Now, it's "they didn't say it like they meant it." This sums up the media's reaction to the mea culpas offered by Josh Beckett and John Lester. This is beyond the pale and maybe I should consider just letting it go, or say something like, "I won't even dignify that with a response."
Morons, all.
Final word on the subject from me.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
Chicken 'n' Beer or, Much Ado About Nuthin'
Ok, it’s time for me to weigh in on the “chicken-and-beer” controversy, which has become a trope amongst the media who cover the Red Sox and has worked its malevolent way into the daily discourse of the so-called “Red Sox Nation” (a cult that I have resisted joining), many of whom troll the Interwebs and contribute to the daily noise heard on local talk radio --- the infamous shut-ins who have earned my wrath in the past.
That was a long sentence. Rants are often characterized by them. This post is not a “musing”, by definition.
I hope it will be amusing. Ahem…
Anyway, to my point --- there is one, please be patient. And thank you to those of you who have hung in, awaiting an anti-timesucking payoff.
Listen, I was upset as anyone by the jaw-droppingly awful end to the 2011 season. It was like watching a slow-motion train wreck that took an entire month to unfold; its end was as sudden and shocking as a slap in the face. On the last night of the season, as I watched the denouement unfold in my man-cave, flipping between NESN, the MLB Network and ESPN, swearing as I did so (“son-of-a-BITCH” being my epithet of choice) I predicted that this was gonna end badly. Red Sox fans know this feeling, a collective feeling of inevitable heartbreak and doom. Now, though, for me, it is not tinged with melancholy or self-pity --- two World Series wins in the last seven seasons have made all that go away. Yankees fans have lost all “hand” --- their 2004 team is the poster-child for “sucks for all time”. It is a mantle they can never shed. Even if another team chokes as badly as they did, the 2004 Yankees are the standard-bearer.
Anyway, I digress. After Evan Longoria touched first base after slamming that line drive over the wall, I snapped off the TV and hummed the remote into the couch cushions. I uttered one last “son-of-a-BITCH” and stomped upstairs to commiserate with Deb and Sarah, who also wondered what the hell just happened. (Later, I couldn’t help myself and returned to the MLB Network and renewed my jealousy of those guys’ jobs, getting paid to watch and talk about baseball and laughing their heads off at the amazing events of this particular evening.)
Days (weeks?) later, the “chicken-and-beer” stories began to emerge, amidst the resignation/firing of Terry Francona, the fleeing of Theo Epstein and the inevitable blame-placing and finger-pointing by the media and “Red Sox Nation”. It’s no surprise that Francona and Epstein both took the high road, despite the hateful stuff written and said about them as they left the Red Sox stage. This happens all the time (Mo Vaughn, Roger Clemens, Nomar Garciaparra, Pedro Martinez, Manny Ramirez, et al). TWO World Series trophies came to Fenway under their watch; perspective apparently is something that is anathema to most of Red Sox Nation.
So, as this story evolved and trickled down to the locker room, Beckett, Bucholz and Lester became the villains-du-jour, fodder for every snarky radio-show host, columnist and blogger within a 500-mile radius (and sometimes beyond) of Fenway Park. Universally spitting venom and taking on a holier-than-thou stance, these poor miscreants of the airwaves and the Interwebs both were laughable and anger-inducing to this typist. My initial take was --- and still is --- that the clubhouse shenanigans would have been a non-story had the Sox won just two more games at the end and won a game or two in the playoffs. (That’s the most any of us could have expected --- this was a tired, injury-riddled team with major flaws, after all.)
Instead, this story, despite the Patriots’ great season, festered all winter. The self-righteous among “Red Sox Nation” began to demand “accountability” from the ringleaders and it became a sort of keening wail, usually reserved for funeral mourners. It’s patently obvious to me that these moaners need to get a grip and move on. But nooooo…
OK, finally, here’s the thing, “Red Sox Nation”:
Step away from the ledge. Perhaps you'll be happier when the Sox brass announce the Beckett/Lester/Bucholz Every-Fan-In-New England-Personal Apology Tour. They've got all that time between starts and it's obvious they can't be trusted alone in the clubhouse, so they can hit 37,000 fans a night on their off-days at home.
I'll be skipping the tour, though, 'cause none of those guys --- not one --- owe ME a @#%&*# thing.
Perhaps, if you pull some strings with ownership, you can get at the head of the line to get that tearful apology and a warm hug.
There. I feel better, now.
Some predictions, as a bonus for having read this far.
Bobby Valentine will soon prove to be a bad choice. His selection was obviously forced down poor Ben Cherington’s throat by L. Lucchino. Valentine IS a polarizing figure (he says he doesn’t understand the word or its use to describe his character) who will take all the credit and be quick to assign blame. He is a shameless self-promoter and loves to hear himself talk. He is NOT Dick Williams. I’m not sure why the media and bloggers believe him to be a taskmaster and ass-kicker --- he is the opposite of that. There’s a reason why he hasn’t had an MLB managers job in nine years. He’s no Terry Francona, that’s for sure, who was the best manager in Red Sox history (this will go up my father-in-law’s ass, hahahaha). For me to forget Tito, Bobby V is gonna have to win THREE World Series.
The Sox will finish a poor second in the AL East, behind Tampa Bay. Joe Maddon is now the best manager in the division (arguably in the American League), leading a young club loaded with talent.
The Yankees got better, but not in the way everyone thinks. A. J. Burnett is now a Pittsburgh Pirate, so the Yanks got better by subtracting. This guy Pineda, whom they traded for from Seattle, will NOT be the stud this year that everyone assumes he will be. He was good up until the All-Star break in 2011 and then he fell to earth. His presumed Cy Young award and installation in the Hall of Fame is based upon a three-month sample size of pitching well in the AL West. Please stop it. The Yankees are an ordinary team with a boob running it.
Not predictions, but random musings:
I hate, hate, HATE the New York Giants.
I am going to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band on March 26. The new album (Wrecking Ball) is due on March 6. Can’t wait.
I’m not fond of reality TV, but “Comic Book Men” on AMC is in my sweet spot. Comics, collectibles and pop-culture snark --- a perfect blend. I just watched the first episode and laughed my fool head off. It’s OK if you don’t get it. It’s not you, it’s me.
I love my Nook Tablet. Books, magazines, newspapers, the web and Netflix on one amazing device. I was crushing on it right from its announcement. You will have to pry it from my dead hands…
…unless you’ve got an iPad in yours, for which I will willingly exchange. Two of my brothers own iPads and I am not-so-secretly envious.
Speaking of magazines, I received my SI Swimsuit issue four days late, on Saturday. It came in a plastic bag with a printed apology from the US Postal Service. It was badly damaged by a robotic sorter. The cover (poor Kate Upton and her barely-there bikini!) and about 25 pages were torn and the spine broken. It was just this side of confetti. They even attempted a half-hearted repair with Scotch tape! I immediately accused my wife of conspiring with the USPS to deprive me of the coveted issue. She did not deny it.
Such is my life.
That was a long sentence. Rants are often characterized by them. This post is not a “musing”, by definition.
I hope it will be amusing. Ahem…
Anyway, to my point --- there is one, please be patient. And thank you to those of you who have hung in, awaiting an anti-timesucking payoff.
Listen, I was upset as anyone by the jaw-droppingly awful end to the 2011 season. It was like watching a slow-motion train wreck that took an entire month to unfold; its end was as sudden and shocking as a slap in the face. On the last night of the season, as I watched the denouement unfold in my man-cave, flipping between NESN, the MLB Network and ESPN, swearing as I did so (“son-of-a-BITCH” being my epithet of choice) I predicted that this was gonna end badly. Red Sox fans know this feeling, a collective feeling of inevitable heartbreak and doom. Now, though, for me, it is not tinged with melancholy or self-pity --- two World Series wins in the last seven seasons have made all that go away. Yankees fans have lost all “hand” --- their 2004 team is the poster-child for “sucks for all time”. It is a mantle they can never shed. Even if another team chokes as badly as they did, the 2004 Yankees are the standard-bearer.
Anyway, I digress. After Evan Longoria touched first base after slamming that line drive over the wall, I snapped off the TV and hummed the remote into the couch cushions. I uttered one last “son-of-a-BITCH” and stomped upstairs to commiserate with Deb and Sarah, who also wondered what the hell just happened. (Later, I couldn’t help myself and returned to the MLB Network and renewed my jealousy of those guys’ jobs, getting paid to watch and talk about baseball and laughing their heads off at the amazing events of this particular evening.)
Days (weeks?) later, the “chicken-and-beer” stories began to emerge, amidst the resignation/firing of Terry Francona, the fleeing of Theo Epstein and the inevitable blame-placing and finger-pointing by the media and “Red Sox Nation”. It’s no surprise that Francona and Epstein both took the high road, despite the hateful stuff written and said about them as they left the Red Sox stage. This happens all the time (Mo Vaughn, Roger Clemens, Nomar Garciaparra, Pedro Martinez, Manny Ramirez, et al). TWO World Series trophies came to Fenway under their watch; perspective apparently is something that is anathema to most of Red Sox Nation.
So, as this story evolved and trickled down to the locker room, Beckett, Bucholz and Lester became the villains-du-jour, fodder for every snarky radio-show host, columnist and blogger within a 500-mile radius (and sometimes beyond) of Fenway Park. Universally spitting venom and taking on a holier-than-thou stance, these poor miscreants of the airwaves and the Interwebs both were laughable and anger-inducing to this typist. My initial take was --- and still is --- that the clubhouse shenanigans would have been a non-story had the Sox won just two more games at the end and won a game or two in the playoffs. (That’s the most any of us could have expected --- this was a tired, injury-riddled team with major flaws, after all.)
Instead, this story, despite the Patriots’ great season, festered all winter. The self-righteous among “Red Sox Nation” began to demand “accountability” from the ringleaders and it became a sort of keening wail, usually reserved for funeral mourners. It’s patently obvious to me that these moaners need to get a grip and move on. But nooooo…
OK, finally, here’s the thing, “Red Sox Nation”:
Step away from the ledge. Perhaps you'll be happier when the Sox brass announce the Beckett/Lester/Bucholz Every-Fan-In-New England-Personal Apology Tour. They've got all that time between starts and it's obvious they can't be trusted alone in the clubhouse, so they can hit 37,000 fans a night on their off-days at home.
I'll be skipping the tour, though, 'cause none of those guys --- not one --- owe ME a @#%&*# thing.
Perhaps, if you pull some strings with ownership, you can get at the head of the line to get that tearful apology and a warm hug.
There. I feel better, now.
Some predictions, as a bonus for having read this far.
Bobby Valentine will soon prove to be a bad choice. His selection was obviously forced down poor Ben Cherington’s throat by L. Lucchino. Valentine IS a polarizing figure (he says he doesn’t understand the word or its use to describe his character) who will take all the credit and be quick to assign blame. He is a shameless self-promoter and loves to hear himself talk. He is NOT Dick Williams. I’m not sure why the media and bloggers believe him to be a taskmaster and ass-kicker --- he is the opposite of that. There’s a reason why he hasn’t had an MLB managers job in nine years. He’s no Terry Francona, that’s for sure, who was the best manager in Red Sox history (this will go up my father-in-law’s ass, hahahaha). For me to forget Tito, Bobby V is gonna have to win THREE World Series.
The Sox will finish a poor second in the AL East, behind Tampa Bay. Joe Maddon is now the best manager in the division (arguably in the American League), leading a young club loaded with talent.
The Yankees got better, but not in the way everyone thinks. A. J. Burnett is now a Pittsburgh Pirate, so the Yanks got better by subtracting. This guy Pineda, whom they traded for from Seattle, will NOT be the stud this year that everyone assumes he will be. He was good up until the All-Star break in 2011 and then he fell to earth. His presumed Cy Young award and installation in the Hall of Fame is based upon a three-month sample size of pitching well in the AL West. Please stop it. The Yankees are an ordinary team with a boob running it.
Not predictions, but random musings:
I hate, hate, HATE the New York Giants.
I am going to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band on March 26. The new album (Wrecking Ball) is due on March 6. Can’t wait.
I’m not fond of reality TV, but “Comic Book Men” on AMC is in my sweet spot. Comics, collectibles and pop-culture snark --- a perfect blend. I just watched the first episode and laughed my fool head off. It’s OK if you don’t get it. It’s not you, it’s me.
I love my Nook Tablet. Books, magazines, newspapers, the web and Netflix on one amazing device. I was crushing on it right from its announcement. You will have to pry it from my dead hands…
…unless you’ve got an iPad in yours, for which I will willingly exchange. Two of my brothers own iPads and I am not-so-secretly envious.
Speaking of magazines, I received my SI Swimsuit issue four days late, on Saturday. It came in a plastic bag with a printed apology from the US Postal Service. It was badly damaged by a robotic sorter. The cover (poor Kate Upton and her barely-there bikini!) and about 25 pages were torn and the spine broken. It was just this side of confetti. They even attempted a half-hearted repair with Scotch tape! I immediately accused my wife of conspiring with the USPS to deprive me of the coveted issue. She did not deny it.
Such is my life.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Christmas Songs, Pt. 2
One of my favorite Christmas songs for a long time was one I heard only on WBRU-FM in Providence in the late '70s. When I heard it, I remembered that I had seen The Roches sing "The Hallelujah Chorus" on Saturday Night Live in November 1979. I guess "glorious" is the descriptor here; I'm fascinated by the intricacy of the arrangement, the close harmony and when you add the visual, the delight in the performance shared by Maggie, Suzzy and Terre Roche. Enjoy!
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Christmas Songs, Pt. 1
OK - favorite versions of "(The) Little Drummer Boy"
#1: Harry Simons Chorale - a nostalgia pick, first heard it probably 1969 or 1970 on local AM radio, when radio stations played Christmas music only intermittently in the last week or so before Christmas. You only heard it a couple times, maybe and not again until next year. Even at age 9 or 10, I somehow recognized and was attracted to the minor key, even if I was too young to realize it.
#2: Low - first heard several years ago on TV; the GAP used it in their Christmas ad campaign. It's "slo-core" (a cleverly-named category in and of itself) and I'm attracted to it because of its casual gravitas and solemnity. Love the hushed vocals, muted drums and the minor key drone that acts like a "bed" for the song. Cool stuff.
#3 Joan Jett and the Blackhearts - thanks to brother Dave, who included this on one of his absolutely outstanding holiday compilations. Joan bleepin' ROCKS on this track and I love how she trills the "rrrumpa-pa-pums" --- awesome.
#1: Harry Simons Chorale - a nostalgia pick, first heard it probably 1969 or 1970 on local AM radio, when radio stations played Christmas music only intermittently in the last week or so before Christmas. You only heard it a couple times, maybe and not again until next year. Even at age 9 or 10, I somehow recognized and was attracted to the minor key, even if I was too young to realize it.
#2: Low - first heard several years ago on TV; the GAP used it in their Christmas ad campaign. It's "slo-core" (a cleverly-named category in and of itself) and I'm attracted to it because of its casual gravitas and solemnity. Love the hushed vocals, muted drums and the minor key drone that acts like a "bed" for the song. Cool stuff.
#3 Joan Jett and the Blackhearts - thanks to brother Dave, who included this on one of his absolutely outstanding holiday compilations. Joan bleepin' ROCKS on this track and I love how she trills the "rrrumpa-pa-pums" --- awesome.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Out With the Old, In With the New
"...another year over, a new one just begun." - J. Lennon
Yeah, I don't know where it goes, either. Malcolm McDowell, the bad guy in one of the Star Trek movies, says that "time is the fire in which we burn." Melodramatic most definitely, but there is a chilling truth at its core.
Let's see: this past year I turned 49, my wife turned 40 (!), my parents observed their 50th wedding anniversary, my baby daughter turned 15 (!!!) and began high school and I received a 30-year service award at work. It seems there's good reason my hair has turned nearly white (but thank God I still have plenty of it).
We stayed in last night and had Chinese take-out (what I observe to be one of those Rhode Island New Year's Eve traditions but which may possibly be a universal rather than a provincial one), watched a movie (The Hangover --- I laughed out loud, despite the set-pieces being so over-the-top and fundamentally oh-so-wrong), and then tuned into the network shows to watch the masses in Times Square squeal themselves silly in the cold rain, watching the spheroid drop to mark the passing of 2009 and the arrival of 2010. Both my wife and I say that we have absolutely no interest in actually being a part of that, but maybe would if we were 19. Maybe.
Speaking of 2010, let's all try to remember that it's "twenty-ten", not "two-thousand ten". After all, we don't say "one thousand nine-hundred and ten", do we? Make this your New Year's resolution, if you must do so. My thoughts on New Year's resolutions echo Calvin's (of Calvin and Hobbes, of course). To paraphrase: "I don't need to change anything, everybody else does!"
Well, it's ironic, you see.
Let's see. Other random thoughts: I saw The Road the other night and it was what I expected, having been traumatized by the novel. A heartbreaking, depressing story, hewn very closely to Cormac McCarthy's beautiful cinematic language. I spent the last twenty minutes of the film wiping my eyes and sniffling (an oncoming head cold, you know). I enjoyed it, anyway, as troubling as that may sound. We all need a punch in the gut every once in a while, to remind us to feel.
Also watched a program last night on Palladia HD (a mostly cool music channel) that was called Hard Rock-something-or-other. It was a presentation of an outdoor music festival held at Hyde Park in the UK last summer. It caught my interest because the program guide mentioned Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, which was definitely cool, but I had another observation. A young British band, the Kooks, played --- they're late-teens, early twenties, guitars, bass, drums and passion for the music. The audience, also young (for the most part) and diverse, sang every word of the song the band played. It seems to me that UK audience have a passion for music and musicianship that US audiences lack. For UK music fans, music is an integral part of their lives, a passionate affair that consumes them. I think US audiences treat music as though it's just another compartment in the TV-dinner trays of their lives. Ah, a crappy metaphor, but I'm just typing here!
Three days off and nothing on the agenda that can't be PPD'd or erased altogether. There are new DVDs to watch, CDs to listen to and an ever-growing stack of books and magazines to read. Might go to the movies and see Avatar or Up In the Air.
Just remembered: Cowboys/Eagles on Sunday afternoon (how 'bout them Cowboys!). Looking forward to that, hope I'm not disappointed.
Also, first baseball practice of the season is Janaury 13 --- just awesome, can't wait. I was on three rosters last year, maybe I'll cut that down by one, I don't know. Getting old, you see.
The New Year is 11 hours, 50 minutes old already. Where the #$@!@ does the time go?
Yeah, I don't know where it goes, either. Malcolm McDowell, the bad guy in one of the Star Trek movies, says that "time is the fire in which we burn." Melodramatic most definitely, but there is a chilling truth at its core.
Let's see: this past year I turned 49, my wife turned 40 (!), my parents observed their 50th wedding anniversary, my baby daughter turned 15 (!!!) and began high school and I received a 30-year service award at work. It seems there's good reason my hair has turned nearly white (but thank God I still have plenty of it).
We stayed in last night and had Chinese take-out (what I observe to be one of those Rhode Island New Year's Eve traditions but which may possibly be a universal rather than a provincial one), watched a movie (The Hangover --- I laughed out loud, despite the set-pieces being so over-the-top and fundamentally oh-so-wrong), and then tuned into the network shows to watch the masses in Times Square squeal themselves silly in the cold rain, watching the spheroid drop to mark the passing of 2009 and the arrival of 2010. Both my wife and I say that we have absolutely no interest in actually being a part of that, but maybe would if we were 19. Maybe.
Speaking of 2010, let's all try to remember that it's "twenty-ten", not "two-thousand ten". After all, we don't say "one thousand nine-hundred and ten", do we? Make this your New Year's resolution, if you must do so. My thoughts on New Year's resolutions echo Calvin's (of Calvin and Hobbes, of course). To paraphrase: "I don't need to change anything, everybody else does!"
Well, it's ironic, you see.
Let's see. Other random thoughts: I saw The Road the other night and it was what I expected, having been traumatized by the novel. A heartbreaking, depressing story, hewn very closely to Cormac McCarthy's beautiful cinematic language. I spent the last twenty minutes of the film wiping my eyes and sniffling (an oncoming head cold, you know). I enjoyed it, anyway, as troubling as that may sound. We all need a punch in the gut every once in a while, to remind us to feel.
Also watched a program last night on Palladia HD (a mostly cool music channel) that was called Hard Rock-something-or-other. It was a presentation of an outdoor music festival held at Hyde Park in the UK last summer. It caught my interest because the program guide mentioned Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, which was definitely cool, but I had another observation. A young British band, the Kooks, played --- they're late-teens, early twenties, guitars, bass, drums and passion for the music. The audience, also young (for the most part) and diverse, sang every word of the song the band played. It seems to me that UK audience have a passion for music and musicianship that US audiences lack. For UK music fans, music is an integral part of their lives, a passionate affair that consumes them. I think US audiences treat music as though it's just another compartment in the TV-dinner trays of their lives. Ah, a crappy metaphor, but I'm just typing here!
Three days off and nothing on the agenda that can't be PPD'd or erased altogether. There are new DVDs to watch, CDs to listen to and an ever-growing stack of books and magazines to read. Might go to the movies and see Avatar or Up In the Air.
Just remembered: Cowboys/Eagles on Sunday afternoon (how 'bout them Cowboys!). Looking forward to that, hope I'm not disappointed.
Also, first baseball practice of the season is Janaury 13 --- just awesome, can't wait. I was on three rosters last year, maybe I'll cut that down by one, I don't know. Getting old, you see.
The New Year is 11 hours, 50 minutes old already. Where the #$@!@ does the time go?
Friday, December 25, 2009
Christmas Night
Well, it's Christmas night and the revelry (for the day) has ended. We all were overwhelmed by the giving and receiving, the tearing of packages, the plastic garbage bags stuffed with the detritus of mass consumption. The food and drink was rich and plentiful and we all overindulged. (It's probably a bad idea to try on those new pants tonight --- they will be too small, I guarantee it.)
I listened to Christmas music on the ride home, until Mariah Carey came on, anyway. I don't know what to think of that. Should I be sick of it by now after listening to it every day for nearly a month, or should I feel desperate to listen, trying to stetch the season right up until the end?
Now that I'm home, I'm thinking about all the leftovers we brought home, despite the bloated, sleepy feeling I had just an hour ago. There's an NFL game on, though, so I suppose I should eat something, right?
Ah, what the hell. A ham sandwich sounds real good to me. I'll suffer eater's remorse later.
I listened to Christmas music on the ride home, until Mariah Carey came on, anyway. I don't know what to think of that. Should I be sick of it by now after listening to it every day for nearly a month, or should I feel desperate to listen, trying to stetch the season right up until the end?
Now that I'm home, I'm thinking about all the leftovers we brought home, despite the bloated, sleepy feeling I had just an hour ago. There's an NFL game on, though, so I suppose I should eat something, right?
Ah, what the hell. A ham sandwich sounds real good to me. I'll suffer eater's remorse later.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Christmas ‘68
Christmas 1968: pictured above are six of the seven Ramos kids (David wouldn't come along until 1972). In the back row, left to right: John (age 5), Matt (age 6), Mike (age 7), me (age 8) and seated, Mary (age 2 years, 11 months) and Amanda (age 1 yr, 8 months). I've often joked that my mother was pregnant for all but 11 months in the sixties. She doesn't appreciate the joke. My proud dad took the picture on his trusty Kodak Instamatic with the cube flash.
Christmas 1968 was singularly memorable yet filled with tradition. This picture was taken on Christmas Eve. My parents would always allow us to open one gift before bed and it was always new pajamas, robes or slippers. We'd rip open the packages and run upstairs to change and return to the living room for a picture. You can see our stockings hanging along the stairwell behind us. (Mine's the green one.) Funny thing is, that tradition has carried on all these years, and has been passed down to our own kids.
There are other pictures from this same roll of film but I don't necessarily need them to remember the details of that Christmas. My dad received a bright red terry robe that year, with white trim all around. He wore that every Christmas for years afterward, evoking Santa Claus in all those wonderful photographs. In 1968, I still believed in Santa, though I had my doubts. All the stories had Santa coming down the chimney. We lived in an apartment in the projects and had no chimney. My parents explained to us that Santa had a magic key to our front door. We bought that, sort of.
Like many kids, I always tried to stay awake as long as I could (in spite of the dire warnings about being awake during Santa's visit) but probably never made it past midnight. I woke up around 5 A.M. (my wristwatch had a glow-in-the-dark face). I woke my brother Mike in the bottom bunk and we whispered for a full half-hour, debating whether or not it was too early to venture downstairs. It was agonizing. We tried to guess what our presents were and whether or not Santa had really come. The excitement was palpable. The hands on my watch would not move. After another fifteen minutes, I took a deep breath and said, "Let's go."
I tiptoed down the hallway as quietly as I could. I stopped at the stairs and peered down. I could see two Speedaway sleds leaning up against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Yes! Santa had come! I stepped onto the first step and listened. So far, so good. I took the next step and froze when it creaked very loudly.
"GET BACK TO BED!" It sounded like the voice of God, but it was only my Dad. I don't think my feet touched the floor between that step and the top bunk. There was a ladder there, but I'm sure I didn't use it. Mike, who had only reached the doorway as he followed me, was entirely under the covers, feigning sleep.
We lay there, whispering furiously, as I reported what I had managed to see before being caught. We agreed that seven o'clock was much more reasonable hour but the wait was tortuous. When the hour finally came, I knocked on my parents' door. "Can we go down, now?" There was a pause and some murmured conversation. "O.K.," came the reply and we were downstairs in a flash.
Besides the sleds, there was a Hot Wheels set (you clamped the track to a table with a purple plastic clamp, ingenious in its design); a Johnny Astro space station set (balloons that you placed in plastic baskets that you maneuvered around the room with a small fan), complete with a space helmet; a Hands Down game; Battling Tops and Kerplunk! The girls received a diminutive sheet-metal kitchen set (stove, sink and refrigerator) and dolls, of course. I'm pretty sure that was the year Amanda received her Mrs. Beasley doll (remember? The one Buffy played with on Family Affair). I also received a football helmet that Christmas. I remember it distinctly: it was white with three red stripes, flared ear-holes and a white facemask. I'm wearing it in several pictures taken on that same roll of film. Later, my Dad helped me paint silver and blue stars on it. Yes, I'm a Dallas Cowboys fan. But, geez, what a geek --- from the pictures, I must have worn that helmet the rest of the day!
As kids, it's all about the anticipation. You have no adult Christmas responsibility --- there's no shopping to do, no Christmas cards to write, no menu to plan. Now, as adults, we help write (and e-mail) the letters to Santa, shop for, wrap and hide the gifts, keeping the wondrous illusion alive for as long as we can. Tradition is important, even as change is inevitable. So do traditions evolve, as they are passed down. Our daughter, Sarah, was born December 27th, so it's a doubly exciting time for her. As she's gotten older, she's able to understand more just how special her birth was and why we celebrate the way we do. I showed her this picture and, with some prompting, she correctly named her aunts and uncles. I explained about the tradition of the pajamas and she exclaimed, "We do that, too!" She studied the concept of tradition in school earlier this year, so it's nice for her to able to relate her lesson to life. So, we'll take the Christmas Eve picture of her in her new pajamas, like we do every year, save it to a CD-R and store it away, so she can download it to her kids on their tiny laptops, on Christmas Eve 2018, right before they open their new pajamas.
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