(For over twenty years, I’ve followed a tradition started by the request of Zelma Winder Dearmond - my mother-in-law. Amusingly, she called me “Donna’s friend” for a couple of years after Donna and I were married. I think I only became her son-in-law after our first child, Christina, was born.
Anyway, Zelma began a tradition of having the grandchildren “perform” on Christmas Eve - some sang, others played an instrument, and yet others did some small skit.
Me? I write. And I tell stories. So I did. And, now, years later I still do. As part of our Christmas tradition, I stay up late on Christmas Eve and into Christmas morning writing. I am the consummate procrastinator and, as a trained journalist, thrive under a deadline.
It’s always the initial draft and it’s read to my children (and now grandchildren) as part of our ritual on Christmas morning - after the reading of the “real” Christmas story about the Savior who was born over 2,000 years ago.
And I share the tradition with you and your families in hopes that, maybe it’ll bring just a bit of joy into your lives as we end one year and begin another. Merry Christmas to you!)
The child walked intentionally from the kitchen through the dining and living rooms. Her target was the front bedroom which had, several grandchildren ago, been converted into a part-time toy room. Among the vast collection of stuffed animals, were an assortment of percussion instruments, interlocking pieces of colorful plastic, marbles, and blankets useful for making forts or laying across the floor to keep lava from burning one’s feet.
Many of the items tucked away on shelves, in low cabinets, and inside various boxes were nearly a generation old. But each in their own ways were still serviceable.
“Hey,” called out a voice to the quickly-moving child as she neared the doorway to the room filled with the objects of her interest. She stopped and turned to face the smiling, silver-haired grandfather reclined in the corner.
“Come here, sweetie, I want to tell you something,” he said. He was interrupting an informal conversation already taking place between others seated in the living room. He’d been in that place between a sugar coma and a belt-loosening nap.
The child neared as he beckoned her with his right hand. Then he pointed to a child-sized rocker which he’d recently repainted using leftover rose-hued spray paint. The chair was placed in a small space between two couches to keep the robotic Roomba from pushing its mindless way through the gap and losing itself.
“That used to belong to your grandmother,” he said. “Her mommy gave it to her for Christmas when she was only 2 years old - it’s really, really old,” he emphasized.
“Older than you?” she inquired before settling into the rocker as though directed to do so.
“No,” he said, shaking his head at the chuckles that came from a couple of his grown children in the room. “But almost!”
He continued.
“Her mommy and daddy had just moved into this house and she was sad because she didn’t live near her friends anymore,” he explained. “So they gave her a new rocking chair for Christmas to keep her from pouting.”
“Is that story true, mom?” asked one of her sons.
“I don’t know…” she answered, glancing curiously at her storyteller husband.
“Of course it’s true,” said her husband without missing a beat. “Everyone who might know otherwise is either gone or doesn’t remember.”
“That doesn’t make it true,” she responded. They’d had this conversation more than once over their many years together.
“Sure it does,” he said “I’ll write a story about it. Then it’ll be family history.”
A cruise ship is a microcosm of humanity. The floating city is populated by more than 1300 crew members from more than 60 countries. They live in hidden parts of the ship that passengers rarely think about.
The passengers roll steamer trunk-sized suitcases into the terminals and anxiously wait for permission to rush aboard the ship heading for ideal deck chairs to begin turning white flesh red under a Caribbean sun, or to food laden buffets to begin a weeklong food orgy, or, both. Some open bottles of allotted wine or pour smuggled liquor into travel mugs. Sobriety and partying don’t mix well for those who happily left inhibitions on shore.
Jabba the Gawker positions himself poolside on the main deck. There, he’ll have the ideal view of the unending parade of colorful bits of cloth which nearly cover bodies on display. Jabba’s lifelong love affair with carbohydrates earned the girth that rewards him with vacant lounge chairs to either side of him.
Across the deck but tucked at a table beneath the protection of an umbrella sits a different type of person. Resting Grumpy Granny hovers over her rum-laced drink. She moved additional chairs to her table and sits guard - obviously awaiting the arrival of her group. But just as obviously grumpy about the fact that they are taking their time.
Flitting from place to place on the poolside deck are the Trio of Uninhibited Curators. They lithely glide their pre-tanned bodies past the lustful eyes of Jabba and past the suspicious eyes of Grumpy Granny. Almost on cue, they stop and quickly throw a smartphone camera up into the air and expertly take duck-face cleavage selfies. Just as quickly these photos will entertain followers with appropriately cute hashtags to document the wonderful time everyone else is not having.
Others move to the fore or aft of the ship to find more serene surroundings where underage travelers are not welcome in hot tubs. Neither the Trio nor Jabbas of the ship find those areas as exciting or revealing. Silent sunbathers and cabana nappers find solitude here.
Navigating among all these travelers, the army of smiling and greeting servers enter and exit from hidden doors. Delivering drinks, removing used towels and glasses, straightening furniture, then disappearing once again.
“Don’t forget to add my name,” says a heavily accented Indian voice.
Rohit stands to my right and looks at the pen and journal on the table in front of me.
“What are you writing sir?” he asks, “Is it a book?”
He finds it difficult to read the lines of calligraphy that cover each page.
“No,” I say, “It’s just thoughts and observations,” I tell him.
“Ah,” he says, “Then you should be sure to include me. I am from India. I’ve been on the ship for nearly 8 months now and I will be returning home next month to renew my visa and see my family.”
Over the next week, Rohit stopped each morning at 5:00 a.m. to inquire about the writing. He is earning money to have a house built for his parents.
“They were good to me and my brothers,” he tells me. “I never knew how heavy laundry could be.”
I paused. “What?”
“My mother always did the laundry for all three boys,” he said. “We liked jeans - all of us - we were very fashionable. When I moved out,” he continued, “I had to do my own laundry and I didn’t have a washing machine - I found out that wet jeans are very heavy and hard to wash by hand.”
I drank coffee. Rohit talked. I listened.
“I want to be a psychologist,” he said. “Many of the passengers come on the ship and sometimes they are angry. I listen to them. I try to calm them down and make them happy. I try to make them feel good.”
*****
The child sat in the rose-colored rocker as the grandfather told her how her grandmother used to drag the chair to a corner when she was mad at her mother.
“She would plop right down and face into the corner rocking,” he told her. “She would just rock and rock and make faces and huff and puff until she wasn’t mad anymore.”
“Why did she do that?” the child asked as she rocked.
“Because she didn’t get what she wanted,” he answered. “Her mother used to tell her that she was ‘stubborn’ or as your grandmother said it, “stub-boren.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she was mad when she didn’t get her way and would keep asking and asking; and, when she didn’t get it…”
He shrugged and inclined his head at the rocking chair the child was sitting in, “she would rock until she wasn’t angry anymore.”
“Then did she get what she wanted?”
He glanced at his wife who was looking on and shaking her head at the storytelling. Then he looked back at his granddaughter.
“Maybe,” he said.
“None of that is true,” the grandmother told her own children who were listening to the conversation.
“You WERE stub-boren,” he said.
“Well, yes, that part is true - that’s what my mother used to tell me,” she replied.
“And the rest of it…” he trailed off. “Unless you write otherwise, what I write is the way it was.”
She rolled her eyes and wearily shook her head again.
*****
“I’m just gonna have to say something,” the rude comedian said as she sat on her stool in the ship’s lounge. She hesitated… then she looked right at some of the women in the front row.
“Some of you people should NOT wear bikinis! They just ain’t FOR everybody!”
“Truth now. You know it. You got all that jiggly stuff up here trying to get out for air and those rolls covering up all that stuff you got down there and that little bitty bikini… well… it ain’t helping, sister.”
As the laughter crescendoed, she continued.
“Now - you men - you ain’t no better. Speedos just don’t look right on you. You got that little thing down there hidden up in that little bit of stretchy material - you can’t even tell what that is down there. But whatever it is, you ought to cover it up more than you did!”
“And food? Some of you don’t need to eat seven meals a day. You might want to push away. Salad is not just a table decoration.”
*****
Bored of rocking, the child got up and joined her cousins in the toy room. Sorting through Legos to find the people pieces was more exciting.
“Is that true, mom? About the rocker? I’ve never seen it before,” said one of the daughters after the child left the room.
“No.”
“Yes it is,” their dad protested, “no one knows otherwise.”
She ignored the interruption.
“We found the chair in the attic after your grandmother died,” she said. “I remember it, but don’t know where it came from or when I got it - sometime when I was a child, I’m sure.’
“You got it at Christmas when you were 2 years old because you were sad about moving here,” her husband reiterated.
And, with a sly smile, he added, “and after this, that may be the only truth there is.”
And, with a wink, “of course your rebuttal is here, too.”
*****
People gathered at the aft railing staring amusedly down at the pier below and the story being played out. Another cruise ship was docked alongside and was pulling up the mooring in preparation for departure.
The gangways had been removed except for one last ramp. Nearby, men in white officer shirts were checking watches and looking down the long Cozumel pier. Next to them, a young woman was seen talking excitedly to them - they were too far away to hear the voices, but the meaning of the scene was clear to everyone watching.
The ships have a schedule to keep. When it’s time to depart, the ship departs. If passengers or crew aren’t aboard when it’s time, the last view of the ship they will have is of it churning the water into the sunset as it leaves them standing sadly on the pier.
That will simply ruin your day.
It was obvious from the scenario below us that the young lady was missing someone. And that someone was going to be missing a ride home - because the next port of call would be nearly 800 miles by sea and approximately $600 by air if purchased at the last minute.
And, what about the passport which was likely locked away in a safe on board the soon-to-be departing ship?
Well, life can be complicated.
As we watched, the inevitable happened. Head bowed, the young lady crossed the gangway ramp into the bowels of the ship and glanced sadly behind her one last longing time.
She was followed by the officers and the removal of the ramp. The moorings were unfastened, the side thrusters engaged, and in moments, the nearly 134,000 tons of ship began its long journey to Galveston.
Time. Tide. Life. Cruise ships. Inexorable. They don’t wait. If you’re not prepared, you’re left sadly watching the departure.
*****
There are no morals here. No “reveal” to bring the season into clarity or conclude the year with finality. No words of incredible wisdom - we each manage those on our own as we can.
My Indian friend, Rohit seemed to have the right idea about wanting to be included in a story. He’s here. Always will be. And he’s right about taking action and the value in being a bringer of joy. It’s what we should all be doing before departure.
Winston Churchill is probably incorrectly credited with having said that “history is written by the victors.” Whether written by victors or others, history is “what is written.”
The words on the paper (or, these days, on a screen) define the past just as our actions define the future.
The rocking chair story. It’s true. Because. Well… here it is. In writing.
And maybe that brings just a little bit of joy. I hope so.
Merry Christmas!
