Caroling in Carroll Park

After much cajoling, I succeeded in getting a caroling party assembled--the dear son, his friends Tyler and Bryant, and myself. After a few photos around our Christmas tree--a sprig of evergreen rising triumphantly from a vase--and a little bit of alcohol at home, we headed out to spread good cheer.

Our first stop was Leonard's apartment. His Christmas lights were on, but he didn't answer the door. Next up, was the mechanic in the apartment below the laundry room. He offered us ten bucks before we even opened our mouths, but I refused. But when we sang our brandy verse of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," he poured Malibu coconut-flavored rum into our mugs.

We proceeded down Molino Avenue to the homes of strangers. Some offered fudge and cookies. Others gave us beers. Two cute girls in a lovely craftsman-style house brought out a bottle of red wine that one of them had recently purchased in Spain. A friend of a friend in an apartment that looked like it had been the site of many a holiday party gave us vodka. Another family served Jim Beam.

A middle-aged couple and their friend joined us in "Silent Night" and even humored me by listening to my solo of "Stille Nacht." Then they gave us hugs! Yes, hugs between strangers! Does it get any better!

At Portfolio, the home of snobby baristas, we sang to anyone who would raise his gaze from his laptop screen. The ennui of the bored youth behind the counter persisted, but one patron said into her cell phone, "I'll have to call you back. There are carolers here." She hung up and joined in for a few verses. Outside we met with a merrier crowd. One young gal, who gave us all hugs when I told her of the hugs we had previously received, said of my photo-taking: "I know that will end up on a blog somewhere." And indeed it has.

One boy, maybe four years old, was our biggest fan. He stood by the door, dumbstruck, awestruck, bright-eyed, smiling. Decades from now, he will remember that night like a dim vision of Santa on the rooftop or sleigh bells as he drifts off to sleep.

As we walked and encountered pedestrians, we circled them and filled them with good cheer as well.

And lest I forget the couple with the Beemer parked out front. The woman offered us whiskey before we even asked, and when her husband/boyfriend said they had been at a party the night before and no one knew the words to an old carol, I immediately jumped in with "Here We Go A-Wassailing." That had been the song he had wanted to sing! And so the six of us sang, "We are not daily beggars/That beg from door to door/But we are neighbors' children/Who you have seen before/Love and joy come to you/And to you your wassail too/May God bless you and send you a happy new year/May God send you a happy new year."

Definitely a Christmas baby was conceived at that house last night. I could just image the woman saying, "Oh, honey, wasn't that magical!" And so would begin some magic of their own.

Anyone for Caroling?

Every December I begin my let's-go-caroling chorus. Every year I am met with nay-sayers and pooh-hoohers. What's wrong with the world? Caroling is one of the most fun things around. It's just that no one wants to give it a try.

Decades ago, years before Aaron was born, back in the days when I was a young, married woman, I cajoled my brother, Tim, and then-husband, Rod, to go caroling. Rod and I were living in Chicago at the time, and we were visiting our families in Wisconsin. Sure, it was colder than a witch's tit, but I suggested that we bring mugs and sing for brandy. This warmed the men up to the idea--somewhat.

So, off we went, knocking on the doors of strangers and singing to them--the standard fare of "Rudolph," "Come All Ye Faithful," and "The First Noel." At one house, after we had sung "Silent Night" in English, I cleared a space for myself in a dramatic flourish and gave a solo performance of "Stille Nacht"--"Silent Night" in German. Young parents and their children were aglow and gave us cookies. Older shut-ins were transported back to their childhoods, when people actually did what we were doing. And, sure enough, some people brought out the brandy.

Now we didn't ask for booze at every house. We didn't hit up the elderly or those with young kids. But at most houses, especially if the residents seemed playful, we'd close with "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." Instead of singing about the figgy pudding, I made up the verse:

"Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
And a shot and a beer.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some,
So bring it right here."

We laughed and held out our mugs while we swayed to and fro to the music.

One couple brought out Chivis Regal Scotch Whiskey. The good stuff. And an unopened bottle. They had received it as a gift that year and told us that they didn't drink. They poured it as if it were coffee.

Twenty years later, on Christmas Eve 2004, I made a surprise visit to Wisconsin. Now long since divorced and mother to an 18-year-old, I once again cajoled my brother and my son, too, to join me in mirth. Once again, it was colder than hell, but once again, we brought our mugs.

We met with a few sourpusses, I must admit. One girl who sat watching TV as we sang and never bothered to answer the door, though she occasionally looked at us as if we were on another channel. And, yes, there was the Jewish woman, who we hadn't known was Jewish until her neighbor informed us. She had listened patiently, but when I did my solo number, she screamed, "How dare you sing to me in German!" and slammed the door in our faces. Ouch!

Then I had a flashback to the Chivis Regal couple. I was convinced the house on the corner was theirs. (I have an uncanny memory for such details of life.) We gave it a try, and yessiree bob, same couple and same bottle of Chivis Regal. That's right--they had opened it for us 20 years ago and besides what had evaporated over those two decades, not a drop was missing. They invited us in to see their tree, told of how they had met in the Old Country, poured us stiff drinks and then refilled our mugs.

Even my cynical brother admitted that this was magical.

Two years ago, I organized a caroling party and we canvased the Rose Park neighborhood. Though I had invited several of my students, only Hector Perez shared my enthusiasm. In fact, he might have been even more nuts about caroling than me, if one can believe that. He kept saying, "Oh, Miss Nye, let's keep going." And so we did, "bringing joy to so many people," as Hector said in an effervescent moment of pure holiday bliss.

And so, this year, once again, I am looking forward to spreading joy. I told my son that he has to round up his friends. That this will be fun. And you can be damn sure it will be.

We All Have so Much

Though I live simply, I still have much more than most of the people in the world do. I have a roof over my head, a bed, food, clothes, a hot shower every morning--hooray for hot showers!--and a whole bunch of earrings.

I'm urging everyone to take stock of his or her blessings and then to rethink holiday shopping this year. Do you really need to buy another thing for friends and family members who already have so many things? Why not have a tree planted in their name instead? Or give them a pretty card that shows that you donated money to their favorite charity? Or that you sponsored a homeless family or a patient at a mental-health facility?

Holiday shopping is way out of hand. Let's all do our part to reign it in and remember that others have so little while we often have way too much.

Master Card Takes an Extra $5,000 of my Money

Let me state from the get-go that I am a rare American: I have never paid a dime in credit-card interest. I pay my bills in full and on time. There have even been years when I overpaid my Visa bill when times were good.

But, of course, that kind of customer isn't what the credit card companies want. They want people who are in debt, people they can charge Mafia-style interest. For me, I would rather live simply, buy what I need from yard sales and thrift stores, and not have debt stress.

I charge most of my expenses in order to reap the frequent-flyer miles, one or two miles for every dollar spent, you know the story. This past month I had more outlays than usual, what with an airline ticket to Wisconsin, a one-way ticket from Portland for my son, hundreds of dollars in medical and dental bills, and a bunch of business expenses.

Nevertheless, when I started getting statements from my bank that I was being charged for overdrafts, I knew something was amiss. Turns out, Capital One electronically processed a check I had sent for $1,871.11--payment in full--for $6,871.11, five grand more than I owed.

I called Capital One and got a man in India who had no authority to do anything except say he was sorry. Finally, I got his American supervisor who chastised me for not writing my numbers clearly, something I disputed. She pulled up the check and said there was a tiny pen mark at the top of the one that might have confused the data-entry person. I don't think that a tiny mark at the top of the one would have looked anywhere near a "6."

I also noted that the reason people write checks is so there is something to check the numerals against--the next line on which the check-writer fills in the amount in words. I had to repeat that several times before she understood. Then she told me that the data-entry people have to process checks so fast that they can't stop to make sure the amount is correct!

Credit-card companies are making more money than God, I told her. Why can't they pay to have the job done right? I'm sure they would still be making more money than God if they doubled their number of data-entry people.

She then said that Capital One doesn't process the checks in-house but farms them out--no doubt to India--so it has no control over how the checks are processed. I said, "You could exercise control if you wanted to. It's like if I wanted a swimming pool built in my backyard, and I contract with a firm to build the pool. The contractor sends out two guys to do the work, but I tell him I want four guys to do the job and I'll pay extra. Do you think he'd tell me, 'No, I can't do that'? You, too, could ask for more people to do the work--and to do the work right." This point went way over her head.

Finally, after an hour on the phone for something that was not my mistake, the supervisor said she would have the $5,000 wired back to my account. That was Friday morning. Yesterday afternoon I called my credit union. No transfer has yet been made. And the overdraft fees continue to arrive--six at last count.

Mature Gals with Great Attitudes

During the past few days I have spent time with two women in their 70s--Bev and Carol. The first is a long-time friend, the other a massage client. Both are amazing gals and both look great. Bev recently spurned a 50-year-old lover, a man who is a quarter of a century her junior. Carol looks like she could be in her mid-50s. So what's their secret?

The answer is that both Bev and Carol don't let things bother them, and they don't dwell on the past. I am convinced that this attitude keeps them young.

Bev has been asked at various times in her life, "Aren't you insulted by what that person said to you? Aren't you hurt by what that person did to you?" She brushes such comments off as if they were specks of dust and says, "Maybe I should be upset, but I'm not. I don't have time to be upset. I've got too many other things to do."

And indeed she does. She's juggling a few guys, besides still working as a massage therapist. She lifts weights and takes long walks at the Newport Back Bay. She's active in a few churches that run the gamut from evangelical Christian to Science of Mind. She's also fascinated with Judaism and takes classes in alternative healing. Whew!

Carol, too, is very present-oriented. She is constantly going--golfing a few times a week, walking several miles with her friends each day, volunteering, attending concerts and plays, spending time with her boyfriend. She outright admits, "I have no interest in the past."

I have a great admiration for both these ladies, who have found the secret of youth--a positive, present-oriented attitude that allows no time for wallowing over past injustices.

Whenever I find myself rehashing what someone said or did or what I said or did or didn't say or didn't do, I need to give myself a good, hard slap and say, "I don't have time for this! It'll only give me more wrinkles!"

Camper Shell Brings Sense of Security

A few days ago, my mother asked me what I am going to do when I leave Cal State in May. I had been going along, fairly satisfied with the New Agey thought that something miraculous would occur between now and spring, and I would be shown a clear, straight path to happiness, love, and abundance. But moms have a way of throwing a wrench into such thinking.

Since our conversation, I have started to feel a growing sense of dread. How am I going to support myself? (My pension from Cal State will be something like $200 a month.) Where will I rest my head? Will I be completely alone in a strange, new place?

I had always thought that certainly by now, after almost 18 years of divorced life, I would have a partner or at least a boyfriend or a lover. But, no, I'm facing another Christmas alone, my eighth in a row. It's possible that in the next five months I could meet someone wonderful who might also think I'm wonderful too, a man who would take my breath away. It's possible, but I can't bank on it.

I started fretting about isolation. I'm cut off enough as it is, here in Southern California, but in a new environment it could be years before I make any friends. Friend Heather moved to Denver not knowing anyone and within a week or two she was the most popular gal in town. But I know I'm not Heather. Will I be able to survive without my Sunday afternoon excursions with Aaron, who is sometimes the only social contact I have all week?

So, these are the kinds of fears that have crept into my consciousness since my talk with Mom.

Though I wasn't thinking of this as a means to combat these demons in my head, I did something this afternoon that I've been wanting to do for a long time--purchase a camper shell for my Tacoma. In the summer of 2006, I camped my way up the coast for a month, then met Aaron in Washington state, and he and I traveled to Wisconsin and back to So Cal together. The night before I picked him up at the Spokane airport, someone stole from the open bed of my truck the containers in which I had been storing food, clothes, medicine, toiletries, and camping equipment. That's when I started thinking about getting a shell, though it took me until today to do it.

Aaron and I are planning a trip up the coast to Portland for a week and a half following Christmas. It'll be cold and rainy, so we won't be able to sleep in the open bed of the truck like we've done in the past. We'll need the camper shell.

It's so amazing how the fears about the future that Mom placed in my skull have now dissipated. It's such a good feeling knowing that even if I am without a job and without a support system and without an apartment, I'll still have a place to sleep. That's such a comfort. I can live inside my truck if it ever comes to that, and I'll be OK.

I am always amazed when I ask people how they got to California, and they tell me of a cousin who offered them a place while they found a job or a good friend who had an extra bedroom in her apartment or her house. I take inventory of the people I know, and I don't think there's one among them who would be able to give me a place to crash while I settled into a new environment. They have kids or their places are small or it just wouldn't work for one reason or another. But I think there are a few who might let me park my Tacoma--with its spiffy camper shell--on the street in front of their abode and allow me to use the bathroom once in a while. That might just be enough.

A Lesson Learned Again and Again

I have hurt someone. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. But I have.

I knew this was coming from the very beginning. I knew that at some point I would be the one who would do the hurting, since I am the one who is interested in friendship and the man I have hurt is interested in much more.

Last night I didn't sleep at all, disturbed by how I had hurt him. I scrutinized my thoughts and realized that they fit a common pattern for me. Whenever I have some sort of hurtful or unfortunate social interaction, I think that perhaps I am not well-suited for interactions with people, interactions of any depth, that is. Instead I should confine myself to compliments about someone's cooking or outfit and light conversation about the weather. I always seem to get in trouble if I venture any further.

I recall the image that came to me once in a dream or perhaps it was in a waking vision. It was the 1940s or maybe the '30s. I was an attractive woman who lived alone in a cute, little apartment. I said hello to everyone I encountered, the green grocer and the newspaper boy, the old woman beating her rugs on the fire escape, the good-looking man who would tip his hat when I passed by. I was pleasant with my coworkers. I always had a genuine smile on my face for anyone I might see, and that smile was there even when I was alone. I went on excursions about town, and I cooked candlelit meals for myself. I enjoyed reading in my sunlit parlor and walking my dog or teaching my parrot to talk. I seemed very happy, yet I had no lover, no friends, no contact with family. I was just floating through this world, content to be alive and not disturbing anyone. This image returned to me today. Was this me in another life? Or is this my true nature--to be alone?

I think, too, of what my enlightened-being-of-the-north-woods friend asked me in the summer of 2006 when I was visiting her in northeastern Washington: "Why do I have to interact with people?" I gave her answers such as "You can only learn certain things through interacting with people" and "You are a person, so interacting with other people will help you learn about yourself." To this she replied, "What if I don't want to learn those things?" For that I had no answer.

And yet I would love to have deep friendship and deep intimacy, but perhaps I just don't understand the ways of the world. I missed school the day that relationships, friendship, and making one's way in the world were discussed. I've just got to muddle through without the benefit of notes.

This disconnect was so strongly brought to my attention one night decades ago. I was driving on Pacific Coast Highway and encountered a police officer who was signalling with his flashlight. I thought he meant that I should continue to drive forward, whereas instead he meant for me to stop. As I passed him, he yelled and slammed his flashlight into the side of my vehicle. I was shocked. Here I thought I was doing what was asked, but instead I was doing just the opposite. How often this has happened--I am traveling along, thinking I am acting in accordance with society's norms, only to be wacked into awareness of how far afield I am.

In the current situation, I was at fault for how the hurt unfolded. I made mistakes that I will not make again. But the larger mistake of thinking that a man could be my friend is one that I have often made in the past and I suspect, unless I live as the woman in my vision, I will make again.

Never Knew Anyone Read my Blogs

My friends Heather and Alexi read my blogs, but I never knew anyone else did. Now it seems that someone has read a post about an old friend who has romantic feelings for me and sent it to him. He is insulted, and I have removed the post. I'm sorry and from now on, I won't write about anyone I know or I will dramatically change the particulars so that it is not clear about who I am speaking.