Forthcoming Festive Seasons

As I stepped forward, a dark fog engulfed me, an ominous siren began sounding faintly in the distance and a slight sulfuric smell hung in the air. Then I heard a voice being cleared, followed by a rather timid voice saying, “Not too far.”

I asked, “What?”

“Don’t take another step. We have regulations about where you can and cannot go. You are close to the line. Stop where you are.”

I stopped and rocked forward on my toes, “Okay. I guess you are the spirit of Christmases past.”

“No. My official title is Assistant Associate Administrator of Unconscious Mind Patterns Relating to Forthcoming Festive Seasons.”

“Hmmm, regulations, official titles, not a “Christmas” or even a “holiday season” in sight. I see that political correctness has now come to my dreams.”

“We no longer call them dreams. We refer to the sleep-like state where you sometimes envision things other than your actual life or envision your life in an exaggerated manner as ‘unconscious mind patterns’.”

“As opposed to conscious mind patterns which I suppose might include having goals or aspirations?”

“Well, there is some of that. Our leaders though are working to defeat that sort of thing.”

“Lovely. I’m not sure I want to know more. Can we just get on with this? I’ve already been to Christmases Past and—“

“We refer to that now as the Time Formerly Known as Christmases Past. In six more years, our leaders will eliminate that word from our vocabulary.”

“Yeah, words hurt. Can we just get on with this? There’s the Past, you are in the Future—“

“Forthcoming.”

“---and at some point I have to land back in the Present. Can we just get on with this, so I can get back home? I’m really not into where this is going.”

The voice then produced a stack of papers which began at my feet and reached to my belly button. An ink pen appeared on the top of the papers.

The voice spoke, “Okay. Before proceeding we need you to sign some release forms. I can get you another pen in case that one runs out of ink.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No, sometimes in this process ink pens run out of ink. There are a lot of places where you have to sign. Oh, wait, you mean with this as a whole, don’t you? Trust me, we take this very seriously. You need to sign these forms. We have to protect you.”

“You have to protect me? From the future, er, forthcoming? This is a dream, unconscious mind pattern or whatever, and you still have to protect me?”

“Well, yes. And us. We do have to protect us, too. I mean if you found out something you weren’t happy with, well, we just can’t take any chances.”

“My wife and I didn’t sign this many papers when we bought our house. I am not signing anything.”

A nervous laugh emanated in the direction of the voice, “You should have seen the paperwork that had to be signed to get us to this point. It’s been years and the Office of Media, News, Infotainment and Hype is still trying to read it all.”

“I think I have seen enough.”

“No, stop. What can I do to get you to view your forthcoming festive seasons?”

“Why do you care? Really, from just our few minutes together, I know I would not enjoy living in this type of environment. I’m going home.”

“Come on, I lose too many people this way.”

“Do you work on a quota?”

On top of the papers, a small remote control-looking device appeared.

“Pick up the spectromaviewer.”

I reach down and pick up the device. As I do, the stack of papers disappear.
As I look at the device, I ask, “What do I do next?”

“I normally don’t allow this. And I shouldn’t. I could get into trouble letting one of you avoid the paperwork. And then there’s all that time I have to take looking through the archives to find the file that will forge your signature. I can’t lose any more than I do now though.”

“You are a fine one, Mr. Grinch. Look, I promise not to get you into any trouble. I would like to see what the future—“

“Forthcoming.”

“—has to offer.”

The voice paused, “Your promise is no good here. Promises are only words.”

“Yeah, words hurt. Okay. Just let me go. I don’t care about the future, the forthcoming or whatever you have decided to call it. I would like to go home.”

“Hold the spectromaviewer in front of you and press the button labeled ‘Play’.”

I laughed, “So, in the future despite the political correctness we will still have the good ol’ remote control.”

As I pressed the Play button a video screen magically appeared in the space in front of me. A series of commercials began to air. I looked at the device but could find no button which would allow me to quickly scan through the messages.

The voice spoke, “There is no fast forward button. Our leadership eliminated those when they bailed out the media, the electronics companies and France a few years ago.”

Then the commercials ended and my name appeared on the screen. Underneath it a graphic read, “Magnolia Creek Quality Life Facility” then the video changed to show the back of an old man sitting in a rocking chair. A moment later, a handful of people approached the man in the chair. Their faces were digitally altered. When they spoke their voices were also altered. Nothing they said was very emotional or personal. No one even approached the old man in the chair to hug or even touch him. Two minutes later, they all left. The screen faded to black but not before a graphic popped up that read, “The actors portraying once-traditional families and people who are considered friends appear courtesy of PBS and were compensated for their performances.”

The screen disappeared. I looked around, “That’s it?”

“We’re very proud of what we are able to show people.”

“What you show people? I didn’t recognize any of those people. None of them were family or friends that I recognized. The words they spoke were dull platitudes. No one even got near the older man in the chair. No one wished him a Merry Christmas or brought him a gift. And no one spent any real time with him. It was so generic.”

“We can’t have real once-traditional families or real people who are considered friends appear. There’s too much risk.”

“This is a joke. You show nothing.”

“We show the future.”

“Future? I thought it was forthcoming. Either way, I’m done. I want to go home.”

“I’ll need the spectromaviewer before you depart.”

I reach the device toward the voice but as I do, I press the Play button one last time. The giant screen reappears briefly and the old man in the rocking chair from Magnolia Creek turns to face the camera. Just as quickly, the screen disappears.

I ask, “Is that me?”

The voice spoke, “This session of Mind Patterns Relating to Forthcoming Festive Seasons has ended. Please step aside.”

To be continued.

Christmases Past

The voice urged me to step back. As I did, I felt a cool wind rush by and then a blinding light forced me to close my eyes. As I acclimate myself to the chilly air, I tentatively open my eyes. Looking down, I see a tight-knit carpet colored green, white and gold. Looking around, I see the old-style pine paneling of the living room walls. Behind me I hear my mom humming as she works away in the kitchen. The smell of cookies baking in the oven tickles the tip of my nose. I note a shadow at one of the windows and a moment later I make out the figure to be my dad standing on a ladder untangling Christmas lights. I look around again and spot the Christmas tree in the front picture window. Mix and match ornaments dangle on the limbs of a Christmas tree whose top just almost grazes the ceiling. Confetti-like strips of silver hang off the limbs simulating icicles. Underneath the tree are stacks and stacks of boxes wrapped in holiday paper.

Again, I hear a voice. This time the voice welcomes me to Christmases past.

Bewildered, I ask, “Why are you here?”

The voice answers, “Slow month. That, and it’s part of the stimulus package.”

“Just my luck, I get an apparition with more sarcasm than a roomful of fourteen year olds who just had their cell phones taken away. Really, why are you here?”

“You know, you should look back now and then. This time of season is a good time to do that.”

I looked in the direction of the voice and let the quiet edge in from the corners. Then I asked, “Do you know me? I like looking back. I try to trash the bad memories and cling to the good ones. I mean read my blog, man. It’s about ninety percent looking back at people, places and things.”

Quiet crept back in between me and the voice. As I grew uneasy at the silence I thought I heard a hushed laugh before the voice said, “Oh, yeah, your blog. You truly are a lone voice crying in the wilderness.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Come on, humor me, look back at past Christmases.”

“If I do this, what happens?”

“I can’t answer that,” said the voice.

Before the words could sink in I found myself drowning in a swirl of memories…an aluminum Christmas tree with a Western Auto color wheel sitting on the floor, Rock ‘Em-Sock ‘Em boxing robots, an electronic football game that shook the plastic players up and down the field. Being young and opening boxes to find socks or a sweater while trying to hide my disappointment that it wasn’t some gift I really wanted crossed my mind. I also remembered the snowy Christmas morning when our phone rang and we heard the news that my nephew had been born. Other things came to mind…fruitcakes so heavy that could be used for doorstops, shiny Hot Wheels, board games only broken out when family was in town, bowls of party mix, platters of cherry muffins and white chocolate-covered pretzels and even the few years when some of my relatives refused to participate in Christmas because they were convinced Jesus wasn’t born on December 25. All of these things made me smile and shake my head. The memories continued to flow in and as they did they grew more recent in time. Memories of receiving gifts were replaced by memories of giving gifts and watching loved ones as they really enjoyed Christmas.

The voice intervened, “You could stay here awhile couldn’t you?”

“Yes. I have had a good life so far. There are a lot of good memories this season brings.”

“You have pictures?”

“What?”

“Pictures? Do you have any pictures you can look at and remember those times?”

“Yeah. I have some on a CD, some on a hard drive, some on Kodak, some Polaroids, may even have some on video somewhere.”

“Hey, flash drive, Shutterfly, Flickr or YouTube, dude, I don’t care. You have them somewhere. You can look at them later. We have to be going. We have other places to go before this deal is done.”

“Other places?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if I look around one last time? I have a lot of memories here. I love it here”

“Don’t take long.”

I took one step back and looked around one more time. As I did, I could see my parents, my sister and her family, my brother and his family and my wife. Laughter filled the small room as we spilled out across every piece of furniture and as we filled every empty space on the floor.

The voice spoke, “It’s time to go.”

I turned toward the voice. Then I turned back and saw nothing more than a fog of white light. I squinted my eyes and through the mist I could see a little boy on a floor playing with a toy train.

Again the voice spoke, “Come on.”

I turned toward the voice and asked, “Is that me?”

“The time for looking back has passed. Please step forward.”

To be continued…

One Day It Rains...

One day it rains. It doesn’t even rain the entire day, just part of the day. Possibly the rain is cold and falls heavy in sheets making one long for a hot cup of soup and dry feet. Maybe the rain is a much needed welcome in the dog days of summer and provides a quenching few moments to the parched ground and from the roasting heat. But the rain falls just part of one day and still before that day is over I am lamenting how I think the rain won’t ever, and I mean, e-v-e-r, stop falling.

Meantime, I live in a time when I can turn on a box in any room in our house and choose from hundreds of entertainment and informational choices. I can walk into another room in our house and literally trip over all the books I possess. And I can hold a device in my hands practically anywhere I may roam anymore that can dial a number so I can talk to a friend half way around the world and then click a few things so I can hop on the world wide web and follow the latest news from my favorite sports team and then I can type out some crazy gibberish in text to send to a family member who will receive the message on a similar device hundreds of miles away in mere seconds. And yet, I often claim to be so bored that I do not know how I can survive another moment without going stark raving crazy.

Maybe I don’t know how to more fully express things other than to label time on my hands as boredom. Maybe I don’t appreciate the rain because getting wet means my hair might mat to my head.

In the quiet, still moments when reflection puts the ground underneath my feet again, I find it, ummm, what’s the right word here, ironic or maybe sad or maybe maddening or maybe any other number of a dozen or so words that race through my mind when I really think about how my own complaining is nothing short of ridiculous. After all, I live in a world warmed by a giant sun and lulled to sleep by a glassy moon. In between the time it takes for the sun to be make way for the moon I am provided opportunities my forefathers never imagined and enough possibilities that I could never fully pursue them all. Still, I find the time and the audacity to complain and feel unsatisfied.

Then on deeper reflection, I wonder if God looks at me, notes I am spinning my wheels again and wonders will he e-v-e-r get it?