and the band played on...

Eve of destruction, tax deduction

city inspectors, bill collectors

mod clothes in demand,

population out of hand,suicide, too many bills

hippies moving to the hills

people all over the world are shouting end the war

and the band played on...

In 2004, the Neville Brothers covered the Temptations' 1970 hit, "Ball of Confusion", and at first blush it seemed like an odd choice. Upon further consideration, it seems, dated slang notwithstanding, an inspired and timely choice. The more things change...

2004 was an interesting year...we live in interesting times (to put it mildly) and this year (the 4th or 5th year of the new century and millennium depending on how you're counting...it was the 4th insofar as I'm concerned) lived up to that very well.

We reached out to the stars once more, marveling as hardy little man-made machines chugged across the Martian soil beaming back more information than their creators could have even dared to imagine.And, at the same time, we sank to new depths here in the USA as the most powerful political job on Earth was decided after too many months of mudslinging and shadowboxing over superficial matters between George Bush, a born-again "compassionate conservative" (for the duration of the campaign), and John Kerry, an old-style liberal patrician Democrat (long past the time when liberal patricians held much sway in this country.) This all following the marginalization of Ralph Nader, the partisan loyalty of former maverick Republican John McCain, and the spectacular rise and fall of would-be maverick firebrand Howard Dean.

We lost Ray Charles and Captain Kangaroo and Marlon Brando and Ronald Reagan and far, far too many lives in the conflicts in Iraq, Afghanistan, Africa, the Middle East, and the streets of American inner cities. (While at the same time, we couldn't get away from media freakshows like Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, and Michael Jackson no matter how much we really, really wanted to.)"Red states" and "Blue States" came to philosophical blows over "values" (which nobody could clearly define but they knew them when they saw them) with pandering politicians and egocentric filmmakers as their standard-bearers (I personally found both Michael Moore and Mel Gibson, however passionate they might truly be, to be canny, calculated idealogues filling their personal coffers while fanning the flames of division and intolerance of beliefs others than their own.)

Olympic athletes basked in their quadrennial moment in the spotlight (and then, for the most part, slipped back into relative obscurity again) and the Boston Red Sox broke the so-called "curse of the Bambino" by winning the World Series.As the year ends, the death toll from the tsunami in the Indian Ocean continues to climb to horrific levels highlighting all too well the undeniable fragility of our mortal lives.And, depressingly enough, the aftermath of Janet Jackson's halftime performance at the Super Bowl continues to inform public discourse in weird and troubling ways (one would think people in this country had never seen a nipple before...the things we choose to get excised about continues to amaze and annoy me to no end.)It was a remarkable year...but then, truth to be told, they all are.

Goodbye 2004...hey, it was never dull.

Hello 2005...whatever you've got in store, bring it on...give us your best shot and we'll do our utmost to take it...to roll with it and soar above it.

"Ball of Confusion" words & music by Norman Whitfield & Barrett Strong

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

This was my result:

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

a quotation

If you constantly seek the validation of others, you will often be disappointed. Yet when you live, and love and act in each moment with the best that you have to give, the real value you create can never be diminished.

Ralph Marston

the rising toll

67,000 (as of this writing.) Every morning I wake up and check the news and the number of the dead in the countries struck by this past weekend's tsunami has risen to another almost unimaginable level. It is, it goes almost without saying, sobering.

We speak blithely of the "fury" or the "wrath" of "Mother Nature" as if the elements possessed human traits and mortal foibles...as if, in this case for example, the earthquake beneath the surface of the Indian Ocean and its resultant, utterly inexorable wall of water were the result of some consciousness maliciously lashing out at the folly of humankind. We sometimes think too much of ourselves in that we project our own images and emotions onto things far beyond such foolish things as our misguided notion that the universe mirrors our collective ego.

Nature is what it is. It doesn't rise up in "anger" or lash out with "spite". It does what it does and we...its subjects not its masters...must then pick up the pieces of our fragile lives. So we mourn for those we do not know...would never have known. We send prayers to our Gods and money to those who will try to bring succor to the stricken...comfort to the survivors...peace to the dying.

And we will shake our heads as the number of the dead and the missing rises feeling that much more humble...and, not without some misguided but very real guilt, that much more grateful to be alive.

*****

International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies

American Red Cross

16 Cool Reasons to Have Owned a CD Player in 2004

(In alphabetical order by artist...music is too subjective for any ranking to make any kind of real sense. Well anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

Bjork – Medulla
(Otherworldly…and yet at the same time, comfortingly down-to-Earth…Bjork combines the human voice with minimal instrumentation to create gorgeous, challenging, rewarding music.)

Ray Charles – Genius Loves Company
(Even with his voice weakened by illness, Ray’s bluesy soul shines strong finding able assistance from stellar friends and fans like Willie Nelson, Gladys Knight, Norah Jones, and Van Morrison.)

Elvis Costello and the Imposters – The Delivery Man
(Costello delivers an irresistible collection of sweaty, swampy R&B and Rock ‘n’ Roll as well as delicate balladry. The ever-amazing Emmylou Harris and Lucinda Williams offer sparkling guest turns along the way.)

Diana Krall – The Girl in the Other Room
(Krall stretches past the standards with a collection of lovely original songs and challenging covers and she soars triumphantly.)

Loretta Lynn – Van Lear Rose
(Shania Twain and her ilk should play this disc over and over until they understand what honest and engaging soulful country music is really supposed to sound like.)

Los Mocosos – American Us
(Though it veers off into a little preachy-ness near the end, this blend of Latin rhythms, hip hop, and big band rock is infectious as all get out.)

Nellie McKay – Get Away from Me
(The audacious, witty, delightfully eclectic (sultry torch songs here, feisty dance pop there, some freewheeling and funny hip hop over in the corner) debut from a 19-year-old who, if there’s ANY justice, should have a long and prosperous career.)

Prince – Musicology
(His Purple Highness brings the old school funk and rock in the way only he can…looking back a little but stepping confidently into the future as always.)

Queen Latifah – The Dana Owens Album
(The Queen reigns with an assured collection of covers that find new life with her honeyed, soulful voice and style.)

R.E.M. – Around the Sun
(Shimmering, bittersweet ruminations on love, loss, and healing that harkens back to past triumphs while looking forward in new, engaging ways.)

Rilo Kiley – More Adventurous
(An involving collection of rocking “indie pop”…whatever the heck that really means…anchored by solid hooks and the sultry voice of Jenny Lewis. Pure pop for now people, circa 2004.)

Linda Ronstadt – Hummin’ to Myself
(Lots of folks have dipped into the so-called “Great American Songbook” over the past few years; some to nice effect…take a bow, Chaka…some with less pleasing results…step away from the microphone, Mr. Stewart…but none as well-suited as my girl Linda whose rich voice is perfectly suited to relive the classic chestnuts from the golden age of American popular song.)

Patti Scialfa - 23rd Street Lullaby
(Mrs. Springsteen offers up a wonderfully engaging collection of nearly flawless power pop.)

U2 – How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb
(The veteran band offers up another amazing collection of Rock and Roll that doesn’t just sit on its laurels but grabs you by the collar and demands your full attention.)

Various Artists – Enjoy Every Sandwich: The Songs of Warren Zevon
(Some of Zevon’s many friends and fans bid him and fond farewell with heartfelt…but not carbon copy…versions of some of songs.)

Kanye West – The College Dropout
(Uplifting but clear-eyed rhymes combined with powerful, infectious beats and melodies to create a hip hop classic...and since I'm not the biggest fan of most hip hop out there it surprised me how much I like this record.)

O Christmas Tree 

a prayer

As reindeer fly into the dreams of children of all ages
and the faithful kneel remembering the Christ child’s birth,
may you know peace and joy and passion,
may your dreams have wings and your heart be ever true;
may you dance with golden butterflies and lazy breezes,
may you sing with rainbows and thunder and blues in the night...
may you know peace and love, joy and passion,
may ever you know the neverending song of the universe…
may you know love...may you know joy...may you know peace…
amen.

Michael K. Willis
©2004 Neverending Rainbow Enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.

The Conversation

Two O’clock in the morning is, of course, a time when all good little boys and girls should be fast asleep in their beds. A time when bright dreams of unicorns and hopscotch and chocolate drops welcome them and keep them warm throughout brisk winter’s nights. Robin was a good little girl…most of the time…but this night was not one for dreaming in bed. Christmas Eve was a night for dreams come true…for magic and love to be expressed in beautifully decorated trees and brightly dressed boxes.

Unable to sleep, Robin crept from her room when her home was at its most still…when the rumbling, majestic snore of her father and the softer sighing breaths of her mother let her know that her parents were themselves sound asleep. Robin…with the undeniable curiosity her six years on Earth made her birthright…crept down the hall, the padded feet of her flannel pajamas making almost no noise on the thick carpeting, to sneak a peak at Christmas.

As she neared the top of the stairway, she was startled to see someone sitting on the stairs near the bottom of the landing. His hair was white and thick as fresh cotton as was his full beard. His robe was lush, a deep scarlet. He never looked back. “I know you’re there,” he said in a rich, melodic baritone that both startled and comforted Robin, “you might as well come on down.”

Defeated, Robin abandoned her brief notion of making a run back to her bed to pretend she had never been out of it at all. She took a deep breath and then she walked slowly down the stairs and sat next to the stout old man. “Hey, Papa,” she said softly, glad to be in his company even if it meant her late night excursion had been found out.

“Hey, baby girl,” her grandfather replied, looking down at her with the magic twinkle in his eye that Robin loved so much. “Kinda late for you be roaming around, isn’t it?”

Robin rolled her eyes a little and then nodded. “Yeah,” she admitted reluctantly, “but I just wanted to see the tree before morning came.”

Robin’s grandfather smiled softly and nodded in return. “Yeah,” he said after a brief silence, “me too.”

Robin rested her head against her grandfather’s strong arm. He always understood what she meant and that was something that made her love him more than anyone in the world except her parents.

Silently, grandfather and granddaughter looked up at the tree in the corner of the living room. Robin’s parents had a tradition of trimming the tree…with festive ornaments and little teddy bears and softly sparkling lights…on Christmas Eve after Robin had been put to bed. In the morning they made a big fuss about Santa Claus having brought Christmas while they all slept. Robin knew better, of course, that curiosity of hers having long since located the “hidden” gifts in her mother’s workshop, but she played along because it seemed to be so important to her parents.

Santa had indeed made his rounds again as the tree was dazzling…with dancing lights and teddy bear ornaments upon it and a bright bounty of beautifully wrapped boxes underneath it. Robin smiled and nestled closer to her grandfather who put his arm around her and held her safe.

“When did you get here, Papa?” Robin asked, remembering that the old man hadn’t been there when she was tucked into bed.

“Just a little while ago,” he replied. “Can’t stay long but there was no way I was gonna miss sharing some Christmas with my princess.”

Robin blushed slightly and sighed contentedly. Nobody called her princess except her Papa and despite the fact that she pretended that it was annoying baby stuff she loved it. “I love you, Papa,” she said not feeling the least bit self-conscious.

The old man bent down and kissed the little girl’s forehead. “I love you too, baby girl,” he said, just a bit wistfully. “Always have and always will.”

Nothing more needing to be said, the two watched the lights on the tree dance and twinkle. In the arms of her grandfather, sleep took Robin and she dreamed of unicorns and reindeer…of hopscotch…of sweet chocolate drops and silly teddy bear ornaments.

Suddenly awoken from a deep sleep, Robin’s mother was startled to hear what sounded like muffled voices coming from downstairs. The sound, however, didn’t seem threatening and she didn’t bother to wake her husband. Slipping out of bed and out of the room, Robin’s mother crept down the hall and to the top of the stairs. She was surprised…but only just…to see Robin sleeping peacefully near the bottom of the stairs in sight of the Christmas tree.

Robin’s mother smiled and shook her head. She went down the stairs and lifted her daughter into her arms.

Robin stirred and looked up. “Oh, hi Mommy,” she said sleepily.

“Hi baby,” Robin’s mother replied. “What are you doing down here?” she asked although she already knew the answer, of course.

“Looking at the tree,” the little girl replied in heavy voice, her eyelids barely open.

Robin’s mother nodded knowingly. “Who were you talking to?” she asked, remembering that she had heard voices.

“Papa,” Robin said with a yawn as she rested her arms around her mother’s neck and laid her head against her mother’s shoulder and surrendered to sleep once more.

Robin’s mother looked startled for a moment. She looked up at the mantle in the living room. She looked at the photo of the stout old man with twinkling eyes. She looked over at the urn, golden and gleaming on the mantle in the dim moonlight coming through the window; .the urn that held her father’s mortal remains. She looked at her precious child sleeping contentedly in her arms on the gentle Christmas morning and she smiled.

“Merry Christmas, Daddy,” Robin’s mother said looking upwards with a bittersweet tear tracing down her cheek. And then she turned and carried Robin back up the stairs to her room and tucked the little girl back into her bed.

(c)2003, 2004 Neverending Rainbow Enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.

Joshua and Ruth

It was very early on Christmas morning when Ruth Wilson, all of five and with all of the mountain of curiosity, wonder, and love that comes with being that tender age, had her brief encounter with Joshua.

In the soft hours before sunrise the air was crisp and still with only the occasional song of a lonely bird or cricket breaking the silence. Ruth (she hated being called “Ruthie”, even though both of her parents insisted on doing just that) had slipped from the warm comfort of her bed and had trudged down the stairs to sit watch. She had decided (embracing the dream of countless children before her) that this was the night that she was going to see him in person. Ruth Wilson, with the guileless determination only possessed by children of a certain age, had decided that this was the night that she was going to see Santa Claus with her very own eyes.

The fireplace was cool, Ruth’s father having made sure the fire was out before he went to bed, and Ruth was glad for the silly flannel pajama’s her mother had made her wear to bed. Her bright blue eyes twinkled anxiously as Ruth thought about what was about to happen.

Ruth secreted herself in a shadowy corner of the stairwell that overlooked her family’s fragrant Christmas tree resolved to stay there until the jolly fat man made his appearance. And, of course, she then promptly fell back to sleep.

And thus she was asleep when a golden spray of light danced down the chimney. The warm twinkling light twirled and pulsated and finally spun into a spiral right in front of the Christmas tree. The light grew and grew until it was a ball almost as tall as the tree itself. And then, quite suddenly, there was a flash and the light was gone. In its place was a man, a burly man dressed in a festive scarlet suit trimmed in white with great gleaming black boots and a gleaming black belt that encircled the impressive girth of his belly.

The man had brown eyes that twinkled even in the darkness of the early morning hours and a thick white beard that contrasted with the deep chocolate color of his face.

The man glanced around, his eyes landing immediately on the sleeping Ruth. He chuckled quietly and shook his head. He made a step towards the tree and much to his dismay he found that he had stepped directly on a floorboard that gave off a very audible squeak. The noise startled Ruth and the man, realizing instantly that she had woken, rolled his eyes upward and sighed.

Ruth'’s eyes grew wide with surprise (in truth, a small part of her hadn’t really expected that there was really a Santa Claus) and delight. “Santa!” she exclaimed softly.

The man shook his head and turned round. "“Hello, Ruth,"” he said, his voice deep and reassuring, "“shouldn’t you be in bed?”"

Ruth got to her feet and walked down the stairs. “"I just wanted to meet you,"” she said, shyly finding her voice, “"I hope you’re not mad..."”

The man smiled and knelt down. “"No, little one,"” he said gently, “"Of course, I'’m not mad.”"

Ruth did a double take as she got close enough to see the man'’s dark face so different from the ruddy, rosy-cheek image she had come to know. “"Are you really Santa… I mean..."”

The man smiled patiently. “"Well actually, my name is Joshua,"” he explained, “"I'’m a Santa from the South Pole."”

Ruth, finding this explanation to be perfectly logical, smiled. “"Really?”"

Joshua nodded and chuckled. "“Can'’t lie while I'm wearing this suit now can I, kiddo?”" He rose and moved back towards the tree. "“I have to do my thing and get on the road, still have a lot more houses to visit tonight.”"

Joshua waved his hand and a shower of golden sparks danced around the Christmas tree, circling and growing until the entire tree was covered by light. And then, suddenly, the light flared and was gone. And the tree was surrounded by brightly-wrapped gifts that had not been there before.

“"Wow,"” Ruth exclaimed softly, "“that was amazing!”"

Joshua nodded appreciatively. “"Yeah, it’s still kind of cool to me, too. You just have to believe in magic, Ruth,"” he said, “because it’s everywhere. "Never forget that.”"

Ruth nodded. “"I won'’t," Joshua,” she replied earnestly, "“I promise.”"

“"There'’s a good girl."” Joshua turned and held out his hand. “"It’'s time for you to get back to sleep, little one.”"

Ruth smiled up at the big man. "“Are there any more Santas?"”

Joshua nodded. “"Yeah, it'’s a big job and Nick needed some help to get to all the good little boys and girls on Christmas Eve.”"

“"Wow,"” Ruth said thoughtfully.

“"You want to know the big difference between me and ol’ St. Nick?”" Joshua asked impishly. He puffed himself up and struck a playful pose. "“I make this suit look good!”"

Ruth giggled. "“You stole that line from Will Smith.”"

Joshua sighed heavily. "“Everyone'’s a critic."”

Joshua knelt down and looked into the little girl’s face. “"Have a very happy Christmas, Ruth Wilson,”" he said tenderly.

Ruth threw her arms around Joshua’s neck and hugged him tightly. "“You too, Joshua."” Joshua hugged the girl and chuckled warmly. Ruth stood back and smiled. "“You laugh just like the doctor on ‘The Simpsons’,"” she said.

Joshua rolled his eyes again. “"Yeah I get that all the time,"” he admitted ruefully.

“"Yo, Santa!"” an impatient voice suddenly called out down the chimney, "“get a move on, dude, we'’re behind schedule here!”"

Joshua sighed. "“Nothing worse than an impatient elf,"” he deadpanned. His hand began to glow as he raised it towards Ruth’s astonished face. "“Sleep tight, little one,"” he said in a rich, warm tone that reminded Ruth of her grandfather, “"tonight and every night."

The light danced from Joshua’s finger and enveloped the little girl. Ruth felt herself drifting off to sleep and she felt herself floating off the floor.

“"Joshua?"” she said as she floated up away from Joshua. “"How many Santas are there?”"

Joshua looked up and smiled. "“There are millions, sweetheart,"” he said, "“millions all over the world."” And then he smiled again and added, “"And, at the same time, there's only one. There is only one Santa Claus, Ruth Wilson. Merry Christmas, dear child.”"

Ruth Wilson drifted off to deep sleep just as the light gently deposited her in her bed. The sound sleigh bells and merry chuckling went with her as she returned to her dreams. In the morning she would not remember Joshua but she would know the magic and on a glorious Christmas morning that is exactly the way it should be.

©2004 Neverending Rainbow Enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.

Peace on Earth?

Christmas is a scant few days away. A hope-filled New Year is less than two weeks hence. People all over the world are trying to embrace the spirits of the winter season...peace and hope, caring and sharing, light and love and laughter. And still the blood continues to be spilled in roiling, awful rivers onto the storied sands of distant Iraq.

Today's bomb attack struck while young Americans and young Iraqis were taking a break from the tension and the bloodshed to break bread...to catch their breath...to whisper soft prayers for the health of well-being of friends close at hand and loved ones left behind a dangerous world away.

Donald Rumsfeld may indeed be a "caring fellow" as President Bush proclaimed just yesterday but the war he and the officials at the Pentagon have waged has been a study in lack of preparedness, willful hubris, and downright folly. And the price being paid is blood. The blood that continues to be spilled onto the historic byways of distant Iraq.

And the still the blood continues to be spilled...

"war is over...if you want it...war is over now..."
- John Lennon / "Happy Xmas (War is Over)"

Jacob and Elijah

Jake Harris lived his life in shades of black and white. Things were either right or they were wrong. It is how his father had lived his life and if it was good enough for his old man then it was certainly good enough for him.

Jake was a solid man, unbowed by life and, for the most part, certain of his place in the world. He was in fact much like the town in which he had lived for almost the entirety of his life…quiet, self-contained, as unchanging as it could be in the backwaters of an ever-changing world.

Jake had, to his mind, kept his part of the bargain with life. He walked tall as man who had served his country, been faithful to his wife, and provided for his family. He had married Mary, the first girl he had kissed, when he was 23 and back from his stint in the Army. He had taken a job in the same factory that his father worked in and he stayed there, moving slowly but surely up the ladder of responsibility, until he retired.

Mary had borne him two children and made the house they bought a home. He went to work each day and came home late each night. Every summer they drove to the lake…to the cabin Jake built…and every winter they went to Mary’s parents’ house for Christmas. It was, Jake knew, a good life.

Jake’s daughter, Elizabeth, grew up (so fast that Jake barely got a chance to know her like he wanted to) and married a farmer from the other side of the county.

Jake’s son, Elijah, grew up (so fast that Jake barely got a chance to teach him the way a man was supposed to be) and moved to a city farther away than Jake cared to contemplate.

Mary kept Jake good and faithful company…fed and clean and happy…for 40 peaceful years. And then she was gone…taken by a cancer-ridden body far too early for a woman as good as she.

Jake grieved in the stolid way that men were supposed to grieve. He stayed in the house that Mary made and, having retired from the factory, he lived a life he couldn’t have imagined…one without Mary…but one he had to cope with just the same. Elizabeth helped out but she had her own family to care for and Jake, neither wanting nor willing to learn housework, eventually hired a housekeeper.

Besides his wife’s death, the major disappointment in Jake’s life was his estrangement from his son. Jake had never been a hands-on father…that was not the way of men in his family…and so Mary had been the nurturer while he had been the provider. It was a balance that made perfect sense to Jake. Elizabeth had turned out to be good woman, solid and dependable.

Elijah has turned out to be somebody Jake couldn’t begin to really understand. Jake and Elijah were at odds from the boy’s adolescence on…it was only Mary’s quiet force of will that kept the two of them on speaking terms. When Mary died, the gulf between the father and the son widened until they could no longer see each other clearly.

Jake felt his losses most acutely when the holidays came around. He spent Thanksgiving with Elizabeth, her husband, and her three children (including the rambunctious Jacob, his oldest grandson named for him) and it was good…but it also made him miss Mary…and Elijah…more than he allowed himself to at any other time of the year.

On this Christmas Eve, Jake couldn’t stand rambling around his house alone. In the morning, he would drive to Elizabeth’s home and spend Christmas with her family but on this night, after his housekeeper left for her own holiday celebration, Jake went to his favorite bar so that he would be less alone.

The bar was populated by a few souls, none of whom was talking much, but Jake felt marginally better being in proximity with others. He sat off to himself, sipping a beer, smoking his pipe, and reading a book.

Eli knew the bar well. Not that he spent much time there…he wasn’t old enough to be in it while he was living in town…but he always knew that the bar was where his father and his friends unwound after long weeks in the factory.

Eli was a solid man, more like his father than he cared to acknowledge. Every time he returned to the town he was surprised at how familiar…how unchanging…it all seemed. It was a bit shabbier…and, it seemed, quite a bit smaller…than Eli remembered but, truth to be told, it was as it ever was. Eli didn’t miss it much at all and since his mother had died he had little reason to return. And yet he was here on a cold Christmas Eve.

After lingering at the door of the bar for a long minute, Eli walked in. He had been to the house he grew up in and, finding it empty, he knew exactly where the old man would be. Eli scanned the smoky bar and found the old man alone in a booth. He bought a beer and walked over to the booth.

Jake looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow.

“Hello, Jake,” Eli said his voice devoid of inflection.

“Elijah,” the old man replied.

Unbidden, Eli took off his overcoat and sat down across from his father and took a sip of beer. He smiled to himself…nobody but his parents had continued to call him Elijah after he had moved to city and remade himself into Eli.

Jake pretended that he was reading his book. “Didn’t expect to see you this year…”

Eli stifled a sigh. “Elizabeth invited us for Christmas.”

Jake winced. “She didn’t mention it.”

Eli smiled vaguely. “I don’t imagine that she did. She’s trying to do what Mom used to do.”

Jake looked up. “What’s that?”

“Make us behave like we’re really still a family.”

The old silences and resentments crushed in on them and they sat, looking but not looking at each other, and sipping beer.

Eli wanted to feel more angry than he did…he wanted to call the old man every name he could think of and storm out of the bar…but he couldn’t. His anger was trumped by nostalgia…the steely yet warm glint in the old man’s deep brown eyes, the sweet aroma of the tobacco the old man smoked in a pipe that a much younger Eli had saved up his allowance to buy him one long ago Christmas.

“Where’s your…friend…?” Jake asked hesitantly when the silence between them became too much even for him.

Eli and Patrick had been a couple for more than 15 years but Jake, not understanding why his son was “that way”, always referred to Patrick as Eli’s “friend”. It used to infuriate Eli but he had told himself that he didn’t care anymore and he tried not to let it get to him.

“At Elizabeth’s,” Eli replied. “He offered to come with me but I told him I wanted to come alone.”

“Why?” Jake, genuinely perplexed, asked. “Why did you want to come here at all?”

For a long moment, Eli didn’t have an answer. It seemed so foolish…the old man was never going to change and neither was he…but Eli pushed past that feeling and sighed softly. “Because Mom would have wanted me to,” he said in a small, wistful voice. “and because I wanted to.” He paused and took a shallow sip of beer. “Because it’s Christmas Eve, Jacob, and even though you’re an infuriating, aloof, self-righteous, homophobic son of a bitch, you’re my father and I love you and I don’t want you to feel like you were completely alone.”

Jake stared directly into his son’s eyes for the first time since he arrived. There were so many things he wanted…needed…to say but, being the man he was, he simply didn’t have the ability to give voice to what he was feeling. Jake puffed thoughtfully on his pipe and nodded. “Okay,” he said simply.

Eli shook his head and laughed, not unkindly. He finished his beer and took a deep breath. “I’m going back to Elizabeth’s,” he said, rising from the booth.

“Okay,” Jake replied.

Eli put on his overcoat and looked down at the old man. “Are you still coming in the morning even though me and my…friend…are going to be there?”

Jake looked up and nodded. “Yeah.”

Eli sighed again and turned to walk away.

“Elijah…”

Eli stopped and turned around.

Jake cleared his throat. “It’s a two hour drive back to Elizabeth’s…why don’t you just stay at the house and we can drive there in the morning…together…?”

Eli regarded his father with the complex mixture of emotions that he had carried in his heart for the old man for a long time. “Okay,” he replied.

Eli took off his overcoat and ordered two more beers from the bartender. They didn’t speak much…they still didn’t have the right words for each other…but they looked at each other when the bartender brought over the fresh drinks.

Eli raised his mug and Jake did likewise. Eli touched his mug to his father’s and smiled…wistfully, ruefully, sincerely. “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “Merry Christmas, son.”

©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd.
All rights reserved (and all you need is love.)

Christmas in California

I’m not dreaming of a white Christmas. Though I was born in Illinois, I am a child of Southern California and snow and frost and all of those types of things so rapturously extolled in Christmas songs are not a part of my memories…or expectations…of the holiday season. (I did experience one “white Christmas”…while living in Colorado Springs for a year when I was a child…and while interesting it was not a happenstance I have ever been especially anxious to relive.)

Christmas in the parts of California where I have spent the majority of my life had nothing to do with snow (snow is a relatively short drive away but it never lays its frosty blankets on my doorstep) and everything to do with bright blue days and warm (relatively speaking) nights. Frost (when there is any) is fleeting…withering in the golden glow of the early morning sun…and most often I need to bundle up in nothing more protective than a light jacket or sweater (and then only if I’m venturing out in the Southern California briskness of the evening for one reason or another.)

We sing of white Christmases and of Jack Frost nipping at our noses, but our snowmen are plastic and our snowfall comes from spray cans…winter is not as warm as summer but it is, for the most part, warmer than any classic Christmas tune will ever acknowledge.

Chances are I will be able to go out barefoot on Christmas Day and I will not feel that it is even the slightest bit strange or uncomfortable. If you’re dreaming of…or living in…a white Christmas, I salute you (neither with envy nor pity…we all embrace what touches our souls)…me, I’m thinking about going to the beach…

Enjoy the season (whatever the weather in your corner of the world :-)

joyful noise

I am, as it says above, a cynical optimist. I am a bear in the morning and a grouch when it suits me. I am not an easy person to get close to (this is neither a boast nor a challenge just a simple statement of fact…after nearly 50 years on this great blue world of ours I have made my peace with this aspect of myself.)

All that said, there are things that almost instantly cause my barriers to crumble. Things I care for and things which warm my heart no matter how dark a mood I might want to indulge. Children in and about my life are at the top of that list of things…especially the children (and those who once were children but now are not) whose lives have intimately intertwined with mine.

And this season…the hectic, joyful, frustrating, glorious time from Thanksgiving to the New Year…this season is on that short list as well. How could it not be? It is, at its best, a time of magic and wonder…of sharing and dancing…of hope never ending and faith ever lasting…and of music. Wondrous, silly, reverent, amazing music.

I love music and I have a somewhat irrational (but wholly embraced just the same) fondness for Christmas music (secular and not.) Almost every year I find a new seasonal collection to add to my collection…a new version of an old song that finds nuance not before touched upon.

Some Christmas music is eternal…even if I have heard Nat “King” Cole croon the opening line of “The Christmas Song” more times than I can count it still finds fond welcome in this quarter…and some is fleeting (that ditty about Grandma getting run over by a reindeer can be retired forever as far as I’m concerned.)

There is much to be cynical about during “the holidays”…but no reason to indulge that cynicism (unless it suits you to, it is still a free world after all.) We have the holidays…Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Kwanza, the Winter Solstice, Christmas, New Year’s Day…and that’s more than enough to make a joyful noise about.

Have yourselves a merry little...well, you know...

* * * * *

Recommended listening:

“Barenaked for the Holidays” Barenaked Ladies
(A strong candidate for the coolest holiday CD ever…a delightful mix of whimsy and reverence on traditional tunes and witty originals. Highlights include a sprightly medley of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen/We Three Kings” featuring Sarah MacLachlan, a sanctimony-free cover “Do They Know It’s Christmas?”, and “Elf’s Lament”, a tongue-in-cheek tale of Santa’s helpers fighting for better working conditions.)

“A Very Special Christmas” and “A Very Special Christmas 2”
(All-star benefits for the Special Olympics chock full of delightful holiday tunes. Volume 1 features U2 (a rocking “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)”, Whitney Houston (a rousing “Do You Hear What I Hear?”, Madonna (doing…what else?...a sultry take on “Santa Baby”), and Bruce Springsteen (kicking it live on “Merry Christmas, Baby”). Volume 2 includes Tom Petty (with the original “Christmas All Over Again”), a duet of 60’s rock & roll goddesses Ronnie Spector and Darlene Love (playfully updating “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”), Vanessa Williams (a smooth, jazzy “What Child is This?”), and the unlikely teaming (via the wonders of technology) of Frank Sinatra and Cyndi Lauper (“Santa Claus is Coming to Town”). Very cool stuff indeed…and subsequent volumes have gems of their own as well.)

“Handel’s Messiah: A Soulful Celebration”
(An R&B and gospel updating of the classical chestnut that culminates with an all-star choir…including Chaka Khan, Al Jarreau, Vanessa Williams, Gladys Knight, and many others…being conducted by Quincy Jones on the most rollicking, soulful, and sanctified version of “The Hallelujah Chorus” that you are likely to ever hear.)

Leave a tender moment alone. 

He Sees You When You're Sleeping...

He came, soaring gracefully, from the North...an almost imperceptible blur of blue and scarlet knifing through the brisk winter's air.

A child, being half-dragged and half-carried by his preoccupied mother, spied the fleeting blur as it whizzed past a crowded shopping mall parking lot. "Mama!" he cried incredulously scanning the heavens for another glimpse of the bright night traveler. "Didja see him?!?"

"See who?" The boy’s mother said absently as she fumbled around in her purse for her car keys.

"I saw him! Up there!" The boy said, wide-eyed and giddy, pointing to the sky.

His mother opened the car door and stuffed her purchases into the back seat. "That's nice, honey," she said as she lifted him into the passenger seat and secured him with the seat belt. "You can tell me all about it later."

She went around and got into the driver's seat. She started the engine and looked back for a chance to pull out. "Right now we've got to hurry home and get everything ready for the big day..."

The boy sighed dejectedly. "Okay, Mama. But I really did see him...flying over the city..."

The woman, warmed by a sudden realization, smiled. "Oh..." She turned and took his face gently into her hands. "Well of course you saw him flying over the city, Michael...it is Christmas Eve after all and that's exactly where he belongs on this night of nights."

She kissed his forehead and then turned back to drive. Michael smiled and pressed his face to the window searching the dark skies for the traveler as the car pulled out into traffic for the short ride to the warmth of home.

The blur came to rest upon the top of the tallest building in the city. The blur became a man...a tall and powerful man...his burnished red boots softly crunching the fresh snow on the roof.

He looked out over the festive, dancing lights of the city...of his city. (He paused and smiled at that thought knowing full well that all the cities of the fragile blue Earth were his cities...so many responsibilities, all freely accepted.)

His kind, knowing eyes grew softly opaque and, randomly, the lives of some of the citizens of the city were fleetingly known to him: shoppers scurrying through the stores one final time...parents cursing and laughing and cursing again as they struggle to assemble magical wonders with only perseverance and arcane instructions to guide them...children sleeping and trying to sleep and pretending to sleep with visions of reindeer dancing in their minds...the faithful gathered in the myriad houses of God reaffirming their continuing gratitude for His gifts.

He saw them all...heard them all...discreetly glancing past each life but feeling that much more content and reassured for having shared even a fleeting instant with each of them.

The twinkle returned to his eyes as his field of vision contracted. It was a good night, he thought, a soft and peaceful night.

His thoughts drifted to his mother...the warm and wise woman who had taken an orphaned child as her own and raised him with all the love her abundant heart had to give. She was, he was certain, fussing with pies or some such at that very moment.

A glance across the miles confirmed this almost instantly. His father and his wife were trimming the stately tree in the living room...his father was telling a story with uncustomary animation (no doubt an embarrassing tale from his son's childhood) and his lady love was laughing that magical laugh of hers.

The crowning star was waiting patiently in its padded box for the tall man's arrival (that he would place the star was lifelong tradition...his father would have it no other way.)

The tall man smiled and drew a measure of bracing air into his mighty lungs. And then, with nary an afterthought, he leapt boldly into the night, his great scarlet cloak billowing gracefully behind him. He cruised slowly, silently, around the city once more chuckling warmly whenever the inevitable "Look! Up in the sky!" reached his all-hearing ears.

"Merry Christmas, Metropolis," he murmured affectionately as he turned towards the west and flew, straight and true, to the comforting warmth and love of his boyhood home and another blessed Christmas with the most important people in his life.

(for Kal)

©1992, 2004 Neverending Rainbow Enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved (by Rao!)

What Child is This? (December 23rd)

“Have a wonderful holiday,” the old man said with a bright smile, holding out the bag containing the merchandise just purchased.

Maribeth Mason, her bloodshot eyes hidden behind huge sunglasses even at that early evening hour, stifled a sneer and nodded, offering the man a wan smile as she accepted the bag from him. She pulled her overcoat around her and, with her purse secured under one arm and the bottle of wine she had just bought secured in her free hand, she pushed out of the liquor store and out into the icy chill of the evening.

The boulevard was bustling with shoppers and festooned with grand displays of garland and sparkling lights. None of it really registered much to Maribeth. There were a small pile of brightly-wrapped gifts in a corner of her apartment...next to a small fragrant Christmas tree she had bought and decorated a week earlier...but there was, here and now, not a shred of Christmas spirit in her battered soul. She walked steadily towards her apartment building some three blocks away. Done with crying...at least she hoped she was...she was anxious to get home, open the carefully-selected wine, and drink enough to make her pain go away (the last she knew was not really possible but she was willing to give it a shot.)

From somewhere she could hear someone singing...”I’ll Be Home for Christmas”...and it made her frown...when it started to make her tear up she shook it off with a muttered curse and a renewed vow to find some measure of oblivion that night.

A few days earlier, Maribeth had been full of the spirit of the season...happily shopping and looking forward to driving to her parents’ house on Christmas morning...driving there with Robert and a small pile of brightly-wrapped gifts. But that was then. She would still drive to her parents’ house on Christmas morning...neither Mother or Father would have understood or been unhurt by her absence...but Robert...Robert had excused himself from her life two days earlier.

“This is getting too intense,” he had whined to her, “I think we need to take some time off from each other...”

Maribeth had looked at him blankly. What the hell was he talking about? Her silence had made him uneasy. Three years and things were “getting too intense”? Three years and “we need to take some time off from each other”? What the hell was he talking about? Maribeth finally found her voice, “What the hell are you talking about, Robert?” she had asked in a voice as quiet and portentous as midnight.

He fumbled around for other words and, finding none, just shrugged. And then, seeing that she was not rushing to fill the space, he said, “Well...you know...”

And, suddenly, she did. “I hope the two of you are very happy together,” she said, her voice devoid of inflection.

Robert had looked stricken and then he tried to compose himself. “I don’t know what you mean...” he lied.

Maribeth had sighed and slumped back into her seat...the other patrons of the restaurant falling away into a silent haze...and just stared at him. She hoped there were no tears in her eyes betraying the pain in her heart...but there was nothing to be done about it one way or the other. Robert said other things...she could tell because she saw his lips moving...but none of it registered. Eventually his lips stopped moving and he paid the check and left.

As she turned the corner she looked up and saw her building...she banished thoughts of Robert to the shallow eddy in her memory stream where he dwelled...should be able to keep them there for a good fifteen or twenty minutes she thought ruefully.
Maribeth took a deep breath and kept walking steadily...her thoughts flowing to yesterday...to the box of knick-knacks, Christmas cards, photographs and the like that she had carried home yesterday. The box had been unceremoniously dumped next to the pile of brightly-wrapped gifts and given no further attention. The box was filled with the contents of a desk; a desk in an office she had occupied for four years. It hadn’t occurred to her...or to any of the other twenty-four people in her department...that their usefulness to the company would have come to such an abrupt end. Hadn’t occurred to her...or to any of the other twenty-four people in her department...that this news would come to them in envelopes that were supposed to contained Christmas Bonuses and, instead, contained severance checks and laser-printed letters of recommendation. Three days before Christmas. It hadn’t occurred to her for a moment.

“Company’s downsizing,” the vice-president in charge of personnel, looking more bored than embarrassed, had come down to tell them. “You know how tight the market is...and, well, we felt we needed to go in a different direction...you’ve all been wonderful assets...”

A couple of the other twenty-four hurled tart epithets at the man, gathering their own boxes of knick-knacks, Christmas cards, photographs, and the like and brushing brusquely through the small gauntlet of security guards the vice-president had brought with him.

The vice-president had hemmed and hawed a little...his face blushing deep crimson...as Maribeth and some of the others picked up their boxes and walked the gauntlet towards the elevators. The piped-in music had mocked her with its chipper seasonal lilt as she rode down with some of the other twenty-four. There were perfunctory hugs, angry diatribes, and facile promises to “stay in touch” in the lobby and then they went their own ways into the cold late afternoon.

And now, a day later, it still didn’t make much sense. But Maribeth didn’t want it to make sense just now...just to go away for a while...she hefted the bottle of wine slightly as she made her way past the alley next to her building. It was then that she heard a small, plaintive cry. A cat, she surmised...but then there was another...and it was not a cat. It sounded like...but that couldn’t be...

There was only a dim, amber lamp attached to the building illuminating the alley and Maribeth was not especially anxious to venture down to investigate. But then, another more insistent cry sang out...and she knew that it was not a cat...and she knew that she could not ignore it. She took another deep breath and held out her wine bottle, vague notions of being ready and able to turn it into a weapon if necessary playing in her head, and walked slowly down the alley.

The doorway illuminated by the amber lamp was a fire exit from her building. The doorway was recessed and the cries were coming from the shallow alcove that separated the door from the alley proper. Maribeth peered cautiously around the corner into the alcove and was startled at what she found. There in a wicker basket, bundled tight against the elements, was a baby...not more than three or four months old...with a note pinned to the blanket (just like in a bad movie, Maribeth thought, as she glanced around looking for someone...but there was no one in sight.)

Maribeth knelt down and looked at the note...please take care of my Maria, I can’t do it anymore...Maribeth sighed audibly (definitely a bad movie.)

“What are we going to do with you, Maria?” she asked wearily. The child looked up at Maribeth with curiously untroubled eyes and gurgled softly. “Okay, kiddo,” Maribeth said, “first thing I guess we have to do is get you out of this weather. Then I’ll figure out who I need to call...”

Maribeth sighed again, put the bottle of wine into the basket (oblivion seemed an increasingly unlikely destination) and then picked the whole thing up. This was the last thing in the world she needed, she thought, as she made her way back up the alley. Maribeth kept looking around and listening...hoping that someone would come running up saying “Give me my baby!” But only silence greeted her.

Maribeth let herself into the building (the doorman knocked off at 6:30) and rode the elevator up the four stories to her apartment. She put the basket down on the coffee table and took off her coat. The baby was strangely content and quiet, looking around her apartment with big, curious eyes.

Maribeth extricated the bottle of wine from the basket and put it aside. Then, after contemplating a long time, she reached over and picked up the child. “Hello, Maria,” she said softly. “How could anybody abandon a beautiful girl like you?” The child just cooed quietly in response. She patted the girl’s fanny, determining that the child was dry...and apparently not hungry. Maria was obviously well cared for...and probably hadn’t been in that alcove very long. It didn’t make any sense to Maribeth...but, she laughed to herself, not much did these days so what was one more thing?

Maribeth carried the child over to an aged rocking chair...it had belonged to her grandfather...that was in the corner opposite the tree and the gifts and sat down. She rocked slowly...the child slowly slipping into slumber in her arms...trying to remember that she was supposed to be feeling sorry for herself...supposed to be drinking herself into sweet oblivion...and not being able to do so.

She looked over at the tree...its bows and ribbons and angels a reminder of a happier time not so very long ago. And then she looked down at the baby in her arms, left to the tender mercies of the elements and of chance by someone who just couldn’t cope anymore.

As the child’s big brown eyes closed slowly, Maribeth reached over and picked up the phone. In time, a policeman and a social worker would arrive to take her report. And then they would take the sleeping child to a foster home. But until then, Maribeth would rock with the child, forgetting her own heartache and anger for a while. She would find some modicum of Christmas spirit in the soft breath and tiny heartbeat of the baby in her arms and find herself regarding the small tree and the small pile of brightly-wrapped gifts as something softly and wondrously magical.

In the morning, the wine would still be unopened as Maribeth, her bathrobe pulled snug and a mug of steaming coffee next to the phone, made calls after a peaceful night’s sleep. The social worker would tell her that Maria was safe with a family who would take good care of her for the time being and her mother would tell her that she needed to bring nothing with her on Christmas but her smile and her small pile of brightly-wrapped gifts.

“Have a wonderful holiday,” the old man in the liquor store had said.

Maribeth sipped her coffee and glanced at her little tree. “Maybe I will,” she said aloud, a whisper of a smile playing about her mouth.

©2000, 2004 Neverending Rainbow Enterprises, ltd.
All rights reserved (and all quiet on the western front.)

long goodbyes

In case you haven't heard (how is the weather in Timbuktu these days?), Tom Brokaw has ended his run as the anchor of the "NBC Nightly News" yesterday after much to do (one would think that this was really an earth-shattering event and not just the changing of a talking head on one of the increasingly redundant network evening news programs.) The pomp and circumstance surrounding Brokaw's retirement (from the anchor chair not the network...we may have to do it all again when he retires completely) was so rife with earnest bombast, misty-eyed sentiment, and ego-stroking hyperbole that one could easily confuse the changing of the anchor with the changing of a Pope or a President.

And, in case you were spending your time dwelling on less important things (though one could scarcely imagine why you would be), Ken Jennings finally lost on "Jeopardy" after 74 games (and 2.5 million dollars in pre-tax winnings)on a show broadcast, coincidentally I'm sure, just in time to catch the tail end of the November "sweeps" period (the time when television ratings are used to set the advertising fees that networks and syndicates are going to charge) and accompanied with a flurry of interviews with Jennings and the woman who ended his run.

It's a wonder to me sometimes the things that the media chooses to dwell on. World AIDS Day is certainly not as important to them as the end of the Tom Brokaw "era". How many games a guy on a game show won is certainly of more interest than the number of soldiers who died in Iraq last month (the casualty count equaling the worst month of the ongoing conflict.)

Brokaw and Jennings are certainly worthy of mention as persons of passing interest but neither of the events relating to them was even close to be worthy of the amount of air time and press that they got. But maybe my priorities are just out of step with what the media knows is best for us all.

we blog therefore we are

Merriam-Webster has named “blog” as the #1 word of 2004 (based on online lookups.) A new entry for the word will be featured in the 2005 edition of their collegiate dictionary.

The English language is, of course, a very fluid thing, changing and thriving and growing as everyday life changes and thrives and grows. It is heartening that a word like “blog” (itself originally a contraction) has moved so quickly from slang to official sanction.

The flood of new terminology that has come with the explosion of internet communication has added momentum to the changes that American (and therefore, for better or for ill, world) English is going through.

While it may be perplexing to some…there are still, for example, some resisting the siren call of computer-based communication…change is a good thing. Language, like life, should never remain static and stagnant…it should be volatile and messy and ever challenging.

And so we blog therefore we are :-)

And for the record, the other words in the 2004 top ten are (in order): incumbent, electoral, insurgent, hurricane, cicada, peloton (the main body of riders in a bicycle race…brought to light by the Olympics, of course), partisan, sovereignty, and defenestration.