[lit-ideas] Merry Everything to You and Yours
- From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Fri, 24 Dec 2010 17:50:38 -0800
Dissatisfied customers? Those would be the one behind me in the supermarket
checkout line this evening. I took my receipt and--force of habit--ran the
numbers through my head to get an approximate total. Stepped over and out of
the way...still couldn't get the total to be correct. Asked the checker if she
reached the same conclusion. She, of course, had to pull a calculator from her
drawer, at which point the lady who was waiting next in line had words to say
about the son of God. No doubt they were words appropriate to the occasion,
this being Christmas Eve. I was sent to "Customer Service," which turned out
to be someone very like the bagging assistant, who also had a calculator. The
error, for error there was, proved to be of no great consequence and, rather
than have him count out coins, I decided to let it go. He said he'd be happy
to go look for some change. I thought, "I don't like this store."
Dissatisfied parents? Two lots this week. One was a very unfortunate
occurrence. Coming out of Powell's with J., I nearly tripped over one of those
toddlers whose phase of motion mimics clockwork toys. Put them down, off they
go. In any and all directions. The father apologized. I thought, "why
apologize? This is what they do." I said, "He has the right of way," walked
on, smiling and thinking I'd said exactly the right thing. Since my hearing
isn't great, it was up to J. to tell me when we were a hundred paces away and
at the car that the parents had expostulated, "He's only a kid," and something
about how intolerant I was. Apparently they heard, "He's *in* the way." Maybe
"having the right of way" is not idiomatically correct in America?
The other dissatisfied parent was the mother of a "little dear." At the
Nutcracker, the little dear decided to kick my seat. Once, I let pass. Twice,
I let pass. On the third attack, I turned around and gave the kid a look. A
look, mind, not a "Would you please stop doing that," or something of that ilk.
Kid did it again. I turned around again. The mother apparently said, again
outside my hearing range but within J.'s, "He didn't need to give us looks."
Not "please stop kicking the chair, you marvelous little darling."
And how was the Nutcracker? The thought in my mind for much of the time was,
"this is truly the last time in my life I'm going to put up with this." That
is, of course, a silly notion. My daughters will possibly have kids who think
that ballet is just the stuff, and I'll be forced to endure yet more sugar plum
fairies and other gravity-handicapped beings, applauding as I go.
Things I really don't understand about America's version of Christmas: the
Nutcracker, Christmas Carol, all those songs by harmonizing choirs. I mean I
understand fundraising and how everyone sees Christmas as an opportunity to get
into someone else's trouser pocket. I know that putting on a show with no
royalty costs is ideal from that perspective. But something Dickens wrote in
1843 and a rather dull ballet, and mucked-up carols...what on earth?
No matter. This evening we're having L.'s cousins over for lasagna the girls
have made from scratch and all the traditional Jewish Christmas festivities.
Tomorrow will be completely within my control: presents, followed by roast beef
dinner, followed by a good walk and further eating and probably a movie or two.
Of what happens on Boxing Day, I have no inkling, but my students' grades are
in, dissatisfied parents have scuttled back to their caves and nooks, and I
have nothing left to express but peace and goodwill to all breathing persons.
Merry everything to you and yours. Drive safely. Be sure to make a careful
note of the color of your car, possibly its make, also where it ends. In
floods, bright sunshine or snowdrifts, this is a good thing to do.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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