I am so grateful for friends who send me things that bring me to tears, and to my knees, with laughter. Those are wonderful momentary lifts.

What’s not part of that…and can’t be right now…..is communal laughter.  Groups of people laughing at the same time, at the same thing, for the same reason. 

Once upon a time, in another land, I was part of a play-reading group.  We joined knowing that when we were asked to take a role in a play, we either said yes or got the boot.  And, oh, the crazy things we did in the name of concession.

The group was comprised of seemingly intelligent and thoughtful people.  People who perhaps should have known better before they committed to the gig.

Requirements for membership were few. Experience wasn’t one of them. We simply had to agree to leave our egos, our pride, our honor and our dignity at the door prior to a performance.

We only did comedy.  For obvious reasons.   Neil Simon and Noel Coward were our go-to playwrights.   We didn’t have to memorize anything but we did have to design our own costumes and highlight our lines in our playbooks.  There was only one, inevitably chaotic, rehearsal. 

We foolishly invited friends to watch us make fools of ourselves.  We plied them with food and drink before, during, and after our performances. Always partaking heartily of the same ourselves.  All I remember from all those years is the laughter. The laughter for, at, and with each other.

I’d do almost anything for a silly night like that right now.

One day she was here, doing a great job.  The next day?  Gone!  No explanation.  She just up and left us high and dry.  It was, to say the very least, a most untimely event.

There hadn’t been so much as a peep to prepare us.  Not even a squeak.  She’d been with us for years and you know how attached you get when someone’s been with you for so long.  They become, really, a part of the family.

It’s safe to say we felt that way about Carolyn.  And we know there’ll never be another like her.

And, boy, have we looked.  And looked.  You start looking around for kitchen timers these days and they’re all electronic.  Carolyn was mechanical.  Seems no one wants to twist the little knob and hear that loud ring-a-ding when the food’s ready. 

There was nothing subtle about Carolyn.  No escaping her insistence.  You either got your buns to the kitchen when she rang or you’d go deaf.  Her bell never stopped. Thirty years with us and she’d never once let us burn a single piece of toast, overcook a chicken or let a pot of rice go dry.

Finally, and after much serious searching, the new, and mechanical, timer is here.  It’s French and the numbers are backwards. Its little ring-a-ding is quite pleasant. It’s just not covered with years and years of patina, affection and heaven knows what else.  In other words, it’s just not Carolyn.

Imagine, for a moment, that a very tall street light, down the way a bit, is positioned exactly so that part of it comes directly into your window at night.  Right straight into your eyes.  The reflection from the water between you and it exacerbates its glare and makes it all shimmery/glimmery.  And that makes you nauseous.

Clearly, it’s a situation in need of a fix.

So, what would you do?

Well, you could put a blind/shutter on the window.  (But then you couldn’t watch the stars.)

You could wear eye shades.  You know, like the ones they give you on airplanes. (See above.)

You could call the community and ask them to reposition the light.  (Hah!)

You could ask the community to put in a light that wasn’t quite so bright.  (See above.)

You could do all, or any, of that but you didn’t.  And you had your reasons.  (See above.)

What you did was get a really long extension pole, attach a paint brush to the end of it, soak the brush in black paint, and then, under cloak of darkness, you crept, very slowly so as not to trip, or worse, drip all the way down to the street light and paint out the offending side.

Which didn’t work since paint on glass doesn’t stick unless you prep the glass and you’d need a ladder to get all the way up there and that simply wasn’t an option.  At least according the person who lives with you. So here we are.  And I ask, most sincerely:  “Well, what would you do? “

I think my voting record has been stellar to date, even if I say so myself. I’ve checked boxes, pulled levers, and tapped screens for 60 years now.  Sure, go ahead and do the math.  I’m that old. And I’ve voted in every presidential election since I could. It was my right, my responsibility and my honor.

During most of those years, however, I think I could be accused of being a somewhat dispassionate voter.  I didn’t research platforms, ideologies, strengths and weaknesses so much as I simply voted for who I thought might best lead us.  Party affiliation never mattered.

There was one exception:  Jack Kennedy.  Like so much of the world, I simply fell sway to his charms, to Jackie’s style, to the world they’d let us peek into.   I figured if they were in the White House, everything else would just fall nicely into place.

I don’t know whether others were as quasi-blasé as I was about voting. The only thing I know, for sure, is that this last election was anything but dispassionate. To put it into double, or triple, negatives: nobody doesn’t not care. 

We listen to opposing views even as we struggle to comprehend them. Then we either swallow our words or harshly spit them out, both with negative consequences. 

In 2016, when passions ran high, I wondered, in this little space, when/if we could reconcile our differences.

It’s four years later and I’ve got my answer.  It’s just not the one I’d hoped for.

Question: “How do I know if I’m an introvert?”

Answer: “You know you’re an introvert if you’re ready to go home before you leave the house.”

Okay. So, I’m a dyed-in-the-wool, born-and-bred, certified (certifiable?), hard-core, bad-to-the-bone introvert.  There were times in the last year that I used (misused?) the Covid guidelines to avoid parties, large groups, grocery stores and other introvert-averse activities.  But at this point, even I, dedicated introvert that I am, feel a touch over-isolated.

I actually long to shake the hand of someone I’ve just met.  I want to touch a shoulder.  I want to sit close to a friend.  I want to play bridge.  I want to pass around a birthday card.  I want to laugh until droplets happen.  I want to leave my mask at home.  I want something on my calendar other than a doctor’s appointment.  

All of those things will have to wait, however.  And wait they will.  Impatience has no reward at the moment.  Which is so annoying since impatience is one of my few  skills.  Nevertheless.

The things I miss and long for are small things.  Little bits and pieces.  Unremarkable moments.  That’s what I want.    And that is big chunk of my hope for 2021.

In ordinary times, a single box of tissues is merely a commodity. An item on a shopping list. Nothing more.

In the middle of a pandemic, a single box of tissues becomes a precious thing. A rarity. Scarce as hen’s teeth.

At Christmas time, a single box of tissues can be a thoughtful present. A really, really thoughtful Christmas present.  

It also provides a handy seque into my Christmas blog.                     

The year was 1961. I was working in Boston at the New England Conservatory of Music as a receptionist. It was, in all respects, a wonderful year. I was in love (still am) and was surrounded by talented, generous and joyful people.

But Christmas was always hard for me. What to give to my parents? My father never wore anything but a suit, had enough ties to last several life times, bought his own socks and had no hobbies. My mother was choosy about the things she wore and the things she had in the house. I always had great angst about what to give them. That year I found a little Japanese porcelain dish which I hoped they would like, but it cost more than my small salary could comfortably bear. Still, I bought it. There wasn’t any joy in the purchase, however. I was worried and poorer…not a good combination.

The Conservatory was, back then, in a less than desirable part of town. It was surrounded by poverty level housing and people. There was a drug store right across the street that I visited on my lunch hour to pick up necessary items.

One day, near Christmas, I was at the drug store, mindlessly purchasing some stuff, not giving it any thought as I stood in line to pay for my items. An older woman was in front of me. She wasn’t dressed warmly enough for the cold Boston December day. It did strike me that she most likely didn’t have a warmer coat, but the thought was fleeting.

And then something happened that I will never forget. As my arms were carelessly full of stuff, I realized she was buying a single box of tissues. And I heard her say to the clerk: “This is for my friend for Christmas. She’ll really like it.”

I find myself as speechless now as I did then. And still a little close to tears. It was a hard reality. She was delighted with her choice of a gift for her friend, confident that it would be given, received and used with love and affection.

And I was worried about an expensive porcelain dish for my parents who needed nothing and would most likely put the dish in a drawer anyway? Not a Christmas goes by that I don’t think about that moment.

Sometimes, I wish our family could just exchange boxes of tissues, carefully choosing ones that might appeal…they come in such jazzy colors and designs these days. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could wrap them up fancifully with pretty paper and ribbons, confident they would be used and appreciated.

Now, I know we can’t….and would never want to…deny our families the joy of Christmas morning and presents under the tree. Santa Claus does exist. But, for me, perhaps, a box of tissues has become a symbol of friendship and love, of a longed-for simple Christmas season, of joy, of an opportunity to share with others less fortunate, and, in its own way, a real meaning of Christmas.

The Mister and I wish you a very merry Christmas and a happy 2021.

Last week’s blog espoused the virtues of doing absolutely nothing.   It extolled the value of simply sitting and thinking about nothing, anything or everything, with no expectation for enlightenment, inspiration or production. Sure, one might hope for a small light bulb to go off somewhere, somehow, in that meditative state. But even that’s not necessary.

Thus, one day last week, I sat.  And sat some more. Nary a light bulb appeared.  Not even a flicker. 

Ergo, for the first time since I’ve been doing this, there is no blog, per se. 

But since I believe that everything happens for a reason, my sitting had an outcome. A good one, as it turns out. While I was sitting, doing absolutely nothing, a good friend sent me a video. Maybe she knew I really needed to see that video. Vibes, synchronicity and all that good stuff.

She recommended that I turn the volume up on high, sit back and enjoy it.  I did exactly that and hope you will, too.  It’s a wonderful expression of humanity, art, music and dance.  It takes about 3 minutes to look at and is worth every second.

Here it is: