Christmas before Thanksgiving

When I was a kid, my dad grew Christmas trees. I'm not really sure why he and his boyhood friend down the road began growing and selling them. Perhaps it was to make a few extra bucks from an otherwise untapped niche market. Maybe it was to show us kids how small businesses worked. (Lesson learned: use child labor.) Maybe it was just so they had something to do in the winter, or maybe it was simply because they enjoyed seeing the happiness on people's faces when they came to pick out their Christmas tree. They'd bring the whole family, sometimes even the dog, who'd run around lifting a leg on trees of his own choice. Then tree was cut, usually by my dad or the patriarch of the tree-choosing family. Sometimes Mom and the kids tried their hands at sawing the trunk while lying down in the snow wielding a curved blade.

When I was a little kid, it was nice to have a tree farm. Dad did all the real work. If someone came out to get a tree, he would go out with them to cut it. If it were too cold for me, I could stay in the house and drink hot cocoa. It was no big deal; Dad had everything under control. But as I grew older, and Dad realized that I should have more responsibility in my life beyond saving Princess Toadstool from the evil Bowser, he left a lot of the tree work to me. I was the one out there trimming in the summer, sometimes with company, sometimes alone. I mowed around the trees. In the fall, I painted them (industry secret revealed!), and when people came out in the snow to get their white or Scotch pines in the winter, I cut them and tied them to the roofs of their cars. And while it was nice to have that responsibility, I was still just a spiteful teenager. I didn't care about the tree. I didn't think about what it meant to the family that had just bought it. I never tried to imagine what it might look like inside their houses with lights and ornaments and a star and presents underneath. It was just a six foot pine, worth X dollars, checks payable to my dad. So for part of my teenage years, I resented the fact that people would come out to my house and use my time for their purposes, especially if they came on the day after Thanksgiving.

I didn't like the fact that the Thanksgiving holiday wasn't even over and people were already full-on Christmas junkies. They'd have a cold turkey sandwich ("I think this is starting to turn," they'd say) and come over to get their Christmas trees before the dirt on Thanksgiving's casket had even settled. (Yes, I did just make the metaphor of Thanksgiving being a corpse. I apologize for the morbidity.) It angered me that Thanksgiving was cast aside, and I didn't like it that people started decorating for Christmas so early.

But I came to realize that that's just how it is. Christmas starts on the Friday following Thanksgiving. I'd have to just live with it.

And now, Christmas has begun to encroach on November even more. I've been seeing commercials on television for weeks about what to buy this holiday season for that special someone. (Remember, a diamond lasts forever and it's not cliche to put a giant red ribbon on a new silver Lexus, park it in the driveway, and have your wife unwrap a small box with a key inside before going to the window to see the gift parked in the freshly fallen snow. Just once in one of those commercials I'd like to see a giant crow fly overhead and drop its own gift on the windshield. Just once.)

Because of this trend, I decided a long time ago that I wouldn't have a Christmas tree in my house before Thanksgiving. Ever. I didn't want to cheapen Thanksgiving by beginning Christmas too early.

Yesterday, however, Amy wanted to start putting up decorations. She wants to get a tree soon, too, and we don't have any time on Friday or Saturday or Sunday. If we don't have any time this weekend, she's afraid that we won't ever find time, so she wants to go on Wednesday and get the tree. I really, really don't want to, but I don't want her to be unhappy either, so yesterday I made a compromise. We started some non-tree decorating. We strung garland around the apartment. We took down some other decorations and put up some Christmas ones. We have lights on the deck. We have three nativity sets up.* We have red and gold candles and dishes with snowmen. We listened to Christmas music while we did all of it. And despite the fact that I didn't really want to put up all of those decorations yet, I had fun doing it.

Amy and I are already engaged, and we're living together (SIN!), so it's clear that at some point in the future we are going to officially be a family, but it wasn't until yesterday that it actually felt like we already are a family. As we decorated, we danced to the Christmas carols. We gave each other a hand when it was needed. We talked about what decorations should go where. We laughed. We talked about the future. We waltzed down the hallway.

We decorated for Christmas before Thanksgiving, and it was amazing.

And while I still don't want to put up the tree before Friday, I can begin to see why so many people came so early to get their trees. It allowed them another opportunity to come together with their families. Christmas is of course a time for us to give of ourselves, our time, and, all too often, our money, but I think it goes well beyond that. I think that Christmas is not just a time for giving, but of spending time together, of coming together. Sure, the figures in the nativity scene are bringing gifts for Baby Jesus, but they are also communing with one another in a way that goes beyond the simple giving and receiving of gifts. They're there to witness the coming together of a new family, not just consisting of Mary, Jesus, and Joseph, but also of every human whom Jesus was sent to save.

So if decorating early allows us be together, then there's really no reason for me to resist it so much. I don't think celebrating Christmas early is a slap in the face to Thanksgiving. I think that maybe it's just a different form of thanksgiving.


* I told Amy that I'm going to swap the characters of each nativity around to the other nativities. Which Baby Jesus goes where? That should be a fun game.

Sarah Plain and Tall

Sarah Palin wants a cabinet position.

http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/11/12/palin/index.html

Isn't it enough that we strung her along and let her believe that she had a shot at being vice-president for all that time? Isn't it about time that we let her in on the little secret that she lacks the tools, the training, the mental capacity to be a leader of this country in any capacity? Seriously. Enough is enough.

I blame Alaska. They thought it would be funny if they elected her to be their governor after a long line of corruption. "Shit," they said, "the rest of 'em are thieves. Why don't we elect that news anchor? I bet she'd be as good, don't ya know?"

Well, it was funny while it lasted, but the Alaskans took it too far. "Maybe we can make her vice-president too! Wouldn't that be the kicks!"

And yes, that's funny too. But what the Alaskans forgot to realize is that the national media has no ability to recognize satire when it stares them in the face and refuses to answer questions in a national debate. The national media has never realized that Sarah Palin is, was, and always will be a joke, and now the charade has gone too far, as people are starting to believe the myth that this person--qualified in no way whatsoever--is a potential leader of this country, be it in Obama's cabinet or on her own in 2012.

Seriously, that's about enough.

The sham has gone on long enough. It's time to quit pretending that Sarah Palin is for real. If the media outlets who are going to be interviewing her in the following days have any integrity at all, they'll expose Sarah Palin for who she really is--a puppet sent by the citizens of Alaska to poke fun at the political system.

Fishing

Yesterday, I decided to take a break from academia and go fishing. Cam and I jumped in the pickup and headed out to a farm pond. I fished. Cam jumped in the water and dug for stuff in the bank. I broke open some cattails and threw the fuzz at him. He shook water on me. Then he'd run off while I sat on the bank, and I watched my bobber sit perfectly still in the calm water. I never caught any fish, and the weather was pretty miserable. Still, it was better than being at school, and by the time I got home, I felt pretty good about things.

I've realized that I'm much more healthy when I'm outside, even if the weather sucks. Something about the outdoors keeps me in balance, and it makes me realize that I'm alive. It grounds me and keeps me in contact with the spiritual side of my life. Yesterday, I never thought about what new problems landed in my inbox over the course of the day. I didn't think about my responsibilities as a teacher and a student. I didn't grade anything, and I didn't do any assignments for the courses I'm taking. I just enjoyed nature with a friendly yellow dog. I watched the clouds, listened to the wind rattle the drying plants, and hoped that I'd get to have fish for supper. By the end of the day, the headache that's been with me the past week or so disappeared. The knots in my back loosened. I felt good.

I need to do some schoolwork this afternoon. The thought of it has already brought my headache back. I checked my email a few minutes ago and had a mini panic attack just after logging in.

I don't think it's meant to be this way. I don't think God intended for us to be inside all day. Take this room for instance. There are no windows. There are eleven computers. There are seventeen florescent tubes that provide all the light. The only sounds come from the computers humming and the heating system pushing hot air through the building. There are no birds. There is no sunshine or rain or wind or snow. There's no dirt. No rocks. Nowhere to dig, should the inspiration strike. There are thirty-six 110-volt electrical outlets, though. There's even one 220-volt outlet, just in case the English department wanted to install an oven or clothes dryer or power washer in this computer lab. Maybe they should. Soak the place. Then cover the floor with dirt. Plant some seeds. Tear off the roof. Let the sun and moon shine in.

Maybe my headache would go away again.

Random Observations

I'm sick right now, so my thoughts are random, unconnected, and, most of all, awesome.

1. John McCain looks uncomfortable being alive.
2. His middle name is Sidney. Just like Sidney Prescott, the main female character from the Scream trilogy. So to make the Obama-is-a-terrorist-because-his-middle-name-is-Hussein argument and apply it to John McCain, I'll go ahead and say it: John McCain is a hot brunette who is adept at not getting killed. (Counterpoint: If you are a member of his family, though, you're screwed).
3. Charles Grassley is a weird-looking dude. I bet he would look awesome dressed up as a vampire.
4. It's a pretty nice day out today, but I'm spending most of it inside.
   
5. I'm dizzy.
6. My toaster is broken. It has devastated me.
7. I haven't seen a movie in a theater for a while.
8. I think the dog is a little bit racist.
9. I've never kicked a successful field goal, even a practice one. Maybe Amy will hold the ball for me sometime.
10. Madonna is getting divorced? She was married?
11. I don't believe that zombies are real.
12. The book of Genesis reads like post-apocolyptic literature. I think that says a lot.
13. I need a catchphrase.
14. My stomach is killing me. I wish I could make some toast.
15. I still want to build a bomb-shelter, but now I want to make it into an underground fortress of elaborate tunnels connecting several armories.

That's all for now.

Teaching Gripes

Some gripes for you, in numerical order.

1. I hate grading papers.
2. I don't like getting emails from students asking questions that I've previously addressed in class.
3. Whatever it is, it's probably on the syllabus.
4. My office hours are not the same as class. If you missed class, we're not going to have a one-on-one tutoring session.
5. Sharing an office with fifty other people is never fun, especially when they have super-loud conversations out in the open.
6. Related item: If you want to talk to one another, just sit down so the cubicle walls block some of the conversation. Or go in the hallway. There's nobody out there trying to work.
7. Don't start a conversation with "Hey, can you do me a favor?" when you really want me to do you a favor. I'm likely to "forget" to do it.
8. If you emailed me and I ignored you, either take a hint or call me via the telephone. I'm more likely to respond to calls. Or first class letters. Or personal visits.
9. Bring your books to class.
10. Seriously, every time.
11. I'm not joking. Bring them.
12. Did you check the syllabus?
13. If your email looks like a txt msg omg im wnt rply wtf im yr english instructor thnk u.
14. Don't be a bigot in my class. This includes racism, sexism, and ethnocentrism. If it might be offensive, assume it is.
15. Related item: "Gay" is not an all-purpose adjective for anything you dislike.
16. I don't grade things when I'm in a bad mood; thus, you will not be getting your assignments back tomorrow.
17. Cite your sources. Correctly, please.
18. You have free access to one of the best research libraries in the world. Wikipedia, therefore, won't count as a source for your paper.
19. Don't show up late.
20. Don't leave early.
21. Don't expect an A without putting in a lot more work than you did in high school.
22. You've wanted to be treated like an adult for a while, right? Well, now you are. Expect adult consequences.

That's it for now. I feel a little better. See you in class tomorrow.

I want to build a bomb shelter.

Today, I spent some time doing internet research (thank you, Google) on bomb shelters capable of surviving a nuclear blast. I don't honestly think that I'm in any danger of being killed by a nuclear attack in central Iowa, but having my own bomb shelter really appeals to me. If I just want to get away from everything for a while, I could go down there and hang out, play solitaire, draw, maybe write if inspiration strikes.

I wonder if the library has some old literature from the US Department of Civil Defense about how to build one. I might check on that tomorrow. It will probably be more fun than actually doing work.

What do you do for a living?

Hi, I'm Joe. I'm 29 years old, and I'm a writer. There, I said it. I'm a writer.

I've been trying to say it for a long time. When I was a kid, people would ask, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I thought it was a trick question. Like there were right answers and wrong answers. Possible right answers: cowboy, astronaut, doctor, baseball player, veterinarian, farmer, football coach, fighter pilot, stock broker, lawyer, president, scuba diver, mountain climber, paratrooper, mathematician, marine biologist, physicist, chemist, or any type of mad scientist. Possible wrong answers included, but were not limited to, writer.

So I always said, "I don't know" or chose something off the list.

But I knew I wanted to be a writer.

Later, when I graduated from high school and was off to college, people asked, "What are you going to study?" It was a loaded question again. So I chose "business" because I thought it meant that I would get a degree and make some money, which is what everyone wanted me to do. Business. I'm still not even sure if that's a real major. Busy-ness.

Yes, I'd be a business major, and make money. Maybe I'd still write on the side, but it had to be a secret hobby, as if being a writer was comparable to being a heroin addict.

I hated busy-ness, though, and decided to switch. I'd be a journalism major! I could write--feed my addiction--and still have a respectable job! I could work my way up from a beat writer to a feature writer to an editor to a publisher! Yes, I would make money! I would start my own magazine! It would be a success!

But as it turns out, journalism isn't that much fun either, especially when you spend all night sculpting your words into what you think is a piece of art only to have an editor tell you the next morning that it's too long. Four column inches need to be cut. You'll re-work it, you say, but the deadline is in ten minutes, she says. Here, just give it, I'll do it, she says, and she huffs off, taking your work with her.

The next day, you see it on page 12, next to an ad that touts a popular campus bar's drink specials. You gaze at where it says, "By Your Name." You're proud to see your name in print. It makes you feel important. This article, you think, wouldn't be in here if it weren't for you. Then you read the article. You notice something wrong right away. It's different. It's not what you wrote. Sure, it's your research. It's the quotes that you gathered from your contacts. But it isn't your language. It's crap, pure and simple! And it's attached to your name! Reverse plagiarism! You've been had, and you won't stand for it!

That afternoon, you go into your editor's office. You don't knock. You catch her in the act of hacking away at some other poor soul's hard work. You're disgusted. You yell. You make wild gesticulations with waving arms so people behind the glass can tell what's going on. You storm out before security has a chance to arrive.

And you realize that you're not a journalist.

But how did this get to being about you? Let's get back to me.

Anyway, journalism wasn't my cup of tea, so to speak, so I switched majors to English. Surely, I could write as an English major, I thought.

My advisor, on the other hand, informed me that one cannot make money and write at the same time. She said that with and English degree, I had two options. I could drive a cab or be a teacher.

Seriously, she told me that.

In what seemed like no time, I was four years into an unrewarding teaching career. I did paperwork all day. I lost hair. I lived alone and drank too much. I wrote occasionally. I didn't think about getting published. As a last-ditch effort, I applied to some writing programs, though. I wasn't sure I'd get in. Part of me hoped I wouldn't. I could abandon my dream of being a writer.

After I was accepted, I didn't know how to react. I had a comfortable career. I was a good teacher. Sure, I didn't like it, but that's how life is. You're not supposed to like your job. But I knew I had to try, so I quit to go back to school. I'm learning to write. I'm trying to convince myself that I'm a writer, I've always been a writer, I'll always be a writer, despite what I happen to do for money.

Now, when people ask me what I do for a living, I ignore the fact that it's a loaded question. They mean to ask me what I do for money, but since they don't say so, I answer the question as they actually posed it. I tell them what I do for a living.

I write.

I'm a writer.