The Slow Countdown…10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1

 

     10-9…Whoa, slow down, relax. You’re getting ahead of yourself.  It’s not time. It’s coming, soon enough. Meanwhile, It’s still shuffling the deck, more hands to deal. The 2021 year’s game is still in play.

  

We shouted it in, but it soon settled down,

And got down to business and stayed.

But now it’s time and cards are worn thin,

Only one last hand to play.    

 

It came with a quest and trailing behind

Its pomp and fire gone stale.

Where once the lust of days before

Are now but a vapid tale.  

      So here we are, looking over the horizon. It looks empty. Some resemble an abyss, others blue sky. Some leap forward, headstrong and sure; others take strides with timid steps. But we all move forward. Behind doesn’t exist. It’s called History.   

We all take our spots at the table of life

While the Dealer shuffles the deck.

When done he says, “It’s time to deal,

Ante up and quit looking back.”

A spirit passes before our face,

The hair of our flesh stands up.

The clock of years long gone before,

Like cards that brought us luck.

      8-7…Stop it. We’re playing the game now. Oh, we know the game. We don’t control the shuffle or the dealing. We must play the hand we’re dealt. There is no other way. To cheat is to set in motion the cosmic repercussions of the Fates. 

His fingers are nimble, his cards are alive,

They glow with a luminous light.

One up, four down, you have no choice,

You get what the deck dishes out.

 

Your hope is mocked by the upturned card,

The Dealer has a mischievous grin.

You curse the draw, but the card must be played,

The deuce, one helluva way to begin.

 

     But begin we must. We bring with each new year remnants of the past, stuffed full like bags of discarded Christmas wrappings that were once disguised surprises. Instead, like a sponge, we infuse them. It’s hard to get rid of the past.

 

There once was love that lured life on,

A kiss that shook the earth.

Where is it now, a vanished dream,

The ghost of an ephemeral birth.

 

We played the cards the Dealer passed,

Some won and others lost.

The drama of the days gone by

The passion we miss the most.

 

      6-5… Not yet. Relax. Ah, the sorrows and joys of life, the loss and the gain, the pain and the pleasure. A blend into the mosaic of ourselves. It’s who we are, for better or worse. But to labor on either is futile, for the Dealer continues to deal.

 

Regrets, Oh, yes, we’ve had those, too,

Sometimes too many to bear.

But like an echo in the caverns below,

They fade in the vaporous air.

 

Longfellow’s words, neither bagpipe nor dirge,

To frame it he takes no sides.

For Defeat may be victory in clever disguise,

And the ebb is the turn of the tides.

 

     4-3 …Back off the counting. Too soon. Start over. Miles left to go. Patience, pilgrim, patience. It’s been a doozy of a year. Pandemics, political acrimony, threats abroad and violence at home. How do we play such a hand? Color me red, or color me blue, define my gender, my ‘fair share,’ too. All, works in progress.

  

The end is in sight, this game almost done,

There’s not much more we can do.

A little rest, micro-seconds at best,

And we’re ready to begin anew.

 

We played our hands the best we could,

We gave ‘em our very best shot.

No matter if we won or lost,

We always got part of the pot.

 

We cheered the year in, we’ll cheer it out,

We endured it to the end.

It’s age and breath at last worn out,

It leaves us to begin again.

 

     2…Too close for comfort. Let’s deal the last hand, play it for all we’re worth, singing words from Robert Herrick:

 

“Gather ye rosebuds while you may,

Old time is still a flying.

The same flower that smiles today,

Tomorrow will be dying.”

 

And now we hear the distant band,

It’s tuning up to play,

For auld lang syne is close at hand

To celebrate the day.

 

     I’m leaving the ‘1’ for you…you’ll know just when to shout it.    

     Here’s wishing you a Happy New Year. May you get some aces in this new year, 2022. Time is short.  Live big.

 

Bud Hearn

December 31, 2021

 

 

 

 

Travails of a Last-Minute Shopper

 

It’s 3:00, Christmas Eve. He sits silently at his desk.

The office party cheer evaporates. A faint scent of wine lingers.  

The empty office echoes the hum of his computer. Masks litter the floor.

He checks his shopping list, a white sheet filled with names.

So many names, no gifts. He taps it with his pen, anxiety sets in.

 

His watch reads 3:05. No more procrastination. Show time for shopping.

He girds up, grabs his keys and walks briskly to the parking garage.

Christmases past flood his mind. Always the same, last-minute shopping.

He heads to the mall, a conqueror in his quest. The streets are clogged.

The mall appears in the distance. It closes at 6:00. Traffic is a Gordian knot.

 

Nothing moves.  He curses, blows his horn. The clock ticks: 3:18.

He fidgets, pounds the steering wheel. Sweat soaks his collar.

One lane moves, not his. Cars zip by, drivers yack on cells, celebrating.

He squeezes a grandmother out of the lane. She shrieks. He shrugs.

The mall parking lot is emptying. He’s confused.  Only 3:27.

 

He jogs in, time is crucial. Clueless men roam the cavernous mall.

He checks his list, plans his route.  Shelves stripped at Staples.

He scans Macy’s. Motley merchandise. He moves to Belk’s. Boring.

Neiman’s, over-priced, picked over. He stops at Starbucks.  

A coffee. The barista moves like molasses. He paces, tick, tick.

 

Saks might save him. He smiles smugly, saunters in, thinks of his wife.

Clerks on cells yawn. They shun him. He despises them.

He inspects the shoes. Jimmy Choo, Manolo. He’s shocked.

Sticker prices stab him, surpass his comprehension. He tries cosmetics.

He dawdles with perfume testers. The air smells sweet. He can’t choose.

 

He moves to handbags. Three men linger there.

Choices are few. One crocodile Veneta. All eyes are on it.

Words erupt. Someone is shoved, Elbows fly, two men grapple on the floor.

He grabs for the bag. Too slow. A fist pounds his head. The bag vanishes.

He shakes it off, reviews his list.  Half complete. The watch reads 4:32.

 

 Time’s tick taunts him. He rushes into the corridor. Shops closing early.

He checks DeBeers. Their door slams shut. Luck at Lululemon.

He leaves, passes Victoria Secret. A cluster of old men gather there, gawking.

Window mannequins get fresh lingerie. They point, discuss, drool, dream.

He guesses their Santa wish list. Disappointment will fill their stockings.

 

His watch frightens him: 4:58. Time stalks him. He becomes manic.

He shops tawdry kiosks, grabs the garish junk. Satisfied with scraps now.

He’s a pinball, bouncing shop to shop, running wildly through the hallway.

His wife calls. A party, our home, 6:30? An expletive escapes.

It’s 5:24. Doors are closing fast. Still no gift for his wife.

 

He’s a feral savage now, delirious. His bags bulge, his wallet wilts.

Time punishes him, assaulted by the incessant tick, tick, tick.

Shops are closed. A dim light shines in the distance. Maybe, he hopes.

He remembers the toaster, the tumblers, the tenderloin he gave her.

She cried. His children ridiculed him. She abandoned the kitchen forever.

 

He bursts into the store, grabs the clerk, shakes him violently.

“My wife, my wife, what have you got for my wife?” He’s hysterical.

“The best for her. What is it, man? Hurry. Price no object.”

The clerk recovers, demonstrates a shiny see-through model, the latest rave.

“I’ll take it,” he roars. “What is it?” “Why, sir, an Oreck vacuum, the best.”

 

“Yes,” he shouts, “at last, at last.” He’s ecstatic. It’s 6:05. List done.

He sprints to the exit. The doors are bolted shut. He’s trapped.

He shakes them uncontrollably. Alarms sound. Security subdues him.          

He pleads his dilemma. The cuffs come off, he’s kicked out. 6:15.

He finds his car, drives madly, weaves wildly, a lunatic at the wheel.

 

He arrives home. His pulse pounds. He’s disheveled, the necktie a noose.

He races in, kisses his wife, dumps his bags. His watch tortures him, 6:26.

She’s calm, smiles, Says Merry Christmas, reminds him guests soon arrive.

She sees his panic, pours him eggnog, says to calm down and relax.

“Oh, Honey, don’t buy me a present this year,” she says.

 

He’s stunned, confused, asks why. She grins, points to the garage.

“I saved you the trouble. I bought my own with your Amex. Go see.”

He does. A shiny new black Range Rover greets at him.

He stares in stark horror, estimating the cost. So long company bonus.

The doorbell rings. Guests arrive, the clock chimes 6:30. He faints.

  

Here’s wishing you a Merry Christmas and hoping your shopping was everything you dreamed it would be. Sales begin soon. Relax.

 

 

Bud Hearn

December 23, 2021 

Turmoil on the Tundra

 

Santa is in trouble. The news sets off seismic shockwaves that shake the South like a second coming of Sherman.

 * * *

Outside the glaciers melt. Solar panels explode. The UV hits 50. His herd of reindeer lounge in the sun, lazy, listless and as overserved as a NJ diva on a divan on Miami beach. It’s just the beginning of sorrows for Santa Claus. 

The signs were obvious. His nerves were wound tight. Crunch time for the factory and fulfillment center. Still the orders pour in. The clogged highway of conveyor belts with boxes speeds ceaselessly night and day. Grumblings among the elves are audible. Even the robots need rebooting.

Never like this before, he thinks. Everything was orderly, logistics programmed down to the minute. Every letter answered, every list fulfilled, every chimney descended. But now look at it, he thinks. Totally out of control. Who, what to blame? “I can’t take it anymore,” he screams. No one listens.

He checks on progress at the repair garage where the sleigh is being converted to an EV in compliance with net-neutral greenhouse emissions standards. The reindeer were sent out to pasture since their methane emissions violated EPA regs. Rudolph was sold to DizzyWorld for the sleigh ride attraction. 

He’s still miffed about paying lawyers to defend the baseless accusation of profiteering from children conjured up by a fanatical fiction-spinner senator. And to suggest he was in any way involved in a vast conspiracy with China to monopolize Christmas shopping was an insult. He’d been in the gift-giving business before ‘Made in China’ became a cheap cliché.  

To make matters worse, he’s still having to deal with the DOJ investigation into his non-compliance with gender-diversity-equality regulations. What the heck, hadn’t he always employed elves? Who else would? Now they want their own special pronoun to define themselves. Come on, an elf is an elf, get over it, Mr. Garland.

And thanks to brainless woke activists, the elves are all stirred up. More money, paid leave, more benefits, free health insurance, retirement plans, and to top it all off, the sleazy EWA, the Elf Workers of America union, is picketing outside the factory, demanding to be unionized. Cursed is the match that kindles the flame.

Back in his office a heavily spiked eggnog calms his nerves.  He reviews the invoices of toys still in the supply-chain hang up. He calls his accountant, hears that the IRS is auditing his books, hinting irregularity with non-payment of duties and something to do with withholding taxes for robots.

He reminds him that he is not actually a real person at all, just a mythological benefactor to children. He suggests they’ll have an easier time locating the days of auld lang syne than him.  He hangs up. The phone rings.

“Boss, big problem. The robots have rebelled. They want equal pay for equal work. They have walked out, refuse to work.”

“How can they? We control their chips.”

“Not anymore. Musk bought the tech company, now robots report to him, all robots everywhere.  He controls all the chips.”

“Get him on the phone.”

“I tried that. He and Bozos are dismantling Virgin Galaxy now and will soon control all of the skies. Even the Russians are frightened. We’ll have to pay exorbitant tolls to take the sleigh in their airspace. How else can we deliver?”

“Get Fed X on the line. We need a backup.”

“Tried that, too. They’ve cut a deal with Amazing. It’s looking like a lot of children will be disappointed.”

“I’m Santa Claus, trust me. Here’s the plan: Wake up Marley’s ghost, send it to remind them of the wages of greed. They’ll come begging for redemption like Scrooge did. Then call Willy Wonka for backup help from the Oompa-Loompas.”

Back at home the AC is out. Mrs. Claus is steaming. “How much longer are you going to put up with this Christmas myth? Look, you’re old. For a while you were the only game in town for Christmas. Things have changed. Competition everywhere. Time to move. Look at these brochures.” She hands him a stack; he thumbs through them.

“Miami Beach,” she says. “My favorite.”

It was bound to happen, he thinks. Sooner or later the bubble had to burst. Only the Tooth Fairy can perpetuate a myth forever. He picks up a stack of ‘Dear Santa’ letters, opens them and reads. They make him smile.    

“Honey, maybe next year. But this year, it’s no child left behind.”     

Turmoil comes and goes. But the Christmas myth is alive and well…believing is still receiving. Count on it, Santa Claus is coming to town.

Bud Hearn

December 17, 2021

 

Getting in the Mood

Out of the many moods of Christmas, which one will jump-start us into the spirit of the season? I might have found mine.

 * * *

It’s difficult trying to gin up any enthusiasm remotely acceptable for a Christmas mood. It has to happen on its own. The frenetic crush of mosh-pits crowds on Black Friday and Cyber Monday don’t do it. It’s like drumming up excitement for a root canal. It has to happen, just not today.

What’s a ‘mood’ but a subjective state of mind, a predominant emotion that can grab us anywhere, anytime. You feel it when one’s coming on. It’s best when it shows up serendipitously, like the unannounced advent of an old friend, no preface or stimulus, something that just happens. Moods planned in advance are duds.

Ok, so we had a mood yesterday. What good is it for today? It’s nothing now but a memory, whether pleasant or unpleasant. We can take it out, dust it off, laugh or cry, but it’s as cold as a man’s hand when the romance has ended. It’s today’s miracle that sets the mood. We have to wait for it.      

When does it start, this ‘getting in the mood’ for Christmas? What sets it in motion? For root canals, the impetus is pain. For Christmas, which can be analogous in some ways, it’s usually ‘The Tree’ that fires it up.

This year a tinge of excitement begins the day after Thanksgiving in our house when someone says, “The trees are here, big ones, Frazier furs; snow still clings to the branches.”  The Christmas mood yawns.  

Meanwhile, the outside thermometer hovers near 75 degrees. Does this do anything for your Christmas mood? No matter—it was bound to happen, not if but when. Go get the tree.

There’re few things less anticipatory than getting a Christmas tree a month beforehand. But it’s the beginning of ‘getting in the mood.’ Actually, it’s the beginning of getting in a lot of moods, moods that run a vast array of moods, moods that have spawned many bankruptcies and not a few divorces.

The tree should get more credit for mood creation than it’s been given. Sticker-shock can send a shudder down anyone’s spine that even a moribund wallet can feel. We cringe, realizing this is only the beginning of shakedowns. The vault of a meager Christmas budget is about to be pillaged and expose how shallow our ‘mood of generosity’ is and how it strangely mirrors the ‘mood of Scrooge.’

Many good moods are associated with a Christmas tree. But they come later, not earlier. First it’s essential to survive the ordeal of buying and erecting the sacrificial sapling and enduring what might be euphemistically labeled the ‘familial debate mood.’  

But this too passes, and soon the tree stands tall and regal, the house scented like potpourri from a fresh forest. Ok, so it happens to be a bit crooked that produces a temporary mood-swing of ‘mild disgust?’ It soon vanishes after a few mugs of highly-spiked egg nog. While exclamations of “Best tree ever” don’t mitigate the flaw, but they do evoke a peaceful mood best known as ‘relief.’

The next order of business is to clothe the naked sacrifice with lights. This toil provokes not a ‘mood of love’ but one akin to forced labor. Soon tiny white lights drip from every branch and radiate like miniature stars. Decorative ornaments complete the process to a ‘mood of smiles and nods.’

When our angel takes her place atop the tree the job concludes. I climb the ladder in a ‘mood of trepidation,’ imagining what can happen to old men climbing ladders. The angel soon sits high in her resplendent glory overlooking our handiwork below.

As I retreat to the safety of a horizontal surface a tune strangely enters my mind. It’s a familiar tune:

“Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plain; and the mountains in reply, echoing their joyous strains.” Something stirs in my soul. Is this the beginning of getting in the Christmas mood?

There’s something magical about the moods of Christmas that can soften the stingiest soul and set smiles on the sourest faces. Maybe this is the miracle of Christmas after all.  

 

Bud Hearn

December 10, 2021

 

 

 

Becoming a Distinguished Historical Person

The keyboard is a loose cannon…everything is fair game.

 * * *

It begins as one of those days when the air feels electric, and you want to jump out of your skin. You can’t put your finger on it, but you know something’s brewing.

I hear him before I see him, Ace Blackbanks. “You there?” he shouts. “I’m coming up.” He doesn’t wait for answer. So much for an open-door policy.

He pitches a WSJ across my desk. “Look at this headline.” His voice is urgent. I glance at it. “Communist Party Designates Xi as a Historical Figure.”

“You going to China? Have you forgotten you’re on Homeland’s no-fly list since that episode with the TSA agent when his too-friendly fingers frisked you?”

“He shouldn’t have asked for my phone number. Forget China. I’m wondering what it takes to become a historical person.”

“More than you have, Ace. You have to be qualified. Says here the communist party passed a resolution awarding him this distinction. He’s been ‘credentialled,’ so to speak. This might be a problem for you.”

“That’s why I need your help. You know weird people. Give me some examples to follow. I want become a historical person.”

“You’re already a hysterical person, Ace, ask anybody.”

“Historical, man, historical.”

“Ok, but who’s going to credential you, the Fraternal Order of the Bloated Moose? Will the boys at the Am Vets club issue a proclamation? All night poker games don’t count. What have you done that’s notable?”

“Well, I got baptized once, does that count?”

“Will the preacher vouch for whether or not it worked?”

“Guess not. He’s dead.”

“Looks like you’re out of luck there. How about the NRA, will they issue a resolution? Guns have made many people historical figures.”

“Get serious. Any ideas?”

“Well, there was a fellow who achieved historical figure distinction in my hometown many years ago. They still celebrate his legacy.

“How did he do it?”

“It’s a long story”

“Let’s hear it.”

“They called him Nub. Not his given name, a nickname. Everybody had nicknames. He got his because of an accident. He was working at the sawmill and a buzz saw severed his hand. He chased it down the conveyor belt and it fell into a pile of sawdust. He dug it out, dusted it off, shoved it in his pocket and headed to Dr. Jimmy’s office.

Dr.  Jimmy had just put away the bloody claw hammer used to extract a nail from Roy’s knee. His wife had hammered it in while he was sleeping it off.”

“For real? She hammered a nail into his knee? What kind of person does that?”

“A scorned one. Word was Roy was prone to ramble at night, and she got tired of it, folks whispering and gossiping behind her back, so she took a ten-penny nail and stopped it.”

“That’s extreme.”

“Yes, but efficient. Look, there are nice women everywhere who rub their fingers over the edges of a knife at night and eye their husband’s neck. Remember, ‘uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,’ or runs around.”

“What about Nub?”

“Dr. Jimmy couldn’t save his hand. He sawed Nub’s forearm off at the wrist. That’s why they called him Nub. He kept his hand in a pickle jar filled with white corn brew for preservation. But this is where it gets strange.

One night Nub was at an all-night gospel sing at a tent revival when he heard Jesus blow the heavenly bugle, and he crossed that golden gate to paradise.  When he returned, he was a changed man. And from then on, the fingers on Nub’s severed hand in the pickle jar began to move.

Nub swore it was the healing power from on High sent to manifest itself in his hand. Everywhere he took his hand with the moving fingers in the pickle jar people heard the bugle call and crossed the golden bridge to the promised land. Lives were changed, and so was the town.

When Nub died, his hand with the moving fingers was buried with him. The town passed a resolution designating Nub a distinguished historical person for all the good work his severed hand did for the town.  A marble replica of his hand was erected on the courthouse square. People come to pay homage to it. They all hear the same bugle call. It put the city on the map of historical places.”

“You made this up.”

I laugh. “Maybe. But so what? Whether it’s the idiotic ramblings of an itinerant madman or oracles of sober reality, we come with nothing, but we all leave something behind.”

 * * *

You want to be a historical person? Just buy the ticket, take the ride. Time will credential us all.   

 

 Bud Hearn

December 3, 2021