Another Circle Around the Sun

Did Emerson really say this? If he didn't, he should  have.

Once upon a time there was a five-year-old boy who spent summers on his grandparents’ farm. When he got older, he’d help with chores, but when he was young, he had the whole day to toss a rubber ball against the shed wall and pretend to be a baseball player. When he got tired on that activity he’d lie in the grass and imagine shapes in the clouds. Once he asked his grandma how old he’d be in the year 2000 and she told him he’d be close to 50. He returned to lying on the grass to contemplate being 50, but he couldn’t. He concluded that no one was actually that old.

A fairy tale? Nope. I was that little boy and when 2000 came around it seemed unfathomable that my grandparents had been dead for many years and I actually had only a few years until I reached the half century mark. I’ve heard it said that time speeds up as one gets older. Intellectually I know that’s not true. A day is still 24 hours and it still takes 365 ¼ of them to add up to a year. Yet, before I knew it, I was 60, then 70. I remember turning 40 because I was a high school teacher monitoring a study hall, a task akin to telling dogs not to chase squirrels.  A funny, delightful 8^th grade sprite named Julie bounded up to my desk and asked me if I knew that Paul McCartney “was in a band before Wings.” Tremulously I asked, “Do you mean The Beatles?” Her answer stunned me: “Yeah, that’s the one. Ever hear of them?” I was gobsmacked and told her to return to her seat, that I was depressed and would explain the next day, but I just couldn’t that moment. I felt ancient.

That’s the only reason I can remember 40, but if you ask me what happened on other birthdays, things get hazy. I recall thinking of my grandma at 50, but I haven’t the slightest idea about 60 or 70. Those blanks have nothing to do with being older per se–though it does freak me out to think of myself as a bona fide “senior citizen”–it’s that I’ve reached that awkward time in which my mental outlook is out of whack with my body’s age. I see myself as 28, until I try to grab a word or a name that’s not perched on the tip of my tongue, lift something heavier than a baguette, or try to keep pace with my speed-walking wife. I even took a memory test and pretty much aced verbal recall. (I was hopeless with shapes and drawing, but that didn’t faze me as I was always a person you’d never trust with a building or art project.) For the most part, all the knowledge I’ve acquired is still somewhere in my brain, though it takes me longer to retrieve things. A common phrase I use these days is, “I’ll think of the answer five minutes into my drive home,” and it’s usually the case.

But I can’t pretend that my body hasn’t changed. I try not to whinge about that as there are lots of people who have it worse than I–friends with cancer, heart problems, or Parkinson’s, those who’ve lost spouses, or have died. Another of my running jokes is that I awake each morning and check my pulse to make sure I’m still here. I try my best to deny it, but the reality is that my future is behind me. Another reality is that the 70s often hurt. I have a terrible back that aches all the time unless I’m too distracted to cry “ouch!” Compacted discs have robbed me of over two inches of height and I have neuropathy in my right leg resultant of having had only a partially successful laminectomy. Once I tripped over a tree root and smacked face down on the sidewalk with blood coming from my mouth. I feared I would lose my front teeth, though luckily, I had only a condition I had never heard of: sprained teeth. I also had a brain bleed a decade ago that, luckily again, was not an aneurysm or stroke. But enough with the organ recital. Again, many people have suffered more. I can’t recover my 28-year-old body, but I can be grateful for each new day.

Today is another birthday. It doesn’t end in five or zero, so it’s not a birthday that gets labeled “a Big One.” I’ll have my free Herrell’s sundae, a meal of my choice, and a slice of my favorite birthday dessert: carrot cake. Please hold the jokes that begin, “Wow! That’s a lot of sugar for an old dude like you.” Hold them because the other thing that will happen today is that many of you will send me fond birthday wishes. The best thing of being in my 70s is that I have collected a lot of friends, former students who still say in touch, and professional associates who like me. And that, my friends, is the best birthday gift anyone my age could ever wish to have.

Peace,

Rob

 

 

Vermont Winter Reconsidered

Not my photo, but it was one of my bad choices!

When I drive into town in the winter and see kids waiting for the bus wearing hoodies and sneakers in February, I often wonder at what age do humans experience WRP (weather-related pain). My theory is that we begin to feel symptoms in our late 20s and WRP full onset comes when we hit 30.

Several of you have made nice comments in texts, emails, or postings about my memories of Vermont winters. Now I must confess that most of my best pre-WRP days came before I reached the big 3-0. I’m more than twice as old now, but 30 bothered me more than any of the other Big-Zero birthdays I’ve had. Maybe it was because I was a teen when Young Turks insisted, “Never trust anyone over 30.” I think, though a 13-year-old eight grader named Julie is the reason.

I contend that hell is a place where bad people must monitor an eighth-grade study hall for eternity. I really liked Julie; she was spunky and funny, but her energy could test the patience of a saint. Especially in study hall! Trying to get “Jules” to sit for 45 minutes was like telling an avalanche to stop being annoying. My birthday is in March–decidedly a winter month in Vermont–and the very day I turned 30, Jules bounded up to my desk and said, “Mr. W, Mr. W., did you know that Paul McCartney was in a band before Wings?” I ran my fingers through my hair and replied, “You mean The Beatles?” Said she, “Yes, have you ever heard of them?” When I scooped my jaw from the floor I told her, “Jules I promise to explain this to you tomorrow, but right now I need you to go back to your seat and leave me alone, or I might have to kill you.”

You can put Julie’s question in my box of remembrances of how I fell out of love with Vermont winters. She instantly made me feel like a dinosaur peering into the sky and wondering what those giant rock hurtling toward Earth portended. To add insult to injury, at age 31 I fell prey to WRP.

In 1983, Burlington held its inaugural First Night celebration. It wasn’t unusual for Lake Champlain to freeze over, but that usually didn’t occur in mid-December. The Vermont side of Champlain is usually warmer than the New York side, which lies in the shadow of the High Adirondacks. When it does freeze at Burlington, the winds from New York can sweep across a 12-mile ice sheet. One New Year’s Eve the temperature was well below zero as we marched down Winooski Avenue behind giant Bread and Circus puppets. Even dressed head to toe in insulated clothing it was like a cartoon in which we expected our words to freeze in midair and shatter.

That February we had a massive Friday snow storm in which flakes fell so hard everyone at the high school was sure they were going to send us all home. It didn’t happen and it was a tossup who was more off the rails, the students or the faculty. It took me over an hour to drive the four miles to home. I was crestfallen to see a solid blanket of deep snow in the driveway. Only someone burnt would I attempt what might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I backed up until I could gain traction, gunned the engine, and slid into the drive. Call me Rocket Man.  I came to rest starring at the sky through my windshield with an acre of snow under the car’s frontend. It took hours to shovel it level to the drive and chisel snow from the engine. WRP supremo.

The following winter was the Great Blue Freezie caper. On a subzero morning I got a call from a colleague who lived ten miles north asking if I could come get him as his car wouldn’t start. We almost made it to school before my car halted outside of town where the Lamoille River tumbles over a power dam. I opened the hood, and witnessed a ten-inch column of blue ice coming from the radiator. Yes, friend, my anti-freeze froze. People stop if they see a disabled vehicle because one could die from exposure. We were delivered to school by a kind man in a pickup reeking of rancid oil and roughly as clean.

My last Vermont winter was quite a treat as well. It wasn’t all that cold, but the first snowfall came on October 15. We never got a blizzard, but it snowed a few inches a day through mid-April. Doable? Not really. By March there was nowhere to put the snow! It was the same winter our adventurous tabby Garp got stuck in a tree, but that’s a striped tale/tail for another time.

Moving to Western Mass for grad school was like landing in Miami. My new take on the Green Mountain State is that for six months of the year there’s no better place to be. The other six are called winter and I’m on medical leave.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

How Murray Saved Christmas

 

 

 

I think most of you are now old enough to know something that’s been kept from you. It's about the true hero of Christmas. If you were like most kids, you grew up singing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." Rudolph always gets the glory, but if it wasn't for Murray, there might not be Christmas.

 

First you need to learn a big word: auxiliary. It means extra help that makes a job easier. It can also mean a substitute, like when your teacher got sick, a substitute was hired, and you got to behave like an idiot until the regular teacher returned to the classroom. This story is about the substitute reindeer that saved Christmas: Murray the Auxiliary Reindeer. 

 

 

You’ve heard that it takes nine reindeer pull Santa's sleigh. He needs that many because he has to work faster than an Amazon driver to deliver presents across the entire world in one night. Did you ever stop to think about what would happen if one of the reindeer got sick? Santa did! He packs auxiliary reindeer in the trunk of his sleigh–just like there’s a spare tire in your car trunk for emergencies.

 

 

 

Santa has several auxiliary reindeer, including two females: Olive and Oyl. Olive took over for Dancer one year when the stupid jerk pulled a muscle while trying to impress a female moose in very short cut-offs. Once all the other reindeer called Cupid "Stupid" because he wasn't paying attention, walked into a brick wall, and knocked himself silly. He was dizzy and had a bump the size of an elephant’s butt between his antlers. Santa had to get Olive out of the trunk that year. Two years later, Blitzen had a massive infection from wearing hooves that were too small. I don’t remember which of the auxiliary reindeer was used that year, but it might have been Nixon.

 

The reindeer that's the hardest to replace, though, is Rudolph. Santa depends on his red nose. If you have seen sleighs in snow-covered fields you probably noticed that they lack headlights. A big open field is one thing, but Santa flies and has to steer around tall objects like airplanes, skyscrapers, the Eiffel Tower, and Victor Wembanyama. Santa needs Rudolph's nose to do exactly what the song says: guide his sleigh. What happens if Rudolph gets sick? How does Santa see to deliver his gifts? I suppose he could try a flashlight, but he’d never get to all the houses on time if he had to keep stopping to change batteries.

 

Imagine how horrible it would be if Santa absolutely, positively couldn’t guarantee overnight delivery. Kids would wake up on Christmas morning and there would be nothing underneath the tree except a plate of stale cookies and a glass of bacteria-laden milk that Santa didn't consume because he got delayed. It’s entirely possible that little boys, girls, and autocrats in remote places like Alaska, the Kremlin, South Korea, or Mar-a-Lago would not get their toys and rockets for several days after Christmas! 

 

 

And imagine how sad your parents would have been if it were you who had to wait. That almost happened! When you were little, your folks received a text message from Santa saying he was probably going to be late because Rudolph called in sick just before take-off.  That meant there might not be any treats to feed  you. Because they loved you, your parents hurried out to buy food and a gift so you wouldn't be sad on Christmas Day. By then, however, the only store that was open was a 7 Eleven. Alas, other parents rushed there as well, and there was nothing left on the shelves except a box of Corn Flakes, a can of tuna, and a stack of Slurpee cups. Some Merry Christmas that would be. 

 

 

Did you ever wonder why Rudolph has a red nose? It's because he has a drinking habit. He hits the bars early on December 24, with the objective of getting a nice buzz on. Because he’s a reindeer, his nose gets very red–much redder than yours when you have a bad cold. As we have seen, reindeer are not the brightest bulbs in the socket intelligence-wise. Rudolph should take better care of himself, but occasionally he gets too drunk to do his job. He retreats to his bed with a splitting headache, a high temperature, and sore antlers from being bounced out of the bar. Sometimes he’s so wasted he can’t find his way to the bathroom, let alone guide a sleigh.  Someone needed to save Christmas.

 

 

That's exactly what happened. Murray the Auxiliary Reindeer put on his running shoes, pulled the sleigh, and, sometime during the night made a soft landing on your roof. Santa jumped down and carried your treats and presents through the front door. He doesn't really come down the chimney. That's just a silly story we tell. One of Santa’s elves is a certified locksmith who fashions a magical skeleton key that fits all the world’s doors. (This makes more sense than a fat man squeezing down a narrow chimney, don't you think?) 

 

Rudolph the Lush

 

Murray takes over any time Rudolph gets too drunk to fly and has saved Christmas many times. It makes you wonder why that red-nosed lush Rudolph is so beloved. This Christmas I want you to think about Murray. You can still sing the Rudolph song, but try substituting Murray into the lyrics:

 

Murray the Auxiliary Reindeer

            had a very shiny nose.

And if you ever saw it,

            you would even say it glows….

 

Sing it the whole way through. Right down to the last line: Murray the Auxiliary Reindeer/You'll go down in history. Ho ho ho! Murray Christmas.

 

 

Murray, the Auxiliary Reindeer