A song I played on Amazon Music recently has been on my mind for days. I’ve been enthralled by House at Pooh Corner, a tune by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, since I first heard it more than thirty years ago. Though I’m sure I read A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh book as a child, I remember little (if anything) of it. But certain phrases from the song lyrics have stuck with me, including three-acre wood (I now know the book refers to a 100-acre wood, but that’s beside the point). While drifting off to sleep last night, I fantasized about creating my own three-acre wood. I would carve three kidney-shaped acres out of a heavily-wooded forest. Thirty yards around that shape would be turned to pasture; beyond that, the heavy woods would remain. Within that three-acre plot, I would remove about half the trees and all the underbrush, leaving a calming, protected area. In the center of that area, I would remove trees in a thirty-foot circle. I would have electricity delivered to the center. There, I would plant thick grass. In the center, I would place a comfortable bench and a small table, where I could have my espresso maker, a ceramic incense holder, and a notebook computer. That little spot would become my sanctuary. When I woke up a couple of times last night, I envisioned myself sitting in my little retreat—completely cut off from the rest of the world…except for my fingertips. Pure fantasy.
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I can dream of exciting, youthful adventures; even though my body may no longer be suited to experiencing them. This morning, while whimskimming (my new neologism to describe fantasizing) the internet, I came upon a description of a Island Windjammer cruise of the Greek isles. The home port of the six-night cruise is Athens, with visits to Kea, Aegina, Kythnos, Ydra, Spetses, and Poros. The sailing yacht for the cruise, the Lyra, accommodates eight guests in: two staterooms with queen beds and two suites with king beds. When I was young (and I was), adventurous (and I was…to an extent), and rich (but I wasn’t), I might have splurged on such a decadent adventure. Only $9300 per couple ($1550 per night), plus necessary airfare, pre/post meals and lodging, etc., and incidental expenses. If I were to splurge in the extreme, I might book both suites and staterooms, leaving three of them empty to ensure privacy (I’d be willing to speak to the crew on occasion).
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For the majority of the last forty-five-plus Christmases, I have eschewed the traditional turkey or ham or prime rib Christmas Day meal in favor of something different. Chinese, Thai, Tex-Mex, or whatever other restaurants were open were the places of choice. We’ve begun talking about where to go this year. I found an Indian option (India Cafe in Bryant will be open). Mi novia learned that Cafe Kahlo (real Mexican) will be available. Part of the excitement of opting to avoid tradition is the experience of seeing who else is doing the same. In years past, I have seen large Chinese families gathered around huge round tables. And, once, I watched an Ethiopian family—seated on floor cushions—enjoy what I recall as a vegetarian meal. One year, in the middle of a road trip, no restaurant options could be found in Marble Falls, Texas. So, the Christmas meal consisted of frozen gas station burritos, heated in a motel microwave. I harbor not a speck of regret for those non-traditional Christmas experiences. In fact, I treasure them, just as I treasure sticking with my life-long Christmas eve tradition (when I can) of having tamales and chile con queso (and beer, usually). That tradition was born, I think, during my family’s years living in Brownsville, Texas, where we imitated the custom of the area’s large Mexican population. I think I saw some frozen tamales in the freezer; I just need to get the ingredients for the chile con queso to enable me to continue my family’s tradition this year.
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I am not planning for it to come to pass, but the difficulty of controlling the recurrence of my lung cancer makes me acknowledge that this year could be my last Christmas. Christmas has never been of particular importance to me, but the realization that this might be it causes me to take note. Every day, of course, could be the final day for any one of us. But something “special” that comes along just once a year gives me pause. And it encourages me to recognize and appreciate the good fortune of making it through each and every day. Despite the inconveniences, interruptions, irritations, annoyances, and other disturbances that give me opportunities to complain, I generally am quite happy to be alive; and I’d like to stay that way for as long as the pros outweigh the cons. I am glad for the reminder, though I’d prefer the admonition to come in the form of something less somber and far less final.
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Hot cocoa has never been high on my list of most satisfying hot drinks, but for some reason it has some appeal this morning. Unfortunately, as far as I know, we have no cocoa in the house. If I were to go buy some, I feel sure my hankering for it would have disappeared by the time I got home. I dare not go out, anyway, for fear of encouraging the wrath of mi novia. She is still sleeping, trying to overcome feeling approximately rotten during the past 24 hours. I would do something to improve her condition, if I could, but I do not know just what that is. Me not driving, though, is probably on the list. My gut continues to gurgle; that, alone, is reason not to drive.
