Bits and Pieces

Well, here we are, about to shut the door on yet another year. When the curtain falls, when the shouts, applause, laments and music of the year-end fade into a distant echo, what’s left? You’ll find it lying there, scattered on the floor of yesterdays, the bits and pieces of it all.

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Christmas is unlike other seasons. It begins months in advance, stoking the fires of preparation. We do the obligatory things, following the family traditions and sometimes creating some new ones.

We rummage through the closets and unbox Christmas for another year. We wonder if the song’s lines are true, that God and sinners have reconciled in their boxed storage throughout the year. Then we assemble the decorative trappings and symbols of the mysterious advent—angels, stars, lights, music, wreaths, candles and a tree and put it into some household order as best we can.

And then, before we know it, it’s all over. We look around wondering what remains after being smothered by another year of record online acquisitions. We have again filled the coffers of colossal consumerism and shared a collective spirit of secular celebration mixed with enough religious infusions to justify it all.

We bid the mythical Santa goodbye amid the lingering leftovers of pagan bonfires of the Winter Solstice at Stonehenge and tally up the toll on our credit cards. The bits and pieces add up. Budgets? Really? It’s Christmas.

Like the failed Starliner rocket last week, we see Santa’s jet trails backtracking to the North Pole where Russia and China grapple for geopolitical dominance on the frigid ice wasteland atop our nuclear submarines. Santa’s igloo is atop a time bomb. He’d do well to relocate to a better address.

In the DMZ of time between Christmas and New Year’s Eve celebrations a strange quiet descends about us. Why hurry now? No deadlines, just waiting for the midnight hour to arrive and flip the calendars to 2020 and enjoy the reality show of political intrigue that will resume unabated with new vigor and vitriol. Congress has dug a deep hole for itself. Maybe it will crawl in it.

But it’s nice, this waiting period of a few days. After the cleanup of the clutter we have created in the preceding 360 days past, it’s nice to relax, sipping on the remains of some Evan Williams eggnog, sufficiently infused to promote the surety of a nap.

And when we nap, will we dream? And if so, will our dreams synthesize the bits and pieces of the fading year into something articulate? How will it compartmentalize our hopes, our fears, our heartbreaks, our joys; the realizations, the over-reaches, the under-reaches, the blotched plans, the successful ones? What mosaic will emerge?

In these intervening mornings, I find the coffee early before the household is awake. I like to sit and gaze at the Christmas tree, its limbs now bowing from the weight of decorations and its needles, like the hairs of our hound dog, falling profusely to the floor. I feel a twinge of its burden. Its beauty is past, its duty is done. Recycling awaits.

Sitting there in the quiet of the pre-dawn hour, something dawns on me that I can only sense, something I cannot know in any other way. It’s not the end of something old, but the continuum of all things new. It is the mysterious essence of Christmas that lingers long after the celebrations are past. Like a new-born baby, it’s a new moment, a new year full of surprises to enjoy.

Longfellow’s lines sum it up well:

“When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what I have attained,
Little room do I find for pride.

I am aware
How many days have been idly spent;
How like an arrow the good intent
Has fallen short or been turned aside.

But who shall dare
To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.”

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Bits and pieces of life…what glorious and beautiful mosaics we are creating.

Happy New Year




Bud Hearn
December 27, 2019

Waiting in Line

It’s a week before Christmas. I’m standing in line at the post office, waiting. I’m not alone. Others stand silently in a long queue that snakes its way outside. They wait, too.

It’s an understatement to say Americans enjoy waiting in line anywhere. Or, for that matter, waiting for anything. We’re used to instantaneous fulfillment that technology has blessed us with.

Thank you, microchip, Amazon, Google. We praise you. You’ve rescued us from hours of tedium and wasted time waiting in lines like this. But like any other saving grace, your salvation has come with a cost—in this case the loss of human interaction.

Not that anyone would choose to participate voluntarily in a slow-moving line of impatient people. And at this hour, who’s interested in striking up conversation with strangers? We have things to do, places to go. Our calendars are crammed with do, do, do. We have no time.

Here in the dimly-lit corridor the ‘line-waiters’ lean against walls and windows; some sport white cords that dangle from their ears. Some faces bear looks of boredom and mild impatience. Some even appear to have been lobotomized. Their Christmas expressions are elsewhere. Waiting in lines can do this.

The line-standers divert attention and eye contact by fiddling with iPhones, picking at their nails or examining their shoes or the tiles on the floor. Anything to appear disinterested. It’s like being part of a crowd trapped in an elevator. Nobody talks. Except me.

A lady stands nearby. Not too close, mind you. Americans covet space, their personal space. Proximity promotes a negative energy field that prompts, “Back off, buster, you’re too close.”

I cheerfully offer up this week’s ice-breaker, “Merry Christmas.” I exclaim it with gusto as if I were Santa himself. I omit the ‘ho, ho, ho’ part since it has other connotations these days. Heads turn. The silence is broken. Movement occurs. People shuffle, change positions. One might think I’d woken up a corpse.

She returns the greeting. I ask why she’s focused so intently on the cell. I expect a reply like, “None of your business, creep.” But no, she shows me photos of her grandbaby being held in her arms. A big smile follows. Who can resist smiling at the sight of a tiny, new-born baby that’s wrapped in red ribbon?

Then a strange thing happens. Others waiting in line want to take a peek. A spirit begins to arouse the lethargic line. Exclamations of “How beautiful, a wonderful Christmas gift, so sweet, how blessed” and so on. You’d think this is the first time people had ever seen a baby.

Slowly the line creeps forward, packages are retrieved, some are sent. Christmas stamps are purchased and faces smile again as they leave. Soon I’m burdened with boxes of my own, courtesy of an Amazon Fulfillment Center. A gentleman steps out of line and opens the door for me. Ah, the spirit of Christmas is alive indeed.

Lines are here to stay. So is waiting. Car pool lines, TSA lines, check-out lines, check-in lines, doctor’s lines, lines to greet the preacher, lines at the grocery store and traffic lines. We’re trapped in lines.

Yet, some lines can have positive effects, sort of like adult time-out. No rush, no auto, no danger. Nerves relax. Blood pressure drops. Noise abates, and we regain the serenity of our own souls.

You might find it odd, but some of my most favorite ‘lines’ are found in poetry, music and scripture. Some are long, move slowly. Others are short, move quickly. But my mind never objects to pausing and waiting, and letting the movement of words and notes take me where they will.

This Christmas I am waiting in the music line of “This Christmastide,” a beautifully, haunting tune with lines like this:

“From a simple ox’s stall came the greatest gift of all.
Truth and love and hope abide this Christmastide, this Christmastide.”

I’d be pleased to have you join me for a few moments waiting in these lines authored by the prophet Isaiah:

“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulder; and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”

Some lines are well worth waiting in. Thank you for waiting in mine. Merry Christmas.


Bud Hearn
December 20, 2019

Just Right

“The coffee was hotter and blacker than the sins of the devil himself. But it tasted just right, you might say.” Louis L’Amour

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Life demands verbal responses. The choices are many, from the crude to the superlative. Finding the appropriate middle ground is a challenge. ‘Just right’ might be the perfect choice for you. It was for Goldilocks in her choice of beds, you know.

‘Just right’ is one of those colloquialisms that just doesn’t beat around the bush but hits it head on. What else defines everything and yet nothing at all? It’s on par with the ‘It is what it is’ rebuttal to anything defying explanation. You can’t go wrong dropping this idiom.

‘Perfect’ is its high-brow first cousin. It walks a tight, narrow line while ‘just right’ is a wide-open DMZ between opposing choices. It provides a lot more wiggle room and doesn’t box us in. After all, what’s perfect in this life anyway?

Even Plato, now with us only as a marble-busted Greek, knew this. He got tired of his girlfriend complaining that his dish washing wasn’t perfect. So he came up with his Theory of Forms. Pure genius. It’s as viable an escape hatch today as it was then.

It’s a simple philosophy that nullifies even the possibility of perfection. It’s only in the ethereal world where perfect patterns exist. Not here. Everything on this planet is just an imperfect copy of those perfect patterns. Look in the mirror. The reflection you see will affirm all contrary delusions.

My friend George brought the concept of ‘just right’ down to earth. He said a fellow named Philo once worked for him. Philo liked his whiskey. After finishing a job, George gave him a pint for doing good work. Later, this is how the conversation went:

“Philo, how’d you like that whiskey I gave you?”

“Boss, it was just right.”

“Just right? What does that mean?”

“Well, boss, if it was any better you wouldn’t have given it to me. And if it was any worse, I wouldn’t have drunk it. So I guess it was just right.”

There you have it, no long, boring take-offs of the merits of whiskey, details nobody wants to hear. Just straight to the point.

Now, ‘just right’ is superior to some of its other lower-class, across-the-tracks relatives. Imagine Philo answering, like ‘not bad,’ or ‘pretty good.’ He could have said ‘OK,’ or ‘all right,’ or maybe even ‘fair’ or ‘outta sight.’ No, they’re cheap substitutes compared to ‘just right.’

True, ‘just right’ is a working-class idiom. It does not live in the same gated community as do some of its other more well-bred family members. You’ve met some of them, these formal and starchy adjectives and adverbs. They show up on engraved stationary and in country club conversations. Things like:

The holidays: marvelous
The symphony: stratospheric.
The trip: exhilarating.
The dinner party: smashing.
The wedding: lovely.

Huh? Such descriptive responses sound profoundly imposing but lack substance. They belong in British sitcoms. No, ‘just right’ is a utilitarian worker that shows up, gets the job done and leaves.

But back to Philo. What if he had attempted a more ‘perfect’ description to the question posed to him? How would it have come out? Maybe like this:

“Well, boss, that mash you so graciously bestowed upon me had extraordinary qualities. It had a subtle nose of smoky sensuousness, coupled with a distinct savor of an old Irish keg and yielded the unmistakable aroma of an aged raccoon. Its heavenly essence and dark luminescence reflected warmly the glowing orange coals of my fire.” Gag!

‘Just right’ did the trick, no superfluous discussion necessary.

Now, ‘perfect’ may have a purpose somewhere, though nothing comes readily to mind. It’s inherently flawed within itself, a pie in the sky dream. Moreover, it’s a hard taskmaster, a cruel tyrant. It demands more than can be achieved and dishes out harsh punishment to anyone attempting to placate its insatiable demands. It should be obliterated as an alternative for anything.

**********

So, let’s dispense with the notion of perfection and loosen up, take a breath and, like Philo, enjoy the fruit of our own labors.

O, the prison of perfection, and the freedom of ‘just right.’


Bud Hearn
December 13, 2019

Saving Face

"When you jump for joy, beware that no one moves the ground from beneath your feet.” Lec

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There's a lot of need for face saving in these times. Impeachment hearings may have been the best thing that's happened in America lately. Such gushing rubbish is entertaining the wrong people and making the right ones question their sanity.

There, on the stage of C-Span, a made-for-TV sleaze script was written by beggars, hack-stabbers and underwritten by a circus of media propaganda. So much pretense. Some trying to be what they're not, and others trying not to be what they are. We'll soon see who's face cracks first. But I have my own problems, like you do.

Losing face can happen anywhere, anytime. Just the other day I'm standing in a group, everybody's talking about impeachment. I open my mouth and out it comes...my opinion. As soon as the words slide off my lips, I know what's coming. Too late to call it back.

They look at me in shocked horror like someone who just developed a lethal case of leprosy. Humiliation attacks my fragile and carefully crafted ego like a savage assault of terminal arthritis. Face saving is out of the question. Dementia is the only solution.

It happens early, this need to deflect the humiliation of being caught, red-handed, resembling a bumbling fool. My very first recollection of needing to save face was in first grade, age 6. It didn't stop there.

It started innocently. My grandfather let me run wild under the bleachers at a baseball game where I entertained myself by breaking RC Cola bottles for fun. The penalty was a lacerated knee. I no longer spend time under bleachers and RC Colas have long vanished.

The embarrassment came when my father had to take me in his arms, like a baby, and carry me into class at school. Forget that I couldn't walk. But being carried like a tiny baby into class? The lacerations from humiliation leave scars.

In that class was a beautiful girl. Even at 6 it was obvious that she would be something special in about ten years. And there she was, looking at this lacerated imbecile being carried by his father into class. She never ceased to remind me of it. Rejections hurt.

I remember the last dialogue I had with my best friend Jimmy. It was on the day of high school graduation.

"Do you remember when your daddy carried you into first grade class?"

"I'm still trying to forget that day."

"What ever happened to you and what's-her-name? The romance didn't last, huh?"

"Guess not. I could never live down that day of embarrassment.”

But given time, things usually work out for the best. We never really got it on, so to speak, despite her early beauty. And at the 50th high school reunion the light of Providence shined brightly. She could have used serious ‘face-saving’ work herself. Rejection payback is a beautiful thing.

Humiliation happens to everyone sooner or later. Frank, a friend, shows up at this fancy formal and extravagant wedding wearing different shoes. But Frank's a quick study, has a strategy already planned out to save face.

"Uh, Frank, what's with the different colored shoes?"

"They're metaphors of marriage," he says.

"What?"

"Yeah. Male and female, different people. So, it seemed to be the proper thing to do."

It's a pretty thin argument, but at least it's a strategy. And that's what we need to develop, a strategy to avoid embarrassment and explain away being dumb and clumsy, because dumb and clumsy are facts of life.

I guess you're asking just how we might craft up a strategy that fits all circumstances? Beats me. But I venture to say that finding someone or something to blame will go a long way.

Take the situation in DC. Vengeance runs deep. Crucify, they scream; Blood, they shout. Why? Seems they want to send this fellow packing because he occupies a bigger house than they do. But what does he care? They're tramping on him like dirt in the street, some of which he created. Dumb and dumber are twins, don't forget.

So, what does he do? He moves on, mounts his helicopter and disappears. Taken as a strategy, ‘moving on’ is about as good a face-saving strategy as it gets.

**********

Get creative, you'll come up with something to fit every faux pas.

As for me. I'm trying to save face and explain away why my unzipped lips cause so many problems.


Bud Hearn

December 6, 2019