December 25

Manchester had been disgruntled, disillusioned, and just plain fed up with the way Santa had been moping around, grieving about Mrs. Claus.  He understood that Santa missed the woman, but enough was enough!

Manchester had felt sad when he had been expected to supervise the making of toy after toy, when he didn’t feel like Santa noticed or appreciated him, and the elves just complained and complained -- to him -- to each other -- about him -- about each other, until he felt as if he was living in a nest of pointy-eared, felt clad, toy-making vipers.

He had been afraid that things were going to get worse and worse, in a never-ending downward spiral of bickering, jealousy and pettiness, and that Santa would never return to normal.

He was sorry that he had called the Raven from the nether world, and he admitted that perhaps his actions had been a bit extreme, and it was just possible that he hadn’t thought things all the way through.

All he ever wanted was to be happy again -- one big jolly North Pole family.  He had consorted with the evil Raven half to force a crisis -- to force Santa to snap out of it, and half because he, Manchester the elf, head of the Elf Guild, had decided that he would just as soon do in Christmas if people weren’t going to behave.  He wasn’t a young elf any more, after all, and he was sick and tired of leading a bunch of unhappy malcontents, and answering to a mopey, grieving authority figure.  It wasn’t too late to consider a career change, was it?  Perhaps he should consider a job selling delicious coffee beverages.

After thinking the situation through, he was able to forgive Santa for being human.  He was able to acknowledge that he, Manchester, had never been married, and therefore, he didn’t know what it was like to wrap your entire life around another human being, only to have that human being cruelly wrenched away from you when you least expected it.

He appreciated everything Santa had done to make the North Pole a happy, homey place.  He appreciated the December meetings, and the eggnog, and the sing-alongs by the fire.

In fact, he loved Santa very much.  Otherwise, he would never have resorted to such desperate means as summoning the Raven.

In the face of that love, all the elves’ grievances became insignificant, especially because Santa was now going to pay attention to what was going on around him, and try to make things better.

Now, all that remained was for Chloe, Fawn, the wiener dogs, Martin, and a horse named Boxer, to load the sleigh and deliver toys around the world.

You might say “all that remained,” but this was a considerable endeavor, delivering toys all around the world.  Nevertheless, the adventure of that Christmas Eve falls outside the purview of this narrative.  Suffice it to say that the toys were delivered, and that the wiener dogs were able to make a final wish which took them back to their big house by the edge of the woods near the bridge, and to their yard, with the finest asphalt basketball court in all the land.

The man and the woman looked at each other, on Christmas day, after she finished reading the very last installment.

“There’s a lot to forgive,” the woman said.

The man took her hand, smiled, and looked into her eyes. “I’m going to have a long time to work on that.”

The woman nodded.  “Because I’m going to stay.”

*   *   *

         Joey was over-the-top elated when he unwrapped the bubbles and balloons from the dollar store.  He bounced, and hugged, and kissed, and bounced, and twirled.  “This is the best!  I can’t believe how lucky I am!  You must really love me!”

         Pete smiled up from his new Oregon Ducks sweatshirt.  “Thanks Grandma.  I really like it.”

         Grandpa reached over to fold up the wrapping paper.  “Maybe they’ll make the BCS again next year.”

         “That’s OK.  I still like them.”

*   *   *

         Uncle Duane brought presents for everybody.  Mr. and Mrs. Meren got a book about Ghanaian culture and cookery, Pete got a set of water-soluble oil pastels, and Joey got rainbow striped toe socks.  They were all a bit mystified by the gifts, but that was nothing new with Uncle Duane.

         For his part, Uncle Duane was thrilled with the brightly colored, three foot high, dough ornament parrot that Joey had made him, as well as the gift card from the grown-ups.  He said it would come in especially handy, as he still had no access to his bank accounts.

         He said he was sorry that they wouldn’t be able to meet Cindi.  She hadn’t been back to his cottage since she went into hiding, but he had a feeling that she wasn’t coming back.  He was still being plagued by those friends of hers, but with a little luck, he would have them behind bars soon.  It turned out that they were the ones responsible for stealing his identity, and they were leaving plenty of evidence for the police to follow.

         He was surprised to hear that his family had been afraid that Cindi was going to take advantage of him.  It turned out that she had never been a drug addict.  The twelve-step program Uncle Duane had planned to accompany her to had been one designed to support people close to addicts.  She had had a very bad experience with a very bad man, after she left her husband, who Uncle Duane suspected was probably a very good man. 

The very bad man was the abusive drug addict, and yes, Cindi had looked into getting custody of his children, at Uncle Duane’s suggestion.  But Uncle Duane had made this suggestion only so that she could see how hopeless it was – with her not even being related to them.  She wasn’t always very practically minded, and she kept talking about wanting to rescue the little girls.  But she had a boy of her own who needed her too.

         By the time Uncle Duane was done telling the story, slowly, in real time, not e-mails – with opportunity for clarifying questions to mitigate his predilection for the dramatic, the Merens were all sorry that they wouldn’t get to meet her. 

         And now they could go back to worrying about how Uncle Duane was going to take care of himself – living alone in that cottage.

         Oh, and the deer.  Joey was very worried about the dead deer.  Uncle Duane had called the Bureau of Land Management, and they had arranged to have the deer properly disposed of.  The hole had been filled in, and the flat ground that remained wasn’t as interesting as the hole had been, but it was no longer a hazard to local wildlife.

*   *   *

         The moonlight through the window bathed the living room in an eerie glow.  Pete batted at light switches.  The first one he hit turned on the ceiling fan.  Then he found one that turned on the outside porch light.  The third switch turned on the overhead light.

It was the middle of the night.  Pete was feeling restless.  Christmas had been wonderful.  Everybody had been friendly.  No one had fought.  Now the rest of the family were asleep, curled up in their beds – but Pete couldn’t sleep. 

It was while he was plugging in the Christmas tree lights that he noticed the extra present, way in the back, wrapped in red and green tissue paper.  Joey distributed the gifts every year.  Pete thought back to that morning.  Maybe Joey had gotten so excited about the bubbles, he had forgotten to do a final sweep?

There was no gift tag, but his name was written on the red tissue paper in black marker.

         “I’ve already got a nail care kit.”  Pete thought, glancing at the top of his pile of gifts that still sat near the tree.  “What more could I want?”

         But this present was no nail care kit.  This was a beautiful hard cover book entitled:  A Wiener Dog Advent.  Pete flipped through the pages, stunned.  The story was all here – even a new installment for December 25.  The first letter of each new day was ornamented with flowers and butterflies, just like Brittany had been doing in the notebook.  And even better – the pictures were there!  His pictures!  The houses falling on the pigs, the laboratory, the raven – all of them – right there in a hardcover book.  And his name!  His name was on the cover!  Illustrated by Peter Meren.

         There was so much he still didn’t understand.  How could the book be there, under his tree with his name on it?  Would he be getting royalties?

         He shook the wrapping, looking for more of a tag, and he found a note.  It read:

Like the fox says, your actions have grave consequence.  Consequence, not consequences.  Grave importance.  Thanks to your efforts, the holes between the worlds are regaining some of their integrity.  They are closing tighter.  This book is not from your world.  It was published in the world of the author.  The world in which he wrote this book is not the world in which you live.

We are all writing our own stories.  We choose what goes into them.  You chose to help, and it has made all the difference.

Pete tucked the note inside the book.  He guessed this meant he wasn’t getting royalties, but that was cool.  In fact, it was all pretty cool.

December 24

The man sat at the computer typing, and wondering.  Could it really be this easy? Could it really all come together so quickly, simply because the goddess of Whimsy appears?  A sort of fanciful Deux ex machina?  Wasn’t that cheating?  Just a little?  Wasn’t it almost as unsatisfying as “and then they woke up and it was all a dream?” 

But how else was it all going to end?  Unless something came along and put a stop to the story, the problems would just keep growing, and multiplying with each new plastic figure the boy pulled out of the silly cardboard boxes.  But today was a sleigh.  The last toy.  Today everything needed to be wound up.  Fixed.  Right?  But could the whole mess really be fixed with one fell swoop?  Maybe that’s how things worked sometimes. 

And there was no doubt that the goddess of whimsy was really home.  His Cindi had appeared on the doorstep last night, in the rain, bringing the light with her, as she did wherever she went.  And he was bound and determined that he would protect and cherish that light this time – not drip all over it like she said he had done in the past.

         But no, it wasn’t all fixed in one fell swoop.  Not just like that.  Everything wasn’t automatically perfect, peachy-keen, and hunky-dory.  No, there wasn’t going to be anything easy about it.  Not for him, and not for the mythical creatures.  The problems were still here.  He still didn’t have a job, and she still wanted to do goofy stuff all the time.  She had no appreciation for resting.

         And in the mythical world, the presents still needed to be delivered, Santa and Manchester still needed to see eye to eye, and the wiener dogs and Martin the pig still needed to get back to their big house by the edge of the woods near the bridge.

         But at least she was home.

*   *   *

“But you look like a girl!”  Grandma Weaver lamented.  George and Brittany’s family sat around the fancy dining room table eating Christmas Eve turkey from the good china dishes with the good plate silver.  Four pink and purple candles were burning in the advent wreath, but the center Christmas candle, the white one, wouldn’t be lit until tomorrow.

“I know a good barber who could fix that right up.”  Grandpa Weaver offered.

Mr. Weaver sighed and shook his head.  “Mom, leave the boy alone.  He’s a good boy.  He’s polite.  He gets good grades.”

Grandpa Weaver grinned, “Kind to animals.  Helps little old ladies across the street.”

Grandma Weaver reached across the table, and tried to push some of George’s bangs out of his face.  “But he still looks like a girl.”

To her surprise, Brittany found herself trying to defend her big brother, “No he doesn’t.  Look.  He’s got a little bit of fuzz growing on his upper lip.  It’s very masculine.”

Grandma Weaver kept going.  “Obama is going to pass a law that all boys have to have short hair.”

That was too much.  More than George could stand.  “MayIpleasebeexcused?  I’mfullnow.”  George mumbled, and he pushed his plate away, pushed his chair back, and was out of the room before anyone could respond.  He didn’t even know how to react to that kind of stuff, and it made him so mad, and he didn’t look like a girl, and why did they care if he did?  His hair wasn’t even that long.  It was only in his eyes a little.    Grandma was being completely unfair!  He was back here in this world with his family.  One hundred percent back – not moping, ready to work again in school, and he was going to try to really learn things, not just get good grades, because he was tired of being an idiot, and he wanted to be smart when he found Una again, and he was even being nice to his sister, and now everybody was mad because of his hair, and why couldn’t he ever do anything right?  He couldn’t sit there at the table with them, because if he did, he was going to lose his temper and yell, or hit somebody, and it was all too bad because the Christmas Eve turkey was really good, and the mashed potatoes with gravy, but he couldn’t go back there, because he didn’t know if she was serious or not about the Obama thing, but he remembered that once she had tried to tell his mom that women would all have to wear the Muslim robes, because of Obama.  The worst thing was, he was still hungry.

“What’s wrong?”  Grandma asked back at the table.  “I thought it was funny.”

*   *   *

The Meren family was home from Midnight mass.  Joey, as the youngest child, was allowed to choose and open one Christmas present.  Grandma and Grandpa were eagerly perched on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, watching him.  They were very excited about the particular present that he had picked.  It had been sitting on a high shelf in the hall closed wrapped for two months.  Exactly the remote control car he had asked for.

Joey ripped the paper off, saw the gift, and set it aside.  “Thank you very much,” he said, and he got up, kissed them each mechanically, and went down the hall toward bed.  His Dad got up and followed him, to make sure he changed out of his white shirt and necktie from church before going to sleep.

Pete couldn’t believe what an idiot his brother was.

“Well, I did expect a little more enthusiasm.”  Grandpa admitted.

“I’m sorry.”  Mrs. Meren said.  “It’s late.  He doesn’t always think.  I’m sure he really likes it.”

“But it’s just what he asked for.”  Grandma said.  “Isn’t it what he wanted?”

“Look, my brother’s an idiot.  You can’t pay attention to him.” Pete tried to explain.  But it didn’t do any good.  Now his mother looked like she was going to get mad at him, so he supplied the real reason.

“It’s just that he has the same car at home.”

“He does?”  Grandma and Grandpa were surprised.

“Actually,” his mom explained quietly, “you got him the same car last year.”

Their faces dropped.  Pete could tell that they didn’t remember, and that this had been the big gift – the one Joey was supposed to be excited about.  Pete hated the way they looked all disappointed.  The wrinkles that didn’t show much at all when they were smiling suddenly seemed very deep.

“But it’s good that he has two.  This way, he and his friends can race.  You’ll see.  He’ll really like it.”

“Pete’s right you know” his mom smiled at him gratefully.  “What good is one remote control car?”

Grandpa patted Grandma’s hand.  “We’d better go to bed.”  And they walked down the hall, arm in arm.

December 24

Once upon a time, there was an elderly gentleman who lived at the North Pole in a building that was part homestead, part workshop, and part dormitory for elves.  He was a kindly old man who exuded a deep wisdom, an inner calm, a joviality, and an almost supernatural understanding of events past and present.  His name was Santa Claus, and yes, he had a long white beard, and wore a red coat.

On this particular once upon a time, he sat in his den -- a cozy room decorated with music boxes from around the world.  He sat in his den with Manchester, the head of his elf-guild, and with a wise, snowy owl, who had been heard hooting in these parts on or about December 12.  The owl wasn’t in the story then.  The hooting was merely foreshadowing.

Thanks to the fortunate, shimmering, albeit almost too late arrival of the Goddess of Whimsy, all has reverted to right in the Christmastide dimension.  The elves are returned, Santa is cured, and the snowy owl is now able to come in out of the cold, perch on Santa’s roll-top desk, and perform his time-honored job as mediator.  The dispute he is currently mediating is between Santa: the boss, and Manchester: the head of the elf-guild.  The snowy owl is in the story now.

The wiener dogs and the pig from another dimension have been dispersed with orders to remove the Christmastide animals from the observation warren of the rabbits before those good animals awaken, and the warren itself fades away into the dimension in which it belongs, while the fox from the office at the crossroads of the worlds continues to herd together animals who have inadvertently wandered through the small but growing holes in the fabric of the Christmastide universe.

But, everything is not perfection, because Christmas is still way behind schedule.  Oh, there are enough presents to go around, maybe a little lighter than usual, but that will be OK because Christmas had been getting a little overboard with materialism anyway.  People had been forgetting about the spirit of giving.  No, the issue isn’t the presents; the issue will be the delivery.  The spell on the reindeer will wear off, but not for another six months.  The other issue is the growing list of grievances filed by Manchester, the head of the elf guild.

And so, the wise snowy owl sat down with Santa Claus and Manchester the elf in Santa’s cozy den, decorated with music boxes from around the world. 

“It is very important that we resolve these issues before Christmas is cancelled altogether.”  The snowy owl explained.  “It is now, as you know, late evening on December 24.  The sled must be loaded within the hour, if any presents at all are to reach the children of the world.  He frowned over the list of complaints. 

v Micro-circuitry in the modern electronic toys becoming too much of a strain on the elves' vision.

v   Inhumanly increased volume of toys expected, due to over promising by shortsighted, indulgent parents unable to cope with an increasingly materialistic world. 

v Hostile work environment, due to lack of leadership ability to prevent overworked, overstressed elves from being mean to one another. 

v Incomprehensibly overcomplicated paychecks – suspected unfairness, and favoritism. 

v Elves are tired of red and green uniforms, but unable to agree on whether to replace them with yellow and green, or orange and black.

The owl sighed, and shook his head, rotating it 180º.  “This sounds very bad indeed.”

Santa merely shook his own head, which he was not able to rotate 180º.  “I’m afraid that, while I do seem to have an almost supernatural understanding of events past and present, these problems are beyond my ability to solve.”

“Yes,” intoned the snowy owl, “I do believe they are.”

“Well then, there is no point in further negotiations,” Manchester the elf rose from his seat, and prepared to storm petulantly out of the room.  “We can no longer work under these conditions.”

“Sit down elf.”  The snowy owl commanded.

The elf sat down.

The owl continued.  “I said that there is nothing that Santa Claus, by himself, can do.  This is a weighty matter, and all parties must effect an organizational transformation from deep within our hearts and souls.” 

Santa and Manchester looked at the Snowy owl blankly.

The snowy owl continued.  “We must endure the Total Truth Process.”

To be continued . . .

December 23

         The Meren family sat drinking eggnog; eating Christmas cookies, and admiring the tree they had just decorated.  All the old ornaments were on it – the herds of pipe cleaner reindeer Pete and Joey had each made in kindergarten, the pinecone ornaments their mother had made in kindergarten, the painted seashells that had been a family project one year, and all the store bought ornaments too: the carousel horses, the shiny crystal vegetables, and the colored glass balls.  This year, because they couldn’t remember who had won last year’s tinsel vs. garland argument, they had tinsel and garland both – just to be fair.  Grandpa said it made the tree look a little too gaudy, but everybody else said he was being silly.  The tree looked great.  The twinkling lights reflected festively in the tall living room window.  Bing Crosby sang on the CD player, and life was good.

         Life was so good, in fact that a warm, contented feeling welled up inside of Pete as he drank his eggnog.  This was his family, and he loved them. 

It must have been the love and contentment that prompted him to do it – the feeling that there was no reason not to trust his family – the feeling that they were, after all, the most important people in the world to him.  It must have been that feeling of security that prompted Pete to bring out the fancy, cloth covered notebook, claiming that it was sort of an early Christmas present to everybody.  He didn’t explain about how the pages were appearing mysteriously; he just said that it was something he and Brittany were working on, (which wasn’t really a lie – they were working on it) but that they needed help with the ending (and this wasn’t a lie either, if you took the whole thing seriously about needing a pep talk).  He didn’t know about Brittany (who was approximately 750 miles away, presumably drinking eggnog with her own grandparents) but he felt like he had run up against a brick wall as far as pep talks were concerned.  He had no idea what to do.

They took turns reading aloud, and then Pete asked for suggestions.

Mrs. Meren: December 8 is obviously important.  December 8 is where we learn that someone is trying to rip apart the fabric of the universe, starting with Christmas.  You can’t end the story without addressing that. 

Grandma:  Do you want the end to be happy, or sad?

Pete:    What do you mean?

Grandma:  On the whole, the story is charming, whimsical, a little bit frightening, and potentially very sad.

 

Grandpa:  Why write about no Christmas?

Pete:  That’s a really good question.  I mean it’s the one thing Brittany and I keep asking ourselves.

Mr. Meren:  And what is your answer?

Pete:  I don’t know, stuff seems to be going wrong everywhere, I guess.  Look at the news: too much violence, too much poverty, too much hunger.  Protests everywhere, and police getting violent.  Wars in Iraq, and Afghanistan, and Libya.  It’s not good.

Mrs. Meren:  Wars that America is pulling out of.  Most of those soldiers are home for Christmas, and won’t have to go back.

Mr. Meren:  Unless they go to Korea, or Syria.

Grandpa:  Last I heard the Republicans are not happy about the jobs we’re going to lose if we cut weapons spending.  We may not be ready to retire our troops so easily.

Grandma:  Aren’t we supposed to be thinking about an ending for the story, not about current events?

Mrs. Meren:  They’re a little bit intertwined, aren’t they?  The story, and what’s happening in the world.  I really like the way you’re keeping up with things, Peter.

Grandma:  You do a good job with that.  You’re mirroring uncertain times all the way through.

Mrs. Meren:  And not just with the obvious things, like the stock market.   As the fox says, “something is amiss” if we can go from universe to universe simply by wishing.  Perhaps they are going through the rip. 

Grandpa:  Is that right, Peter?  Could the barriers that separate the worlds be losing their integrity?

Peter:  I never thought of it that way before!  This is great!  Why didn’t I show this to you guys a long time ago?

Mr. Meren:  Because you and Brittany needed time with it yourselves first.

Grandma:  But you don’t have to do it all alone.  (Patting his hand)  We’re here for you.

 Mrs. Meren:  So far, it’s humorous, and whimsical, and a little disturbing.  We’ll have to talk about that drunken Santa at some point.  I’d love to know the inspiration for that, but right now you have to choose the kind of ending you want.  Happy, or sad?

Pete:  Well happy, of course, why would anybody ever want a sad ending?

Grandma:  The Raven might want a sad ending.

Pete:  So what the heck is the Raven?

Mr. Meren:  You’re going to have to tell us.  We’ll let you know if that’s what’s coming across.

Pete:  I guess it seems a little bit like the beast in The Lord of the Flies.

Grandpa:  The Devil.

Mr. Meren:  The dark side of the human soul.

Mrs. Meren:  Evil.

 Pete:  Evil?  The devil?  Do those things really exist?

Mr. Meren:  Hitler.

Mrs. Meren:  Jennifer.

Pete:  I don’t like Jennifer either, but I’m not sure she’s really in the same class with Hitler, but OK, I’ll let that go for now – they’re both bad guys.  But the question is: what are the bad guys really thinking?  Can we ever know?  I mean, do they actually wake up and say, “I’m going to be evil today?”

Grandpa:  It may not matter what they’re thinking.  If what they’re doing is evil, we have to fight them.

Grandma:  But does it always have to be the way Harry Potter fights Voldemort?  Do we have to leave our moorings so completely? 

Grandpa:  Drop out of school?  Leave our jobs?  Wander up and down the country looking for Horcruxes?

Mrs. Meren:  Surely not.  Surely if everyone did that, the result would be chaos.

Pete:  Wait a minute.  You guys have read the books?

Grandma:  Of course we’ve read the books.

Grandpa:  And you should too, young man.

Grandma:  (sighing heavily) Young people today --

Grandpa:  Thinking the movie is good enough.

Grandma:  And I can’t believe my own daughter hasn’t read the classics to my grandchildren.

Mrs. Meren:  I think we were talking about Peter’s story.

Mr. Meren:  That’s right.  Do we need to make huge changes in our lives in order to fight evil?  Or is it just as important to fight with all the little decisions we make every day? 

Grandpa:  Fight figuratively, you mean? 

Mr. Meren:  Maybe that is what I mean.  Do we know, for example, what the results of our actions will be?  Do we know, ever, if any one particular action will seal a tear in the fabric of the universe, or if it will make the hole bigger? 

Grandma:  Do we just try to be true to our Buddha nature?  Do we say yes to the light over and over as far as we understand it?

Pete:  Buddha nature?

Grandma:  You missed the 1970’s, didn’t you darling?

Grandpa:  Your highest, truest self.

Joey:  Integrity!

Pete:  Like the walls between the universe are losing.

*   *   *

         Going into hiding.  That sounds a lot more interesting than it is.  Into hiding.  It sounds dark, and secret, and mysterious.  Like a womb opening up to embrace you – to protect you until you’re ready face realities. 

But it’s not like that.  It’s nothing more than boring.  It’s a dinghy hotel room in a grey town about 80 miles north.  It’s a knit hat with earflaps when I go outside.  It’s companionless walks by the ocean, and nothing else to do, and no one to talk to.  It’s hoping they’ll leave my old gentleman alone, if I just stay away.  It’s thinking, and thinking, and thinking.  Living alone with my mind.  Going over my mistakes again and again.  The wind can get so strong in December, whipping the sand in my face.  It’s the wind that burns, they say, more than the sun.  I wonder who says that.  No one talks to me anymore.  And no one should.   I’ve hurt too many people.  Too many good people.

*   *   *

Uncle Duane arrived with a hug for everyone, and a basket of rum balls – Cindi’s recipe, he said. 

He read the story, and began to chuckle.  “I know where we need to go now.” 

*   *   *

Sometimes, back in the old life, I believed I was drowning in the tedium.  Now I know what tedium really is.  Tedium is having nowhere to go.  Tedium is worse than having no one to love; tedium is when the only way to show your love is to stay away. 

I remember when I wanted to glory in adventure, and you worshiped at the alter of security. 

Sometimes, I believed I was drowning already back then – drowning in the acceptable, the expected, the “what will the neighbors think”.  Smothered by the worries. 

But here is the ocean – right here, with its grey waves – ready to embrace me – to take me in – to take me away.  The tourist shops are closed for the winter.  There never were any lifeguards.  No one would see.  I could drown now, if I wanted to.  Drown really and truly.  Once and for all.  Now and forever.  End the self-pity. 

But it would be so cold.  As cold as my heart feels.  It’s so dark.  The days are so short, and even at noon, the world is grey.

I believed my dark night of the soul happened a long time ago, but I was being dramatic, wasn’t I?  Pretentious – quoting St. John of the Cross (the mystic, not the album by Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse thank you very much.  There’s something I had never heard of before I ran away from home and found those idiots.)

And what is that about?  A grown woman running away from home!  Ridiculous! 

We were meant to face the world side by side – you and I – husband and wife – holding hands.

But I ran away.

And now what do I do?

Is it possible to crawl out of this darkness?  To crawl out of this hole?

Now what do I do?

*   *   *

“Um, where are we?”  Pete asked.

“Look around.”  Uncle Duane gestured very purposefully at everything, and at nothing.

“I see a run-down dirty trailer, and a shed with a for sale sign,” Grandpa observed, eying his brother distrustfully.  You never knew what Duane would get up to.

“I see a busy street with lots of cars going very fast,” said Mrs. Meren, keeping a firm hold on Joey.

“I see clouds in the sky,” said Grandma, pulling the zipper on her jacket as high as it would go on her neck.

“I see the fountain,” Mr. Meren said.  “Didn’t we make a donation to ‘keep the water flowing’?”

“You’re fountaineers all right,” grandpa assured him with a proud pat on the back. 

“It’s not flowing now,” Joey observed.

“And what’s on top of the sculpture?”  Uncle Duane was making little circling gestures with his hands that reminded Pete of Brittany when she was excited.

“Something black,” observed Joey.

“Is it a raven?”  Pete ran closer to inspect.  It was impossible to drive through Reedsport without driving by the fountain.  It was right there on Highway 101 across from the Texaco station, but Pete had never actually looked at it very closely before. The sculpture was made of what looked like different kinds of metal.  The bottom looked like it was trying to be sort of natural, but not photographic-natural.  Like maybe it was trying to be rocks, but not trying too hard.  And rising out of the rock-like things were three angular, interconnected silver beams bent into something geometric, with a hole in the center.  Pete realized that although he could draw a little bit, he really knew nothing about art.  And on top of the geometric beam-thing, was a large, black bird.  Yes.  It really could be a raven, overlooking the whole scene.

“Why are we here?”  Mrs. Meren asked.

“Look at the address on the shed.”  The address wasn’t readily apparent.  There were no big numbers advertising it.   Nobody really wanted to get too close.  What if someone was inside?  What if they were mean?  It didn’t look like the kind of place someone you wanted to know would be.

“I’ll go if you’ll go with me.”  Joey took Uncle Duane’s hand.

“There’s my boy.”  And the two of them walked towards the door.  Sure enough, there were faded numbers on the sign – 1690 Winchester Ave.  They all looked at him, their expressions either blank, or irritated, depending on how they felt about Uncle Duane, and about the expected inclement weather.

“This, my good people, is the confluence fountain.”  Uncle Duane gestured expansively.  “It depicts the confluence of the three great rivers that dominate the landscape here in the Umpqua valley.  It is located at, or near 1690 Winchester Avenue -- ” 

He paused, waiting to see if anyone else would get it.

Pete was the first one to catch on.  “So it isn’t the year 1690 that’s important!  That’s why I couldn’t find anything on the Internet!”

“1690 is an address!”  Mr. Meren was catching on too.

“An address near a statue that marks the confluence of three rivers.  .  .” Grandpa began --

“But it could also mark is a confluence of time and space!”  Grandma finished for him, obviously loving the idea enough to forget about the cold for a moment.

“What’s a confluence?”  Joey asked.

“A confluence, my dear boy,” Uncle Duane answered before Mr. Meren could hand Joey the iPhone, and recommend Googling, “is a meeting, a junction, a crossroads.  A place where things converge, intermingle, and then go their own way, taking with them what they must take, and leaving behind what they must leave behind.  That majestic bird is meant to be an osprey, but for us, it seems to have transformed into a raven, lurking, hovering over our story.”

           “Wow!  That’s good!”  Pete said.  “I wish I’d thought of it.”

“I still need a little guidance.  We’ve found 1690, but now what?  We’re standing out on Highway 101, also known as Winchester Avenue, in the cold.  What are we doing here?”  Mrs. Meren asked.

“I’d say we’re building a memory,” her husband took her hand, encouragingly.

Grandma and Grandpa exchanged looks.  Their daughter’s husband got along with Duane just a little bit too well.  “Do we have to build this memory so close to a busy street, in the cold?” Grandma asked.  Grandpa put his arm around her, protectively.

Mr. Meren was firm.  “Pete brought us in on his project.  Shared adversity can be a strong community building experience.  I think we should go along with it.”

“Please.”  Joey looked up at his mom and grandparents with big eyes.  “I think it’s fun.”

“Alright,” agreed Mrs. Meren, “but not for too long.”  She looked to Pete or Duane for guidance.  “So, what do we do now?”

Uncle Duane looked at her as if it should be perfectly obvious.  “You give your pep talks.”

“Just stand here and talk?”  Pete asked, with a glance at the busy highway next to them.  He may live in Hong Kong, but he still knew people in this town.  What if somebody saw them?

“We could sit down,” Mr. Meren suggested.

“In a circle, like we’re around a table, like the animals in the story,” Joey was getting into the spirit.

“Isn’t it a little cold?”  Grandma asked.

“Not as cold as the North Pole.”  Uncle Duane assured her.    

“Duane, you crazy old man, if you sit down on the pavement, you’re never going to get up again.”  This was getting to be just too much for Grandma.

“I have lawn chairs in the trunk.  And I brought a banquet.”  He set the basket of rum balls on the damp cement, and motioned for the group to arrange themselves around it.

*   *   *

Is there a way to go back?  Back to the beginning?  Back to before I left?  The whole world seems so different now.  How old would the boy be now?  He was five then – when I left.  So smart.  No imagination whatsoever – but smart.

Could I claw myself back?  Through the muck I’ve buried myself in?  Through the hole?  I ran so far, it seems I must have run through time as well as space – it’s all so different.  So different in this deep, deluging darkness.  Trapped by the cold, short days.  Trapped by the isolation, and hostility.  Trapped by my chosen companions – chosen in a moment of stupid, unthinking – unthinking what?  I have no word for the state that I was in when I met the man who followed me – the man who wouldn’t let me be.  The man who takes and takes, and hurts and hurts.

Would they want me back – my family?

No.

They’re happier now, without me.

No one to bother them.  No one to nag.

*   *   *

Grandma made grumbly noises about how she should be home cooking dinner, and she had thought they were just writing a story, and what were they doing out here in the cold.  Pete had some sympathy for her.  He didn’t know how he was going to explain their odd little picnic if anyone he knew walked by.  And people did walk by here in Reedsport, because there wasn’t that much to do, and teenagers just walked around, even in the cold.  But he figured he was too invested in the whole thing to complain now, except that he didn’t think they should leave out Brittany and George, so his dad got them on his iPhone, on Skype, because his dad was like a technology guru even though he was really a counselor, and he could make electronic devices do practically anything, anywhere.  It didn’t take long before they were all settled, and Brittany and George were there with them, ready to give pep talks.  They all had to listen really hard when George or Brittany talked, but that was OK.

Brittany:  I’ll go first.  You elves probably heard me ranting last night.  You have the dream jobs of the world.  You live with Santa, and you make toys that make everybody happy.  Grow up, and get along with each other, and get back to work so the rest of us can stop worrying about the fabric of the universe.  There’s more at stake than you know.

George:  I don’t know exactly what’s going on here.  I came to the party a little late, but I do know that whatever you guys have got on your agenda, I need to do something pretty unrealistic too.  You guys need to get together, and save Christmas.  I need to go someplace impossible, and find somebody I should never have left.

So what have you guys got to do?  Make a bunch of toys, and get them to a bunch of little kids, which would have been what you were doing all along, if it hadn’t been for the evil raven.

And look.  I get it about evil.  It gets in the way.  Totally.  But you can’t concentrate on the evil.  You have to think about the goal.  Your goal is Christmas.  My goal is my princess.  And I guess learning as much as I can so that I’m not a total doof when I go back there, and have to help her rule a kingdom.  Like I guess I have to figure out what that even means.

OK, so was this a pep talk?  Did I pep you up?  Or did I just clarify things for myself?  I guess we all just have to get off our buts, and get to work. 

It’s really not that hard, is it?  One step at a time?  One foot in front of the other?

Pete:  I don’t have much to say, as far as words go.  I’ve gone back and looked at my pictures.  They’re actually pretty good.  It’s funny; I never thought I could draw before.  I guess I never actually thought about trying.  Never thought about looking at things closely enough. 

But you guys always knew that you could make toys.  I mean, you’re elves.  All you have to do is get along with each other.  And with the reindeer.  (Please God; don’t make that mean that I have to get along with Jennifer!)

Well, actually I went back over the story again too.  Maybe you don’t know how to make toys.  Maybe you aren’t really elves at all.  Maybe you’re aardvarks from some other place, and the elves have been transported somewhere else.  Maybe we’re all doing stuff we don’t really understand.

Anyway, I looked at my pictures again.  I looked at the raven, and the picture I tried to do of the dark.  They’re actually pretty scary.  I don’t know what the dark is.  I don’t know what the raven is.  I do know that I looked at you guys again.  You’re whimsical.  So are the wiener dogs and the pigs.  You guys have to find the Goddess of Whimsy, whatever that is, and get yourselves in gear.

Mrs. Meren: Marcus Aurelius says, "Such as are thy habitual thoughts, such also will be the character of thy mind; for the soul is dyed by the thoughts." In other words, dwell on who you want to be.  Make yourself into who you want to be by making it a habit to be that person – those people – those elves.  Your highest possible selves.  Peacemakers, and joymakers.  That’s who you want to be – who you were meant to be.  Don’t get distracted by the raven.

Mr. Meren:  Buy low, sell high.  In other words, what looks like a problem now, is really a potential goldmine, if you invest in it.  Invest your time, and your love, and your highest selves.  Trust in Santa and in the Goddess of Whimsy.

Joey:  Um, I don’t really know what’s going on, but I’ll talk if you want me to. 

Um. 

I like donuts.

Uncle Duane:  Ignore the Raven.  Don’t let him get to you.

The boy:  Please stop fighting.  Please make the story have a happy ending.  That’s all I have to say.

*   *   *

         But would they take me back?

         I look to the ocean for escape. 

The waves – the grey waves with the dirty froth at the brink between the air and the water.  There must have been a storm to rile up the sand, and the flotsam, and there it is, the sand and the flotsam, churning away in the dirty froth at the margin between the air and the water.  Some of it stays behind on the beach – tiny shreds of plastic, and wood, and shell.  Shreds of things that people used to care about.  What did I used to care about? 

What do I care about now?

I always got my own way, they used to tell me.  It wasn’t true, but it’s what they thought, and it made them so angry.  I just wanted to take advantage of our time on this beautiful, beautiful earth, and it made them angry, because they wanted to plod, plod, plod through ordinary, ordinary –

But could I go back?

Turn away from the grey, churning water?

Turn away from the escape?

It must be nearly Christmas now.  Will they be lighting the pink and purple Advent candles without me? 

Could I be there with them?  Saying the blessing?  Lighting the candles?

Could it be that easy?

It’s such a long way back.

Would they still want me?

*   *   *

         Pete checked the notebook when they got back home.  He was delighted to find another installment.  He read it aloud, wondering why no one was asking why it hadn’t been there before.  Maybe they thought he was making it up as he went, looking at a blank page?  Maybe they thought it had been there all along, and that he and Uncle Duane had arranged the little outing as afternoon entertainment in the freezing cold?  Maybe they just weren’t paying much attention.

December 23, 2004

The elf-varks broke off arguing.  Three of the green ones stood together, and began to sing, reverently, but badly off-key:

MAKE ME A CAMEL OF YOUR PEAS

WHERE HAIR IS HATED LET ME BRING YOUR GLOVES

WHERE THERE'S A HUNG JURY YOUR PORK AND LARD

AND WHERE THERE'S GROUT BLUE HAZE AND GLUE

Fred, Akelmeyer and Malchisedech sniffed the air with their pointy noses.  Something was changing.  Something was different.  The elf-varks were on the right track, but they still needed help.

Three yellow ones stood up, shoved the green ones to the ground, and tried to do their part.  They lifted their long noses into the air, and let loose with a joyful, but slightly painful noise:

WRECK THE HALLS WITH COWS NAMED MOLLY

FALAFEL, FALEFAL, LA LA LA.

KISS THE BEES AND PLAY WITH DOLLIES

FALAFEL, FALAFEL, LA LA LA.

DON, THE COW MUST PLAY IN PERIL

FALAFEL, FALAFEL, AWFUL, LA.

TROLLS, THEY AIN'T LIKE MULE-TYPE BARRELS

FALAFEL, FALAFEL, LA LA LA.

The wiener dogs and Martin the pig exchanged glances.  This was certainly not right either.  Four more green ones jumped to their feet before the yellow creatures could start another verse, toppling their chairs as they went.  They trampled over the supine bodies of the first four green elf-varks, who were not hurt from being knocked over by the yellow elf-varks, but rather found the floor surprisingly comfortable.  The four trampling green elf-varks shoved into the singing yellow elf-varks, mercifully putting an end to the Falafeling, but the blessed silence did not last long, because these four green elf-varks linked elbows, and raised their voices in something resembling a rousing four part harmony:

CHEST HAIRS BOASTING OF A FUNERAL PYRE

JACK'S FROTH DRIPPING FROM HIS NOSE

MULE-TYPE CAROLS BEING STUNG BY THE BRIAR

AND FOLKS DRESSED UP LIKE ESKIMOS

EVERYBODY'S NOSE IS TURKISH AND A GUY NAMED MOE

CAN MAKE THE CHRISTMAS PEAS TURN WHITE

TINY TOTS WITH THEIR LYSOL THEY GROW

WILL FIND SOME HARD NEW LEAVES TONIGHT

THEY KNOW THAT'S AUNT CASSANDRA'S WAY

SHE'S LOADED, LOTS OF POISON GOODIES, HONEST LAY

AND AVRA'S MOTHER'S RILED, A GOULASH SPY

TOOSHIE, THE RAIN DEAR REALLY KNOW HOW TO FRY

SO I'M OFFERING THIS SAMPLE, FRAYED

EGG YOLK AND RUM SPILLED ON YOUR SHOE

THOUGH SANTA BLED MANY CHIMES, WILLIE MAYS

MARY CHRIS MOOSE, BARRY CHRIS MOOSE, TOO YOU.

“That will be quite enough,” Santa bellowed.  The room fell silent.  The singing mythical green elf-varks returned sheepishly to their seats.  The supine mythical green elf-varks and yellow elf-varks rose sheepishly from the floor, nodded sheepishly to each other in apology, righted their chairs, and sat down in them.  The entire assembly leaned toward Santa, who smiled at them benevolently.  This was the Santa that they revered, obeyed, and loved.  This was Santa as he should be!

“Now that I have your attention,” he said “there really isn’t much point in exuding a deep wisdom and inner calm, a joviality, and an almost supernatural understanding of events past and present if I let that sort of painful, but whimsical nonsense continue.”

“Santa is right,” Fred observed to Martin and the others.  “I have detected a decided note of whimsy suddenly injected into the proceedings where before there was only despair, and absurdity.”

Santa turned his loving smile on the elf-varks.  “You unfamiliar, many-hued creatures who sit where my elves should be have been most entertaining.  I think, however, that the pink and purple end of the spectrum has been ignored.  It may be, perhaps, that you have a musical offering for us?”

The pink and purple elf-varks rose, but remained at their places.  They spoke as one, their voices blending to create a beautiful, other-worldly sound:

How do I words into this form constrain,

And still describe your whimsy-driven spirit?

From flowery trite descriptive verse refrain,

But pen my love as in my mind I hear it?

The truest love inspired the bard to write

"My mistress eyes are nothing like the sun"

But he had never seen you light his night

With smiling eyes as mine you've often done.

Wrote early sonneteers with saccharin verse

And later cynics with their piercing wit.

Their words I study, and their rhymes rehearse

The best of them I find for you unfit:

Forgive old poets that their lines are flawed

For their souls never had the Goddess awed.

The air above the cabbage and carrots began first to shimmer, then to quiver, and finally to pulsate with a glimmering, effervescent energy.

“Beloved beasts of fanciful illusion. 

How camest about this pitiful confusion?”

Fred, Akelmeyer, Malchisedech and Martin looked first at each other, and then at the pulsating glow from which the voice seemed to emanate, hovering approximately three feet in the air above the food.

“Well you see, Ma’am, my hypothesis is that you haven’t been around here very much lately.”

“Small wiener dog, in wisdom you are strong. 

I have been gone from here for far too long.

The journey back was arduous indeed

Four candles on the table I did heed. 

And now I am returned, what nonsense do I see? 

My creatures have forgotten who they are meant to be.”

Fred pointed out that the Raven might have had a hand in this unfortunate lapse of memory.

“The raven is a bird of ill intent,

 But he can only harm when we are negligent.

When we ignore the voice inside our soul,

And turn from our true selves, we’ll not be whole. 

I see that he has found my recipes,

And used the book for ill.  I am not pleased.”

For a brief moment, the pulsating shimmer expanded to a throbbing glow that encompassed the entire room, and then receded to the spot about three feet above the platter of carrots and cabbages.  The elf-varks and reindeer looked at each other in bewilderment, as if recognizing for the first time that things were utterly wrong.  But the look lasted only for a fraction of a moment, as the aardvarks all, purple, green, yellow and pink, faded away, freed from the story into which they had wandered accidentally.  In their place appeared proper elves, clothed in appropriate elfin stereotypical attire, pointy hats, faux fir trimmed felt coats and all.

The door opened, and in walked the fox from the office at the dimensional crossroads.  “Has anybody seen --” he began, but then he interrupted his own question when he looked out the window and spotted Little Bunny Foofoo hopping after one of the mice.  “Oh that’s where he got to,” the fox muttered.   “Mixed up with the pony that should be in this story.” 

Only then was he sufficiently distracted from his duty to notice the unusual shimmering above the vegetables.  “Oh!  Your Whimsicalness!”  He exclaimed.  “You are back!  Well it’s about time you are coming back to us.  We have been at the end of our wits undertaking to manage this story without you.  Things have gotten all wrong, I tell you.  Completely out of hand.  It has been necessary to recruit these canines from another world.”

“At your service ma’am.”

To be continued, with much joy and love.  .  .

“So when are we going to meet Cindi?”  Mrs. Meren asked Uncle Duane.

Her uncle smiled.  “Something tells me she won’t be coming back.”