'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, Day 9: The music

"Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything."
                                                                                  - Plato

AUBURN, Maine — It happens every holiday season. We finish eating our turkey dinners and watching morning high school football games when radio stations across the nation begin blasting away with holiday music.

The airwaves are saturated with several versions of "White Christmas" and "I'll be Home for Christmas" playing on hundreds of stations across America.

There is no holding back and it continues until New Year's Day.

I get to the point where I could listen to rap music after nearly a month of "Grandma got Run over by a Reindeer."

Serves her right for assaulting our senses.

Black Friday is usually seen as the green light for the deluge of holiday music to begin pummeling our senses with 800 versions of "Silent Night." Sometimes, I believe radio is a co-conspirator that helps trigger the nation's buying spree during the Christmas rush.

This endless holiday music makes us all yearn for Bruce Springsteen or "The Lumineers" on the FM dial.

I enjoy Christmas music but listening to it 24-7 for nearly month can be strain on my ears. The music acts like a drug as you drift in and out of stores looking for gifts.

The hardest emotion I have to confront during the most wonderful time of year is the holiday music that dredges up memories of Christmas past, and that stings, especially without our mothers and a father battling a disease.

Look, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole and Johnny Mathis are crooners who can turn a bad holiday song into gold. But when I try to listen to Neil Diamond sing the "Little Drummer Boy" song, I reach for the dial. Neil should have stepped aside and let the Harry Simeon Choir take sole possession of that piece because nobody does that sweet holiday tune justice than the choirs' angelic voices.

If you had enough of Bing, Bennett and The Carpenters, pick up a copy of "The Snowman." It is 1982 animated cartoon featuring music by English composer Howard Blake. This 26-minute gem, which was nominated for an Academy Award in 1982, features choirboy Peter Auty performing "Walking on Air." 

You like Christmas music?

Charlie Brown and the Peanuts are tough acts to follow when they sing "Hark the Herald" at the end of their Christmas special. What makes this holiday TV special delightful is jazz musician Vince Guaraldi's music.

But their is nothing like the old favorites that never get old.

Look, Christmas music can be inspiring even if you are a nonbeliever like me.

The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 8: The food

“Christmas doesn't come from a store, maybe Christmas perhaps means a little bit more....” 
                                                                     ― Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas

AUBURN, Maine  —  It is the most delicious time of year.

It's the holiday season and whoop-dee-do — there's food everywhere. It's at work, on television, the Net, in your home and in your face.

You'll get a belly full of turkey, fish, stuffing and steamed vegetables this season. And there will be plenty of booze for hardcore drinkers who enjoy a holiday glow.

I enjoy a glass of wine, not the whole damn bottle. Becoming an alcoholic was never one of my aspirations in life.

There is no letup to this holiday smorgasbord until after January 1.

Start thinking about hitting the gym five times a day to prevent putting a spread on your midsection.

People want to give you food during the holidays. It comes in the mail. Guests charge through your door with cakes and chocolate. I like that, but I don't like looking like jolly old St. Nick by the time New Year's Eve rolls around.

Way back when I was little tyke running amok through the neighborhoods surrounding McClure Street in Revere, my grandmother started cooking for Christmas Eve — and day — on December 1.

She was preparing a 50-course meal for an entire month. She was armed with minced garlic and plenty of olive oil, and not the crap you purchase at department stores. This stuff probably came from Italy. Remember, a majority of Italians are masters of their domain in the kitchen, and nobody prepared baccala, which is salt cod, like my grandmother.

When Christmas Eve rolled around, thousands of relatives, actually about 30, showed up with pies and pizza gaynors, and the lavish feast would last several hours until bloated guests waddled toward the door.

During dinner in the basement of my grandmother's house, the adults were seated at a huge wooden table that could survive a nuclear blast. Guests engaged in verbal confrontations that could be mistaken for verbal abuse. Politics, celebrities, sports — all topics were up for discussion at the table.

First came the pasta - usually raviolis smothered in homemade meat sauce - and then the turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, corn. Fish was also a big favorite. Scallops, shrimp and baccala were just at your fingertips.

I was surrounded by cousins and aunts who urged me to eat everything on my plate because a kid was starving in an unnamed country. I wanted to know this child's name so I could send him all that unfinished food.

Nobody told me!

We talked about Santa Claus during one feast, and I found out that Santa didn't exist, which broke my heart.

Years later, my grandmother would allow me to take a sip of Anisette or wine at the dinner table.

Those memories of spectacular feasts are over 30 years old. Nearly all of those holiday guests are dead, but thoughts of them always reappear during Christmas. I refuse to allow time to take them away from me.

The last time there was a snowstorm on Christmas day in the Boston area, I believe, was in 1969. Snow made that holiday feast that much more special for me. A white Christmas, good food, and the comfort and security of being surrounded by loving relatives —  what more could a child of nine ask for?

12 Essays of Christmas, Day 4: The lights, the lights

"A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory,

 like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together." 

- Garrison Keillor

AUBURN, Maine - We choose one huge shrub on the front lawn and deck the barren branches with a variety of lights each Christmas.

We believe less is more and less is better - and cheaper.

Putting up Christmas lights is a 10-minute task for us. We are minimalists, and this short-and-sweet chore cuts down on profanity, frustration and stress, as I lovingly adorn our shrub with yuletide cheer.

Energy costs should be considered before putting your house on the map with a tacky lighting display that will stop traffic and be seen from the sky by a B-52 on a nighttime bombing raid.

We all marvel at homes that cause light pollution and wonder if the homeowners have deep pockets to fund lighting for 30 days out of the year.

Some Americans will spend hours installing lighting displays and paying electricians to trip the light fantastic and prevent a house from being ravaged by a conflagration that will also be seen from miles away.

A handful of elaborate lighting displays around Lewiston-Auburn demonstrate class, while others are tasteless reminders of velvet paintings of Elvis that are sold at flea markets for $5.

We also keep it low key inside our home when it comes to lighting. Our tree features small lights with a couple of modest stars on top.

Our fake tree, the impostor, lights up the back porch.

But this year, our kitchen is illuminated by a series of small porcelain towns with little figurines. The designs of the churches, theater and little homes are intricate and fill the kitchen with Christmas spirit.

The precious sets were given to us by a good friend. We gladly accepted them, and Anthony and I spent a couple of hours piecing several displays together.

Now little villages and a movie theater make our kitchen more cozy.

But if the spirit moves you and you are a person with unlimited wealth, then knock your self out and turn your property into a 1980s disco.

Sure, we'll stop by and ooh and aah from our car as we move on to the next holiday spectacle.

The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 3: What stress?

"Christmas is a necessity.  There has to be at least one day of the year to remind us that we're here for something else besides ourselves."  

~Eric Sevareid

AUBURN, Maine - I never understood how people find themselves exasperated over the holidays. 

They say they are tired and beat up from shopping?

Really! 

I give them that "are you f'%$#ckn kidding me" look.

You have a roof over your head, food on the table and money to purchase a few gifts for your children and wife, but you continue whining about running all over creation to get things done.

You are overwrought because of a holiday that asks us all to be kind to our fellow man for a just day.

You know who you are, but save us all from your diatribe.

We feel pressured to make the holiday just perfect. Martha Stewart shows us the way to celebrate the perfect holiday. The TV icon demonstrates how to perfectly fold napkins, wrap gifts, and whip up the perfect dip for perfect guests who will attend the perfect holiday party.

Good luck with that.

What some of us don't realize is that you've been given the gift that keeps on giving - if the faiths allow.

It's your family, and if you are fortunate, they will be there Christmas morning sipping coffee and unwrapping gifts.

George Bailey experienced an epiphany when a jovial old angel wannabe named Clarence took Bailey out for a walk for a wake-up call. Old George finally figured out that his family was all that mattered in his life.

I have witnessed family conflicts erupt over being late for a holiday gatherings to wrapping gifts the "right way."

It is all senseless. 

I also understand that melancholy goes hand and hand with the holidays. You get older, but the memories are still strong of a mom and dad who won't be seated at the dinner table on December 25.

That's not stress; that's sadness, and the two should never be confused.

There are millions of U.S. citizens who are without work, health insurance and looking for their next meal.

That's stress, and being poor in a nation that flaunts its wealth strips any struggling family of their pride.

When you gripe about putting up the tree or lights, keep in mind there are 27 families who are drowning in a sea of misery and grief due to a mindless shooting in Connecticut.

So consider yourself lucky when you gather with your loved ones on Christmas morning enjoying their gifts and drinking egg nog.

Can't thank them enough

Mom and son getting ready for Halloween.

"To grow old is to lose everything," 

- the opening line to a poem called "Affirmation," which was written 

by poet Donald Hall

AUBURN, Mass. — Money is tight, the world is a damn mess, our leaders don't know what day it is, and there is a pile of snow on my front lawn that is really pissing me off, and yet, I do have a lot to be thankful for as I pass the peas and gnaw on a turkey leg this Thanksgiving.

And while Mother Nature's hit-and-run tactics are befuddling and the cold is closing in, I am lucky there will be a hot meal on the table and my healthy son and wife will be seated next me as we enjoy my sister's fine cooking and the company of her wonderful children.

I am older and I have lost a handful people along the way, and the holidays have a way of triggering those strong and sad memories of family members and friends who will not be present at our feast this Thanksgiving.

And it really hurts, especially since Terri and I buried our mothers last year. That pain never goes away, but when I see my wife and son laughing and enjoying good food, it makes me realize why I am still here, and I don't plan on going anywhere.

For years, my dad and I would spend Thanksgiving mornings watching Revere and Winthrop knock heads on the gridiron while my mom was multi-tasking over a hot stove long before anyone knew what the hell multi-tasking was. She was cooking turkey, potatoes, carrots and stuffing while father and son were freezing their butts off at Paul Revere Stadium.

I am older now and now I am doing the cooking. My dad and I no longer attend Thanksgiving Day football games because he is older. My mother is gone.

I miss those moments and those people who meant so much to me.

But I know I am helpless when the Grim Reaper snatches another friend or relative from this life.

For years, there were nearly 15 relatives living next to my house. It was like one giant block party on McClure Street during the holidays. Each Thanksgiving or Christmas Eve, I would move from house to house, enjoying my grandmother's or aunts' culinary delights and making sure I shared a glass of wine at each stop.

Like me, the street has changed and all I have are fond memories. Those homes are no longer occupied by my grandmother, Aunt Minnie, B.J. and Eddie Murano, and the Grossos. 

Before Anthony came along, my wife and I excitedly packed up the car and headed from Maine to Massachusetts to see my relatives during the holidays. The aunts would hand Terri small gifts while I sampled the wine and food and listened to my uncle, who was a top-notch pilot during World War II and Korea, talk about his combat experiences.

But I am older now and they are a part of my past. I understand change is inevitable, but there is pain that comes with change.

But one thing that will never change is my love and appreciation for my wife and son, and immediate family.

And they are the reasons why I give thanks on this day.