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A Christmas Caper

The snowshoes are parked in front of the cabin for the photo. It’s a memento of a previous Christmas spent on the coast of Maine. Inside the house sat the perfect little Christmas tree the family had hunted throughout the woodlot for; hours spent tracking through the snow. The snowshoes were finally getting good use in the deep show of a cold Maine winter.

The family decorated the tree. Then, as each ornament emerged from the box, a story unfolded about a past Christmas. The bells bought at a church Christmas Fair, and the little Santa hanging from the lowest bough. The tree was decorated, at last, with gifts around the base. Finally, the family headed to bed.

It was quiet. No din of family chatter. Just the peace of an eve ending and a Christmas Morning preparing to dawn.

What was that rustling in the corner? a Christmas elf? Santa?
Why was it attired from tufted ear tip to tip of the beringed tail in gray? Wait, was it? Could it be? Heigh-ho hey, it was the gray marauder! Yes, it was the gray destroyer creeping up on the tree. His objective? The fat furry one swinging temptingly from the lowest bough and saucily daring the Grey Menace to carry him away in captivity to the dark recesses under his father’s bed. The slinking progress along the floor did not alert the fat one in red to his imminent danger. The hunt itself should be facile. It had to be achieved without disturbing those tattletale bells above.
A fast jump, a grab, a single abortive jingle, and Santa was his! Now away to the lair with his captive. Another Christmas Eve Caper pulled off with perfection!

“Georgia? didn’t you put Santa on the lowest bough last night?”, “Yes, Daddy, I did.”, “Are you sure? He’s not there now.” The Grey Menace watches the fun from under the couch as the grim search for Santa ensues. Then he notices his dad, the one these people call Wes, looking at him with suspicion. Was the jig up? The Gray Menace lashes his tail in frustration. No! dad pulls Santa from under the bed, walks into the living room, and secretly drops him into the empty box of ornaments.

“Hey, Georgia? Here he is! You must have just thought you put him up.” Georgia starts to protest but stops and places Santa back in his place. The Menace decides that the look of confusion that crossed her face was almost as good as an hour-long search for Santa.

Well, maybe better. The bows, ribbons, paper, and boxes of Christmas morning are a lot of fun. And it beats being put in the bedroom while the presents get unwrapped, like last year. Baby Jesus hadn’t minded getting stolen from the nativity scene.

Humans take this stuff way too seriously.

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Christmas and Cats. What You Didn’t Know

We were setting up the nativity scene the other night, and Xenia, our cat, was sitting under the Christmas tree. Stretching elegantly ( does a cat do anything that isn’t elegant?), Xenia informed me Christmas was the favorite holiday of cats in many parts of the world. After all if it hadn’t been for cats the Nativity would have been an uncomfortable mess. It was the stable cat, an ancestor of Xenia wouldn’t you know, who made it all work.

The manger in the stable was the bed of Abigail and her five kittens. Abigail was the mother of many litters of kittens and knew all about Motherhood. She meowed that there was plenty of room for another baby among her kittens. Mary looked frazzled after the long uncomfortable trip on a donkey. So, Jesus’ first playmates were cats; probably why he developed into such a wonderful young man. Abigail tried to teach Mary how to clean a baby properly, but Mary never got the use of a tongue down correctly. Abigail took Mary in “paw.” It wasn’t easy with a woman so unclear about how she had become pregnant in the first place. Mary did draw the line however when the kittens brought Jesus his first toy – a freshly caught mouse.

Now, while we are on the topic of Nativity scenes, there is an important confusion needing to be cleared up: there are always those three wise men. In fact, they were accompanying the three wise cats who were looking for a new source of catnip. Not being dumb they rapidly realized that Abigail was onto something with Jesus, who was already changing straw into catnip for aunty Abigail and those rowdy little kittens.
Now you have the straight scoop right from a descendant of Abigail. There’s more, but Xenia says it’s time to take a nap under the Catmas tree.

Merry Christmas to all!

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Sympathy

The Devil walks around primarily ignored and doesn’t care. Go ahead. Disparage, deprecate, dismiss or vilipend all you wish. He, or she, shrugs the shoulders and carries on. It’s even doubtful that you’d recognize the Devil. Those cloven hoofs, horns, and tails are so right out of the middle ages anyway.
Nope, remember that old saying that the Devil quotes scripture to his own needs? Well, these days, all the Devil needs to do is type on his cell phone, and Twitter or Facebook does the rest.

It’s gotten so bad that the head of Hades is thinking of making the Devils take some of that “use or lose” vacation time. It’s been accumulating since the Fall. So what do you do if you are a sixty-hour-a-week demon? You have no social skills; all you do all week is ruin other people’s lives. So what the hell do you put on your profile at a dating site? Enjoys the company of sociopathic individuals? Objective: having a wonderful time spreading misery?

So you see the problem? So they finally get some time off and spend it all in therapy because of some weird Pax Satanica with social media?

Who would have ever suspected! The Devil rendered redundant, made obsolescent, and unemployable because of Hi-Tech?

Please. Can we get a little sympathy for the Devil?

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Illicit

The word illicit implies something more than a bit dodgy. Something that is definitely not wrapped in holy unction and available only at church. The illicit in life lurks on a dark street corner and whispers, “pssst, hey you. Over here.”

Everyone should at least toy with the illicit once in a while. It gives you perspective in life, makes you a more interesting conversationalist at gatherings, and allows you to say to those who are innocent of original sin -“hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

Danger lurks for those too eager or enthusiastic in adopting alternatives to the staid. In specific nomadic communities, guideposts are set out to indicate the presence of watering spots in the desert. Eventually, you come to one that is specially marked. It’s the final one; no water beyond this point. You travel beyond the guideposts at your own risk. Will you have enough water to last through the long passage to the other side?

I joke about toying with the illicit only because I nibbled about its edges. I encourage cautious experimentation, not overindulgence. How do I know? I’ve been shot at, experimented with substances I should not have, and run for my life. To use an expression popular with the old Mountain Men – “I’ve gone to see the varmint.”

Allow your toes to become dampened by the wild sides’ tide. It can be an enriching experience. But remember, there are no lifeguards at this particular beach, and swimming here is risky business.

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Garden Variety

Theologians may argue about the existence of Satan. But from personal experience, I know that the dead rat assed bastard not only exists but, but on numerous occasions, has sat right across from me.
Relax, it’s not aunt Abigail. As tempting as it is to see evil incarnate in her greed and disagreeable nature, she lacks the ability to do awful things while imagining that she does well. And for garden variety evil, I think that doing horrible things while humming hymns pretty well covers it.

I’d argue that the devil in people can’t engage in sufficient self-inquiry to realize that it is not so, just because they believe it. So they act on their beliefs firm in the conviction that their actions are correct. There is little of the mercurial in this. There is not enough introspection to raise the ability to internally question the correctness, appropriateness, or wisdom of action.

So you see, we all know the devil. You say, Aha! It’s that self-righteous person in the next pew in church! Well maybe. But religion is too easy a target. I knew an economist who thought that Christmas and birthday presents were a waste of resources; give money. His wife and children disagreed and maintained that sentiment and feeling entered in the process of giving a gift. He was unable or unwilling to entertain that he might be mistaken. I knew a brilliant Ph.D. who thought that only her academic discipline held the truth of human nature. She negatively critiqued all who disagreed to the extent that she spread malicious lies about them—all the while thinking that she did well.

Aristotle maintained that “It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.” Unfortunately, garden variety evil is not so sophisticated. There is no entertainment, internal dialogue, or questioning. Instead, it sings the Hallelujah chorus in the morning and does reprehensible things to employees, small children, and animals in the afternoon.

Evil wears no mask. Remember, it does not see itself as evil. It’s not a comic book evil doer. Most times, evil walks around looking just like you or me. A friend once said to me that evil gets up in the morning just like we do, puts on its pants one leg at a time, and sets out to do good.

Scary thought, isn’t it?

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Safety

Christmas list for the shop:

  • Additional dust collector for the basement shop
  • Lee Valley Panel Gauge
  • new respirator cartridge replacements
  • new hearing protector “earmuffs.”
  • new safety glasses

Only one of these falls into the strict category of “tools,” the panel gauge. Most woodworkers wood refer to others as a sort of accessory product. Not something you’d use for making a wooden product for your store, your next show, or to decorate a commission.

Many woodworkers would consider some of the things on my list to be hindrances in the shop. For example, the little Rikon dust collector rolls around and is a tripping hazard. It can be hung on the wall, but then the panel saws that belonged to your father would have no place to hang. Also, the damn respirator gets in my way when I do close-up work, and the hearing protectors get in the way of the respirator fit. Finally, when you add the safety glasses, I look like something from a 1959 Sci-Fi movie.

Most of the woodworkers I know are odd combinations of very reticent to adopt new things and over-eager to embrace and spend on new gadgets. The gadgets promise to make your life in the shop easier. One is seen as getting in the way, and the other as the key to woodworking paradise.

It all works out until your hearing becomes impaired or you begin wheezing.

There is one dust extractor in the basement shop, two air scrubbers for tiny particles, and a shop vac. The carving shop has an air scrubber as well as a shop vac. In the carving shop, I produce less dust but more chips. Both shops have respirators, glasses, dust masks, and hearing protection. I make every effort to make sure that I use them.

Overkill? I don’t think so. Look, I have intermittent mild asthma. I am very interested in making sure that it does not get worse.  

Being breathless is something I can do without. Hearing? I love the sounds of the birds outside my shop. I’m not interested in losing what I’ve got. My sight? Try being a woodworker without vision – I’m already mildly impaired and have no desire to lose what I have.

I once worked at a job site where the motto was that safety was a habit we all need to form. So we learn to work around the nuisances if we want to continue creating. Safety equipment used to make made rare appearances in tool catalogs and online. Not so now. Take a hint from the companies you buy the toys from and make shop safety a habit.

I’ll tell you all about the Lee Valley panel gauge in a later post. It’s sure to make life in my shop easier and more pleasurable. Toys, you can’t live without them!

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Partnership

A bit of Churchillian wisdom was a famous quote used by my parents “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.” If either parent quoted it, they looked to the other seeking corroboration. Most often, it got trotted out when they chose not to answer some question I had asked or didn’t want to admit directly to ignorance, and so wrapped it all nicely as a mystery.
As a child, it worked nicely. I had no idea what an enigma was, and with the solemnity with which it got used, I became certain that ignorance was blissful.
This time of year, with presents appearing under the tree, Churchill had to work overtime in our house. ” Daddy is Santa going to….”, “Louis, it’s a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.” So I could shake, look and measure, but not poke. Besides, as I later realized, my parents only put the decoy presents under the tree before Christmas.

As a child, I did have an ally in snooping. Honey, our family dog, was a chronic poker, pryer, and digger out of closets. Additionally, there was also little that she would not do for treats. So there was a reciprocal arrangement she poked and pried, and I discovered. Our technique and the partnership worked best from Thanksgiving till just before Christmas, while presents were stored but not wrapped. Then, after wrapping, we could confirm size, shape, and weight – but not contents.
Of course, the contents were of interest to me, and Honey received no treats if the hunt was not on. We were both very frustrated until the cat entered the picture. Wrapping paper and boxes were what motivated Daisy. She was curious about contents too, but the wrapping paper and bows were her absolute pleasure.

We were back in business. No present was safe. Even my older sister, too mature to poke and pry, would inquire about what Daisy had torn open. But, of course, our success couldn’t continue. So my parents found more secure ways to store presents away from the three-year-old ( me), the dog, and the cat.

What came of all this was an enduring sense of partnership with my furred siblings. These days I am above shaking, poking, and prying. But if Xenia should tear, claw or chew something open, I am not above taking a quick peek. Xenia frequently strolls into the kitchen afterward for a treat. After all, one partner should help the other, right?

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Little Mistakes

Opposites attract like oil mixes with water. Don’t be fooled into thinking that great relationships lurk in someone opposite your Zen meditativeness. Dear lord! A type A+++ personality matched with someone who meditates on falling cherry blossom petals?

It’s time to question pop wisdom, get a new star chart, and go for the laid back. Yes, they ignite your desire. But when they bring the broom round on Saturday morning to clean the house, you’ll wish that you’d married someone who’d let you sleep in.

Careful. These are expensive missteps.

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Apple

When I decided to get my act together at the beginning of the 1970’s I faced some challenges—education beyond high school costs money and friends’ attitudes. The GI Bill solved the first. There was a program to assist vets in getting their high school diplomas. The nice part was that using the program would not count towards my available college benefits.

I found a school by walking around Boston’s Back Bay and wandering into places with signs saying that they were schools, not a very bright or scientific methodology.
Eventually, I wandered into Shaw Preparatory School. It turned out that Shaw Prep was what I was looking for: dedicated to learning, capable of teaching students with “issues,” and an enjoyable atmosphere that encouraged comradely behavior among the student body and faculty.

My English teacher was a former habitue of San Francisco’s Beat Scene of the late fifties, and I was a former habitue of New York’s Greenwich Village. The two of us bonded like brothers. We were both exiles from our cultural origins. So at Shaw, I found an educational environment that allowed me to grow.

But to get back to the second problem. Few of my friends, and certainly not my then-girlfriend, saw any potential for me to be anything other than what I was then; hard-working and talented but limited by educational handicaps. Mostly they saw my interest in education as another passing fancy that would fade away as my learning to play the banjo did.
I happen to be stubborn. So the more my friends expressed a belief that it was a passing fancy, the more I dug in to prove them wrong.

George, my English teacher, suggested that I take this as a challenge. So he started me on an accelerated reading program of James Joyce, John Steinbeck, Ginsburg, Montaigne, Thoreau, and Hemingway. With great humor, he termed this his crash course in being erudite. After exposing me to much outstanding literature, George began teaching me other ways to drive my points home and dominate conversations. I was encouraged to learn appropriate quotes and gestural body mechanics to make my point.
There were consequences. Several friends found the new me threatening. If I described a colorful sunset as having variegated skies, I was peered at – “where did this stranger come from.” My English teacher was now encouraging me to start college as soon as possible. He saw the changes as blossoming and urged me to take the opportunity to follow it as far as I could. My girlfriend saw her position as the educated college graduate in our relationship as threatened.

Ultimately I took a bite of the apple. It was sweet. Once in a while, I look back at what was lost. But it could not compare with what was gained.