On the Eve of a New Year

Dawn this morning was met with a clear sky and 40F degrees, balmy weather for our zone and for this time of year.  When I went to bed last night, the cloudless sky, brightened by the waning moon, suggested there might be ice in the birdbath in the morning, but not so.  A friend out west wrote that it was going to be nippy in his area this week - around zero degrees.  Nippy, for me, is what it is outside this morning, but he comes from hardier stock than I, or else has adjusted to the deep freeze that is more usual there.

When I opened the back door to sniff the air, it reminded me of when I was in boot camp, at Bainbridge, MD, almost 44 years ago.  We were awakened around 5 each morning, hurried through morning showers, bed-making and mustering out on the tarmac prior to being marched over to the chow hall.  In January, this frequently meant facing biting winds from down the mountains, having our nose-hairs crackle with every intake of breath, and arriving with stiffened cheeks (all four of them) to stand in line outside until we could enter the hall.  This morning, the cold air racing into my lungs took me right back to 1969.

On this morning, grandson Donovan is getting ready for surgery.  He's having a septoplasty done, to repair a deviated septum and to remove a bone spur that is growing toward his eye.  He'll be under the knife for at least two hours, possibly longer.  The surgeon will have to break a couple of bones to remove the spur and widen/straighten the septum.  He's going to miss the 'pretty lights' this season.  We were scheduled to go last night, but he changed his mind and preferred to stay home and set up a gift he'd received from a friend yesterday.  It's a new game machine, an X-Box something.  After his surgery this morning, he isn't going anywhere for the rest of this week, so we'll have to catch the lights next year.

The day before the new year always finds me in a reflective mood, an old habit from the days of resolution writing, started when I was a pre-teen.  I don't write resolutions anymore, but the reviews of my life, past and future (hmmm, how does one re-view the future?), take up most of the day.

I found an envelope among my papers last week on which I had written the question, "Has my life lived up to my expectations?"  I cannot remember when I wrote that, nor can I recall ever having expectations for my life.  Certainly, I must have; just can't remember them this morning.

Must be that frosty air.

I sincerely hope all of you whose blogs I read, and who have been kind enough to visit/comment on mine, have a new year better than the one we are leaving behind.  Much joy and happiness!

Christmas Ramblings

(Ramblings in the sense of musings, following random thoughts, not actually walking about the neighborhood or woods.  More detritus.  Long post, skip it if you like - I won't know.)

I have been wished a Merry Christmas, received hopes that I'll have a good one, by many this season, most of them friends, or, at least, friendly acquaintances; all such good wishes are sincerely appreciated and remembered. One stranger said to me last evening, as I was scraping snow off my truck before heading home, and he was headed to a church across the street, that he hoped I would have a happy holiday.  He sounded as though he truly wished me a few moments of happiness.  For some reason, I was deeply moved by his wish, and would have asked to hug him, had I not been so inhibited.  There was a touch of melancholy in his voice, and a tenderness unexpected under the circumstances.  A gift, received with gratitude and treasured for its sincerity.

Tomorrow morning, a man I work with will, no doubt, ask if I had a good Christmas, in the same 'make-talk' way he asks how I am doing.  I used to try to answer him honestly, then realized he wasn't really interested in knowing, just acting a part he seems to think a man in his position needs to play.  Two weeks ago, when he asked me the same thing, I answered, "Fine as frog hair.  And you?"

"Well, good," he answered.  "I'm doing well, too."  Didn't bat an eye, lift an eyebrow, or in any other way acknowledge there was anything different being exchanged.  I think I could have told him I'd lost my right leg that morning and was standing there bleeding to death, and he would have said, "Well, good.  I'm doing well, too."

So, what will I tell him tomorrow?  About the stranger in our parking lot from the night before Christmas?

Will I tell my boss of the young hawk that for the last two days has alighted in trees outside my back door and called to its parents? That sat in the trees, ignoring my walking about trying to spy him, until a parent finally answered and he flew off?

It is so rare to hear young hawks, or adults, come to think of it, in my yard. I know there is a mated pair that live in a neighbor's trees, behind my property. This summer, one of the parents was calling in a shrill, persistent manner - sounded almost like a rabbit's distress cry, which is why I went to the backdoor to see if a feral cat had caught one of the babies from the warren back at the barn. Instead of a cat, I found an adult Cooper's hawk covering something larger than a baby rabbit, and grey, held tightly in its talons. The hawk looked at me, but stayed put, crying out again. I was only a few feet from the bird, but I froze in step, and it tolerated my presence. As I stood still, another bird, a Cooper's, but with juvenile markings, flew right in front of my face. I felt the wind from its wings, was almost touched by its flight feathers. What a thrill! What joy, to come so close to 'touching the wild.'

And then, to have (I am certain) that same juvenile hawk, its breast still streaked with teardrop-shaped spots of russet-brown, come visit me at this bleak time, lightening my mood by stirring those summertime memories.

Still another gift, for which I also am grateful and which also is treasured.

Will I tell him that the annual bonus I received went to repair my truck, instead of getting a gift for my grandson, and food for our holiday dinner?  Will I tell him the sadness I felt when I had to explain the situation to Donovan, and the heartbreak that made me cry when he said, "It's okay, Nanny.  I know these are hard times for you.  It doesn't matter."  This boy, for he is most of the time a young boy, emotionally and socially, lives for Christmas and all the trimmings. That childlike anticipation and joyfulness on his part has helped me get through some very tough holidays in the last few years.  This child, albeit a young man of 20 years, hindered in his life by autism and the ignorance of those not afflicted with or affected by this incurable disorder, wanted me not to feel sad.  

Another gift, received with deepest gratitude and treasured beyond measure because of the concern and love with which it was given.

When I went over to their apartment this morning for brunch, he asked if we were going to be able to go see all the "pretty lights," like we always do.  I assured him we would, but I'd have to wait until I received my paycheck tomorrow, and put gas in the truck.  We usually go after Christmas dinner, which should have been tonight, but the Jimmy ate my bonus.  We put off Christmas until this coming Sunday, so we'll go through the neighborhoods looking at lights then.  And we will stop for hot chocolate - maybe twice, this year.  (Yes, Ken, we still do the "pretty lights" thing, with Donovan doing your part.)

If he asks me tomorrow, I think I will tell my self-involved boss that I probably have had the best Christmas of my life.

"Well, good!  I am doing well, too."