Author: J. Thorp

Baby, It’s Cold Outside!

/ J. Thorp / 5 Comments

For most of the day today, it’s been in the single digits and windy. Now, it’s safe to say that at some point, my neck of the woods will be roughly 30 degrees colder than today – and we fortunate souls with warm homes and long johns will survive, as we have in winters past. But that doesn’t change the fact that this first blast of long, dark winter is always a shock to the system.

For me, the shock is more defibrillation than electrocution, however. Think about it: You step through the door and the cold sends a shudder the length of you; you blink, bewildered, in the blinding light and gasp as the wind steals your first breath; your extremities tingle and throb – and in that moment, just for a second, you wish for a swift return to warm, dark oblivion.

Then your eyes adjust, and the world comes into cold focus. You look around in wonder at the bright, pale sky; the glittering grass. Each breath now is a victory, a swirling prayer of thanksgiving drifting skyward. The skin on your cheeks shrinks to a tight smile, and every stiff motion, each hurried step, calls to a sleeping world, I live.

Not for long, however, if you stay out here. To work, then!

Greetings from the North Pole, Part I

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Blogger’s Note: Back in 2003, our children mailed their letters to Santa Claus very late and were quite concerned that he might not realize we would be traveling on Christmas. Prior to that winter, Santa had always left a short handwritten letter near the cookie plate, but with more kids and more questions, he found himself in need of assistance. (After all, he is a busy man this time of year.) Several days before Christmas, we found a card on our mantle, and Christmas morning, a letter marked with a script S, but not for Santa! I’ve transcribed them to share, in hopes of spreading holiday cheer and bolstering belief.

* * * * *

16 December 2003

My dear Thorp children,

Of course we can deliver your presents on Christmas Eve Day — why, your mother used to receive her presents every year on Christmas Eve! We try to accommodate all Holiday travel plans (within reason), for there is nothing more important than Family at Christmas!

So rest easy these next few nights! Know that your letter was very well received — Santa loves to hear from his children, and especially appreciates your Honesty about those times you’ve been less than perfect. We will compare your Wish List against what we’ve prepared for you, but remember! Santa knows best what you need, and often has his own ideas. You may not get everything you’ve asked for, but I am certain you will be Very Happy on the morning of December 24!

Merry Christmas Brendan, Gabriel and Emma!

Siberius Quill
Elf Correspondent

* * * * *

23 December 2003
The Eve of Christmas Eve

Dearest Children!

Happy Christmas to you all! How fortunate that I should be assigned to your family, for I am the Very Elf who wrote you just a week ago to tell you your Santa Letter was not in vain. (Of course, no such letter ever is!) Ah! I am reminded that you are all so Very Young — I must think more slowly and write more simply. And as you are a New Family, and this is your first letter from a Correspondent, I should introduce myself…

So I shall! I am Siberius Quill III, a Correspondent in Santa’s Letter Corps and fifth-generation Elfin Scribe. I am to be your Personal Contact and Pen-Pal here at the North Pole for as long as you will have me. You see, when human children reach the age at which they begin writing letters, lists and questions for Santa — when he can no longer hand-write a note to you over cookies and milk — we Correspondents take over. Like your Father, my talent lies in language. Let the other Elves make toys; I’ve no knack for tools!

Unlike your Father, however, I am descended from a long and proud line of Writers. My great-grandfather, Siberius the Old, personally penned Mr. Kringle’s first List of Names. (That was long centuries ago, however — several Great Uncles, Uncles and Cousins now compile the names, but The Old Man still has a nose for telling naughty from nice!) My grandfather, Siberius II, is Santa’s Chief Calligrapher, and my father, Scribner Quill, teaches Foreign Penmanship — Japanese, Arabic and the like. My mother’s kin are Writers, too — her father, Brevity Parchment, heads the Tags and Greetings division.

We Correspondents are good for more than just lists and letters, Children — as you get older and wiser, you will likely have fewer questions about What Santa does, and more and more questions about Why and How he does it. Consider me your Primary Resource regarding All Things Christmas — I will do my level best to tell you everything I can! Of course, not even the Elves know everything Pere Noel is about — but what I know I will share, because sharing is one of the simplest Good Deeds you can do. Remember that!

Now then — you’ve asked me no questions, boys, but you did ask your Father one, didn’t you, Master Brendan? Let me see — I believe you wanted to know what happens should children like Yourselves awaken when Santa is about! Your Father told you what he thought, and it’s exactly so — old Santa smiles at them, his eyes a-twinkle; places his pointing finger to his lips, and shhh! Out they go, like an Advent Candle, to sleep deeply and dream pleasant dreams — remembering nothing, or almost nothing, of what they think they’ve seen. Ah, but your Dad remembers — buried in his head are the unconscious thoughts and waking dreams of the Little Boy he used to be. He remembers!

Master Gabriel, I must mention that Santa was most Impressed and Flattered that you wanted a red fur suit for Christmas, to match your Christmas hat, no doubt. Though you’d make quite a strapping elf, you are not quite tall enough for the robes of St. Nicholas, nor round enough to fill Santa’s trousers. Keep growing, young Master, and you’ll make a fine Father Christmas yet.

All our Love to Emma and your Mother and — Can this be? — a new Baby on the way? Bless my soul, but you’ll keep me busy. A fine, Big Family indeed! Happy Christmas, Young Ones — may God bless you and your family as He blessed us all those many years ago, in a Bethlehem stable, in the hay. And a Happy New Year, too!

Your Most Sincerely,

Siberius Quill

P.S. If you like, you may call me Quill!

* * * * *

As Christmas draws nearer, perhaps I’ll transcribe the others we’ve received over the years.

With Child

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

People everywhere are having babies, and it’s about time somebody said something. First, a question: do people say “with child” anymore? I kind of like it – it lends a certain gravitas to the proceedings. Moreso than, say, “preggers.” Try it: She’s with child. Now try: She’s preggers.

Totally different.

Second, a poem of sorts – something I wrote several years ago, when we got together with some friends, and the ladies started comparing bellies.

* * * * *

small wonder

a friend who is pregnant dreams a
golden sunshine painted on her belly.
is that so strange? i watch her husband
circle – he is drawn to her, not close but
never far. she is one of three with child
radiant and exhausted, and
we men talk as though we never
wish to feel the kick of tiny feet
a somersault or hiccups; like we
do not wonder at our wives resilience.
they sip their drinks and hold their sides,
their backs; their bellies impossibly round
as if inside they bore the world
like Atlas, on their hips – small wonder
we can’t pull away from such a cosmic thing.

j. thorp
20 feb 02

* * * * *

Congrats to new moms, old moms, experienced moms, professional moms, surprise moms, renewed moms, moms-to-be, and moms-thrice-over. You’re amazing.

 

Skin Deep Is Deep Enough

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

I reconnected with an old friend while in New York City last week. We met at a Starbucks (not that Starbucks, as it turns out; the other one, just half a block down and across the street), and she didn’t know me for a moment, in part because someone else had approached her a moment before thinking that she was someone else, and in part because I have a healthy crop of whiskers and shaggier hair than in our college days.

She had just finished a videotaped interview or some such thing in which a makeup artist had prepared her for her “close-up” – and she mentioned how strange the whole thing seemed: she’s not one to wear a lot of makeup, much less have someone apply it for her, and she’s yet to fully realize or release her inner diva. It reminded me of the story I promised to tell a several days ago, about the last time I flew into New York. This is how I remember it now.

I watched as the plane passed over the city and couldn’t fathom the enormity of it. Dad once summarized his dread of New York City as the feeling that, if something went wrong, there was no way he could walk out before sundown. I could see his point firsthand – the skies were clear, and the only open space I saw for miles was the Atlantic. All else was rooftops.

For a moment the plane dipped its port wing earthward, and I saw Yankee Stadium, lit for a home stand, the interlocked NY gleaming white from the green grass. Then we tipped starboard, and I turned to look out the windows across the aisle.

Across the plane sat a young woman I’d seen in the airport: shoulder-length blond hair in a loose ponytail, a few loose strands tucked behind her ears, deep blue eyes and freckles, a simple white t-shirt and jeans. She was beautiful, sure, but seemed even more so in that comfortable-in-her-own-skin way. She laughed easily on her cell phone; she slipped off shoes and tucked her feet beneath her on the seat while she read.

She wasn’t reading when I turned to look out her window, however. She was gazing into a tiny mirror, dusting her cheeks and nose. I watched the cityscape pass outside the window, then glanced back at her. Eye shadow now. The freckles were gone.

I tried hard not to stare, but the process was fascinating and her concentration was absolute. Her lashes black with mascara, she went to work on her lips – gleaming pink edged with just the right shade of lip-liner; her ready smile replaced by a mouth poised to pucker or pursed for profanity – one couldn’t be quite sure.

She shook out her ponytail and arranged her hair just so around her new face, which had taken on a cool and porcelain perfection. She was still beautiful, I was sure. I shivered – strangely, our corner of the plane seemed to be getting colder as we descended. She must’ve thought so, too – she covered her t-shirt in a short, stylish black jacket, and slipped into her heels.

I wondered at her transformation – wondered if she did this for herself or someone else, someone who might meet her at the airport and whisk her off to dinner. I wondered what fool would prefer this flawless, frozen mask to freckles and teeth and bare feet.

Moments later, we touched down. She was home.

Who Is My Neighbor?

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

My driver from the airport to the hotel Saturday was an older Romanian man who welcomed me to New York four times over, showed me a cell-phone photo of Jane Fonda at LaGuardia from earlier in the afternoon, talked about a movie he’d seen her in as a young man (called “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?”), then about another movie, which led to a conversation about the war and his views on U.S. politics as an East European immigrant from a long-suffering nation. He combined a great love for America with high expectations, a heavy dose of skepticism, and no illusions about the potential for political leaders to disappoint. Fascinating.

I told him that one of the things I love about getting into a car outside an airport is the roll of the dice: you never know who you’re going to cross paths with. He smiled and said, “You get in with an open mind – not everyone does that.”

* * * * *

I walked from the hotel through a crush of humanity to the intersection of 50th Street and 5th Avenue, to St. Patrick’s Cathedral for Mass this evening. It’s amazing what you pass along the way: the destitute and the fantastically wealthy, posh restaurants and corner hot-dog stands, fashion-forward boutiques and knock-off handbags.

Yesterday the cathedral was bustling with tourists (and a scattering of prayerful, mournful, and presumably faithful). I lit a candle and said a prayer for the folks back home, made a lap around the church, then left. Hard to find peace with so many people milling around.

I arrived tonight about five minute before the service. The ushers were stationed at each aisle, asking people if they were here for Mass. If yes, they were given a program and allowed down the aisle to find a pew; if no, they were directed to the outside aisles to observe and take photos. I wound up three-quarters of the way back, just right of center, and when the massive pipe organ started, you could tell how big the space was to fill – it sounded surprisingly soft, almost muffled. It took several minutes for the church to reach some semblance of quiet, and even then, there was a constant influx of church-goers and tourists. Between the priest and me were hundreds, maybe thousands, of worshipers of every nationality you could imagine.

The readings, of course, were the same ones many of you heard. Monsignor Ritchie, however, said (in a voice equal parts joyous preacher and wizened New Yorker) that he would speak about the readings from Tuesday’s Mass – in part because the cathedral clearly held so many visitors, many of whom he feared may not realize that the Church doesn’t just celebrate the Mass on Sunday.

So he preached what he described as a second set of commandments in Paul’s Letter to the Romans (Ch. 12), and ended with a verse from the next chapter: “For the commandments, ‘You shall not commit adultery,’ ‘You shall not murder,’ ‘You shall not steal,’ ‘You shall not give false testimony,’ ‘You shall not covet,’ and whatever other commandments there are, are all summed up in this saying, namely, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'” (Romans 13:9)

The procession to the altar for Communion was slow going, not unlike the sidewalks outside, except without the cell phones and exasperation. People were patient; people were kind …

* * * * *

I filed out with everyone else, back into the neon whirlwind outside. I walked past 30 Rockefeller Plaza, past Radio City Music Hall, where the annual Christmas Spectacular (featuring those leggy Rockettes) is the only show in town due to the writer’s strike, past Lindy’s New York Cheesecake and back to hotel, not hungry enough to eat dinner. I stopped at the little lobby store to get a Coke and peanuts (curse you, Bob!), smiled and thanked the woman at register, wishing her a good night.

I got snack-hungry later and ran back down to get some popcorn. She recognized me, and we talked about the weather, here versus Minnesota, then about her love of the City. “I’m more of a country boy,” I said. “I couldn’t live here, but I do like to visit.”

She smiled and said something I didn’t understand about my education showing through; after a few moments, I realized she was talking about my upbringing. She said, “Where I come from in Cuba is a town, but not big. It is country. I like it, too. People come here; they say, ‘Hello,’ like you. They are nice, friendly people. That’s their education.”

We talk a bit more, then I start back toward the elevators. “You have a great night,” I say.

“Good night,” she says. “You say, ‘Buenos noches.'”

“Buenos noches,” I reply.

“God bless you,” she says, and waves.