It’s an afternoon in August when my editor’s note arrives. It’s terse: “Article deadline, September 10th. Theme, Spirit of Christmas. Don’t make me hound you for it.”
I read it again. Christmas already? Is the North Pole melting and has Santa contracted with Amazon for delivery this year? I shake my head in disbelief. Jumping the gun is an understatement
As for being ‘hounded,’ it’s certainly an apt description for the late-summer howling of Dog Days. So, I do what comes natural…procrastinate till the last minute, hoping some epiphany will miraculously emerge to conjure up an idea of the Spirit of Christmas in September.
Right now my spirit is resting comfortably on the back porch with a deadline looming, the fan whirring and sweat pouring. My mind is an empty vessel.
Christmas thoughts today offer less excitement than Florence, this year’s hurricane. Plus, the pumpkin patch still needs picking and the ghosts of Halloween are yet to howl. Not to mention the Georgia-Florida football classic. There’ll be a lot of spirits and howling on East Beach for sure.
I add ice to my iced tea and give serious thought of how to summons the Spirit of Christmas from its slumber. First thing is to wake up Burl Ives and Bing Crosby for their Holly Jolly and White Christmas carols. Nothing sells until these guys start singing.
Unfortunately, I find that these heralds of shopping-mall Christmases have been sent for a cosmetic touchup before being rolled out. So much for that idea. The Spirit sleeps on. What now?
Meanwhile, the deadline ticks. I fidget while the Spirit snoozes. Force of will cannot wake up a napping spirit any more than it can hurry or delay a deadline.
Christmas comes like the ticking of a grandfather clock. The suspense builds in the seconds, arrives at the chime. Then amid the mess of gift wrappings the seconds still tick on and the Spirit eases out.
Who can forget Christmases past? Each one had its own special essence, all of which seem to blend into a consensus of joy, remembered even in September. So I sort through a few photograph albums (yes, there was a time when Kodak actually printed photos) in hopes of reviving the Spirit from all the memories. It works.
Just what is it that produces the Spirit of Christmas anyway? Sufficiently spiked eggnog helps, but why is this date, this deadline and the buildup to it filled with so much energy? It clearly has its own purpose of remaining dormant until its appointed time. Like the old wine advertisement, “We sell no wine before its time.” Advents arrive on their own time, just like hurricanes.
The ice melts in my tea and I lose all sense of time while browsing through the photographs. Something is stirring in them. Could the Spirit actually be waking up?
Ah, here’s a picture of Sophie, our first Westie puppy, delivered at Christmas. She rips through the discarded gift wrappings like a tiny white tornado. The spirit of laughter overwhelms us. Even though she’s now buried in our front yard, her spirit remains.
Oh, look at this one. It’s me, lying under a collapsed, 14-foot Blue Spruce tree. Seems we underestimated the tree stand. It was ultimately lashed to the door handle. Happy spirits are found in laughter.
I’m soon captured by the spirits of these past Christmases and ignore heat, deadlines, Florence, Halloween and football. The Spirit of Christmas has simply been hiding all along, sleeping silently amid the pages of this photo album, and I didn’t know it.
Even today the Christmas deadline is slowly ticking away. It’ll arrive soon enough, right on time and the waiting will be over. It will bring its own spirit of the season and with it screams of joy and surprise will come from new voices as they blend with the old.
The buildup of the season of joy will bring Burl, Bing and Elvis along with it. While the deadline will come and go, the memories will always remain, endued with their own special meanings.
The Spirit of Christmas is just not that hard to find. Even in September.
Bud Hearn
All Rights Reserved
September 13, 2018