'Tis the season of hope and remembrance

"Remember, hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable."

-  the Scarecrow on the "The Wizard of Oz"


AUBURN, Maine — A pair of Geminids meteors streaked  across a dark, cold Maine sky, and in instant, I had this absurd thought that my deceased parents were chasing each other around the cosmos.

Grief does strange things to people during the holidays, but I am old hand at managing melancholy.

If you live long enough, you get really good at dealing with heart-wrenching loss. Now that my parents, Al and Louise, are gone forever, I work feverishly to fend off sadness — especially during the Yuletide.

Say what you will about the holiday, but the last thing I want to be remembered as is an Ebenezer Scrooge wannabe who spreads endless grief in his wake.

Christmas is no humbug. Old Jacob Marley found that out the hard way. Dickens’ wretched character was condemned to roam the night wrapped in heavy chains to atone for his indifference to his fellow man. Scrooge was taken out for a walk by the three spirits on Christmas Eve and given a comeuppance he never forgot for ignoring forlorn souls drowning in endless poverty.

Nobody wants to be the guy who spoils everybody’s good cheer with his poison personality. For me, holidays are for gathering up what’s left of our family to celebrate another year of good food and cheer.

There is a huge emptiness we all face everyday, and that void gets deeper during the holidays.

Perhaps, Christmas is like a role call of who is still here and serves as reminder that every day you reach for your morning cup of coffee is a good day — and you only have so many on this earth.

Thanksgiving and Christmas are two holidays that trigger our worn-out memories of the past. Sentimentality rises to the top when decorating the tree, wandering around crowded store aisles or preparing a traditional holiday dish. A special ornament your late mom gave you makes your eyes water as you place it on a tree. Christmas songs chime about the specialness of the holiday, but many face this day with a heavy heart.

I still browse the aisles marveling at those innovative toys. Another new line of Legos — my son’s favorite gift under the tree— is introduced to shoppers. Then I remember he is now behind of the wheel of a car and those plastic building blocks of his childhood no longer amuse him.

Alas, my son is 18 and his adult toys consist of skis, watches, a cell phone and history books. His childhood slowly disappeared with each inch he grew.  The little boy who meant so much to us has grown into a fine young man, and while I am proud of him, I miss the inquisitive child who built these intricate toy ships with Legos that littered our parlor floor.

This will be our first Christmas without my parents, and while I have done an impressive job of spreading good cheer, there is that ever-present emptiness.

Look, I have seen the face of depression and watched loved ones disappear into that long tunnel of desperation. I won’t allow grief to swallow me whole. The long walk back from slipping into that dreadful darkness is too steep for me to climb.

So I will buy the presents, make the shrimp linguine, enjoy a holiday meal with my sisters and grieve for my father — all at the same time. The two-hour trip to Boston will be a welcomed diversion from the daily  chore of missing a man I admired all my life.

We will make merry on Christmas Eve, but we will also notice the empty chairs on that special night.

And there’s not a damn thing we can do about our heavy losses except embrace the memories of them, and of course, raise a toast to all who are present at the dinner table for another holiday.

The 12 Essays of Christmas Eve, Day 11: Christmas Eve

“Christmas is not as much about opening our presents as opening our hearts.”                                                                                                                               ― Janice Maeditere

AUBURN, Maine - I can point out the location of every bathroom on the Maine turnpike. That's important for a weary traveler to know after having a cup of coffee. 

I really do know every nook and cranny of this well-traveled highway.

Interstate 95 was the avenue I traveled every Christmas Eve to spend Christmas with my relatives in Revere for nearly quarter of a century.

We would spend an entire morning loading the car with presents and food. We sped off down the road for a two-hour trek, listening to Christmas music along the way.

Through the years, we battled snowstorms to reach our destiny. Nothing would stop us from spending the holiday with family.

Was it all worth it. Absolutely! I understand nothing lasts in this life, and every opportunity I got to be with the people I love during the holiday made our two-hour trip feel like two minutes.

But things changed. We brought a wonderful young man into the world, we got older, and people we loved passed away. We bought a house and established our roots in city located about 130 miles north of Boston.

We have been put through the ringer the last three years, with deaths and sickness that made our lives quite difficult. We haven't spent the last three holidays in the Boston area due to these tumultuous moments in our lives.

I was graciously invited to my sisters again for the holiday. She does a good job of entertaining family and guests, and it was kind of her to think of us.

But we remained at home again in the snowy foothills of Maine. My son wanted to wake up in the house on Christmas morning.

He is older and still enjoys our company. We are lucky.

I hope he continues to walk the strait and narrow without losing his balance. But if he falls, mom and dad will be there for him.

That's what parents do, and I like to think we do it well.

This Christmas eve, we continued on with one tradition, revived another, and started a new one.

I made the my mouth-watering shrimp linguine, but something wonderful happened in the kitchen — Anthony volunteered to help. And so we sat, the two of us peeling shrimp and talking about everything.

He worships my cooking and I enjoy watching my family enjoy my culinary talents.

After we had our fill of shrimp and pasta, we went out into the cold, dark night and lit a bunch of sparklers that had been laying around the house. We interrupted the quiet evening with our bright flares and endless laughter.

We do a lot of laughing and hugging in this family to preserve our sanity.

Later that evening, Anthony suggested taking a ride around the city to check out the Christmas lights. All of a sudden I was reminded of my parents who took us on a tour around the Greater Boston area see homes lit up like Roman candles.

My son came in the parlor to hug me and wished me goodnight.

I was watching the Mormon Tabernacle Choir perform Christmas music on Public Television.

"What about George Bailey," asked Anthony? "Aren't you worried about old George?"

"It's a Wonderful Life" was playing on another channel, but I switched it to listen to those angelic voices of the Tabernacle choir.

"George will be just fine," I told my son."And you will be just fine, too." 

The 12 Essays of Christmas, first day: The endless memories

"Christmas, in its final essence, is for grown people who have forgotten what children know. Christmas is for whoever is old enough to have denied the unquenchable spirit of man."

~ Margaret Cousins (1905- ), senior editor at Doubleday Publishing Company.

AUBURN, Maine — Christmas has a way of reviving fond and painful memories that hibernate until the yuletide rolls around each December.

Loved ones fall away with each passing holiday. There are more vacancies at the dinner table and less presents to buy. The Christmas cards are scarce. Missing loved ones have a permanent place in eternity.

All that remains are hundreds of photographs of family members who won't celebrate a holiday that celebrates family.

For nearly two decades, I traveled I-95 South to visit my mom and dad to spend a rousing Christmas Eve with nearly two dozen people. Mom is gone and my father is valiantly fighting Alzheimer's — a disease that slowly and cruelly wipes away the brain's memories.

We packed the car with gifts and made room for Anthony as we hit the road and headed to my former home in Revere, Mass. 

Now, Christmas Eve is a big deal at the Blasi household. The festivities are usually held at my sister's home, allowing my mom and dad to escape the stress of cooking for an army of friends and family. Guests would come and go as turkey, ham, potatoes, pasta, a giant bowl of sauteed corn and of course  — the shrimp linguini — were served in a buffet setting.

The shrimp linguini was my responsibility. My sister's father-in-law, Pat, a banker, taught me the secret ingredients that went into making up this sumptuous dish that kept holiday guests coming back for seconds. People came from miles round to feast on shrimp sautéed in olive oil, butter, black olives and minced garlic and onion.

When Pat passed away, I inherited the task of preparing the shrimp linguini for holiday get-togethers. I brought in a pile of it for the guys in the sports department one year. I never seen such a bunch of chow hounds gobble up my good cooking in under an hour.

So for the past couple of decades, I am the go-to guy when it comes to whipping up a mouth-watering entree of shrimp linguini.

I am that good, and some say I am the best.

Christmas Eve dinners got loud as people began quarreling over politics or worse — the Red Sox. These arguments were so heated that I thought cousins and siblings might trade blows.

When a bunch of passionate Italians get together to discuss the world's woes or the Patriots' chances to win another win Super Bowl, all I can say is look out!

You just might get a ravioli in the face when engaging in verbal combat with my family.

But when the shrimp linguini was presented to the seething holiday celebrants, things quieted down and a temporary truce was established to keep the peace.

The celebration would last for hours. There were the uncles who served in World War II and the children who tore up the joint with toy guns as the they waited for Santa to appear.

After Anthony began walking, I started running at Christmas. Toddlers have no fear when they realize they are bipeds who can turn on a dime.

I enjoyed the adults, but spending an hour playing army man or scaring the bejeebers out of the little ones on a cold New England night was a rare opportunity for this six-footer to feel like a kid again.

The guests reluctantly slipped away in the chilly night after an evening of wine and good food.

This is the time of year when I take dozen of pictures and movie clips. It is also the season when I peruse hundreds of old pictures to see who made it to the other side.

I miss them all great deal. But if I choose to succumb to a miserable depression, then I will miss the present and those precious moments with my son and wife.

After all, this is the season of hope, and I still have plenty of that — no matter what the future throws at me.

All I can say is Merry Christmas.