The Beginning of Winter
I have no one but myself to blame for this.
I’m alone at Christmas. I watch ESPN at night. Inspired by the Jerry Vale scene in “The Irishman,” I’ve been deconstructing The Golddiggers LP “We Need a Little Christmas.” I’m working on another book.
I’ve been reading more. That “Dylan and Me” (50 Years of Adventures)” by Louie Kemp, Bob’s BFF is pretty good, especially the part about Dylan and Cher singing “All I Really Want To Do” (accompanied by the Band) at David Geffen’s 35th birthday party. I had a lot of fun being a semi-big shot journalist, going to concerts, traveling to New Orleans 26 times and drinking tequila at the Matchbox.
And this is the tradeoff.
(Of course, sometimes you can be alone with someone else.)
I’ve been looking at other paths since I moved into this small Westchester, Ill. house two years ago, and two years after my parents died. I’m reluctant to talk much about how this was the house where my parents brought me home from the Berwyn hospital on the day I was born. Or, how I bought the 1952 house out of the blue when it was in foreclosure. I’ve remade the house with bright colors, a midcentury sofa, and a yellow butterfly chair. Those are bright tones for days like these.
Westchester is a great stock for modest midcentury homes so I never was looking for any kind of spiritual signal. I could afford this place, it had a driveway for my camper van and a backyard with a 100-year-old tree.
And now, for the second winter in a row, two cardinals have started hanging around my house.
The other day they were sitting in the red berry bushes by my front living room window. Another reason I liked this area was the proximity of the Westchester Woods Forest Preserve so there are all kinds of birds in the area. I get that. But I only see these cardinals around Christmas.
Out of the blue.
When I lived in the city I kept an IPod on the nightstand by my bed, you know, to set the mood. Now there is silence.
When I wake up in the morning I have the bad habit of checking my iPhone. I see a feed full of anger, happy birthdays, promotions, fake news, and sometimes nice archival stories on baseball and lost poets. It’s like a full train to Coney Island. I just put away the phone, close my eyes and try to reset.
Earlier this week I opened my eyes and this time I looked at the nightstand.
I saw a snow globe music box my parents gave me for Christmas maybe 20 years ago. I had forgotten about it. I wasn’t that impressed back then but I saved it. It probably ranked one level above socks and dress shirts. I don’t remember my parents saying anything after I opened the carefully gift-wrapped box with the music box inside. And I never took the time to understand what it could mean.
The other morning I leaned over and wound the silver knob at the bottom of the Music Box. I wondered if it still worked. The Music Box played “Let It Snow” with the sound of chimes fluttering through a winter breeze.
I looked outward.
Inside the snow globe were two cardinals, breast to breast, together on a branch. Together forever.
My parents liked birds but they never talked about the storied meaning of cardinals being signals from beyond. It was never, “Remember, when we’re gone, we’re coming back as a couple of cardinals.”
We choose our own beliefs.
And suddenly I’m not so alone at Christmas.
You may no longer be a “semi-big shot,” but you are still a major-league talent at a keyboard.
Thank you Joe; happy holidays and have a super 2020. Dave
Another tear jerker, Dave! Hope we can make it to your next fiesta!