My uncle Tommy McDermmott posted a picture on Face Book that made laugh out lout. It is two houses sitting side by side. The first is elaborately decorated for Christmas with icicle lights hanging from the roof, every tree in the yard decorated in color lights, plastic Santa Claus and reindeer are prominently displayed and the entire yard literally glows in the spirit of the season.
Next door is the other house. It has one string of white lights but is otherwise dark. The lights spell, "Ditto."
I wonder if the neighbors were once competitors over who loved Christmas the most and one gave up? Or perhaps, one grew appalled at the never ending chase to capture holiness in plastic manager scenes and lights that remind us the reason for the season. Maybe one put up "Ditto" challenging his neighbor to come up with something good to mimic.
Last Christmas I put up a tree because my Mother shamed me into it. When I plugged it in only half the lights worked. It was my first Christmas alone so it seemed wickedly funny. I decorated only half the tree. Then my Mother got onto me again so I decorated the other half ... then I left it here and went to St. Martin.
Before I returned, Mom and my daughter Kristen had taken it all down and thrown it away. They did this because I wanted to have a tree burning when I got back. Inviting my dearest of friends over, we would carry the tree into the back yard, toast the things that used to be and set it on fire.
I thought it was a great idea!
This Christmas "it's just like starting over" sings the major Prophet John Lennon. "Happy Xmas (War is over if you want it)" he famously sings every holiday season on the radio.
The truth of the matter is the war is indeed over. She took the offense. I retreated. She conquered the other side of the country. I held on to a small clump of sand.
When war is over, it is quiet. You wildly celebrate victory but then the parties over. Most just marvel at survival. Then there are all of those to do after the war ... pick up the pieces ... restore the scar stained land or the mutilated soul ... rebuild the bombed out home or putt the heart back together.
This is what happened last year. I marveled at my survival. I did all of these other things. All of the verbs in my life had re- in front of them. Re-building. Re-storing. Re-everything. It was ... "just like starting over."
At fifty-five years of age ... starting over is the last thing I ever planned for. Though, it does seem that everyone around me is doing so. We are bound together by starting over. Some are older, others younger, but we are all share the starting over. The war is over ... or almost over in a couple of cases ... and Christmas time is coming.
I count my blessings today. I have many. New ones are dropping into my life. What's funny about surviving is that you remember the horrors and it makes you ... timid. My Dad lied about his age to get into the Marines so that he could march into Korea. Korea kicked his ass. He was wounded. He was Prisoner of War. He escaped when everyone else in his platoon was killed. By the time he 18, he was back home recovering ... marrying my Mom and having me.
This year I am determined. I've yet to get a tree, but have talked for weeks about decorating it with underwear ... because last year when I returned home a pair was hanging on my door. Then Dani Sadowski burst my bubble. She's already had a Christmas tree decorated in underwear. While I am very proud to have a part in Dani's upbringing, it kills me when she beats me to something.
So ... now I'm re-thinking.
I'm not going to St. Martin (sorry guys, I don't know who will cook breakfast on Boxing Day). I've got to get a new tree ... and everything that goes on one. It is the first Christmas and there are new traditions to discover ... a different family to live it with ... one that's being re-built from the other things that used to be.
It will be decorated with blessings. In spite of all of the things that I've lost, I seem to have just enough blessings to really enjoy this Christmas.
"Ditto" for you I hope.
