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I’ve written a few times, during my tenure on Ricochet, of my late December penchant for coming up with twelve words (one for each month) to describe the year that’s on its way out. I can’t remember a year that I’ve been gladder, or more anxious, to see over the side than 2020. So, without further ado, here we go:
January–“Weird.” It was warm. Not like winter at all. I barely used any hay, and as a result, at the end of the year I have a barn half full of old hay that, although not spoiled, because it’s been under cover, is old and which the sheep aren’t all that anxious to eat. Sigh. Rumblings of a virus from China. Trump has shut down travel. Wonder what that’s about.
February– “Better.” More like winter. Still no snow, though. Lovely respite in Florida with a Ricochet friend.
March– “Puzzling.” The China Virus. Not sure what it means, at least to me, individually. Most politicians don’t seem worried. But there seem to be many mixed signals. Not sure who, if anyone, actually has a handle on it.
April– “Sad.” Mr. She has taken a turn for the worse. Exploring options for home care. Don’t want to send him to a hospital or nursing home, since, because of what I’ve come to know as “COVID,” I’ll probably never see him again if I do. Escalating panic in the health-care system.
May– “Frustrated.” I can’t do many of the things I love to do. Go to the gym for my thrice-weekly swim. Take Mr. She to Eat ‘n Park on Tuesday mornings for a geezer breakfast bar. Have lunch with my two friends of the longest-standing, both of whom are cancer survivors in high-risk groups. Feeling isolated and vaguely desperate. Thank God for online friends.
June– “Resigned.” It is what it is. I love it here. Bloom where you’re planted. Dig. Garden. Walk. Find ways to get Mr. She outside if you can. Care for those you love, and let the chips fall where they may. (WTH is going on with all these swarming bees?)
July– “Overwhelming Grief.” OK, I cheated. July gets two words. Mr. She is gone. Struggle with bureaucracy, funeral homes, logistics in the age of COVID, to try to figure out what is best and make sure all dear friends are accounted for and included. More salvific company, courtesy of Ricochet friends.
August– “Settling.” Coming to terms. Try out the new rowing machine because, still no swimming, and everything still closed.
September– “Aging.” Another birthday. Crimenutely. Anno Domini. Hanging in, trying to age gracefully and not look ridiculous with it.
October– “Renewal.” Stepping out. Opening up. Doing better. Another respite with dear Ricochet friends.
November– “Disappointment.” Nuff said. And, Lord. More lockdowns. Do any of these people have a clue what the hell they are doing? I think not.
December– “Struggling.” But mostly OK. And Christmas is coming. And with that, the Light of the World. I will survive.
It’s been rough, hard, and occasionally gruesome. And I know, in real terms that I’m lucky, and that many have had it worse than I have. But, even knowing that, it’s been tough. And I wish I had higher hopes for 2021. Hopes which would mitigate the effects of the minor meltdown I had in a big box store in Washington PA this morning, when I was, at the very last minute, looking for a 20A outlet to replace the one in my bathroom that suddenly gave up the ghost yesterday. (I’ll be wiring it in tomorrow morning, before Jenny and Peachy get here for the holiday.) The overhead Christmas music was pleasant and upbeat, and had put me in an excellent frame of mind. And then, suddenly, Elvis and stupid Blue Christmas.
I lost it. Right in the middle of Home Depot. Thank God for my peeps down here who don’t give a damn about COVID or social distancing when they see someone who’s obviously in trouble. I really don’t want to live anywhere else, and I don’t care who they did, or didn’t vote for President (although to be honest, I don’t think any of them have taken their TRUMP 2020! signs down yet.)
All better now. It’s Christmas Eve, and the Light of the World is on His way.
Merry Christmas, Ricochet, from my house to yours. And a special shoutout to absent friends and loved ones, whoever, and wherever they are. Hug those you love. Mend fences. And above all, be kind. Life is short. And fragile.
Thanks for always being there. Pretty sure most of you have no idea of the good you do. Please let me know if I can ever return the favor.
I’ll have a blue Christmas without you
I’ll be so blue just thinking about you
Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree
Won’t be the same dear, if you’re not here with me
And when those blue snowflakes start falling
That’s when those blue memories start calling
You’ll be doing all right
With your Christmas of white
But I’ll have a blue, blue, Christmas