If you read the title of this blog, and rubbed your seasonally cold hands in anticipation of a rant about the truth, or lack thereof, of the Christmas story, you’re outta luck.
“Never a Christmas morning,
never an old year ends,
but someone thinks of someone
old days, old times, old friends.”
Good ol’ Anon. The most prolific writer ever, though personally I think the quality of their output is a tad variable.
Sure, I think of old friends, this time of year. That’s what comes of moving thousands of miles away. And of getting older, of course.
Most of all, I think of my mother. Sometimes, when this writing lark or indeed the muddle which pretends to be my life gets a bit too much, I tell myself stories about Mom.
About how she would have somehow tuned in to the radio show, despite her inability to operate the stereo without help from a family member, or fill a car with petrol without a sympathetic gas station attendant. About how she would have cheered on my writing, and my attempts at the often elusive beastie known as my mental health “recovery”.
Whatever the hell that is.
It’s nice, in the sense that fairy tales are nice. And, like most faery tales, it’s probably a load of old hokum.
It’s easy to build mythologies around the dead. To tell ourselves “if so-in-so were alive today, they would do or say such-in-such”.
Truth is, we don’t know what they would be doing.
All I do know is that it’s Christmastime. And, whilst I enjoy the holidays, I’m also a bit cold, and not a little bit sad.
“old days, old times, old friends”