The Christmas List

Christmas creeps closer. My angst rises. The stalking horror of ‘what to get’ knocks. I mistake panic for inspiration.

I remember the old days of mall-wandering on Christmas Eve, bereft of ideas, toting an empty shopping bag. Like zombies, clueless men in rumpled suits with hopeless stares roam the corridors. Multitudes of angels play golden harps. Christmas cheer echoes down the decked halls.

Store clerks prey on the vulnerability of such shoppers. They’ll buy anything, at any price. The trick is to lure them into the store. They achieve this seduction with chocolate cookies and box wine. Men are easy pickings for such cheap tricks.

But not me, not this year. I’m getting ahead of the curve. No more last-minute terror. Get organized, shop early, get bargains. I’m on it.

But just like last year, here I sit, searching for ideas. Nothing. Catalogues and coupons confound me. So much, who can choose? A blank list exposes my ambivalence. It mocks my vacuous mind. The deadline is a time bomb strapped to my body…tick, tick, tick. Terror torments me.

Christmas is supposed to be joyful. Joy to the world, holly jolly and mistletoe, right? Not a season of self-mutilation. Music of red-nosed reindeers and choruses of winter wonderlands gush forth. It confuses us. How can anyone get worked up about winter in 75 degree weather? The ruse isn’t working.

Commerce assaults us. Buy Now. Save. Hurry. Last Chance. It’s all too much. My ideas are asleep in stasis. What to purchase? The tyranny of the urgent attacks me. Intensity builds...the pressure, the pressure.

I leave the table, walk in circles. Nothing resonates. Suddenly, out of the blue, an epiphany of enormous magnitude hits…registers 10 on my Richter. Check the Bible for leads, you dummy. Now ideas don’t talk, but they sometimes drop subtle clues to see if you can pick up on them. I waste no time consulting my Bible for a sign.

I’m not sure the Bible has all the answers. It raises more questions than it answers. For example, it’s yet to reveal a loophole in the law that will pardon past iniquities. But at this point, I’m desperate for ideas. What can I lose? Tick, tick, tick.

I scroll through the pages, searching for a tip. I’m about to give up when I discover the story of some ‘wise men’ following a star in a desert, looking for a Baby. Is this believable? Star gazing maybe, but following a star? And these were wise men. Really? Incredible. No woman would ever believe such nonsense. They know a wise man has yet to be found on the planet.

But the wise men are bearing gifts, which is exactly what I’m looking for. Nothing complicated…gold, frankincense and myrrh. These gentlemen were obviously Semitic. Who else has all the gold? What an idea…gold. My mind does some quick math. If these were gifts fit for a King, then surely for a queen. And one lives in my house.

I read on. More clues emerge. I conclude that the wise men may be of the nomadic tribe of Neiman, which later merged with Marcus after the locust plague and opened a department store in Dallas. Their icon remains strikingly similar to The Star. Speculation, of course, but stranger things have happened, like immaculate conceptions. Which is certainly an unusual gift anytime.

So I solve two problems…gift ideas, and where to find them. I check out all things gold. Sure, the prices are high. But I ignore that, plunge headlong into debt. Fiscal cliff? Who cares. Worry about that later. It’s Christmas.

I recall Christmases past. I always seemed to be tight for cash, which is code for being destitute. But I had Visa in my hand. Later it had my throat in its grip. Insolvent shoppers rarely get respect from clerks. It’s better to avoid their condescending attitudes and deceitful tricks. Shop online and by phone. They’ll never know. Or care!

I return to my list, rip through the catalogues. Ideas flow. After hours of toil I’m exhausted. But now it’s over. Done. List complete. The bomb stops ticking. My wife entices me with a plate of chocolate cookies and a glass of Pinot from a bottle won in a Salvation Army raffle. In the background I hear the voices of radio angels singing sweetly o’er the plain.

I reach for my phone, make the call. Neiman Marcus answers. Soon my cart runneth over. Visa smiles again.

Good luck with your list. But if ideas are slow to come, don’t panic. The Good Book of Ideas has an answer: “Wine makes merry, but money answers all things.” Yes, really! Ecclesiastes 10:19.

Tick, tick, tick…..

Bud Hearn
November 30, 2012

Thanksgiving…More Than Just a Meal

Thanksgiving, 1958. I’m 16, wearing my feed and seed store hat, stalking Tom turkey. My 16 gauge shotgun, # 6 shot, ready.

It’s early, barely dawn. The air is still. Nothing moves. A chill lingers in the deep woods. A soft dew lies on molding leaves. My steps are Indian-like, soft and silent. I pause, listen, wait. Tom wakes. He gobbles. Twice.

I crouch. The sunrise sky silhouettes his regal form in the branches of an overhead tree. I whistle. He flies. Bam! The gun erupts and feathers explode. Thanksgiving dinner lies lifeless on the forest floor. A young boy’s Thanksgiving memory is made. A tail feather becomes part of the treasures of things past.

Thanksgivings consist in memories. They’re more than single, isolated recollections. There’s a transcendent quality about it, something more difficult to pick up on than hot, buttered biscuits oozing sorghum syrup. It resides in our collective and shared remembrances, the building blocks of tradition; and in the allure of something more permanent than the fugitive concept of ‘home.’

There’s something more about Thanksgiving than just a meal. Something more than turkey and dressing, rice and gravy, cranberries and creamed corn, sweet potatoes and marshmallows, green beans and field peas, ambrosia and heavenly hash, caramel cakes and pecan pies and sweet iced tea.

It surpasses the nomadic, annual family gatherings…cooking, talking, catching up, slowing down. It’s something difficult to define. Its evanescence floats in the air of a roasting turkey. It’s subsumed in smiles, in laughter and hugs, and in the traits of family dysfunctions…a peculiar uncle, a hippy cousin, a camouflaged hunter, a teenage Fashionista. It’s all that, yet more.

There’s more to it than the dining room table setting, the family patriarch at the head. Children relegated to the kitchen table, waiting for the day of promotion to the ‘big table.’ The ‘seen-but-not-heard’ rule still applies.

It’s more than the essential ritual of the Blessing of the Meal. Cold horror grips us as we anticipate the breadth and duration of the petition. My grandfather always prayed. A devout Baptist deacon, he asked for God’s grace on everything…our sinning souls, the turkey’s last measure of devotion, the farm animals, the old sow, the worn-out mule and the hunting dogs. Kitchen doorknobs were sometimes mentioned, and once something about my grandmother’s hairdo. It never came up again.

Thanksgiving is more than orange pumpkins, frost on the grass, the red-leaf sumac, crisp fall air, the hint of burning leaves and the dew’s diaphanous mist over a cow-filled pasture. Time slows to its circadian rhythm, and breathing is possible again.

Still, there’s more to Thanksgiving than afternoon naps, TV football, a neighborhood stroll and the clipping of Black Friday coupons…all of which happen after the kitchen cleanup and the left-overs are stored for the next pot-luck meal.

Thanksgiving in our small town included an afternoon drive to the farm to ‘check on things.’ Change is slow on farms after harvest. You have to look twice to see it. Our family was inextricably connected to lands purchased in the mid-1800’s. We needed to make certain it was still there. It always was.

The list of ‘more’ goes on. You have your own. So, what is the essence of Thanksgiving? What is its ‘transcendent quality?’ It’s elusive, even profound. Our hearts define its existence.

This year only my wife Carolyn, my daughter Leslie and I celebrate the occasion. Small, yes, but somehow we put another tail-feather in our treasures of things now past. Our son, Alex, remains in Colorado, working on his house renovation. Our extended family has become feeble, fractured and far off. The farm has been sold. Another farmer’s family ‘checks on it.’ Thanksgivings change and often can be sad!

I stand outside while the dogs complete their nightly business. I gaze into a thick black sky studded with stars. I try to comprehend its transcendence. A useless endeavor…it’s awesome, intellectually impenetrable and hopelessly unfathomable. Such is Thanksgiving to me. In the final analysis, it is what it is, and I leave it at that.

Yes, Thanksgiving is more than just a meal and a transitory home. But what would it be without either? So while you gnaw on the last left-over turkey leg, meditate on the miracle of it all…even if you don’t understand it. And thank God for the bounty in your life. Gobble, gobble.

Bud Hearn
November 22, 2012

Drilled Again

Well, the election’s over. Animosity seethes in silence. The Battleground is empty, the bodies are all interred. Excuses are Styrofoam cups. They litter the landscape. The winners laugh and light cigars; the losers cry Play on! The Big “I” won---the Idol for the Idle--- frozen solid in a block of ice inside a glacier of pride.

The Mormon has been vanquished. On the way out he offered up his obligatory word of congratulation, a simple word, anatomical, quite descriptive.

The world’s safe for democracy, marijuana is making a legal comeback and the color red is now a ‘Symbol of the Lost Cause.’ Money is worthless…$2 billion spent. Nothing’s changed. A nation still divided.

But I feel safe, leave my gun, venture outside. Time for a simple visit to the dentist. My tooth broke while gnashing on a political pundit about impending fiscal horrors. Time for a new crown, a gold one. Why not? Men like jewelry. Besides, gold chains are, so New Jersey now. But gold teeth, why not? An inflation hedge.

You’ve been to a dentist, you know it’s never simple. I open my mouth; he looks inside, backs away, whistles and exclaims, HolyMoly (dentistspeak for a molar approaching sainthood). What’s this, Detroit? Resembles a curated exhibit of urban and industrial decay. Man, you need a root canal.

I feel violated, and wasn’t even kissed. No, Doc, just a gold crown. Please, no root canal. He laughs. I cringe. He gloats. I know what that means. As if the election weren’t enough, I have to get drilled again by two dentists…Dr. Terror in the Tooth and Dr. Pain in the Purse.

He arranges the procedure with his friend. Says I’ll like him. Says he’s from a long German heritage of teeth drillers. Dentists are conspirators. They’re adept at extracting your last farthings. How? In the chair, they have leverage!

I show up. The door sign announces, J. Mengele, Endodontistry. The name causes a sudden shutter. I can’t identify it. I go inside. Essence sticks emit a faint odor of formaldehyde and cloves. The nurse wears a mask. She confiscates my Visa card. A tiny woman wearing a monocle validates the credit limit. I’m ushered to a chair. It has ankle clamps and wrist restraints. I ask why.Your comfort, of course, the nurse replies. I feel a smirk lurking inside the mask.

I wait, look around. On a shelf sits a collection of eyeballs. Dull glints of light stare back. They stand suspended on tiny wires, sway gently from the air of an overhead fan. A blue eyeball winks at me. A pedestal at its base reads, H. P. Long, Politician. A tableau of teeth occupies another shelf. All sizes. Dull drill bits dangle from their roots. I don’t have to ask the meaning of this exhibit…Leverage.

The doctor enters. He wears eye goggles with a laser light in the center. He resembles an alien from the May issue of Mad Magazine. He lowers the chair to a vulnerable position. I can’t move. He swivels the tray of torture tools they pass in front of me. He sharpens the drill bits with a lathe. He wears a wicked grin.

The nurse covers my mouth with a blue rubber mask. I ask why. She tells me it’s to muffle the screams, that there are other patients to consider. She puts dark glasses over my eyes, to hide their terror. I feel helpless. I am helpless!

The dentist fondles the syringe. The needle resembles a crooked railroad spike. He clutches my throat, says to relax, that it won’t hurt long. He jabs it into my gums. I swallow my muted scream. I hear the whirr of the drill. It grinds nerve and tooth and bone. I lose consciousness. So goes the experience of a root canal. But I survive.

All this for a gold crown! I check the price of gold. I can’t afford it. So I burglarize my wife’s jewelry box. I snatch the golden pig’s snout, a gift from me, purchased from a homeless street vendor. It was never one of her favorites. I’m all about recycling.

Events need closure. Otherwise, they hang around like ghosts of old girl friends going for the gold. In January, America will put division aside for a day and crown its reigning ruler. But nothing’s really changed. New battle lines are being drawn, new warriors are chosen. Politics is a continuing root canal, a blood sport.

Yet America moves on. We survive another day. Maybe one day we can agree with the great union organizer, Eugene V. Debs: “When we are in partnership and have stopped clutching each other’s throats; when we’ve stopped enslaving each other, we will stand together, hands clasped, and be friends.”

May we live to see the day! I hope that you’re satisfied with the Coronation.

Bud Hearn
November 14, 2012

The Catharsis

Today’s the 8th anniversary of my release from the power of The Incubus.

Not familiar with an incubus? Really? You probably have one, or maybe a host of incubi. I once had a Stage 4 incubus. ‘Had’, past tense. I’m now incubus-free, thanks to Ann and Doris.

I first encountered the term, incubus, while reading a book on the South. Some obscure Baptist preacher tongue-lashed the “incubus of Northern Aggression.” The reference was to a sociopath named Sherman, a much-maligned misfit who loved to play with matches. He was a mommy’s boy and often mistaken for Little Lord Fauntleroy. Poor man, he ended his fiery career in the pest control business.

Now you have a clue…an incubus is, in short, a demon. Or, figuratively speaking, a cause of distress, a nightmare. I’m loath to print the primary meaning of incubus for fear of offending the heinous fiend. The metaphor has greater meaning…consult Webster.

An Incubus is a stealthy beast. It’s everywhere. It creeps into homes, especially those with teenagers. It inhabits rap music and iPhone apps. Teens are prime incubators for the incubi. Even my dogs find scents of incubi on sidewalk shrubs, the Facebook social network for dogs.

They’re sneaky bastards. Their petri dish consists of ecclesiastic institutions, liberal college campuses and especially Congress. They hide inside black robes, cling to slick smiles of lobbyists and bed down beneath the collars of clerics. They preach the gospel of greed and debt, pimp politicians and pander to unstable sociopaths.

So much for incubi. Let’s bring Ann and Doris back.

Ann calls, all excited. Says she and Doris have just completed the 30-day course in Demon Exorcism 101, a Baptist on-line course for bored widows. Says I popped into her mind. Says she and Doris will feed me lunch if I’ll consent to their laying hands on me and extracting the incubus inside. I tell her I’m fond of my demons. We share a cozy relationship in this lump of dust. But being a fool for food, and for the hands of women, I agree.

I ask if she’s relegating these poor cast-off incubi to the herd of swine in her backyard. Baptists can’t appreciate such humor. It only supports the fact that, like Sherman, I’m a living witness to the despicable consequences of incubi. Pork loin is on the lunch menu, she adds.

Driving over I think, why not get rid of a few demons? Makes room for others. With my collection of friends, surely I have been seriously infected. After all, I’ve consorted with lawyers, bankers, politicians and not a few preachers. Which is better, the devils I know or the ones I don’t?

They sit me in a straight-back chair. The room is dark. I remember the experience with a Gypsy soothsayer, where I levitated wildly from the chair and voices emanated from the walls. My nerves are on edge. They begin the exorcism.

Hands move slowly on my shoulders, my back. A pair grips my head like a vice. My eyes bulge out. Tongues resonate from the ladies (nothing new there), wild, exotic glossolalia of indecipherable context. Hands explore my face, pinch my nose, and grab my hair. Fingers probe my ears. They search diligently for the exit for my incubus.

The exorcism is interminable. My incubus is intractable. They plead intensely with some unknown power to release my alien villain. They shout, sweat, shake me violently. I think of lady wrestlers who hate men. Is this a Baptist hoax? I decide to join the drama. YouTube may be interested.

My legs twitch, my arms flail. I recite poetry from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and a few lines from the Koran. The ladies dance wildly, become feral, savage beasts. Maybe worse than my incubus.

In a dramatic swoon I leap to my feet, shout, “Free at last, Free at last.” I collapse onto the floor in epileptic contortions. I peek out with one eye. Ann and Doris are giddy in the ecstasy of achievement, their first success.

They search the house for my incubus. My stomach growls. Somewhere a door opens. A cool breeze blows in. Can it be? Either I’m starving or the incubus has departed.

I stumble to the table, devour the pork and apple pie. Then leave. I hear them working the phones, spreading the news. Wow! What a scam…a cottage industry, better than Mary Kay.

On Tuesday we’ll get a chance to lay our hands on a computer screen. Hopefully we’ll purge the body politic of its insidious incubus. Even Mormons will certify this exorcism!

Bud Hearn
November 2, 2012