A New Year's Redemption

A new year arrives. It hobbles in on last year’s crutches, admonishing us to make new ‘resolutions.’ Oh, please, spare us from this self-flagellation.

Resolutions are a relentless pursuer. Like an itinerate evangelist passing out salvation tracts, it knocks on my door. It interrupts my fried egg and country sausage sandwich, lathered with mayhaw jelly from the swamps of South Georgia. (‘South Georgia’ is always capitalized!) I’m savoring the last dregs of coffee when the knock comes. I figure it’s the paper carrier. I open the door. I regret the act.

There it stands, New Year’s Resolutions. With stale, morning-after champagne breath, it reminds me of last year’s failed attempts to become perfect. I’m like, whatever! It ignores my preoccupation and pulls from its rumpled tux a list of ‘designer resolutions,’ guaranteed to produce instant redemption. I reject its plan of salvation. I have my own…throwing out my life’s clutter. I slam the door in its face. It staggers down my driveway and disappears.

I’m anxious to begin my plan of redemption. I wash up my morning mess and eye the cornbread lying next to the pot of freshly-cooked collard greens. I pick up a piece and dip it into the warm ‘pot likker’ (no, not ‘liquor.’ Where you from, anyway?). I take a bite and have an out-of-body experience. A man can go in the strength of that food forty days and forty nights. I’m now prepped for my redemption.

I begin in my closet. It’s a scientific fact that last-year’s clothing can actually shrink while hanging in the closet. I’m living proof of its veracity. I follow my wife’s advice. I give away everything not worn that year. Somebody will look really cool in that Tommy Bahamas lime-green shirt, I’m sure. My closet is now empty.

I move to the ‘trophy room’ where I have assembled all my awards. They’re like leeches. It takes real guts to get rid of ‘em. Their aroma of past achievements mingles with autographed pictures of washed-up politicians. They emit the stale smell of success. I don’t linger long in that fetid atmosphere. Things like high school diplomas and Sunday school attendance records have to be burned to disappear. I’m on a roll, unsparing. My wife explodes with joy and covers the nail holes with fine art.

I move on to the removal of millions of ancient pictures. They rest in comfortable confinement inside plastic containers hiding underneath beds. I hesitate for a moment before I begin the weaning process. I wonder how much money Kodak has made from my obsessive shutter habit. I shudder to think! I plunge into the process, ignoring the mournful pleading of the discarded pictures. I become ruthless. The dogs celebrate. It creates more space for them to hide when ‘accidents’ are discovered. I warn them they may be next. They become scarce.

I’m feeling almost redeemed, so I move on to the garage. I open the door, regretting this choice. I look at it with contempt, embarrassed at the hideous accumulation of stuff. It will take a tractor trailer to haul off the useless paraphernalia that mocks me. Disgusted, I decide to leave well enough alone. I close the door and move on.

I roll up my sleeves. With unsparing remorse, I cast out boxes of old tax returns. I alternately curse the IRS while praising my valor. Next I seize my Blackberry, that torturous appendage that connects me with a social and business world. I scroll down the list of names, deciding who’s relevant, who’s not. I become a madman, delirious in deleting the irrelevant. I feel good now, like a new man. Redemption is close.

I become a tornado, moving through the house, flinging out this, then that. The house now feels empty. My wife inspects the work. She approves and resumes cooking the ham that’s soon to accompany the collards. I approve of that.

I sit down in self-adulation, totally redeemed. She calls from the kitchen, “You forgot one thing.” I say smugly, “What?” She answers, “That bulge hanging over your belt ---when are you going to get rid of that?”

I have no answer for her. Today, I am a redeemed man!

Bud Hearn
December 30, 2010