Like Joni Mitchell penned in "River", I feel I need "someplace to skate away on..."
My parents' house is beginning to be filled with decorations,baking activities, packages and people, on an hourly basis. Because I haven't mastered which doorbell is back and which is front (still)--and that is further complicated by the dog giving me an amused look, then running to BOTH doors, in random order--while voices from upstairs, downstairs and the celler laundry room instruct me on which door to answer--usually with an added chime from the house phones (their are MANY extensions and mobile phones in this house)...I am more than a bit rattled. Of course, it doesn't help that I'm usually upstairs, online, writing, answering e-mails (or contacting publishers, presses) and seeking full-time employment. My mind is in the ethers and my hearing attuned to the laptop. (Not the doorbells.) Between the delivery persons and the visitors, this place is rollicking!
UPS, USPS, the local florist, and various political organizations all seem to be converging on the vortex of Maple Street. I am attempting to be of some small service. (I admit: some of the boxes are mine...)I help Dad haul in packages that are bigger than both of us. (Mostly ordered by Ann-the-Generous, for the extended family.) Sometimes, though, Dad gets macho on me and insists that HE can haul in the boxes himself. Since I now outweigh him by several kilos (smile) and am almost his height, this isn't often true. But for sure, only one of us, plus the giant packages, can fit through the screen door and the hallway door and the living room door--at least simultaneously.
My strategy is the "drop-the-box-and-go-into-a-crouch-and-push" position. (I'm sure there's a corresponding yoga pose...)While Dad looks on in great disgust, it still beats his "tottering-in-pain-bending-the-aching-back-haul-up-into-the-house" curls. Of course, when Ann is home, she merely orders us all out of the way, mustering her nurse-as-WonderWoman muscles, and flips the packages onto her shoulders;proceeding directly upstairs to her bedroom. It's pretty amazing. (Makes me feel like the dim-witted interloper I probably am...smile.) Somehow, we've retrieved it all from the front porch before any masked bandits. HOARDERS isn't scheduled to film here, anytime soon, either.
The "secret wrapping sessions", with half-closed doors, rustling paper and the occasional jingle-jangle of decorative sleigh bells, fills the hallways. Last weekend, Ann bribed (paid) my youngest niece to help her finish the third round of wrapping. (Luckily, Mer was in need of fast cash.)
Of course, I am of no use whatsoever. It has been (since childhood) the family joke, that "K.K. wraps like someone from an adult workshop"-- they haven't meant elves' at the North Pole. It's not politically correct nor even very nice, but I've come to accept the title. I mean, I over use tape of any kind --resorting to duct tape in a pinch. My talents are two dimensional. Oh, I write a helluva card, even a gift card might contain a poem or anectdote; but when it comes to actual wrapping...well...it's lucky Mer is still around to help.How many Christmases past have I been told, "We can't figure out how a visual artist like you can be such a lousy gift wrapper???" I haven't figured it out, either. All I can say is: thank God for the invention of gift-bags!
As fast as the presents come in, they are delivered; strict warnings attached not to open till Christmas. But, they ARE delivered. The energy coming off this enterprise is palatable. It's a kind of factory-sense to the operations. I'm sure the North Pole Business Model is at play, somewhere. For reals.
My family is generous, as well as fierce. Gift-giving is a way of loving. It just gets overwhelming (to me), sometimes. Even as I am a definite recipient of that genrousity and amazed at how, for decades, it continues to be passed along.
Now, we are beginning THE SEARCH for the perfect Christmas Tree...
No comments:
Post a Comment