As I write this, the streets of Oliver-Eakle are festooned with the brightness of autumn, my favorite time of year, and somehow, the one I most associate with life!
Yes, I know the tree sap is receding, the flowers are withering, the temperatures are dropping a few degrees every night, and soon the world will be silent, blanketed by snowy winter.
Somehow, though, all of that is exciting to me.
Why? Because we are in the holiday season! Our ancestors celebrated the harvest this time of year, with feasts, merry-making, and worship. This, of course, included family and tribal gatherings, and special customs reserved for, well, these days.
The miniature neighborhood ghosts and goblins have completely looted our candy and treat supply, and disappeared as fast as a candle in a jack-o-lantern. Our little black cat keeps looking up and down the street, wondering where they all went. All that’s left are a few candy wrappers and some artificial spider web on the sidewalk.
Early November is when Hispanic culture celebrates Día De Los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, in honor of deceased family.
The first time I came into real contact with this celebration was 25 years ago in the Big Bend country. We had gone down there to play some music at the famous “International” Terlingua Chili Cookoff. Uncharacteristically, it turned a bit cold that year. We went into the small villages—they were once small villages, nearly ghost towns, back in those days—to find anything to cover any part of us up: blankets, serapes, even sombreros.
We found an old, fenced-in cemetery. Completely deserted, but joyously decorated with ribbons, paintings and handwritten prayers. It looked like a place where they had just had a big, colorful party, and we had missed it by a minute. It was a very moving experience for me. I wrote a song about it, “6 Miles from Old Mexico,” to commemorate that time and place.
Next comes Thanksgiving! What a wonderful time to celebrate all the good gifts and people in our individual worlds. Regardless of who started it, the Native Americans, the Pilgrims, or the turkeys (probably not the turkeys), it is a deeply American tradition, and a prudent idea to give thanks.
In my world, family, friends, in-laws and outlaws all get together for a feast. We have traditional holiday things like turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes, variations of salads I haven’t even tried yet, and of course, pecan and pumpkin pie for dessert. Generally, we watch the Dallas Cowboys play football, which is an entirely different story I will write some other time.
We also give thanks and try to take into account all the blessings of the year. As I have related before, it helps me tremendously to make a physical, ink-and-paper list of all the people and things I’m thankful for. The list is perpetual, never finished. If and when I get the post-holiday blues, I go back to my list, read through it, and work on it a little. It helps me remember that life itself is a gift.
Speaking of gifts: Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat! I’ve never really tasted goose, fat or otherwise, but I love traditional Christmas songs and carols, so I wind up singing about stuff I have to look up, including yule logs, fat geese and figgy pudding.
Sometimes, people get the Christmas blues because of loss, loneliness or other things. It is a good idea to go somewhere that has kids and just look at their faces. Don’t worry so much about your to-do before Christmas list and let the joy of the season be your focus. Kids’ faces glow like angels during the holiday season, but you have to look.
Most of my happiest Christmas memories have to do with when I was little or when my kids were little. Brand-new hamsters or puppies, G.I. Joes (Barbies for my sister), and Rock’Em Sock’Em Robots, but most of all, being together with family, hearing all the same stories over and over about grandpa’s life and times, and, in our tribe, the miraculous birth of the Savior. Now, hopefully, the grand kids carry on the tradition. Pure joy!
Before anybody can catch their breath, the New Year will be coming for us at lightning speed. The ball will drop, the confetti will fly, the champagne will be uncorked, the Rose Parade will happen, and the Little Baby New Year will replace Grandpa Old Year, whether we are ready or otherwise. I’ll date transactions incorrectly for a month, reflexively believing it’s still 2024.
The holidays, or Holy Days as I call them, really should be more spread out through the year. But somebody, maybe a Roman or a Gregorian—or both—decided they all should be jammed into the last couple of months. This somehow filtered down to the present.
They never seem to consult me on these things.
Happy Holy Days!
