The World According to Chuck

December 15, 1984

Today, Harvard

What a great day.  Seriously.  And if you could have seen John in the preceding week, moping around, talking about how Christmas was the most depressing day of the year, all Asperger acting out because his sister wouldn’t be here and he wasn’t getting a Wii (and he wasn’t), you wouldn’t have recognized him yesterday.  “This is the best Christmas,” he kept saying.

And maybe it was.  Julie managed to score an alternative marketplace (i.e., Craig’s List) fully loaded version of Rock Band for the X-Box 360 (an awesome game, I should add) on Christmas Eve, so that livened him up, along with a new keyboard for his iMac and comfy clothes.  Julie also got comfy clothes courtesy of the boys, a miracle of dumb luck falling between the parting of the Red Sea and Adam Sandler’s career.  I opened up new walking shoes and underwear (this is a huge deal to a guy who has lost a lot of weight; it was starting to get scary).

But that was such a small part.  We talked to family, we had a south Texas Christmas breakfast courtesy of the Beauchamps (Cameron’s parents), we lit a fire, I stuck a turkey in the oven, and it snowed all afternoon.  Seriously.

Uncomplicated snow.  Big fluffy flakes for a good part of the time, but not much in the way of accumulation; most than a dusting, less than 2 inches.  Just a nice vista on a nice day.  We opened all the shades, sat in front of the fire, smelled the turkey and watched.  My oh my.  One for the books.

And now we wind up 2007, and that was a good one, too.   Relaxing for a good part of it, if financially a little marginal.  I dug flowerbeds and mowed that lawn twice a week all summer long, made ice cream and wrapped up a full year of sobriety by slipping in the store (no harm done).  And then I headed out to school for the first time in 25 years, and out onto the road for a little personal downsizing.

I start 2008, in fact, in good shape. And all because I somehow (more dumb luck, I figure) learned to look ahead.  I take each day as it comes, but I’ve discovered how to glimpse tomorrow.

And I have a blog idea.  More on January 1 (don’t miss it!  The blog event of the year!).

I’ll give you a hint: In exactly seven months from today, I turn 50.

For now, though, there’s some serious rocking going on in the other room, and I may have to join.  Also, the road calls me, as always, and I have new shoes, which were just made for walking in one particular direction.

Thanksgiving sent us all into a funk, although I didn’t realize it until last night and there were other things, as always.

The transition in our tradition was sudden; Beth was away at school, and her grandparents, for that reason and just a disinclination to travel anymore, have been AWOL from our table for six years now. So it became just the three of us, sometimes a fourth. Last year, though, we were brightened by Beth, home on a whim and to see a sober daddy, who was also in a sling at the time. We had a great time, making one-handed pies (me) late on Wednesday, and then the girls in the kitchen all morning while I tried to stay out of the way.

So this was a shock, and different, and while we had a nice meal at a friends’ house (and no dishes to clean, or at least we didn’t offer), I know now I should have gotten up early, lit a fire and turned on a football game, something. As it was, Julie took a nap, John played a game, I went for a walk, and the day was done, poof, as if it never really happened.

And I hurt my ankle (walking 10 miles a day? You think?), curious and annoying. As a doctor once wrote, the secret that they and their wives know is that most things get better by themselves, and most things will actually be better by morning. This was my philosophy, anyway, so I continued to walk, limping a little, and sure enough it got better every day, although it still swells and stiffens when I stay still.

Don’t stay still, then.

We did hear from Beth, her first real solo Thanksgiving, her first in Boston, a marathon of cooking. Things went well, including Dad’s Super-Secret Turkey Roasting Trick, which involves basting, as you can see.

So she survived, obviously, and I guess we survived.

Rosie did not.

Cameron and Beth lost their lady on Friday, in a rush of horror and blood and a late-night race to the vet, not unexpected but too soon and too hard, always. I never met this graceful creature but Julie and John did and I felt her, across the country, felt her there and felt her go, and we grieve with them.

I had to learn had to not stay still, at an advanced age, how to keep moving and see each morning as a daily reprieve, how to find hope in sunrises and movement in grief. Others do it more naturally, but we all end up just walking. My daughter has a handle on this; my son, too, in his way. I, as I said, am still learning.

One of the things I’ve learned, by the way, is why I walk. All this talk and blogging about the scale, about watching my weight, about numbers and days, was not the point, although it took me a while to figure it out. Thanks to Meg and some others for helping me understand.

It was an easy call, of course. Overweight? Lose it, good idea, a no-brainer. But that wasn’t it, and it wasn’t about fitting into old jeans or preening or surprising my doctor or wooing my wife, all good things but not all that important.

I found out why on Wednesday, when that damn ankle was hurting like hell, when I’d done four miles and was on the last leg, uphill toward home, gritting my teeth and wondering, and finding out then.

I spent a relaxing spring and summer, and then as I reached one year without a drink I started to move again; I registered for classes, I started thinking out loud, I started looking.

And I looked at myself, and I saw 70 pounds that needed to go, and I knew that it would be hard to do.

I wanted to do something hard.

That’s why.

I won’t let Christmas slide by. We’ll get the tree up, and the fires lit, and the songs going. We’ll keep it this year, I promise, even if it’s just the three of us. The three of us have done some amazing things together.

And I’ll keep walking, around the lake, morning and evening, ankle and all, because it’s hard sometimes. Besides, I like the fresh air, the Christmas lights are out, there’s actually a hint of snow in the air, and the dogs I meet along the way all seem more precious now, somehow.

(First published on November 21, 2001)

I love Thanksgiving. I always have, ever since I was a kid. It’s way better than Christmas. Once the presents are opened Christmas fades quickly, but turkey sandwiches can last a week or more if you’re careful.

Here in the Sigars household, Thanksgiving season usually starts the week before, officially begun when my wife says, “OHMYGOD, MY PARENTS WILL BE HERE IN TWO DAYS AND THERE’S MOLD GROWING ON THE COUCH!” And so we all pitch in, and while I love my in-laws and always enjoy their visits, clean bathrooms are a special treat, too.

We’re pretty traditional, with a big turkey and dressing and pies and a lot of stuff I eat even though I’m not sure exactly what it is. We say grace and talk about what we’re thankful for, and we watch the Cowboys play. My in-laws are Texans, and on Thanksgiving we’re all Dallas fans.

Once, in 1986, we had Thanksgiving in Texas and the Cowboys were playing the Seahawks, and to our horror the Hawks won. Just creamed them. And while my wife’s family was polite and said nice things about the game, I remember we had to hitch a ride to the airport and didn’t get Christmas cards from them for a couple of years. Texans take their football very seriously.

Food, football, and family. And I have a lot to be thankful for, as always. But just now, as I was sitting at the computer here thinking about Thanksgiving, I noticed something that reminded me how complicated gratitude can be sometimes.

When I was a kid, I loved to go visit my Grandma Baker. She’d always give me paper and pencil and I’d sit at her kitchen table and write stuff. When I got a bit older she’d let me use her typewriter, and I’d peck out stories about Batman or Daniel Boone or whatever my latest television-inspired interest was.

One day, when I was on a Zorro kick, I sat down and began an involved, complicated plot that as I recall involved a train robbery and a kidnapping and lots of sword fights and possibly time travel. My typing skills were pretty primitive, of course, and when my parents announced it was time to go, I was only a quarter of the way through my story and just coming to the good part, and I burst into tears.

Grandma stepped in. She told my folks she’d take me home later, and she fed me a nice dinner and then sat down at the typewriter and had me dictate my Zorro story to her as she typed it.

I should note that my grandmother was a complicated person. She’d led a pretty rough life, and could be an opinionated and sharp-tongued woman at times. As I grew older she made me uncomfortable and I tried to avoid her. This was a rotten thing to do but I did it, and I hurt her feelings a lot.

Once, when I was about 25, I’d been thoughtless once again to Grandma and I wrote her a letter. I apologized, and I thanked her for that time when I was a kid. She wrote back, telling me that of course she forgave me, that she remembered the Zorro thing too, and that she thought sometimes the two of us just didn’t understand each other. This was a gracious thing to say, and true enough, I guess.

She’s been gone quite a while now, but my dad’s stepfather died only two years ago. As my parents went about the chore of straightening his affairs, they found that he had kept almost everything he and my grandmother had accumulated over the years. As things were disposed of, they asked if any of the kids wanted something as a keepsake before they sold it or gave it away.

So now, on my desk, sits a gray 1955 Remington manual typewriter. As I work at the computer it’s visible in the corner of my eye. If I squint a little, I can almost see an 8-year-old boy hunched over the keyboard, slowly typing his stories. I keep it there to remind me how a single act of kindness can resonate over the years. It’s a good thing to remember.

I’m glad I thanked her. It occurred to me today, though, that sometimes being grateful comes with responsibility, even if it’s subtle. Sometimes it’s just accepting our good fortune and being aware of those who have less. Sometimes it’s about passing a good deed along to someone else. And sometimes it’s about debt, and implied promises.

As she drove me home that night, my grandma told me that I was a good little writer, and that she was sure someday I would write something just for her.

I can’t tell you how sorry I am that it took this long.