Inching Toward Christmas

Roger Whittaker release the single, “Durham Town (The Leavin’)” in 1969, when I was sixteen years old. The tune spent sixteen weeks on the UK Singles Chart, reaching the peak of its popularity when it was number 12 of the chart. I do not recall how I was introduced to the song; only that I heard it shortly after its release and I liked it quite a lot. Years later, after Urinetown won three Tony Awards on Broadway, my wife and I went to a production of the musical at a performing arts center in Addison, Texas. Though there was (to my knowledge) no relationship whatsoever between the musical and Roger Whittaker’s song, I managed to merge the two into the lyrics of a new song I sometimes sang, to the distress of my late wife:

I’ve got to leave old Urinetown,
I’ve got to leave old Urinetown.
I’ve got to leave old Urinetown,
And the leavings gonna get me down.

Many years later, I learned that Whittaker’s original lyrics referred to Newcastle, not Durham. He changed the town to make the music sound more “natural.” But he did not change the name of the river referenced in the lyrics, the Tyne. Had he made the appropriate change to reflect the river near Durham, he would have referred to the river Wear.

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Just a shade more than eleven years ago, I began writing a short story that featured two drunk and disorderly mermaids, Molly and Shirona. The riveting tale, cut short almost before it began, is typical of my attempts at writing autobiographical fiction. That is, fiction laced with more than simple fabrication; filled, instead, with bald-faced lies, complete with verified bibliographic references attributed to giants of literature—people whose fame seems familiar but whose surnames are misspelled. At any rate, as the story ended abruptly after only a few incoherent paragraphs, “Molly and Shirona surfaced in a shrimper’s net, their tails in tatters and their smiles intact.” There could have been—should have been—far more to the tale. Their bravado and drunken revelry had already been introduced, when they paid for a two-month drinking binge with “gold doubloons snatched from sunken ships.” But the story’s promise ended long before it was told. Somewhere in the ether of my brain, the arc of the story resides, still. There is more to tell about Shirona’s full lips, curled into a come-hither pucker. Had more of the story been written, readers could have learned whether mermaids deliver babies or lay eggs. The reason for Molly’s affection for alcohol might have become apparent as the story unfolded. Instead, the reader (had there been one) would have been sorely disappointed to discover Molly’s troubled upbringing was not even mentioned before the thickening of the plot could begin. I could return to continue, and perhaps complete, what I began. But I have begun and ended so many others before losing my motivation…that the pointlessness of selecting this story over dozens and dozens of others might simply represent compelling evidence in my trial or motivation in my sentencing. The oldest trick in the book, though, is to weave fiction into the fabric of truth, hiding reality in between layers of honesty and mendacity, both of which might be sprinkled with fantasy and fear. What “book”
is that? In which of the many encyclopedic volumes of magical deceit might that trick be revealed?

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Here it is, Christmas Eve, and my calendar shows only one obligation: a visit to my oncologist’s office, where I will have blood drawn for laboratory evaluation, get an IV infusion to counter my tendency toward dehydration, and receive an injection of neupogen to support my white blood cell count.  No chemo today, but during the chemo visit last week my oncologist noted in my file that she will “Continue conservative approach with chemotherapy dosing given patient’s history of treatment ­related complications.” Tomorrow, mi novia will prepare salmon chowder. We will have have two guests (our little local semi-extended family) with whom we’ll share the holiday meal.

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Winter weather has abandoned us for the time-being. Highs over the next few days will surpass 70°F. That brief reprieve from intolerably cold outdoor temperatures may spur me on to try to jump-start my car, after which I will either buy a new battery or get confirmation that the current battery died from a lack of attention during a recent cold snap, therefore not needed replacement.

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Two recent visits by friends reinforced my sincere appreciation for people who act on their good intentions. Christmas cards, phone calls, emails, and the like add to the sense that there are many, many good people in the world. My failure to reach out to them, and to others, is an embarrassing flaw. My good intentions, smothered by laziness, must be given infusions of oxygen! Hand-written cards are not my thing (because my handwriting is illegible), but personal correspondence created on my keyboard will, I hope, accomplish the same thing I experience.