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’Twas the week before Christmas (or joy and melancholia make strange holiday companions) By Peggy Dover Dec 18, 2022 12:30 AM A A “Love is like a winter bird that cheers the coldest day.” — author unknown Lately there has been a winter bird making merry with its whistle by my window. This morning I looked out to see who it was and found a red ribbon winding through my bush. I don’t know how it got there. The song and decoration remind me this dreary, foggy, freezing day will not last forever. This week marks the change toward increasing light. Gloomy days like this one help me appreciate the sun when and if it shows. Funny how I need the contrast. Lately, memories of my dear brother, Alan, float through holiday traditions. Alan loved Christmas and all the glory it held. His joy was contagious, even during trials. He wanted to bring cheer into a challenging situation — not faking it, just reminding us of the promise we hold and to take life accordingly. He never lost his sense of humor. I know I come off like some Pollyanna (Peggyanna), but of course, I hurt sometimes, too. The holidays can be rough for those of us who have lost loved ones with whom we celebrated. We’re in good company. Faith causes sorrow and joy (not mere happiness) to flow together in a strange, counterworldly current. A lavalike layer simmers below what shows. I want my brother to call me. Though I know he cannot, there’s a connection with him I don’t fully understand, but it makes me think the phone could ring with his voice on the other end. But I know it won’t. Or will it? No, I’m not crazy. Wouldn’t it be fabulous beyond mere words if the heaven we wonder about and hope for really were a solid place, and that none of us were responsible for arranging it? That’s the promise that carries me through. Fancy sometimes takes melancholy by the hand, so I have rewritten a small portion of “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” to illustrate how little room the “fa-la-la-la-la” of the season occupies within the grand story. I realize I’m not the first person to desecrate this holiday favorite by departing from the magic and deflating its St. Nicholas intent, but I hope I won’t be the last. My apologies to Clement C. Moore and his kin for using his beloved poem as a template. ’Twas the week before Christmas, and all was undone. My list of to-dos was supposed to be fun. The VISA bills lurked ’neath some piles on the table I heard myself mumble, ‘I’ll pay when I’m able.’ The cookies were snuggled too near where I sat. But just far enough from the gluttonous cat. If you’ve ever attempted a poem rewrite Do not select this one, you’ll be up all night. But I heard Eddie exclaim as he raced toward his dish, ‘Meowy Christmas to all! Santa, bring me a fish!’ (I should have followed my own advice and chosen a simple haiku.) Side note and speaking of melancholy: I visited the restored historical Butte Creek Mill here in Eagle Point the other day. I walked up the wooden steps and onto the old porch, with the old bench and the old bulletin board, as I had many times before the devastating fire. When I entered the store and looked around at the sweet familiarity, tears happened. They came unannounced. The dear, old edifice has been resurrected. It looks the same, with many of the old fixtures and newly milled flours and mixes sitting on the shelves. Then I noticed it. The smell was the same. I think that’s what put me over the edge: the mix of spices and wood I knew and loved. It was all there. It is all there. The mill store is run by amazing volunteers and is open 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. Thursday through Saturday. Follow its Facebook page for events and updates. Peggy Dover is a freelance writer/author given to sentimentality. Reach her at [email protected].