Notify, Holiday Edition

Greetings, merry makers. 

Here's hoping all the gheorghies are about done with the shopping and prepping and can start to hunker down, be around loves ones, and enjoy the festivities.

I myself am not close to that.

While my Christmas shopping has pretty much been done for a few days now, I decided to throw an open house on Christmas Eve for a few friends and family to pop by. As such, the scramble to buy and prepare food, beverage, and decorations goes on and on. My to-do list is still long and distinguished. 

Who knew that people would actually be available on December 24 for some nog and grog by the Yule log?

I failed to mention it to you, but all gheorghies are welcome. Last names and numerical indicators have been whited out, but if your sleigh is nearby, come on by.

Why would I subject myself to this overly hectic stress and rather steep expense?

I may have mentioned this more than once here, but this year I am spending Christmas Eve and Christmas Morning with my daughters for the first time since 2008. Divorce sucks any way you slice it, but this part has always been one of the worst components for me. I cannot overstate the seasonal depression that I inflicted on myself because of missing them in this 24-hour period year after year. It's just a night, just a morning, I know. But it has sucked not seeing the glee and awe in their faces from ages 6 and 8 through 17 and 19. 

But through a confluence of events, this year is different. And the three of us are thoroughly excited. Add in the Whitdog's superfun gf and we got ourselves a throwdown coming tomorrow night.

Grateful is not a string enough word. Ecstatic. So much so that I am grinning through all (most) to the nuisances to get things ready to sparkle tomorrow evening. I've had carols and holiday tunes on the Sonos speakers throughout the house for days. I bought a full-size tree for the first time in years. I've gone a bit overboard on gifts for the girls, and we're all wont to do now and again. And we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye.

Merry Christmas, friends. I love the gheorghie gang.

Such gratitude makes us want to pay it forward, or give a little back. It makes me think of an enormous outpouring one holiday season 37 years ago. Since you can't listen to the extended version (with Phil Collins crushing it on drums) on Spotify, here's a little Not-ify for you, Geldof style.

And here's the documentary on the making of this song, which is still my favorite holiday tune of them all, edging out Bing/Bowie's LDB and Dino doing Let It Snow³.

Peace, gheorghies.

Homemade Music and Small Humans

Technology.  Pretty cool in lots of ways we've documented in this space before.  And many more.

Family bands. Used to be .0001% chance of stardom, 50% chance of playing in your local church, 90% of an abusive parent ruining everything and sending the kids spiraling into therapy.

These days, it's much easier.  You've seen some or all of these, but they make me smile.  And yes, I've lost my edge.

Adorable.  Shown here before. Sue me.

...amusing

...most amazing

...and something from your favorite GTBer's family

Make music, people.  It's easy.

Baseball Poetry, of a Sort

I'm in Boston this week for work. The city of my recent ancestry has a special place in my heart for a great many reasons, but this particular trip will linger in my memory. If you'll indulge me (and this strongly-poured Woodforde Reserve), for just a moment, I'll explain.

My paternal grandparents were born in 1920. They met in 1938 during their very first week as freshmen at American International College in Springfield, MA, went dutch to a movie on a Saturday night, and have been together ever since. (For the liberal arts majors in our readership, that's 75 years.) They were married July 1, 1944, and after my grandfather finished a stint in the Navy during World War II, they settled in the Boston suburb of Winchester, MA.

They raised three children in that quintessential New England town, rearing them on a steady diet of puritan stoicism, stubborn notions of right and wrong, Red Sox baseball, and love. Especially love. They survived two of those three kids, something I can't imagine.

Dr. Seymour Russell, DDS, practiced here from 1946 - 1984.

My grandfather opened a dental practice, and built a community around it. He ran it for 38 years before retiring in 1984, most proud of the fact that he never hired a bill collector to chase late payments. I used to think that he did so because he didn't have delinquent customers, but in fact,  he cared more about that community than he did his income. Today, we'd call that hopelessly naive, perhaps. But his business was people, and the people of Winchester frequent the practice even today, nearly 30 years after his retirement.

They retired to a 90-acre farm in New Hampshire that he'd renovated over the years and then to a smaller house once the farm's remote locale began to be a concern for a pair of 80 year-olds. Finally, they moved back to Winchester to be near family.

I'd make trips to see them from time to time - they met their great-granddaughter on Cape Cod when she was less than a year old, and we made it a practice to visit their apartment on all our trips to the Cape thereafter. My sister and I traveled to New Hampshire in 2005 when we were convinced that my grandfather was near death. The Red Sox were a part of that trip, too. He pulled through then, and most of us are convinced that he simply wasn't willing to leave her alone.

She fell last March, injuring her hip and elbow. She'd been increasingly slowed by age, her back bowed and her neck muscles no longer able to keep her head up for more than a few seconds at a time. But this time, the doctors made her go to a convalescent center, despite his protestations (and they are many - he's the last of the great New England conservatives). She's been in a bed ever since.

And so I didn't know what to expect this afternoon when I knocked off work and went to her nursing home. He was already there when I walked in, and was expecting me - I thought it best not to surprise a pair of 92 year-olds. But she didn't know I was coming, and the way her face lit up will stay with me forever.

"She still has the greatest smile," he said when she took my hand and beamed at me. "She's still beautiful."

I spent the better part of the afternoon with them. We turned the Red Sox/Yankees Opening Day game on the television and watched the last six innings. Some of the time, she was completely aware of the game situations. At others, she rooted for the Sox to get out, thinking they were the Yankees. There were moments when she thought I was her late son, my father (and she can be forgiven that, as we look too alike for my own comfort - my soul patch is a late, futile attempt to create some distance) and others when she struggled to remember the names of other relatives. She was frail, and distracted, and almost completely deaf. But her eyes were bright, and her smile quick, and her mind inquisitive.

Jackie Bradley, Jr. made his major league debut

She'd take his hand, and she'd ask him how long they'd been married. And he'd tell her, "68 3/4 years". And she'd tell me how handsome I was, but not as handsome as the love of her life. She used that precise phrasing over and over again. And he'd smile every time.

Throughout the afternoon, we watched the Red Sox game. We talked about Jackie Bradley, the Sox' rookie outfielder, and Dustin Pedroia, her favorite and mine. We lamented the Bobby Valentine era, and we laughed at Kevin Youkilis in pinstripes. Mostly, we rooted for the Sox. And when the final out was recorded, and the Sox won, 8-2, I kissed her on the forehead and told her I loved her. She told me how proud she was of me, and I whispered, "I'm very lucky".

I'm very, very lucky.