Gobsmacked

I’ve been hanging around on-line journaling for a number of years. I’m a lurker: only in the last few months have I dared to publish to the Internet and even though I recently registered at a forum, I still haven’t had the courage to proffer a post. One of the pleasures of lurking is that from time to time I come across an arresting on-line personality, someone I wished I known earlier. It happened today, but in the saddest of possible ways, as the on-line community mourned the death of Leslie Harpold. Never once in ten or so years had I heard of her and here I was delighting in some of her creations, her magnificent advent calendars. I traced the path of Advent 2005, thinking what fun my grandchildren could have had. Apparently she died with seven days of Advent 2006 completed.

I was following the links at the bottom of this page, astonished at the outpourings of praise, affection and sorrow, not in the least surprised to find she had lived in New York and San Francisco. My eye caught the phrase, “She now lives in Grosse Pointe, MI.”

This wonderful person was living in the Woods. I feel like I felt when I learned that I was living so very close to Sylvia Plath when she committed suicide. I wished I had bumped into her, somewhere, somehow.

Oxymoron of the Day

Cocktail okra.

Tradition

We returned last night from a six-day trip to Washington, where we celebrated Christmas at Andrew and Marcie’s house and also got to meet our lovely new grandson.

Not surprisingly, given the mix of the extended family that gathered, our conversation turned at times to the subject of traditions. “Because of our traditions”, as Tevye assured the good folks of Anatevka, “every one of us knows who he is and what God expects him to do.” Tevye had a hard time explaining how some traditions got started: I would be hard pressed to explain why we now get together on New Year’s Eve with Kate’s family for games and Chinese food. A former neighbor sent a Christmas card from Wisconsin, noting that with the death of her husband and the marriage of her son, Christmas traditions in her family were changing. “New traditions”, she wrote, “what fun”. No oxymoron there, I think. Pragmatism is a driving force and we yield gracefully.

It appears, however, that a new American tradition has crept up on me. The Detroit Free Press ran an Associated Press article before Christmas detailing how families are renting self-storage units to hide Christmas gifts from prying eyes. A listing on Craigslist.com asked “Wanna keep the Christmas gifts away from those sneaky little ones?" It offers to “hide the toys from the kids. Hide the boat from your husband.” The story starts out:

NASHVILLE, Tenn— Missy Philips knew she had a big problem when her boyfriend’s 18-year-old son ransacked their house looking for the stash of unwrapped Christmas presents.

To keep the nosy teenager from finding the stereo, video games and hunting bow she and her boyfriend bought him, Philips had to go out of the house —and into a self-storage unit—to hide the gifts until Christmas Eve.

It seems to me that Missy Philips of Nashville, Tenn. has a bigger problem than where to stash Junior’s iPod. Or hunting bow. They are giving this kid a hunting bow?

Be Still, my Beating Heart

The Macomb Center for the Performing Arts at Macomb Community College has done a wonderful job providing cultural experiences for the denizens of Hall Road. This Christmas they presented the Moscow Festival Ballet performing The Sleeping Beauty and I am sure countless little girls went home with stars in their eyes.

Also on the December roster they have Herman’s Hermits (starring Peter Noone) reviving (resuscitating?) some of their hits of the 60’s. Now I lived in England when these songs were going around the first time. I loved the music. I loved Herman’s Hermits. I suspect that if the Beatles were still around, I would buy a ticket to see them perform. There is one group from that era still going strong, but I never liked them anyway. So would I pay good money to hear Peter Noone singing, “Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter’?

Sorry. No.

Let it Rain, Let it Rain, Let it Rain . . .?

I should have paid attention when I received an e-mail from my sister-in-law yesterday announcing "It's raining like crazy here." One day's Chicago rain is next day's Detroit precipitation.

That's when those twinkling lights come into their own, chasing away the gray. My glass is more than half full: I could be in Denver.

Addenda to Yesterday's Post

This photo appeared in today's Grosse Pointe News so I am posting it in case any British readers didn't grasp the concept of Santa on a motorbike.

And thanks to Nancy Nall who managed to find a plausible explanation for deflation.

The Sacred and the Profane

Actually, I don’t think there is anything inherently profane about an inflatable Santa Claus riding a motorbike tethered outside a house as a Christmas decoration. (Anyone who has a problem with the word “Christmas” would do well to read John Bailey’s commentary.) No, the problem with these popular Christmas artifacts is that they appear to deflate rather easily. Every morning they lie limply on the grass: it must take a large bicycle pump to get Santa back in the saddle. And who would find fault with Frosty on the left here? Except of course for the homeowner wielding the bicycle pump. As you can see, I drove around for a while last night on my way home from babysitting, trying to capture the essence of Grosse Pointe exterior decor. And my question is: what in the name of Sam Hill is Homer Simpson doing making spirits bright on Lakepointe? When did he become an icon for the holiday season?

I have photographs of inflatable Santas on sleighs, inflatable bears and a moose leaping out of a box, but I wanted to move on to Lakeshore Drive, where (with one notable exception) they have extremely tasteful and expensive displays. Around the end of November armies of workers festoon the estates by the lake with thousands of lights. It is a joy to drive by and see how the other half live. TV cartoon characters are not lurking near this crèche, although I will admit there are some displays of French milkmaid figures and reindeer on other lawns of this estate. The red lights are a beacon for cars driving along Lake St. Clair.

I wanted a photo of my nomination for the minimalist display of the year. The house is in darkness except for one enormous illuminated tree which stands in solitary splendor on the vast expanse of yard. However, this being Grosse Pointe and all (and thanks, Nancy, for posting this on Grosse Pointe Today) there was nowhere to park and the surrounding streets had dead end signs. Parking seemed out of the question, so I aimed my camera out of the window and hoped nobody had alerted the police as I circled round looking for a vantage spot.

There will be some pretty enormous electricity bills come January, but thanks to everyone for the festive displays. I may even get to like Santa on the motorbike.