“Christmas 2017”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-17)

Retirement.

Last year, I was unemployed on Christmas Day, but hopeful for a re-start of my career. I had many applications pending with a variety of local companies. My looming, personal mind-shift into obsolescence had not yet occurred. The paradigm established by over three decades of business operations and creative writing remained fully intact.

One year later, my world had been forever changed.

I woke up for the third time on Christmas morning, at half past eight o’clock. My body was already aching on the way out of bed. With a weighty plop of self, I fell into my designated chair. Festive lights were still on from the previous evening. Holiday cards adorned the entertainment center, my substitute for a household mantle. But the mood did not fit this joyful time of year.

While pondering coffee, I also considered the fact that I might never gain meaningful work, again.

A disability exam in November had highlighted many health issues in the way of my return to a purposeful existence: Left hip ruined from years of service, with my knees following suit. Hypertension out of control, vision failing, sleep apnea, general physical deconditioning, cardiac strain. The doctor seemed surprised that until my exit from a management position only a year before, I had been reporting for duty every day despite pain and fatigue.

Our family work ethic was strong. Enough that it literally carried me through the daily routine.

Such thoughts swirled in my head as I yawned away the cobwebs of slumber. But instead of taking me on the downward slope to depression, I felt transported to a different reality – that of writing creative prose. With my laptop sitting at the other end of our house, I chose my iPhone and its useful ‘Notes’ app for the purpose of composition. Words came from the ether while colored lights danced from the tree with seasonal cheer:

Here’s a beer for Santa

He came here in his sleigh

I know he must be thirsty

‘Cause he rode from far away

His reindeer might eat cookies

And his elves might drink the milk

But Santa wants a mug of brew

Sat on the windowsill

Here’s a beer for Santa

He’s here with winter white

That old man must be parched because

He’s been in the sky all night

His reindeer have no preference

And his elves will follow suit

But Santa wants a tall-boy beer

‘Cause he is feeling pooped

Here’s a beer for Santa

His gratitude is sure

Take out your finest Christmas mug

And give that man a pour

His reindeer fly like magic

His elves have made the toys

But for himself he wants a drink

Don’t disappoint our boy

Here’s a beer for Santa

He came here in his sled

No matter wind and weather

Dressed up in white and red

His reindeer need some water

His elves need Christmas cheer

But Santa Claus needs just one thing

A big damn mug of beer!

Here’s a beer for Santa

Now his worldwide trip is done

The toys have been delivered

The good kids are having fun

His reindeer are so tired

And his elves are at the end

Step up with a frosty mug of beer

And make Santa Claus your friend!

I finished my poem by the time coffee brewing had been completed. Outside, sub-zero temperatures helped maintain the Christmas atmosphere. Everything was frozen in a timeless hue of white. For a moment, I forgot about my infirmities. Cheerful thoughts held sway.

Briefly, I wondered over my choice of a beverage. Perhaps a stronger drink might be more satisfying on Christmas morning. Should I follow my own suggestion and join Santa with a cold brew of my own? Temptation made me weak with desire. I could almost taste the malted barley and hops. A fresh case of beer lay so close at hand. The household refrigerator was only a few steps away. I just needed to struggle out of my chair in the living room and get moving...

Instead, I brought up Davie Allan’s “Fuzz for the Holidays 2” on YouTube. The roster of songs played while I had a first cup of wake-up juice. This rocking holiday album had become a seasonal staple in the household, particularly because I provided liner notes for its original release.

My Black Lab was sleeping in front of the Christmas tree. He did not notice my episode of self-restraint. Or the music that played through our television. He had no interest in my quick creative project. Only in dreaming about his dog bone, wrapped under the tree.

It was a quiet Christmas morning in the household. And I felt glad that my personal muse had visited in the form of Santa Claus, himself.

Questions or comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

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