How about a little "poetry" today? I wrote this for my hometown's Christmas celebration, "A Very Concrete Christmas." Granted, I blurred the lines between poetry and prose with this one, but the thing is, I don't care. Enjoy.
Christmas Potluck
I am in the basement of Central Baptist Church in University Place, Washington, and I am surrounded by people who know more than I.
They have old names, these men and women sitting at round tables: Ted, Doris, Eleanor, Lois, Adelaide, Leonard, Wendell. Four of them have just turned 93 and we sing to them. Happy Birthday. Four times.
They all remember me and are startled by my appearance. I don’t look like the Jason they remember, this man before them with a thick face. Balding. I joke with the women, ask them how it is that they have the same amount of hair as they did when I was four, and I… I apparently didn’t fare as well. Why is that?
They laugh with a disconnected sound. Other memories are snarled in their minds. “Remember when you ran naked through the evening service?” they ask me. “Remember when your father took you downstairs and spanked you, and you screamed so loud you drowned out the choir?”
They don’t wait for an answer. They are hungry and the room smells of a smorgasbord. This lunch is for them alone, the “Golden Heirs,” as in, “heirs to the throne of God.” Most of them expect to take their places in heaven very soon. They are weary and impatient, eager for the reunion. For now, the feast awaits, tucked into colorful wreaths of holly and cedar boughs, resting among plastic leaves and a cornucopia -- the remnants of their fall potluck decorations.
Everyone brings something, but some try harder than others. There is my mother’s celebrated scalloped potatoes. Baked beans. Potato salad. A veggie plate. Jell-O salad with sliced bananas. Something that smells like fish. Kentucky Fried Chicken.
They eat earnestly, silently. They are survivors of the Great Depression; they finish what is on their plates and go back for seconds—because you never know. Doris drinks her juice quickly and begins stuffing forkfuls of Tater Tot casserole into her cup. She adds macaroni & cheese, then a layer of something with ham in it. She lids the cup with a powdered bun.
Ted appears at my elbow and stands quietly, staring into the milky darkness. Nearly blind, he has forgotten why he made the trek to our table. He fishes through his memories, recalling something from long ago. “Is this an open casket thing?” he asks. “Will they serve food later?” Doris calls him over and gives him her cup of food. “Take this home,” she says with wisdom and warmth. He accepts it and wanders back to his table. “Go help him,” my mom says to me, and launches into a speech about why retail employees should wish customers “Merry Christmas” rather than “Happy Holidays.” Everyone at our table nods in agreement.
Later, after we’ve oohed and aahed sufficiently over the Christmas decorations, which Carol does for every Golden Heirs potluck, we make our way to an adjoining room to watch a slide show of Ron and Nancy’s recent trip to France. “Ron and Nancy are in their early 60s, you know,” Sally whispers to Doris as we take our seats. Doris clutches a cupful of rapidly melting Jell-O and nods as the lights dim.
And the show begins, images of the Eiffel Tower and Versailles and beautiful streets already decorated for Christmas. And Normandy. Wendell leans forward and sinks his fingers like white roots into my shoulder. “I broke the Atlantic Wall,” he whispers. “I was there. Omaha Beach.”
He sits back in his chair, blending into the decades around him, and I realize I am crazy about this roomful of old, old people. I imagine them huddled together against the cold, passing a Thermos of hot, caffeinated coffee amongst them, gathered around a manger, glimpsing for the first time their final destination.
Jason Miller
12.13.08
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3 comments:
Excellent, really.
S.
Beautiful. I can see them all vividly. But I don't know the man who was at Omaha Beach. Would love to meet and talk with him. PS Haven't forgotten about the Uncle Jerry thing.
Thank you, Stephany.
Moo,
This is a fictionalized account. Wendell doesn't exist. I took Doris' cup-stuffing and amped it up. I googled "old names" to add to the list (Adelaide, Leonard, and Wendell are fictitious). Mom never made that speech (although, of course, she would be the first person to do so). I never ran naked through a church service (well, not as a CHILD, anyway--ha ha!). See, if I had written only what actually happened, it would have been only an interesting, disjointed story--not a poem. :-)
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