  Which made the allure of welcomed warming even more addictive when available, especially during the lonely holidays spent away. 

With the entire family, including in-laws, now making a surprise appearance, I’ll have to be on my best behavior.  No more coffee liqueur today unfortunately.

After the Vietnam War, like many young men, I struggled to find my way.  However, despite serving grueling several tours overseas, my developed issues were more about personal confidence than incurred trauma.  I soon had my own army of kids to take care of.  A hungry and growing group, which required substantial provisions. 

Fortunately, it turns out driving a heavily reinforced vehicle in stressful situations has applications on the U.S. private sector.  Starting out as a lowly security guard at the local bank, over time I was able to move up the ranks, eventually earning a coveted spot on an armored truck crew.

For my 3 decades of service, I earned a meager pension, which only covers my basic needs these days.  The irony that I spent my working years moving around mountains of valuable currency, only to end up with no cash of my own to spend, isn’t lost of me.  Maybe I should have gotten into the robbery business.

This menial banking industry experience is another area where one of my sons through wedlock has one-upped me.

In this case, the cruel offender is Fredrick, who has somehow maneuvered his way into a leadership position at the Federal Reserve Bank of Cleveland, at just 40 years of age. 

This privileged governmental post comes with a substantial annual salary, speaking engagement fees, and generous travel budget.  Looking out the window, I see Fredrick, and my daughter, roll up in an expensive sedan, which has a sticker price that rivals my entire house value.

Apparently too busy for offspring, it seems like this bougee couple are always buying expensive toys, and taking posh vacations.  The 3rd go at marriage for both of them, I’m not even sure why they decided to legally tie the knot.  My betrothed and I spend a happy half century together; these transients can even make it 5 years before swapping their spouse. 

I fear the pending discussions where this selfish man will inevitably flaunt about what famous politicians he’s met and economic policies he’s enacted.  My sarcastic “That’s impressive,” response will be getting a lot of use today.  Less mouth yapping and more money sharing would be appreciated by poor old Earnest.

The next arrival on this Christmas Day will really put the capacity of my humble home to the test.  Though the front window, I watch a rust minivan pull up to the curb.  Seconds later, the rear door slides open, and a pack of kids, ranging from toddler to teenager, 4 to 18 years old, pile out. 

This activity is like watching a clown car at the circus. An impossible about of humans emanating from a small physical space.  Today is going to be a long slog.  I’m too old for this shit!

White Tablecloth

I have no idea how I was able to raise my own children without strangling them.  I definitely have to give my spouse credit for doing most of the work.  Granted, I was plenty busy on my own, rotating through a variety of odd jobs, before finally finding steady employment doing bank security.

The twins, born in the summer of 1987, were the last straw, unexpectedly completing our quartet offspring.  Highly religious, with waning resources, this was one of the few times I prayed to God for infertility.  Resources was just stretched too thin; me working long hours at multiple jobs, and the wifey completely engrossed with various stages of childrearing. 

For a few lean Christmases, food was the present, any marginal change from our menial diet providing an element of excitement for the young’uns.

Back in those days, capital was quite limited.  Now, we’re swimming in luxury, based on the pots, pans, plates, and parcels of food being brought in through my now-revolving front door.  When it rains, it pours.  This seems like a carefully calculated familial onslaught, arrival time synchronized to allow me no means of escape.

Considering my tiny kitchen, with tiny stove, it takes several hectic hours to get all the different dishes heated up and served up simultaneously.  This is why I don’t host these large gatherings.

It’s getting on towards late afternoon, well past my usual lunchtime.  The substantial jolt of energy from the trio of sugary baked goods I had for breakfast has long since worn off, especially with all this unplanned commotion.

Now, mercilessly, the food is laid out for consumption.  I will admit, the amassed spread does look impressive.  Whether or not the meal will be appetizing is yet to be determined.

Essentially every square inch of stovetop and counterspace is now occupied with some type of sustenance.  The vessels housing each offering are as varied as the dishes themselves. 

A colorful fruit salad framed up by a white plastic bowl.  Cheesy green bean casserole overflowing a disposable metal tray.  Salmon filets topped by lemon slices in a glass baking dish.  Sloppily frosted cupcakes now stuck onto a cardboard sheet.

A white tablecloth has been laid across my rectangular kitchen table.  This is not a fancy cloth offering, but instead the durable, shiny, tarp-type covering often used for summer picnics.  Apparently, someone is anticipating messy diners.

On that front, the wooden surface underneath is capable of comfortably accommodating 6 adults.  However, there’s now a dozen place settings laid out in tight adjacency: plastic plates, metal forks, foam cups, and paper napkins essentially touching.  Evidently, I don’t have enough matching dishware and cutlery to accommodate the assembled crew.

The layout is all well and good visually.  But, either pairs of people are going to share chairs on each other’s laps, or there will be an alternating standing and sitting configuration.

In a disjointed process, each participant grabs a plate, then works around the L-shaped makeshift buffet, loading up their personalized feat.  Serving spoons, limited in quantity, and inadequate in format, end up get shared across brown baked beans and white potato salad, orange squash puree and black chocolate pudding.

What a sloppy, chaotic, mess this meal service is.

Despite being selective and small on my portions, by the end of the line my flimsy plate is at risk of buckling under the load.  Fortunately, I’m able to shuffle over the table, and plop down in an empty chair, before my mound of morsels topples over.   

As I move the menagerie of food around on my tray, trying to keep the contrasting flavors from mingling, I survey the scene.  The 8 oldest folks in the room have earned actual seats, with the 4 younger adults, a few still teenagers, standing at the corners of the rectangular slab, where a little bit of open flat space remains. 

Considering the diversity of the recipes executed, it’s pretty clear there wasn’t any coordination on this menu.  Aside from maybe assigning main, side, and dessert categories to various family members.  Which makes sense, since several of my offspring don’t interact with each other anymore.  From that standpoint, it’s surprising we even got nearly everyone in the same room.

What happened to the good old days with roast turkey breast lunchmeat and box stuffing, with instant mashed potatoes and canned gravy?  Those lean times were much simpler, and debatably even tastier, as least for my basic palette.

I can’t see the makeshift kids table from my seated post, as it’s been facilitated in the far corner of the kitchen.  This isn’t really a table, just some blankets thrown down on the cold linoleum, with a couple upside-down, 5-gallon, pails for eating off.  Young folks are resilient, and can fend for themselves. 

As the adult’s meal progresses, I determine the children’s soft blanket nest, the babbling conversation, is probably more stimulating.  Over here, I must listen to the men brag and the women nag.  I’m seem to be continually at the brunt of these verbal onslaughts.  My best rebuttal proves to shove another large forkful of bitter kale salad or burned spiral ham in my mouth, then mumble incoherently.

Yep, I would definitely be happier crawling around on the floor with the kiddos.

White Elephant

As the table is cleaned, and the dishes washed, kitchen acts executed by folks much younger than myself, I retreat to the living room, the only other shared space in this small house.  Which I’m rarely forced to share.  But today is different.

Hanging out with a bunch of yapping middle-age family members is stressful enough.  Being subjected to a pack of screeching grandchildren,  overstimulated by unmitigated sugar intake, is proving even more trying.  Maybe I can just sit in my recliner and watch TV until I doze off.  Which would characterize a normal early evening, especially after a substantial meal.

Within two minutes of settling in, I realize this covert plan won’t work.  When the kids start tugging at my boney legs, while yelling so loudly that my hearing aids malfunction.  Well, this is fun.

My descendants know that I don’t have the means or motivation to get gifts for all these crazy critters.  However, I’m quickly realizing I wasn’t completely let off the hook.  As the entire crew slowly filters back into the small living space, which is swelling beyond max capacity, I see each participant with a wrapped present under their arm.

There’s one person who doesn’t have an item for this pending gift exchange.  Me, as I completely disregarded my daughter’s multiple reminders regarding this scheme.  Not surprising for an old man who forgot today was the most relevant holiday on the American calendar.

Time to improvise, before embarrass myself even more than I did by loudly passing gas at dinner earlier.  I’ve never been known for my tact, or wits, for that manner.

I don’t have many possessions in this house, and even fewer that I can part with.  Perpetually resourceful, my mind goes into planning mode, a skill I learned during army logistics drills, and perfected on armored truck routes.

The objective is clear; provide a packaged gift so desirable that everyone in the room wants it.  I definitely won’t be wining any points for my visual wrapping prowess, considering my degraded arm, which performs more like a claw than a functional human limb.

As the buzz of anticipation in the room grows, I realize I must devise a viable exit strategy to execute my ploy.  Quickly, which a relative term at my advanced age. 

Rising from my throne of power, I move to my eldest daughter, the ringleader on this charitable giving operation, I whisper into her ear.  A white lie?  Sure.  But not that far from the truth.  My bowels are acting up.  Whose wouldn’t be, after the enormous meal we just had? 

I’ve bought myself a few minutes of freedom.  No one wants to sign up to help a sloppy senior on and off the toilet.

I did actually need to take a piss.  Which I do sitting down these days, for stability’s sake.  Fortunately, some of my best thinking happens while on the crapper.  Though this bathroom is tiny, the clutter provides plenty of inspiration.

Sitting next to the sink is a CPAP machine, used at night to facilitate breathing, and reduce snoring.  Mandated by my wife, so she wasn’t required to wear earplugs to bed, since she passed, I’m a little less diligent on usage.   Still, this isn’t a viable gift, as it’s an item I can’t safely part with for even a few evenings in a row. 

More relevant for this project, next to the ventilator is a huge box of D-size batteries.  I can’t allow this piece of equipment to fail, so keep plenty of power in reserve. 

Unable to afford or manage rechargeable lithium-ion batteries, I stick with the alkaline acid variety.  Per my diligent military training, I keep everything in order, new on the right, expired on the left.  Glancing at these unequal stacks, it looks like I need to place another mail order soon.

These metal cylinders are heavy, a valuable trait for any expensive present.  As I finish my intermittent piss, a diabolical plan is hatched.  Now I just need to find a bulky box to house these weighty items.  Conveniently, there’s one large cardboard container in this room, which is also nearly depleted.  My diapers.  Another item that must be add to my weekly health care supplies shopping list; hopefully my meager, government-sponsored, health care plan will cover the expense.

A huge parcel, that’s very weighty; this gift will be irresistible.  Provided I can make the package look presentable.  Everyone is greedy.  And everyone respects Grandpa Ern.  Which will be my cover for this hilarious ruse.

Year’s back, I pulled off a similar trick with lumps of coal in a brown paper shopping bag, that I meticulously spray painted the night before, to provide an alluring external aesthetic.  A more traditional holiday scam, which worked like a charm.  But that was at a gathering of my wife’s family, almost 2 decades back now.  Heck, all the kids in attendance today weren’t even born then.  So, I can safely recycle material, literally.

On that note, with all the newfangled wrapping paper options, I can’t offer up the box as is, with all the obvious diaper branding printed on the sides.  And there’s no time to let paint dry, even if I had some here in the bathroom.   Perusing my generic surroundings, the answer comes in a flash of color.

Of course, that hideous shower curtain will work perfectly.  I’ve been thinking about getting rid of this silly item for years. 

A decided homemaker, despite our limited financial means, my wife loved to decorate our small abode with all manner of trinkets and knickknacks.  Which likely explains my own strong aversion to personal possessions.  I’m all about functionality. 

This piece of fabric, which covers the open side of our basic tub and shower, is not the clear waterproof sheeting itself, but instead an ancillary layer, that serves no purpose, at least in my mind.  Attached to the same hooks as the film barrier behind, the only thing this cloth enables is becoming dangerously tangled up while getting in and out of the bath.

It started out a gaudy purple-crimson color many years back, and has now faded to a reddish-pink.  A perfect hue for the holiday season.

I better finish this project, as my bathroom excuse will only last so long.  Fortuitously, an initial exploratory tug tears the flimsy fabric off the first 3 metal hooks, without damaging the necessary plastic liner, or bringing the extendable support rod down.  A series of subsequent yanks results in the entire cloth falling in to my arms.  Perfect!

Working faster that I knew was possible at my advanced age, I spread the decorative curtain out on the bedroom floor, then place the large carboard box in the center.  Next, I extract enough fresh diapers to get me to the next deliver cycle, then toss in every battery from the used pile. 

With no tape available, I simple overlap the quartet of flaps to seal the top, then bring up the rosy fabric along the sides to a collection point at the top.  There’s just enough cloth left over to twist all the ends together, and tie off a bulbous knot.

Santa himself would be proud of this sack-like presentation.  Kicking one side of the object with my slipper, a slight rattle is emitted, but generally the undergarment foam seems to constrain the metal chunks.  A unique sound when shaken will only enhance the appeal anyways.

I’m ready to the bring my present to the party.  Until I try to hoist up the substantial satchel, and realize I can’t even lift it.  I’ll need to enlist one of those teenagers to carry this gift into the living room.  Which will only increase the mystique.  I can’t wait to see how this combative exchange plays out.

The best part about a white elephant is that I don’t need to write a note to the receiver.  Blocky text, let alone cursive, are impossible with my arthritic paw.  Good luck to all participants.

White Out

Setting down my glass on the counter, I exhale deeply, then take in the landscape.  This abode is in a shabby state of disrepair.

All the randomized presents have been opened, and the resulting mountain of wrapping paper densely consolidated into a single cardboard box.  This burn bin, adored with numerical count of diapers previously housed within, will provide enough fire-starting materials for the next month.

Even in my perpetually grump state, I must admit the past hour was decidedly amusing.  Maybe that’s just the whiskey talking.

My poor 12-year-old grandson, Little Timmy, who ended up with my battery bomb after all trade machinations, was incredibly distraught.  After laughing to the point of convulsions, I was able to rectify the situation.  By offering up my own selected present, a pair of finely knit socks.

Now, the glowing heat provided by over a dozen lively humans, both emotionally and physically, has already started to dissipate.  Which leaves me with a hole in my soul, and hole in my slipper, both of which are growing and intensifying.  Maybe I should have kept those homemade socks.

Typically, I leverage the lack of heat in this house to minimize the duration of stay by any visitors.  For once, I wish I’d thrown another log on the fire while the whole crew was here mingling.

I need a cozy mammalian entity now, more than ever.  Unfortunately, I lost both formative ladies from my life in quick succession this past spring.  The lover and the labradoodle apparently had their own close emotional ties, one unable to exist without the other. 

At this advanced age, I can use all the warm-blooded warming available.  There’s no electric blanket, or glowing fireplace, that can replace flesh and blood snuggling.  Tears start welling up in my eyes, as memories of holiday happenings from the past are remembered. 

At the much-less-weathered dining room table, huddled around a symbolic pair of white wax candles, for both heat and ambiance, eating our first menial holiday meal as a married couple.   Repeatedly scolding my quartet of offspring, between ages 3 and 13, all sharing one small room, which made any sleeping on Christmas Eve impossible.  In the hospital room on New Year’s as the millennium turned over, a space much too small for a numerous participants involved in this convoluted birth, involving several stepparents and a surrogate.  Much more recently, our simple trio of lazy mammalians, clad in matching red sweaters, hand crafted from felt fabric impossibly sleek and soft.

The new year is just a week away, now that I’ve reestablish my calendar bearings.  Growing up under poor conditions, raised by stingy parents, I never envisioned making it to the year 2025.  Not that times are much better these days than when my Great Depression era mother and father were coming of age. 

Banking panics.  Lack of full-time employment.  Currency debasement.  Frequent government overreach.  Apparently, some things don’t change, even a century later.

There’s another relevant annual event which is occurring before the regimented calendar rolls over to a new value.  My birthday, on December 28th.  If I’m honest, this close adjacency to Christmas is another of the many reasons why I’m so bitter around the holiday season.

Shared presents.  Shared parties.  Shared desserts.  Shared devotion.

As a child, I never got the single day of unbridled attention typical of most adolescents’ upbringing.  Not that there was much morale boosting or monetary bonuses available.  An extra slice of chicken, or an extra scoop of peas, were the only luxury occasionally afforded.

As a child, I was frequently ignored, and many nights went wanting.  How times have changed.

From my rickety rocking chair post in the kitchen, sitting atop a thin blanket left over from the kid’s culinary cave, I’m in close proximity to both the whiskey and ice.  I look towards the adjacent table, where an unfathomable spread of sustenance sits.  All provided by siblings spawned from my seed.  Which was apparently quite fertile and functional.  Even with comingling from those stepson jackasses.

However, with the loss of my better half, my appreciation of offspring, both through closely-linked bloodlines, and tangential legal relationships, has substantially diminished.  Like my own health.

On that note, my glass is empty.  This vessel is a simple, smooth tumbler, with a few half-melted cubes still clinking inside.  The more telling contents in my cup is the white film that coats every interior surface.  Aside from a few brown speckles.

While a general miser and holiday denier, I still have standards.  Which, this time of year, includes putting nutmeg in my eggnog.  Granted, the dairy concoction comes a carton in the fridge, and the spice is packaged as opposed to freshly ground.  From a customization standpoint, I can easily adjust the flavor ratio.  By pouring more cheap bourbon into the mix.

With my pending birthday just a few days away, extending my 8th decade on earth, it feels like this has been a pretty good run.  That’s clearly on the verge of ending, according to my feeble bones, aching joints, and most concerning right now, turbulent stomach.  Which reminds me, my diaper needs a change, and my ass needs a wipe.  I think that’s the desired order of operations for proper cleanliness.

I’ve had a simple life, wavering between dull, diligent, and devout.  Now a new descriptor is being added to the lexicon.  Dire.  Or maybe even dead.  Whatever ghosts come to visit while asleep tonight, I’ll be ready with open arms.