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A Muse at Advent: December 21
It’s officially winter today. For some people, that’s bad enough news. To add insult to injury, it’s also the shortest day of the year. But I propose that that’s also the good news. Starting tomorrow the days get longer every day which means that spring and summer are not very far away. Sounds like a pretty good reason to celebrate to me.
The winter solstice begs a question behind door number 21.
December 21, 2024
Do druids dream of
watermelon as Yuletide
welcomes back the light?
A bowl of watermelon from last summer. Sigh.
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A Muse at Advent: December 20
When a dog is loud but harmless we’re told that his bark is worse than his bite. But when there’s no one there to give that reassurance, it becomes necessary to rely on one’s wits and faith in canine-kind.
Behind door number 20, I’ll try a little tenderness.
December 20, 2024
I’m an extrovert. I’m wicked friendly. Generally, I meet people with the presumption that I’ll like them. I leave it up to them to prove me wrong. The same goes for animals. I can count on one hand the number of people, and one horse, that I’ve met and truly don’t like. Recently, I came close to adding the first dog to that list.
It happened during a routine stop for refreshment at my local convenience store. Little did I know there was a large dog waiting in the SUV next to me. Due to the tint on the windows, I wasn’t aware he was in there until I got out of my car and stood next to his door. The window was open just enough for him to stick his giant head out when I appeared in front of it. He barked directly into my face with the ferocity and breath of a hellhound.
Fortunately, I grew up with older brothers who dulled my reflex to flinch decades ago. And as a native Bostonian, I also live in constant readiness to launch a quick retort. While this beast of a dog barked inches from my face, I was grateful for the strength of tempered glass and all three of my brothers. No sooner had my new canine acquaintance started his aggressive greeting, I took a quick breath and, in my sweetest voice, asked, “Who’s a good boy? I think it’s you, Cujo! Yes, I do!”
A cute beagle, not to be confused with Stephen King’s Cujo. As if my words flicked a switch, the dog morphed from a homicidal maniac to a drooling, affectionate puppy who wanted to give me kisses. We’d only just met, and I still had some trust issues, so I declined. I did, however, go into the store to get my diet cola with a shot of vanilla from the soda fountain. At the register I added an unscheduled chocolate chip whoopie pie. I earned those calories.
When I tell people this story, they immediately remind me how lucky I was not to get hurt. I recognize that, but that’s where my faith in man’s best friend comes into play. Good dogs go for rides in the car with their human pals. For all I know my pulling up next to him and shutting my car door woke him from a nap on the backseat. I’m not at my best when I just wake up, so I’m willing to cut Fido a little slack. The way he melted when I told him he was a good boy tells me that his human also thinks so and tells him with enough frequency that he appreciates being acknowledged as such. But I will still write a thank you note to the manufacturers of tempered glass.
When I went back out to the parking lot, the SUV and the dog were gone. I never did see who he belonged to. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he drove himself there. Maybe he tells this story from his perspective and his dog buddies congratulate him for protecting his car so well that a stranger praised him. I also imagine there’s a cat in the background rolling her eyes.
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A Muse at Advent: December 19
Labels this holiday season have done their best to convince me that their products are softer, larger, smell fresher, taste better, or last longer. It seems that manufacturers, like the rest of us, live in a constant state of self-improvement with varying degrees of success.
Behind door number 19 you’ll find more words with even better punctuation.
December 19, 2024
Of all the promises a label can make, the one I find the most puzzling is “New and Improved.” It’s an interesting pairing of words. New should mean that the product is not the old product I’ve used before. So why would it need to be improved already? It’s easy to overlook the curious syntax if the product lives up to the label. But in a twist of logic, even if it doesn’t live up to the hype, the new thing can still be an improvement over the old thing. These marketing folks have all the angles worked out!
The label on my new (and improved?) protein powder. I recently purchased such a promise. It was a brand of protein powder I hadn’t tried before. My usual brand was out of stock. I figured this brand would be a good bet since it had, apparently, undergone extensive work. After sampling it once, I wondered how bad it was originally for this incarnation to be considered an improvement. Realizing that I had no point of reference for comparison, I was forced to admit that this formulation may very well be better. Then I had an epiphany: at least they’re trying! As we say in these parts, “God love ’em.”
With the new year approaching and giving product labeling way more thought than I should, it occurred to me that it would be hilarious if we labeled ourselves in the same way. This is the time of year when we start thinking about ways to improve ourselves after the confetti settles. The most popular resolutions involve fitness, stress, and money. Imagine walking around in March with a sticker on your chest announcing your improvements:
Contains Less Fat
Now with Less Credit Card Debt
More Smiling, Fewer ComplaintsIt’d be both entertaining and informative. And just like the sticker on a tub of protein powder, people would have to take you at your word that you put in the work even if they don’t perceive it. It would make riding the bus and waiting in line at the coffee shop a lot more interesting. Making friends with similar interests would be easier. Small talk about the weather would probably disappear. Imagine if we could see and accept each other as the works in progress that we really are. Now that actually sounds like society would be both new and improved.
Feel free to share in the comments what your sticker will say in March or what stickers you’d like to see.
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A Muse at Advent: December 18
Whale watching season ended in October, but scientists and Massachusetts residents still cast an eye to the Atlantic for a glimpse of our favorite winter visitors.
Grab a ton (literally) of zooplankton and open door number 18.
December 18, 20204
Capistrano is famous for its influx of swallows each spring, but here in Massachusetts, winter means the return of our beloved North Atlantic right whales. There are a lot fewer of them, but what they lack in number, they make up for in size and the affection that an ocean-neighboring people lavish on them.
Stock photo of a North Atlantic right whale mugging for the camera. Like many other tourists to the area, these gentle giants come to Massachusetts to dine and date. And, like some of our college students, they sometimes find their way into Boston Harbor. While they consume far more seafood than the average tourist, they do not, unlike the students, leave sofas and mattresses on the sidewalks when they leave. And in complete contrast to the tourists and students, we truly wish there were more of them.
North Atlantic right whales earned their moniker in the early 1700s by being “the right whale” to hunt. They are friendly, slow-moving creatures that travel along shorelines, and conveniently, float after they are killed. Because they were easy to find and laden with copious amounts of blubber for whale oil, whalers hunted them nearly to extinction. NOAA estimates that there are only about 370 of these whales alive today.
While they’re no longer hunted, their curiosity and surface skimming feeding technique brings them into contact with vessels and fishing gear with devastating effect. They are the subject of extensive study and ardent conservation. If you visit our fair commonwealth, you may notice that some of us have license plates celebrating our aquatic friends. If you have one of these plates and people consistently honk at you, rest assured it isn’t in support of your contribution to the whales’ wellbeing. Maybe use your blinkah or the pedal on the right.
The first whales of this winter were spotted a few weeks ago. That’s a great sign according to researchers. It indicates that the stuff they like to eat, copepods, is in plentiful supply. When that happens, the whales belly up to the sand bar and eat about one to two tons of the critters each day. They’ll feed up here all winter and part of the spring. Then they’ll travel to the southeastern coast of the United States in mid-May to calve which will, hopefully, expand their numbers.
Whale watching out on the water will resume in May. If you visit Massachusetts next spring, maybe you’ll be picking up a college student for the summer, you may get lucky and see some right whales before they head south. Like the whales, you’ll leave replete with seafood and the next generation in tow. Although we sit in traffic while they ride the tides, it seems we and the whales have a lot in common. Except sofas and mattresses. So, do us a favor and take those home with you, ok? Thanks.
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A Muse at Advent: December 17
I love books. I also love to read them. If you’re a book lover, you know what I’m talking about. Buying books and reading books are two separate activities. It’s true. You can check.
Imagine your favorite bookstore is behind door number 17.
December 17, 20204
I like nothing better than browsing a bookstore at this time of year. As I step out of the cold into the warmth, the store’s ubiquitous lighting envelopes me. Countless books patiently wait on their shelves and tables, each hoping I’ll choose them. Magic is in the very air.
Adventure litters the aisles. I scan the spines whose titles lure me into their depths like terse Sirens. I succumb and slip a book from its perch. I open it to a random page. I never assess a book by reading the first page. Opening paragraphs are like first meetings. Everyone is on their best behavior. If a book can draw me in on page 137, we’ll be good friends.
Even if the book isn’t my cup of tea, I’m still rewarded with the scent of its paper, ink, and glue. The weight of the book, the thickness and texture of its pages, even the typeset, all contribute to the sensory experience of browsing. And the best part is that there’s another book right next to it to try out.
I’m not averse to reading technology. My e-ink tablet has its uses. I like to borrow digital books from the regional library system that my town’s library doesn’t have. It’s also useful for reading that thriller that I’ll finish in a day or two but don’t want to keep for posterity. Even still, searching for and reading a printed book in a library or bookstore engages all of the senses in a way the digital manifestation cannot.
At this time of year, “shopping for gifts” is an excellent
excusereason to go to a bookstore and browse. If you come out with a gift for yourself, oh well, ’tis the season. Even better, you don’t have to wrap it.If you’ll excuse me, I think I have some last-minute shopping to do.
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A Muse at Advent: December 16
There are only 8 more days until Christmas and Hanukkah. I’m sure I’m not alone in wondering where the time has gone. You’d think that writing in the form of an advent calendar would remind me that time is of the essence. All I can say is that holiday brain is definitely a thing.
Behind door # 16 is…
December 16, 2024
… a haiku.
Sometimes I find it easier to say what I mean in 17 syllables.
My brain is eggnog
Drowned in cinnamon and cream
Sugar plum dreaming
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A Muse at Advent: December 15
When I was a kid, families had libraries of photo albums, boxes of loose photographs and slides, and even reels of film stored in closets, attics, and bookcases. The digital era has made it simpler to organize our memories. However, sometimes I miss flipping the pages of an album and being surprised by what was on the next page, and sleuthing out by decor, clothes, and haircuts when it was taken.
I remember one such day when the surprise was a bit more than I expected. The 1980s await behind door number 15.
December 15, 2024
Staples opened its first store in the Boston neighborhood of Brighton on May 1, 1986. At that time my father was a detective at the Boston Police Department’s District 14 in Brighton. I was finishing up my junior year of high school. Some people believe in coincidence, I am not one of them.
Along with his eyesight, left dimple, and swagger, I inherited my father’s love of office supplies. He’d get excited when he got a new pen or opened a fresh notebook. When multicolored paper clips came out, he was ecstatic. His enthusiasm for organizing things was unmatched. Although even he would admit that sometimes the method of organization only made sense to him.
When Dad discovered the new Staples store, he explored every aisle. It was his version of Disney World. He offered a thorough debriefing of its contents over dinner. He brought home colored pens, mechanical pencils, and manilla folders. I remember my mother wondering what we were supposed to do with a gross of manilla folders. It turns out he had plans to reorganize his report writing and case notes at work. Staples had created a monster. I have no doubt that he was single-handedly responsible for their nascent success.
I joke, but he did come up with new ways of handling the mountain of paperwork and photographs that he carried around in the trunk of his unmarked car. There were no mobile phones or digital cameras in 1986. Everything was done with a lot of paper and printed photos. Mugshots, in particular, were essential to have on hand for photo identity parades and when looking for someone when a warrant was issued. They were also the hardest to keep organized.
The mugshot books at the office were cumbersome, hardcover affairs with the photos affixed to the pages. They couldn’t be brought into the field to expedite identity parades. After another trip to Staples, Dad came up with a mobile version that was quickly adopted by the other detectives. He used a three-ring binder with clear plastic pages that had six pockets on one side. When photos were placed in the pockets back-to-back, there would be 6 mugshots on the front and 6 on the back. It was lightweight and customizable. The photos could easily be replaced and reordered to provide a lineup for a witness at the scene. It just required talking the police photographer into making prints of each mugshot roughly the same size as the pocket. I’m pretty sure that was accomplished with a sub from the sandwich shop around the corner.
It will come as no surprise that, as the family photographer, Dad started to use the same setup for our family photos. It was nice because we could remove photos for framing and reorganize the albums without ruining the photos or the album. We admitted he was a genius. That was probably accomplished with Chinese food.
Travel with me now to a moment in time a couple of years later. Staples is well established in the retail office supply market. Dad’s organization of paperwork and photographs is neatly stored in fancy, plastic file boxes in the trunk of his car. I have just arrived home from college for the weekend. After putting my bag up in my room, I sat down on the sofa in the open kitchen/family room area to relax and talk to my mother who was starting supper. A red, three ring binder lay on the coffee table. Fun! Mom and Dad must’ve been looking through family photographs.
No. No, they hadn’t been.
Upon opening the cheerful red (also my favorite color) cover, I was greeted by six of the scariest looking men I’d ever seen in my life. Startled, I yelped and slammed it shut. My father had just walked into the room. He looked equally as startled as he realized that he’d forgotten to put the mugshot book back in his car. He looked at me, looked at my mother, and then back at the book. He was doing some kind of Dad calculus about how much trouble he might be in.
At this point, I guess he figured the die was cast and his fate sealed, so he started to laugh, a loud belly laugh. I chastised him, “What were you thinking? Leaving that there where anyone could open it!” He replied, “I brought that home so you could choose a husband.” I started laughing, but I was still incredulous. I sought a little maternal backup, “Mom?” My mother, completely unfazed, looked up at me from whatever she was chopping and said, “Don’t be so choosy. You may not get a better opportunity.” My father howled.
I was raised by lunatics.
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A Muse at Christmas: December 14
It’s a hectic time of year. Everyone is busy. It’s easy to get overwhelmed.
Let’s see if we can get back to the bear, ahem, bare necessities and just the right amount of whelmed behind door number 14.
Shout out to my nephew, Sam, for today’s door image. He had no idea what the topic would be and sent the perfect image anyway. He made my day. December 14, 2024
Walk up to someone today and ask them how they are. I guarantee they’ll tell you, in some manner, that they’re busy. “I’ve been wicked busy” is a staple in these parts. Busy is a badge of honor. No one will judge you harshly for being industrious. Tell people you’ve been lazing around all day, and you don’t get that same understanding nod.
There are so many things to do and enjoy at this time of year that our calendars fill up quickly. Saying, “I’d love to!” soon turns to “Sorry, I’m busy.” The happy anticipation of attending a party, recital, or play can, if we’re not careful, morph into obligation by the sheer volume of events we commit to.
Do we even realize that we’re the authors of our relentlessly busy lives? We’re not protagonists in a story written by another’s hand, although it feels like that sometimes. Life is a string of individual choices. Even when the circumstances are not of our choosing, our response to them is. Being busy is an occupation, not an emotion. If we respond to a query about how we’re feeling with what we’re doing, it’s time to reassess the context in which we live.
What is the prescription for a balanced schedule at this time of year? I think it’s simple. Accept the party invitations, attend the recitals, get the tickets for the play, and enjoy each event in the moment for the magic it brings to your life and those you share it with. That way, you’re more than busy, you’re happy.
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A Muse at Advent: December 13
It’s Friday the 13th in the middle of Advent. I have thoughts.
Let’s just open door number 13, shall we?
December 13, 2024
I am not a superstitious person. I’ll open an umbrella in the house. I won’t throw salt over my shoulder if I spill some. Like I need to clean that up. I’ve broken mirrors without anything other than fairly normal circumstances ensuing. I will not, however, walk under a ladder. The reason isn’t because I’m afraid of misfortune befalling me, but because I can’t be sure the person who put it up did all of the appropriate ladder-shaking and bottom-rung-jumping to secure it in place. Also, I have a brother who falls off ladders with alarming regularity and, although he assures me that bumbles bounce, I don’t need a bumble landing on my head. Steer clear of ladders, friends.
The biggest well of superstition has been dug around the shiver-inducing date of Friday the 13th. Going back millennia, the number 13 and Friday have each been considered unlucky. Apparently combining them unleashes the kind of bad luck that inspired the coining of an admittedly fantastic word: friggatriskaidekaphobia. I am not making this up. It’s a combination of the Norse goddess of wisdom, Frigga, who is also the root for the word Friday in Norse, and the Greek words for 13 and fear. Say it with me: friggatriskaidekaphobia. Spectacular, isn’t it?
Fabulous etymology aside, friggatriskaidekaphobia is a thing. But not everyone has regarded it as strictly superstitious in nature. Some have used its mystique for amusement. It inspired a dinner club visited by Presidents in late 19th century New York, a novel about stockbrokers by Thomas William Lawson in 1907, and of course, a lucrative film franchise that, curiously, stopped at 12 installments. The day did prove to be unlucky in October of 1307 for the Knights Templar and simultaneously lucrative for King Philip IV of France when he arrested the Knights and executed them to assume their fortunes. Sounds like the really terrifying thing there wasn’t the date, but greed.
I look forward to Friday the 13th when it rolls around. I like to think my embracing it as a welcome guest forestalls any negative energy that the superstitious have attached to it. Everyone deserves a break and it’s Christmastime, fer cryin’ out loud.
Oh, speaking of something deserving a break, if you’re looking for a family pet this holiday season and have a cat on your radar, adopt a black cat. They’re also considered unlucky. As a result, they’re often mistreated and usually the last to be adopted. Don’t let mavrogatphobia cause an innocent animal to be lonely this Christmas. While you’re at it, pick up a hockey mask on your way home. It’ll be a hoot on Christmas morning. I promise.
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A Muse at Advent: December 12
We’re well underway on the season of gift giving. The solemnity of the three gifts that the Magi brought to the infant Jesus has given way to our own interpretation of gift giving at Christmas. Gifts can be small tokens of friendship and affection or grandiose dream-fulfilling gestures. I subscribe to the theory that the gift itself isn’t really the point; it’s the thought that matters.
With your letter to Santa in hand, open door number 12.
December 12, 2024
There are two schools of gift-giving thought: store bought and handmade. Exchanging currency for goods seems like an easy way to acquire gifts, but the gift buyer must earn the currency prior to spending it. That takes time and effort. Similarly, making gifts seems inexpensive. I mean all you have to do is knit that sweater or sew that quilt, right? Well, ask any knitter or quilter the cost of yarn and fabric and how long it takes to knit a sweater or sew a quilt, and the gift buyer and the gift maker suddenly stand on even ground.
Earlier I mentioned the thoughtfulness of the gift giver being more important than the gift itself. But there’s a complementary state of grace for the recipient of the gift. It’s called gratitude. Putting a lot of thought into a gift isn’t a guarantee that the recipient is going to like it. But I assert that if a gift is given in good faith and with sincere regard, the recipient should express gratitude for having received it.
Now I’m going to read you the fine print. There’s a corollary to the gratitude rule: The giver cannot have been selfish in their choice of gift. A couple of cases pop to mind when you might not be obligated to feel grateful for what has been foisted upon you. First there are those people who buy you what they want you to have. For instance, your aunt confuses your lack of interest in cooking as a lack of know-how, so she buys you lessons at the local cooking school and says she looks forward to your next dinner party. Great. Can’t wait. Even worse, there are those people who buy you what they want. I think those ads with cars bearing giant red bows in the driveway fall into that category. No one has ever written a thank you note for a monthly payment.
I was recently scrolling social media and found a thread about gifts made by sailors for their loved ones back home. I marveled at the idea of being far away on long journeys, sailing unpredictable seas, performing arduous duties, and still finding the time and desire to craft something from whatever they had into a gift for someone back home. These artifacts are heartwarming reminders that gift giving is hardwired into the human psyche.
A rolling pin made by a sailor for his sweetheart back home. Photo is from an auction listing at CharlesMillerLtd.com My husband is an accountant not a sailor, but this rolling pin reminds me of the year he gave me a food processor. Don’t mistake this for a complaint. He’s not an example of the selfishness corollary. I asked him for one and was absolutely thrilled when I opened the package to reveal it and its myriad blades and attachments. It was my own sous chef in a box. Although it might not have been worthy of being auctioned off in a century, I treasured it, nonetheless.
My fascination with the unique gifts sailors made from leather, wood, and whale bone makes me wonder if, in another incarnation, I was the recipient of a beautifully decorated rolling pin from a sailor who was also very good at sums. After seeing this rolling pin, though, I just wish that food processor had something more beautiful engraved on it than “Caution! Blades Are Very Sharp!”
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