Wierd Flipping Yule

This is a "sample picture" Windows thoughtfully put on my computer. I couldn't resist it. Fake blue trees!

Okay, let's quit kidding ourselves. It's a strange Holiday season. I thought things would settle down at middle age, but the truth is that things just get more complicated.

Christmases are anniversaries. If anything has changed, particularly for the worse, in our lives, we measure that decline during the holidays. Christmas becomes about loss and no amount of presents in the Universe can change that.

My mother confessed the other day she had completely forgotten about my father's history of paranoia and dangerous behaviors. I suspect she has the right idea there, but of course this is not an idea. Her sense of history is fading like the signal from a radio station as we drive away from it. Dementia meets denial at the dusty crossroad.

My sister in law Michelle decided to take all of my father in law LeRoy's photos and sort them by categories. Of course, she got to choose the categories. I should do a whole blog about people who actually have time to sort other people's pictures. In the "Robyn and Family" section, Michelle put pictures from our wedding. There was a picture of my mother, immaculately dressed, smiling broadly and competently, looking absolutely bullet-proof, frozen in time on one of our happiest days. Wow. And do you know what? She would have been about my current age. Happy Holidays!

My ex-wife just died and her mother called an old friend to make sure I knew. I don't have the slightest idea how I feel about Nancy dying. Some friends have offered condolences, although I took pains not to be a part of her life after divorcing her. My loss was a long time ago and everyone who knew me got to enjoy it with me. It would be a bit specious to mourn now. My oldest friends just shake their heads, remembering how difficult it all was. I'm guessing Nancy's family is having a real humdinger of a holiday.

I googled Nancy's ex-husband and found him on a fitness web site out of Palatine, Illinois, looking faintly like Jack LaLaine. Bill is apparently still a personal trainer. Now this is a perfectly respectable way to make a living, really. Snore. Unfortunately, he was reportedly less boring in person, at least when she divorced him, apparently engaging in scary gunplay. Apparently, I was the nice ex-husband. Who'd have thought it?

My dear friends Diana and Kevin are coping with her cancer. All Diana wants for Christmas is an end to nausea and disability. That doesn't seem like much to ask. I don't think they did a lot of shopping. We all agree that this qualifies as the worst way to spend the holidays: puking. Most people save this for New Year's Day and do it on purpose. It's good to have options.

Part of having an English degree is having read things that most people don't read, but should have read. Cocktail party guests who have read Ulysses outrank those who haven't. (The correct answer to the mention of French author Marcel Proust is: "Ah . . . Proust," by the way. This might indicate you have read him, or it might not.)

The only Proust I've actually read is Swan's Way from Rememberance of Things Past. The premise of Rememberance is that each moment in time is filtered by all the intervening moments that have occurred, between that first moment and the present one. Each experience filters memory.

I wonder if there ever was a simple Christmas, for anyone.

Every day most of us get up and try our best. We try to be happy and productive, and often what we settle for is getting through, getting past, getting by. On Holidays, we confront ourselves, our memories, our expectations, our guilty feelings, our obligation to make merry.

When we used to visit my Grandmother and Grandad Thompson in Southern Illinois, Grandmother used to arrange to have folks stop by and see Dad. Dad hated this. He was often very uncomfortable being there and did not appreciate being on display. Grandmother would plan events and doggedly insist:

"We're going to have a good time."