THE LITTLE DRUMMER BOY

I’ve never been much of a “Christmas person.” Somewhere along the line, asking myself why that was, I came to the realization that it’s the “family holiday” part of it that pushes me away. The “family” I grew up in was more a random collection of similar DNA than it was an actual family. That continues to be true today.

We would celebrate Anne’s tradition burning of the Christmas dinner (on her last day, the woman could burn water). It took me getting old enough to drive, going out on a date and including a restaurant meal in the event, to finally understand that food could be something that tasted good, to be shared with another person in good company. It wasn’t something you suffered through to stop the hung pangs.

The majority of my life has been spent unlearning most of what I learned during the first 18 years of my life.

This morning, I had one of those “learning experiences.”

Of all the Christmas songs out there, the one that always ends up as the annoying ear worm for the season is “The Little Drummer Boy.” If it’s early in the season and I am driving and the song comes up on the radio I will quickly switch the station, to delay the arrival of the ear worm as long as possible. But somewhere along the line - walking through a mall with Christmas music playing, thinking about other things and not being quick with the radio button - I’ll get bitten and there it is for the rest of the season. Can’t get rid of it.

It turns out, there’s been a reason for that. The reason being that I can be particularly dense about things, particularly information it would be useful to know.

This morning, Cookie - who’s now sleeping on the corner of the mattress a foot from my head, like she used to do, the relationship now re-established - woke me before the alarm did. And what popped into my head immediately? Yeah. That.

Lying there halfway between Awake and Asleep, I found myself actually listening to it. “To every thing, there is a season,” and this was the season for me to do that. Listen to the song. And actually hear what it had to say.

The singer relates how he - a poor boy - was summoned to the Nativity of Jesus. But he has no gift for the Infant. So he tells Mary that all he has is his drum. Can he play it for the Child. With her approval, he plays. "I played my best for him." "He smiled at me."

His gift was Himself. And it was the best gift anyone gave that night. Because everyone got to enjoy it.

And that was my realization - giving ourselves is the best gift.

This has been a year when I needed that gift. And all of you came through and gave it.

Those last two weeks in the hospice, when you all sent your card to Jurate, I would take the ones that arrived that day and open them for her, show them to her, and read to her what was said in them. And I would tell her that you were people who cared about her. And she would smile.

I’d put them up on the dresser by her bed with the others, where she could see them all. Right up to the last day, she would stare at them. Taking in the gift of you.

And I have needed that gift too. I discovered back in October, when I was worried about the fact I wasn’t producing Completed Manuscript at the pace I expect to from previous projects, and then read over what was there and made the awful discovery that it was disorganized crap, that I have been depressed most of the year. Since Jurate’s passing. I’m not a big one for psychoactive medication, but I mentioned that to my doctor, and he prescribed 50mg of Trazodone, taken before bedtime. It worked! I realized I had been driving around in the vehicle of my life with the windshield encrusted with dirt.

I just sent the manuscript off to the publisher last Monday morning. Reorganized into being Organized, rewritten into not being Crap. “Mediterranean Sweep” is the book I promised them.

While I was caring for Jurate and writing, I had to be super-organized and super-focused on the writing, because the writing sessions were going to be interrupted by something more important - responding to her. So, with everything super-organized and super-focused, all went very well. Until, with this project, there wasn’t a reason to do that. I didn’t realize I was floundering.

Lying there in bed this morning, hearing the song and thinking about the story it tells, I realized Giving Myself was what I’d done for her. The very last words she said to me - at the end of the longest conversation we had , with me holding my head so my ear was inches from her mouth so I could hear her, after we forgave each other - were “Thank you.”

I didn’t need to hear those words - the value of the gift to the giver is the giving, acknowledged or not - but her saying that, at the end of all else we talked about, was necessary. It was her gift to me. And it allowed me to deal with her departure without any regrets over things done wrong, things not done, all that.

And you guys have been remarkable this year. You give me the gift of You every day. I don’t think of you as my readers; I think of you as my friends. Nobody knew it, but you guys were keeping me here, keeping me afloat, till I could realize I needed help to get back to shore before I drowned.

It really is the best gift.

Thank all of you, from the bottom of my heart.

Like they say, even a blind pig can find a truffle eventually.

Thanks again.

Last night, Rachel Maddow said we’re going to need to keep our friends around us this coming year, because “it’s gonna be tough.” Supporting That’s Another Fine Mess as a paid subscriber keeps things going here, for all of us. It really helps.

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