The Furious Spinner

OK. Let me say this. When I was a kid, I loved Christmas. And Halloween. July 4th. Easter. (Although I didn't really understand Easter. We were eating candy while mourning Jesus's death. Always thought that was strange.) I loved celebrations. I still do. But since I no longer consider myself Christian, we have not celebrated Christmas for many years. Solstice, yes. Christmas, no. Difference: about three days, plus no presents. This year, Solstice slipped by us. Dark New Moon came. We went out into the woods and followed elk tracks. (Have you ever seen an elk, up close? They are so huge and so odd-looking that you gotta figure they are part of some world where elves and dwarves and giants still dwell.)

Afterward, we came home and made a feast. Mario brought out our tiny fake tree which we've had for over twenty years, and we decorated it. Our friend Linda came over. While we ate, we talked about Christmases past. I come from a big Catholic family. On Christmas Eve, my mother would wake us five kids up to get ready for Midnight Mass. On our tiny black and white television set, "It's a Wonderful Life" usually played, and the house smelled of the Kielbasa my dad was cooking for breakfast the next day. (We were French-Irish. Not sure where the Kielbasa came from—I think my dad just liked it.) We'd drive to town for mass, usually at St. Pat's in Brighton, sometimes a pretty little church on the way to Ann Arbor. I loved midnight mass—we sang Christmas carols and, at some point in the proceedings, the lights would all go off while people paraded up the center aisle and then around the sides with candles. (Come on, is this not a celebration of the new light—Solstice!)

When church was over, we drove to my grandparents' farm down the road from where we lived. Usually the entire Antieau clan was there, anywhere from thirty to forty of us. My grandmother always had a present under the tree for everyone there and a buffet of food that was amazing. We'd get back home around three or four and fall instantly asleep. A couple of hours later, most of us girls would creep downstairs. In the darkness one of us would grope for the cord and turn on the Christmas lights to reveal a tree transformed: present upon present upon present glittered beneath it. We lay in the darkness—except for the tree lights—just gazing at the beauty of it.

As the sun came up, my father would awakened and make breakfast. Then we were allowed to wake up my mother. We wolfed down breakfast—come on; we wanted to open the presents—then gathered around the tree where one of us would pass on the presents, one at a time. I got my first book on Christmas. It was about a skywriting airplane. Another Christmas a train set. A printing set. A telescope. All opened my eyes to a bigger world.

This Christmas Eve, I am far from the Midwest Christmases I loved. Celtic Solstice songs play in the background. Outside, it is raining—although there must be another name for what it is doing. It is pouring down pissing down sheets of cold cold rain. I have always loved Santa, that old shaman from the north. In Michigan on Christmas Eve, the radio would have updates on where Santa and his reindeer were. Now they do that on the internet—strangely enough, it is NORAD tracking Santa. It's very cute. For me, clicking on "download" worked the best to actually see the little videos.

However you celebrate—or don't celebrate—the Turning of the Wheel of the Year, have a great day.

Wishing you joy, good health, prosperity, and peace. 0 comments

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