My Favorite Christmas Poem

TAPKAE reminded me of my favorite poem about the Christmas season.
Mind you, I love to shop. And I love to shop for Christmas gifts. I'm also very good at shopping for Christmas gifts.
But this poem is makes even me do a little less shopping and a little more reflecting.


CHRIST CLIMBED DOWN
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no rootless Christmas trees
hung with candycanes and breakable stars

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no gilded Christmas trees
and no tinsel Christmas trees
and no tinfoil Christmas trees
and no pink plastic Christmas trees
and no gold Christmas trees
and no black Christmas trees
and no powderblue Christmas trees
hung with electric candles
and encircled by tin electric trains
and clever cornball relatives

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no intrepid Bible salesmen
covered the territory
in two-tone cadillacs
and where no Sears Roebuck creches
complete with plastic babe in manger
arrived by parcel post
the babe by special delivery
and where no televised Wise Men
praised the Lord Calvert Whiskey

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no fat handshaking stranger
in a red flannel suit
and a fake white beard
went around passing himself off
as some sort of North Pole saint
crossing the desert to Bethlehem
Pennsylvania
in a Volkswagen sled
drawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeer
and German names
and bearing sacks of Humble Gifts
from Saks Fifth Avenue
for everybody's imagined Christ child

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no Bing Crosby carollers
groaned of a tight Christmas
and where no Radio City angels
iceskated wingless
thru a winter wonderland
into a jinglebell heaven
daily at 8:30
with Midnight Mass matinees

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and softly stole away into
some anonymous Mary's womb again
where in the darkest night
of everybody's anonymous soul
He awaits again
an unimaginable
and impossibly
Immaculate Reconception
the very craziest of
Second Comings


"Christ Climbed Down" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, from A CONEY ISLAND OF THE MIND, copyright ©1958 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Used by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

Something New

Thanksgiving during the first half of my life was rather strange. Well, I thought it was. It wasn’t at all like the Norman Rockwell painting or like what sitcom families did on TV. It was different than that, and yet always the same. See, a Thanksgiving dinner was no different than any other Sunday dinner, except it happened on Thursday and later in the day, and there were more relatives. We’re Italian, so the turkey that is so gloriously displayed on all those commercials and in the aforesaid painting was actually an afterthought in our family – not the main dish. There was antipasto, some sort of pasta – usually a special dish, like baked macaroni or lasagna – then turkey and very odd stuffing and salad (that’s how Italian we are… we eat our salad last). Unfortunately the turkey was often overcooked (my parents would make it here on Long Island and then we’d drive it, still in the roasting pan, to the Bronx, where my mother’s parents lived. It – the turkey -- tended to keep cooking in the car. The very odd stuffing was a Bari recipe (Bari being the region of Italy my maternal grandmother is from): eggs and sausage. Suffice it to say, I didn’t eat much on Thanksgiving (I think turkey tastes gamey… more on that strangeness from me later).

My grandfather (mom’s dad) was born in Iowa, but his parents soon discovered it was nothing like Sicily and moved back. So that grandfather had a dual-citizenship, I think. I know he was an American citizen, but he was also conscripted into the Italian army early in WWII and not at all happy about it. After serving for Mussolini, he enlisted in the good ol’ U.S. of A.’s army and served under Patton. He was exceptionally proud of that. He would tell us that he was Patton’s barber and cook. I know he (my grandfather) owned a barbershop (as well a grocery store) when my mother was growing up, so I suppose he could have cut Patton’s hair. Anyway, grandpa’s contribution to the Thanksgiving dinner was a very odd gravy (the brown kind, not the tomato sauce) for the overcooked turkey. I mentioned it recently to a co-worker and he said it sounds like something someone in the army would learn how to cook… kind of watery and cornstarchy and, well, stretched. Lots of cut up vegetables in it.

Those traditional but untraditional Thanksgivings are the first half of my life. The second half was entirely different. For the past 14 or so years, my soon-to-be-ex-husband (STBXH) and I ate with his parents. First, just the four of us. Then the five of us. Then the six of us. And I finally got to experience an “American” Thanksgiving. And it delighted me.

STBXH’s mom is from Georgia and cooks American. This is/was/forever will be a revelation to me. Even now, my family does not really cook American. So ma’s turkey and gravy and dressing and cranberry sauce and, best yet, sweet potatoes were terribly exciting to me. This, I thought every year, is how it’s supposed to be done. My soon-to-be-ex-mother-in-law (XMIL) is a great cook. She makes her own cranberry sauce. It doesn’t sit on the table looking like the can. She makes dressing – not stuffing!—so it doesn’t sit inside the bird. And the turkey actually tasted OK.

Tomorrow, though, we start something new. I had planned to send the kids to XMIL’s house for dinner, but STBXH was a real jerk last week to me, and the kids don’t want to spend the holiday with him. And, I thought, why shouldn’t I spend the holiday with my kids?! It would make them happy. So, we’re going to my aunt’s house.

The Thanksgivings in the Bronx are over. When I was a child, six of my grandparents were alive – six ‘cause there were two great-grandparents alive — now none are. I loved my grandparents more than anyone else in the world, and I want my children to have the same type of relationship with theirs. So, this year, they’ll see my parents. Next year, his.

We'll be eating at my father’s sister’s house (aka Aunt Gina's). And all my father’s siblings will be there. So, lots of cousins and that’ll be fun. It’ll be Italian. A large antipasto (my father and mother went to Arthur Ave. to get stuff just the other day). Pasta (have I mentioned I don’t like pasta? That’s probably important). Turkey. Stuffing (cooked inside the bird). No sweet potatoes (why when you’ve just had pasta?). Maybe some rabbit. Maybe some deer. Eek. But I’ll be with my sons and the rest of my family, and that’s wonderful. And I'm going to bake an apple tart.

A note on gaminess: My saying that turkey tastes gamey makes my family laugh. (I’m easily the black sheep of the family. One of these cousins is not like the others? That’s me.) And there Uncle Louie is eating rabbit or freshly caught deer on Thanksgiving. What do I know of gaminess? Still, I think it’s gamey.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Birthday, Carajo!

Even the VP wishes you well.

[Scary photo of our vice president removed.]

(I can't really leave this up here for too long. It's scary...)

Migraine

One should not blog on the verge of a migraine.

But I have to get write this: We had more layoffs at work today. The worst yet. Publishing isn't a very good field to be in right now. And high-tech publishing is feeling the brunt of things. I have a hard time accepting that people aren't reading magazines and newspapers, and are relying on the Internet instead, but I guess I should accept it.

Last month, we lost our editor, executive editor and lab director (the editor was replaced by someone from department that was being phased out... we we aren't without an editor). Today we learned that our creative director and our ... well, our everything... our editor of operations, Amy!, was let go.

Too sad to think about.