I want all of us as joyful as Sasha is here. Living in the moment, wagging our tails so fast, you can't even see them.
Since I first learned to read, I have wanted to live my life as if in a book – at first, a picture book. I wanted a brother Dick, a sister Jane, and I’d be Sally. I’d have a dog named Spot and a cat named Puff, and because I went to Catholic school, my Dick, Jane, and Sally, likewise, were Catholic, which then meant I wanted a crucifix in every room, along with a wall-mounted, Holy Water dispenser, in which I could dip my index finger and make the Sign of the Cross every time I entered a room.
I wanted, needed to be Sally; I wanted, needed to wear nothing but ruffled dresses and spend my days “Seeing Dick run. Seeing Jane run.” And, later as the book got more difficult, I wanted, needed to dip my white, white dog into bluing and have a comical, blue dog running through my life.
Unfortunately, we had a weimaraner and two beagles, none of which was white and none of which would have been willing to be dipped into “bluing” even had I known what “bluing” was. Even more unfortunate, my mother steadfastly refused to keep me in dresses, especially ruffled dresses, because I’d rip them. And, most unfortunate of all, she also refused to put crucifixes and Holy Water dispensers in every room, no matter how I begged, no matter how I explained that as Catholics we needed them.
She was sending us to Hell. I knew it.
Then came Nancy Drew, and I desperately wanted and needed “chums” named Bess and George and drive a shiny, blue roadster and solve crimes – put the world back in order. I never did have a “chum.” Somehow, growing up in late 50s and early 60s, there weren’t a lot of “chums” running around, and there were even fewer “shiny blue roadsters.”
I still wanted them.
Yet, later – I must have been somewhere around 11 – and my mother would send my sisters and me to spend Saturdays at the YMCA, where we got to swim and then watch an afternoon movie, I wanted – and thought I needed – to live my life as a movie.
I wanted grand adventures, like in King Solomon’s Mines although I never really understood why all the women in those grand adventure movies had such a propensity for falling. They’d run a few steps and one of their ankles would give out, and our hero would have to carry them to safety. I knew if I had a grand adventure, I wouldn’t be wasting my time falling.
Along with the grand adventures, I wanted a White Christmas, A Miracle on 34th Street, and I wanted it to be A Wonderful Life.
In short, I wanted the holiday season to heal all rifts, make the world right, bring peace into my life, and restore good will.
I still want that. And still, at some level, expect that other people, other families have that. In my head, I see the people down the street, across town, sitting down with family and loved ones to a turkey dinner, with all the works, heads bent, holding hands, as they give thanks for one another and all the other blessings in their lives.
That desire for a Norman Rockwell/Currier and Ives/Frank Capra-directed Christmas has way too strong hold on me. And, really at my age, I ought to know better. I ought to be able to give it up and accept life for what it is:
Families squabbling, not talking, refusing to listen, holding onto hurts and grudges, and clinging to the past.
You’d think that at my age, none of that would bother me anymore.
You’d be wrong.
