Christmas Angst

Christmas is not a subject that comes up very often around me. It's so rare, in fact, that I was really blindsided by it this morning. I've nothing against people celebrating Christmas; I remember getting a hell of a kick out of it when I was a little boy. My joy was entirely of a greedy, acquisitive nature, of course, and that's a big part of the problem I have with the holiday. It teaches bad habits.

My reasons for the rejection of Christmas are complex and I'm not going to go into them here. Suffice to say I haven't celebrated it for a very long time. My friends are aware of this, and don't take offense or give me a hard time about it. Sometimes I'm invited to parties; I go if it's too much hassle to beg off (or if there's food involved) but ordinarily I neither give nor accept Christmas gifts.

But my weekender neighbors have me over a barrel. They just did me a helluva good turn - reference an earlier post about repairs to my left leg - and I absolutely, positively will not give offense. They have a get-together planned - for tomorrow! - and we're supposed to exchange "found" gifts. That is, don't go out and buy anything, just look around and exchange something useful for which you've got a spare.

Yike! I worried all the way home. These are well-to-do city folks, and I'm a freakin' cedar rat. What am I gonna give them? A ragged shirt? A sack of beans? A spare poncho liner? I have a few keepsakes that are kinda nice, but a) they're mine and I'm not giving them away, and b) they're of an excessively "strange, violent man" nature - if you take my meaning. They can't have my switchblade with the beautiful pattern-welded steel. I don't think this lady is gonna understand a gift of my spare load-bearing gear. Oy!

So I'm standing in the middle of my lair, frantically looking around. WhathehellamIgonnado? And then my eyes fall upon...my one and only bookshelf.

When I came out here, I divested myself of - well, certainly hundreds of pounds of books. I've no idea how many. I loved them all, even the ones I had just to have them. Certain individuals, I've had reason to regret leaving behind. But they couldn't come, because I didn't have room, and that was that. But some did make the trip with me. Some I won't give away because they're beloved; some are inappropriate to the occasion - Unintended Consequences? Black Arrow? I don't think so. But...there! That one!

The Good Life, by Helen and Scott Nearing, was given to me by a friend when I began my journey. It had been given to him by another friend, under similar circumstances. I read it a couple of times, with interest if not absorbtion. The Nearings were Socialists who moved from the city to a Vermont homestead in 1932. They failed at forming local cooperatives, their principal objective, but succeeded beautifully at learning and practicing a nearly self-sufficient lifestyle. Their work ethic was damned near superhuman; I'm not much interested in emulating them. And their tone gets...well, pretty pedantic, doctrinaire and self-righteous at times. But I can and do admire their successes. Since it's been maybe two years since I read the book, it was time to pass it on. My neighbors are the perfect recipients.

So, you see, it has nothing to do with Christmas at all. It's about friendship. I don't give a damn about the holiday; if they want to have their get-together around a fake tree and exchange once-a-year gifts, that's fine. But this is a gift I'd have cheerfully given them anyway, had I only thought about it. So it works for me. Problem solved.