OPINION | JOHN BRUMMETT: A moment of serenity

I pondered republishing as usual the Christmas Eve ode to the sentimentally tacky aluminum tree and color wheel of my mid-1960s childhood.

But the year 2020 insisted on making an exception of itself. It demanded its own essay.

The vintage tinfoil tree stayed in the box in the attic this season. The truth is that the accompanying modern color wheel has never been quite right. It's not as richly hued as memory recalls of the original, nor as rhythmically groaning as it slowly turns.

Sound evokes memory more than sight, at least for me.

So, this year's unrelenting barrage of virus dodging, death counting, presidential lying, democracy defiling and right-wing mind-losing left me in no mood to go up and down those attic stairs in pursuit of an imperfect Christmas experience.

I can spend my post-vaccination life in search of a better color wheel.

For tonight, my late-evening plan is the same as the one for several recent nights.

I will seek to escape the gloom of a defeated and disgraced president defying democracy. I will attempt to forget that there is a thing called a Tommy Tuberville. I will hope to unburden myself of right-wing conspiratorialists saying that their sources assure that Chief Justice John Roberts was heard by a mystery law clerk screaming profanely at his colleagues in private conference that the nation would face liberal riots if the court accepted the otherwise presumably worthy, but in the sane world laughable, Texas/Leslie Rutledge appeal.

The U.S. Supreme Court hasn't assembled in person for nine months. But you can't convince the parallel universe of that.

So why try?

For Christmas 2020, a man is left only with his own pursuit of solace.

Late this evening, cocoon construction will take place.

Lights will be turned off except for those on the green Christmas tree. The phone will be unpowered.

I will deposit myself in the chair in the corner opposite from the tree. The fireplace will cast a glimmer on the glass of red wine beside me.

I will gaze across the darkened room transfixed by the specks of colored light.

Lounging beagles will occupy nearby sitting areas, exercising their full furniture privileges. Perhaps they'll nestle side-by-side in deep sleep, as they sometimes do. Roscoe likely will snore with that soothing tempo and amusing low rumble.

Shalah will be in the vicinity, unless she's still doing last-minute Christmas ordering, seeking to contact Santa in his sleigh somewhere over Newfoundland to urge him to turn back and pick up something she just saw in that last undevoured catalog that would be perfect for someone.

The music app will play softly a collection that Amazon Music titles "Christmas Crooners." Sinatra, Martin, Damone, Mathis, Torme, Como and Bennett--to whom I wouldn't dare listen any other time of year--will perform the carols I consider genuine and classic.

These are the defining voices and versions of my formative years.

They'll evoke a white Christmas, chestnuts on an open fire, holly in the hallways and a drumming tot going rum-pum-pum-pum.

Torme and Roscoe the snoring beagle will achieve pitch-perfect harmony.

At my age and amid this discontent, Christmas becomes all about retro bliss and retro magic.

This year I mail-ordered early to dispense with the essential merchandising element of the holiday. Then I farmed out gift packages to expert wrappers so that I could devote my time and effort to bliss-building avoidance of virus and aggravation.

All I really wanted for this Christmas season was low blood pressure. And I intend to wrap 110 over 70 in a package for myself this evening.

I'll try in tonight's hypnosis to bear ever in mind my own good fortune in being able to continue my work all year by virtue of a laptop's send button.

I'll think of Mom, hanging on for her 91st Christmas, her vitals steady across town in a nursing home, snug in a permanent bed in her own darkened room, cared for by heroic people, unaware in a blessedly tragic way of where she is or why she's there or that this night is different from any other.

For you, I wish this Christmas Eve that you'll be able to wrap yourself in your own package in your own place in your own way with your own loved ones, whether present in body or spirit, and for your own health, safety, bliss and transcendence, sealed tight against the raging diseases of virus and American politics.

Take a sip, gaze on the lights, feel the warmth of the fire, ponder the gift of each slow and easy breath, and permit yourself the momentary serenity of this silent night.

--–––––v–––––--

John Brummett, whose column appears regularly in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, is a member of the Arkansas Writers' Hall of Fame. Email him at [email protected]. Read his @johnbrummett Twitter feed.

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