A Dry Morsel of Bread
It was December 1973 – I was a junior in high school. My dad was gone again – I don’t know where. Baltimore, I think. Mom was depressed and withdrawn, but I was so caught up in my own teenage rebellion that I could not empathize. Whatever feelings I had were dulled by drugs and drink.
It was Christmas Eve and already dark when I finally stumbled home. My house was dark. There were no lights, no tree, no presents…nothing to indicate that a holiday was underway. My younger brother and sisters were upstairs in their rooms. Only my older brother John was out, in the kitchen, making food.
My dad had always been the one to trim the house with lights and put up the tree. One of my favorite memories from childhood was a Christmas Eve from an earlier more innocent time, before Watergate, before the Vietnam war, before “tricky dick“ Nixon, the Black Panthers, and the oil embargo of ’73, a time when I lay wide-eyed and happy in my bed, warm in the glow of lights my dad installed, outlining the house like a shoebox. The neighbors played carols on a phonograph record loud enough for us all to hear. Even today, the scratchy, low fidelity sound of old songs by Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Elvis, and Vince Guaraldi are, for me, the only true sound of Christmas.
But as years went by, dad went missing, as so many fathers do, a casualty of a failing marriage, a dismal job market, out-of-control teenagers, and my brother John, who had recently come out as “gay” ~ a new word for us all. It was just too much for dad, I guess, and so my house went dark without him.
“Where is mom?“ I asked John.
“I don’t know. In her room, I guess,“ he said, slabbing peanut butter on a piece of bread.
“Aren’t we going to have a tree or anything?“ I said.
John gave me one of those expert looks for which he was infamous, the one that said: “Are you an idiot?“
I don’t know what possessed me at that moment, as it was completely out of my character to care, but I went up to my mom’s room and knocked on the door.
“C’mon mom,“ I said when she opened it, looking haggard. “Let’s go buy a tree.“
“Okay,“ she said, and she put on her coat.
So off the two of us went, into the night, driving a white 1966 Ford Falcon that mom had bought with her own money, saved up from the paltry allowance my dad gave her. The tree lots were almost bare by then, and most were closing down, but we managed to find a Charlie Brown tree, a real scraggler, that we lashed to the top of the Falcon and brought home. A few hours later, with John’s help, we had it decorated, and a little bit of light came back into our house that night.
Many years later, after John died from AIDS and my dad from a brain tumor, I was in a different house, my own house, with soaring cathedral ceilings, an indoor balcony, a Mercedes in the garage, and my own rebellious teenagers. My wife at the time filled our house with all the accoutrements of Christmas: decorations inside and out, baked goods of every kind, presents galore, and nine foot tall trees smothered from top to bottom with lights and baubles.
But there was something still dearly missing. An ancient proverb reveals the truth: “Better a dry morsel of bread served with love than a house full of feasting where there is strife.” In my house, the strife was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The bread was missing altogether.
It took me a long time to recover from Christmas, to revive feelings I remember from those early days when dad was still home and the music kept me awake waiting for a miracle. Two very unexpected works of magic helped me find my way back.
I discovered the first in an odd place: rummaging through some “for sale“ items in a store in Charleston, South Carolina. There, to my delight, I found a ten inch high replica of the pathetic Christmas tree beloved by Charles Schulz’ cartoon character Linus in the classic animated film “A Charlie Brown Christmas Special.“ It looks just like the one in the cartoon, crooked, sparse, replete with the single bulb and Linus’ blue blanket. I bought it straight away for three dollars.
Every year now, with great ceremony, I bring this little tree out of its box and set it up. It takes about ten seconds. I love the simplicity of that tree, its humility, its innocence, its kindness. Although it is small, it stands tall in a world full of squawking bullshitters, fake news, and megalomaniac politicians. That little tree reminds me of the one my mom and I found in the dark, empty lot back in the 70s, and that we used to bring a bit of love and light into an otherwise dark and empty house. It reminds me of what Christmas is all about.
The second work of magic rings forth from my favorite Christmas Carol, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” written by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane during the dark and uncertain days of World War II, a time when Hitler was marching across Europe, the blitzkrieg raged, and American boys were dying on the beaches of the Pacific.
Originally performed by Judy Garland in 1944, the carol’s lyrics have since been modified to include the cheery line “hang a shining star upon the highest bow.” But the original lyric, and the one I prefer, says “until then, we’ll just have to muddle through somehow.”
To muddle through. To find a way, despite daunting circumstances. To overcome terrifying obstacles, sometimes with nothing more than a dream. To find a shred of light in a sea of darkness. To hear the one true note of music in a cacophony of noise. To inspire when everyone around you is falling down. To make the most of what you have, putting one foot in front of the other, transforming the scraggly tree life has given you into something beautiful. To muddle through…somehow.
That is hope. That is Christmas. Linus knew that, and Charlie Brown learned it. I am relearning it.
So even if there is only one lonely bulb on your tree this year, and you have no one to share it with, I dearly hope you muddle through and have yourself a Merry Little Christmas…now.
Books by Brant
For Christmas 2018, my brother, a pilot with American Airlines, gave me a gift that became the experience of a lifetime: 12 months of free travel anywhere American Airlines flies.
Thus began a year long journey that took me from the rocky coasts of Portugal, to the hot sands of Morocco, to the mangrove swamps of Panama, with many places beyond and between. In cheap hostels and the backwaters of the nomadic milieu, I discovered a treasure chest of colorful and fascinating people. I tell their stories and a bit of my own.
The trip became as much a spiritual and emotional journey inward as it was a literal outward one, and found me in a place those of you who are in the second half of life are likely to recognize.
With references to the philosophies of Carl Gustav Jung, Jesus, Bob Dylan, and the Buddha, Blue Skyways is an international romp by a man in his 60’s with not much more than a pack on his back, and still much to learn.
A suspense/thriller novel!
When a university student uses advanced software to analyze dreams from around the world, he discovers odd, unexplainable patterns in the data. Where one dream ends, another begins…even though the dreamers are strangers. Unique objects appear in one person’s dream and reappear in another's.
The patterns form a map pointing to an ancient, lost object, but when the student is mysteriously murdered, his deadbeat brother and estranged wife embark on an international race to recover the map's buried treasure. Along the way, the troubled couple are opposed by dark forces of the religious underworld, who launch a global pandemic to ensure the map's secret remains lost forever.