Growing up, for years and years and years, my family got pretty into the Christmas spirit. I suppose they still do, but between my scrooginess, lack of children, and intolerance for the 3 month xmas assault, I just stopped feeling it years ago. It's not like I don't still sit down and thank whoever for whatever, and think of my family. my friends. I give money to charities I like and I hold the door open for people even when I don't feel like it. But that's about the extent of it.
Oh, and we always have gone to the hospital, where we sing carols to the patients and give out poinsettias. I know it sounds terribly schmaltzy, and it probably is, but it's something we did as a family forever, and believe it or not it feels great. Since I was 14 or so I'd grumble myself awake at 8 to go down there complaining, or wanting to sleep one off. But it never mattered. Because an hour into it you can't help but thaw out a little bit and see how much this means to some of those people. People in the hospital with cancer, or heart failure, or even in the psych ward. They're lonely and bored out of their minds and to see them light up when you spend 2 hours of your holiday morning to say hello is worth it in every sense possible.
Some of us would go the extra mile. While I would usually busy myself with making sure we had enough plants and whatnot, people like my dad would be going into the rooms and sitting down with these patients.
I feel like I should stop for a second and point out -because as I became aware last year, a lot of people haven't spent much time in hospitals- that when you're in an ICU or a trauma ward, it doesn't look like
Scrubs. The staff isn't singing and flirting or being witty. They're overworked and exhausted and generally just want to get their job done. and the patients aren't Betty White clones who walk around rapping or whatever happens on that show. It's usually patients with grey skin and sullen eyes. There's often smells that you don't want to think about, and labored breathing. Lots of time sheets will be stained through with blood and bile.
and I'm not trying to gross you out with this. Often it's not like this at all, but when you're 7 and seeing a man die in a hospital bed right in front of you... well, horror movies stopped scaring me around the same time as when I figured out what was going on in the hospital. Of course I was terrified. I wouldn't even look in the windows of the bad ones, fearing something might be transmittable by sight. It wasn't until a few years later when I worked up the nerve to start peering in the windows or even popping my head in the door, still cringing, but knowing it was something I'd have to do. Because honestly, they're the ones that need picking up.
and every time I did, there would be my dad.
Imagine there's a haunted prison near you. One that for years gives your imagination all the ammunition in the world to make you absolutely terrified. and imagine that one day, on a dare, maybe, you make your way
inside of the haunted prison. You get through the gate, and the office, getting a little uneasier as you move. You brush giant spider webs aside and see dark mass in corners, trying not to guess what it might be. You make your way past the cells and lunchroom to the worst place possible, to the electric chair or to the solitary cells, where you're just sure something will lunge out and harm you. A heavy steel door opens into darkness with a creak... and there you see your dad, sitting there with his legs crossed and laughing. That's what it was like. No matter how petrified you were or how bad it smelled or what you think you'd find, he'd be in there, as comfortable as can be, talking with the patient and putting his hand on their shoulder, telling them that however long ago, he was in that exact same spot and he's there to tell them that you can recover with hope.
My father was religious (far more than I've ever been, anyway) and he had been in and out of hospitals for plenty of his adult life. He'd had to wait around hoping that his name would find its way to the top of the liver list. He'd been stuck in the hospital on Christmas eating mashed bananas. More so than anyone he knew the score, and would sit, and talk, and pray with these people, no matter how long it took, and no matter how far gone they seemed. I've mentioned before here how brave I thought he was, and this is no exception.
Later, as we'd finish up, he'd make sure we'd all washed our hands and we'd all pile into the car to head back home and open our presents with a complete understanding of just how lucky we were. and on the drive home -this was always my favorite part- we'd troll the radio stations, trying to find Springsteen singing "Santa Clause is Coming to Town".
You don't really want to listen to Christmas carols on the way home from singing them yourselves. Least of all Perry Como doing "Silver Bells" or something. There was really only two Christmas songs we would look for, the other being "Merry Christmas, Baby"(usually the Darlene Love version, though Elvis and Otis were always welcome). It was the only thing that we would listen for, and I think with maybe one or two exceptions, we would find it every year, and for once we wouldn't complain about my dad's singing voice. We wouldn't whine and get embarrassed. We would all sing
along, practically shaking the station wagon with our enthusiasm.
It's hard now for me to remember what that was like, before the internet made any song you could ever think of a mouse click away. I think one of us had half a version dubbed from the radio somewhere, but otherwise we just had the radio for 2 weeks in December to comb for it. After awhile it turned into a game. We'd call my dad whenever it came on, seeing who spotted it first (almost always my sister) and laughing about it later. I was still calling my dad and telling him when I heard it last year. Dutifully, he would change the radio from the sports station in the background.
Well, I hadn't thought about Christmas this year at all, really. We're split off from our families, and in California. It's hard to think about these things when it's not cold enough for a sweater. But of course in doing my daily culling of internet music, I came across this show from Winterland 1978. One I had a few years back and lost. the one that has not only the best version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" on it, but also the best
intro imaginable. and it hit me like a ball-peen hammer. Suddenly I'm excited for Christmas. I'm excited to go home. I'm going to have a sub and go to the Plumstead. I'm going to sing at the hospital, even in the room where my whole family watched my father die last March. I'm going to freeze my ass off. and for a few days, at least, I will love it. and I wanted to share that with you before I left for home. You might be sick of it, you may not like it. But it's certainly what's in my thoughts at the moment.
Like a lot of people, I think, I have whole memories of things that never happened to me. That never happened to anyone outside of Bruce Springsteen's imagination. I can hear Mary's heels click-clack across the porch as the radio plays. I can picture the Magic Rat's worn, brown leather jacket as he gets out of his car and appears on the scene. I can hear Spanish Johnny's voice.
But this is the rare instance that I feel like Bruce Springsteen knows what it's like to be in
my head. Of course he didn't write this song, but when he was putting together his arrangement, it's almost like he had a family of 7 in a grimy station wagon with melted toys and shit scattered all over the third seat. to me, he was thinking of a bunch of kids dressed up to sing to cancer patients and then later for each other. and that's all the gift I could ever want. Thanks Boss.
"Intro" - Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band"Santa Clause is Coming to Town" - Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Bandalso, if you like the sound of this, the rest of the show is available for download
here.
So I'm going to be sort of all over the place for the next week or so. I don't think I'll get a chance for updates, and I definitely won't be able to upload the Economist until Thursday at least, so I might skip it altogether. I'll be home, and if you're near -even if you're not- gimme a call. Same old number. Otherwise, I hope everyone has a great Christmas or holiday or whatever, and don't forget appreciate who you are and who you love and who loves you.
