Fear of Falling Funny, Too!

Blogger’s Note: A friend recently wrote a blog post on the humor he finds in people falling down. It was not a mean-spirited piece, and inspired a lengthy comment from me. I enjoyed writing the comment enough that I decided to post it here. You can find his post at Future Priests of the Third Millenium.

I say without any ego that I rarely fall down. It is not due to natural grace in any typical sense of the notion, but rather a steadfast determination (born of years as a lesser wrestler) not to go down.

As a result, with me you see:

The Slip-Stop, in which every second or third step results in loss of footing with one foot and quick regaining with the other, like a dance with no rhythm.

The Windmill-Stomp, in which I miss a step, catch a toe, or otherwise find myself falling rapidly forward and windmilling both arms while throwing my size 13s out in front of me in grim determination to stay vertical.

The Finger-Tipper, in which my gyrations bring me close enough to falling that the fingertips of one hand are all that stands between me and utter sprawl.

The Corkscrew, in which I wind up vertical but off-center, facing some other direction that the one from which I started, and with various parts strewn about me.*

All of these can be immensely entertaining to watch, as well, judging from the response of frequent audience members such as my wife and children. And they are increasingly painful — the Windmill Stomp and Corkscrew, in particular, tend to result in pulled muscles in my neck, back and hamstrings.

I do actually hit the ground every so often. Generally it’s a Slip-Stop transformed into a reverse Windmill Stomp — much more difficult to execute backwards, especially with a Slip-Stop already underway.

When this happens, I generally pretend to make snow angels while I search the sky for my lost wind …
—–
*Like a NASCAR crash, shedding parts dissipates much of the energy your body might otherwise absorb on impact …

Poem, a Day Late …

I’ve never really liked the weeks of winter post-Groundhog’s Day, with their slow cycles of thaw and freeze, and a winter’s-worth of detritus emerging, spoiled and soggy, from the graying snow, only to be frozen again in place. Blech.

But Tuesday before Lent some years ago, I spied a crow pecking at the scant remains of some unfortunate road-kill, and it tweaked my thinking a bit …

—–

Fat Tuesday
Why should the robin be the harbinger of Spring?
Why watch for flowers?
The tulip and the thrush borrow beauty from the sun;
tug their strength up from the dark earth.
Stronger still, and darker, is the crow.
Songbirds ride the North Wind south;
flowers hang their heads and retreat beneath the snow.
The crow remains.
Feathers ruffed, dark eye glaring sidelong, he stoops;
picks bits of hide and hair from the cold pavement.
A lean meal this Christmas, but Easter comes,
and Nature’s bounty blooming black from the snow.
A stiffened ear; the rack and ripe entrails —
the crow consumes all, makes ready the house for the Master’s arrival.

He waits, black as the cloth, preaching his monosyllable, fasting.

J. Thorp
27 Feb 01

—–

I meant to post this yesterday, of course, but lost track of what week it was. Sad, really, when you think about it. No paczkis this year, either!

Greetings From the North Pole, Part V

Blogger’s Note: Over Christmas 2003, we became annual pen-pals with an elf named Siberius Quill, and he has again delivered this year! Transcriptions of the 2003, 2004, 2005 and 2006 letters from him can be seen in the Archives.

My dearest Children!

Another year spent, and quickly! They say, among Your Folk, that the years go Ever Faster the older you get—imagine, then, when your age reaches into the centuries! It seems only Yesterday I was introducing myself, and here we are, Old Hands, as they say.

The Watchers Corps tells me you’ve been Exceptionally Good, all told. All Children have their naughty moments, but according to your assigned Day-Watcher Seamus Farseer, yours are scattered and relatively minor in the Big Scheme of Things. Scopes, as we call him, lacks the patience of his grandfather, the astronomer Nebular—he quickly tires of good families like yours! Old Nebbs has scolded him many a time for betting cups of hot cocoa on the wrongdoing of Other Children!

Lady Emma Rose, now in Kindergarten: already you’ve made a name for Yourself as a child of Honesty and Kindness. It is hard, no doubt, to be the Only Girl among Boys—but Always Remember: it is more important to be Nice than to be Noticed! You are lovely and polite, sparkling like the snow, as your Dziadzi’s song says, so you’ll always be seen, regardless. And young Master Trevor: with So Many older kids about, it is no wonder you feel Overlooked, but believe me: we see and hear you, too! Patience, little Master: Good things come—truly!

Magnificent questions this year, Masters Brendan and Gabriel! To G. first: You asked how Father Christmas writes so well, by which I suppose you mean, how does he make such Splendid Letters when he writes Children by hand. Well, the Old Man has written the notes for So Many Christmases now, he’s had plenty of practice! But more importantly, he makes his Joy (which is Abundant!) manifest through his pen! Think of it this way: You must feel what you want your Reader to feel, then imagine what you want them to see, and only then put pen to paper!

And B., you asked about the Differences between St. Nicholas of Myra and Santa Claus, aside from the obvious—by which I suppose you mean the fact that Nicholas was an Archbishop who died circa 342, while your Santa is evergreen and ever-present (not to mention no longer a priest!). Sister Mary Faith Splendour of the Devout Sisters of Our Lady of Perpetual Winter tells me that this is an Especially Common question among Children your age. She reminds us that the simplest answer is best when you’re young—and that is, there is no difference; they are one and the same.

But you, Master Brendan, are a decade Wiser than when you arrived, so she shares this: The differences are all those you expect between the physical and the spiritual; the mortal and the immortal. While a Turkish priest can only work what Miracles own his imperfect Faith and frail Form will allow, the Spirit of Christmases Past, Present, and Future can do whatever needs doing, on a whim, fueled by the Faith of millions of people just like you! Miracles are difficult for Human Minds to comprehend, which is why your thinking deeply on these subjects is So Important!

Which brings me to it, at last: There is something I must ask of you, B., as Eldest Brother. As a Tweener, as you say, you may be called upon to take on New Responsibilities with regard to Christmas, as your Father did when he was ten. This new role is of the utmost importance and is, for Now, entrusted to You and You Alone. In a quiet moment, ask your Folks—I warn you, they might be caught off guard, but I’ve no doubt they’ll share it with you The Instant they are Ready!

Happy Christmas and Safe Travels to your Busia and Dziadzi. God Bless You and your Family. I wish you All the Best in the New Year—and Always!

Yours truly,

Siberius Quill

P.S. You may have noticed, as I have, that the older children get, the smaller their gifts (video games, for example, instead of great rumbling racetracks!). Since Santa’s sack is Magical, of course, this has no physical effect on how much he can carry—but it does require a recalibration of the spells. Two Mathematimagicians, Voluminous Theorim and Lucia Croix-Parallux, are responsible for such geometric calculations in the Fourth and Fifth Dimensions—assuring that everyone’s gifts show up precisely where they should in Space and Time.

Greeting from the North Pole, Part IV

Blogger’s Note: Over Christmas 2003, we became annual pen-pals with an elf named Siberius Quill. Transcriptions of the 2003, 2004 and 2005 letters from him can be seen in the Archives. Here is the letter from 2006.

My dearest Children!

A very Merry Christmas to you all, Dear Children! Rest assured, your Wish Lists and Artwork arrived in fine form, and I must say, you are becoming Quite Accomplished as Artists! I shared your pictures with several Friends before passing them on to your Father Christmas. Dmitri Longbristle, an Elfin cookie-painter and candy-striper, loved them! (We laugh and call him “Drips,” although he reminds us that he never makes a mistake he can’t eat, so nobody’s ever seen one—truly!). Drips was most impressed, Master Brendan, with your steady hand and eye for detail.

As for you, Master Gabriel and Miss Emma Rose, my cousins Versius Goodcheer and Sketchum Quill, who design Christmas cards, said you should consider making cards Yourselves next year! Your dear Parents and Grandparents would love them, no doubt.

Santa loved them, as well, of course—and your Lists were quite reasonable. He is Especially Pleased that the four of you play so well together—even sharing in fine fashion with young Master Trevor. Don’t think it goes Unnoticed! Certainly, there are Things he cannot have—Things he would swallow and Things he would break—but he wants so badly to be like the Three of You. And I can’t think of three fine role models. Be good to him, that he may grow to be good, as well.

As always, of course, Santa brings What’s Best—so you’ll get some of What You Want, some Things you didn’t ask for, and some Things not at all. It can be hard to remember that Christmas, in all its radiant splendor, is not about Things a whit—but about Family, Humility, and Peace. If you are Lucky enough to have those things, give Thanks and be Content …

That’s a Hard Idea for young and budding Brains. Perhaps the eldest brother can explain? You’ve done well, B.—reading aloud my Old Letters so G. and “Rosie” (as the little one says) to teach them How and Why we do What we do. You may even have done too well! I was amazed to see not a Single Question this year!

I suspect that the younger Children will have fresh Concerns in the future. In the meantime, if you have Questions between now and Thanksgiving Next, do ask your Father. He is a good Resource on most things Santa, and loves the Spirit of Christmas that we Elves and Kris Kringle embody. And your lovely Mother—she embodies the Christmas before Bishop Nicholas was a Saint! As your parents’ Christmas Letter said, your “very own Mary,” a woman of God who lives for the Good of Others.

Happy Christmas and Safe Travels. May the Skies be blue, and the Earth, white, for your trip home. I wish you All the Best in the New Year—and Always!

God Bless You, Children, and your Family. Yours truly,

Siberius Quill

P.S. You’ve always taken an interest in my Elfin colleagues—tell your Dziadzi that our farrier, Frictz Grypsum, rubbed the hooves of the reindeer with a balm of bee’s wax, flint dust and mountain goat dander especially for rooftops as pitched as his!

Old Dog in Winter

Those of you who know us well know that we have an ancient Airedale, Boomer, who refuses to stay in the house even when the winds howl and the mercury rattles like a tiny red pea in the thermometer. Well, friends, those nights of braving the cold are gone: Boomer has now retired to the attached garage. During a cold snap the weekend before last, he began to cry late at night. I dressed and went out to find him disoriented and stumbling around the kennel.

I brought him to the garage and made a bed for him, covered him up, and for three days he drank only a little warm milk and ate only dog biscuit or two. He’s recovered somewhat since; he’s up and around a few times a day, and occasionally attempts a leap or a meandering trot in the yard. And he’ll drink water now and eat dog food, though he’ll still hold out if he thinks a biscuit might be available …

Anyway, a haiku tribute to the great winter dog we remember and still love:

midwinter morning:
dark divot in the ice from
patient dog drinking

Stay warm and sleep well today, old man. I’ll see you soon.