The · rage · of · 1000 · suns, · the · light · of · a · million · stars

Gone were the dinner parties for friends who were Jewish, Buddhist, Atheist or just from out of town. Gone were the rounds of holiday parties, although that’s true for most people with young kids. Gone were the informal gift exchanges with close friends. In place of these things came conflict and badly behaved family members, scheduling problems that would have befuddled a professional events planner, and an exhausting amount of work which including wrapping literally dozens of presents; I had to assume that the ability to apply colorful paper to a box is a genetic predisposition that the others, with whom I share no more DNA than that of a chimp, were sorely lacking.

I have the holiday spirit best described as Bah-Humbug, and it’s hard earned. It’s not that I don’t like the concept of the holidays; just the fuss that I mind. As a kid, it was easy and fun. We were Jewish and didn’t do a big gift exchange or complicated family dinners or have a tree. We lit Chanukah candles, whether at home, or depending on when it fell, in St. Louis. I remember the smell of the candles, not quite like the fancy tapers I use as an adult. In addition to multicolored candles, the box contained a piece of paper with the prayers, and each year my mother would read from it; I never quite understood how a woman with such a sharp intellect and memory for detail didn’t remember what to say, even after decades. I loved the holiday lights that appeared everywhere: across streets and on houses, on trees and in windows, and I still do, enough to decorate myself:

What I loved best was my annual winter trip to St. Louis. There were two sets of aunts and uncles across the street from each other, cousins, and other neighborhood children to play with. I had no school and lots of amazing things to eat, courtesy of my Aunt Kate. Everyone seemed to like each other well enough, and I felt anything from an agreeable like to an intense love for my Midwestern relatives. I also got presents on Christmas morning, mostly, I think, because the timing was convenient; I was there anyway and the adults didn’t have to go to work. I always got a stocking.

There hasn’t been a holiday season in the past two decades that hasn’t left me homesick and nostalgic for St. Louis, and in the years since I’ve left the girls’ father, I’ve struggled to reestablish personal rituals and traditions. I still love lighting the Chanukah candles and now have a grown-up menorah of my own. Some years are easier or harder than others, and this is one of the hardest; the loss of my beloved Norton would have been difficult on any day, but Christmas Eve seemed particular unfair to both of us. I’m fortunate that my dog and remaining two cats were here to greet me when we returned from the vet’s office, and Morgan of the waggie tail has been a particularly good girl. Earlier in the month, she visited Santa, seen here:

He must have decided that she was nice and not naughty (Santa doesn’t have to clean up indoor doggie accidents) because she got a box of ten new bandanas to wear throughout the year. My dog is very fashion forward.

We also got a tree, which may not be traditional for My People, but is for Bob’s, so he got to pick it out. It might have been possible to find a bigger evergreen, but it would have to live in the forest or maybe a very large public square. Keep in mind that I’m five feet tall and the ceilings in my apartment are nine feet tall:

It really is pretty and makes me cheerful to look at.

Merry Christmas to all of you, and really, it doesn’t matter if you celebrate Chanukah or the Solstice, Kwanzaa or Saturnalia, or nothing at all. You still have the day off, and in New York City, you don’t even have to move your car. Wishes of joy and good will should always be welcome. And if you live in this hemisphere, the days are getting longer, which is always a cause for rejoicing.

Peace and joy to all. Have as much fun as you can manage. The sun is coming back.

There’s not much to say, except that I’m grief stricken and that he was a good boy.

OK. There is more to say. I adopted Norton and his brother, Hayes, in January of 1994. I had just lost my beloved Leo and the vet asked me if I wouldn’t like to see a pair of littermates a member of her staff had just rescued; they had been put out in the cold during a brutal chill and would have frozen to death if the vet tech had not scooped them up. From the moment I saw Norton, or more accurately, he saw me, he let me know that he had found a new home. He stood on the edge of his cage, door open, and cried and cried until I picked him up. The brothers were never apart for more than a few hours at a time, when one or the other had to go to the vet. Until today.

Norton was diagnosed with terminal kidney disease in May, and his vet felt that he might survive a couple of weeks; she later told me that his kidney levels were “not compatible with life.” Through at-home medical care, he had a good quality of life until the end.

I miss my little boy already.

I’m so sorry to have thrown anyone’s ancient religion into turmoil and generally, I don’t like to mess with deities, no matter how minor, or with things that have too many appendages and teeth, but when they’re hostile and in my refrigerator, I have little choice; self-preservation trumps everything else, including a healthy amount of fear. Clad in rubber gloves and ready with heavy-duty garbage bags, I undertook the extermination of elder creatures, now living in my building’s garbage room. Having successfully battled the forces of evil, I will now take a long, hot shower to remove all traces of slime from my person. Later this afternoon, I will assemble the vast banks of cat hair into a litter of kittens, which make great gifts. It’s my attempt at holiday crafts.

Thanks!

Your postal address
A name your local postal carrier is familiar with

And optional:
The winter holiday/celebration you most associate with
The name of the furry friends you live with

Don't assume I have this information from previous years; even if I do, that doesn't mean I can easily find it.

All comments are screened.

I’m heading up to Cambridge to attend this conference, which I’ll be covering for this website. If I don’t exactly do a trip report when I get back, I’ll certainly link to the resulting column. I just hope they don’t ban me from the campus when they intuit that I remember nothing about advanced mathematics.

I was having a pretty rotten day, coming at the end (fortunately) of a pretty terrible week, the kind where you really can’t think of anything good, and if you can’t think of ways for it to get worse, it’s only due to a lack of imagination. As is known to previously undiscovered tribes deep in the heart of the Amazon rainforest, I don’t do retail therapy. I don’t make impulse buys, don’t shop for recreation, and don’t buy things I don’t actually need. This might be a result of years of frugality or a disdain for consumer culture. Or a lack of imagination.

I have this thing, at odds with the not shopping thing. I always buy objects with my name, which is far from common; it hasn’t been on any top 100 lists since 1942, where it had remained since 1895. There are name-object acquisition rules: it must be spelled correctly. It must be pre-made. Finally, I can’t go out in search of such objects; they have to come to me. I’ve been fanatic about acquiring Eleanor things since 1980, when I passed up a marcasite name pin in a Philadelphia vintage clothing shop. I still regret not buying it.

Normally, I wouldn’t have ventured into a shoe store just for shits and giggles, but the big sign out front said SALE and the little sign said “$19.99.” As my mother used to tell me, it doesn’t cost to look. I really didn’t need flip flops or espadrilles or strappy sandals. In fact, I didn’t need anything. But I walked into this shoe shop on Sixth Avenue, randomly looked at a cute pair of ballet flats (not a style I usually wear) and saw that they had my name on them. Well, in them. For real! Like this. The inner sole actually says “Eleanor,” and it’s spelled correctly. Had I known about this line previously, I would have even bought a pair at full price. I feel no less beaten and depressed than I did this morning, but at least I have shoes with my name.

A promotion, with more work

A trip to Maine

I cut seven inches off my hair

Kids, Animals, and bobhowe

A column for World Changing

My annual attempt to deal with the anniversary.

More details on everything when I come up for air

I remain highly aware that a person cannot live with a pet, be an effective parent, have a successful relationship or have a meaningful exchange of any kind without the extra effort.

And thanks for all of you who are keeping us in your thoughts.