So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
And a new one just begun
John Lennon (of course)
This is not a New Year´s resolution post. Or a Top 10 list. Or anything awful like that. So relax your shoulders and read. I just heard that song on the radio driving home and could not resist using the quote - even though, GASP, I am not a Beatles fan, actually.
I like the dark of Christmas in Bergen. It forces me to slow down, nest, think, see my kids clearly in front of me. The weather forecast this week is cold, clear and a chance of snow.
We have a goal to be sure we did not end up panic shopping at the last minute. Not stress about making everything “perfect” around the house. Let´s just take things one day at a time.
I know it´s Christmas when I find myself at our favorite butcher, Solheim Kjøtt, buying pinekjøtt for the family. I know it´s Christmas when Philip and I drive up to Lagunen to pick out the tree.
I think a big problem with Christmas is the anxiety to “get it right.” There is no perfect. There is no right. There´s only what it is and how it unfolds.
I have a handful of memories - the earliest when I was 6 years old and woke up in the middle of the night and came out to the tree and all the presents. I can see in my mind´s eye the twinkly lights and the greens and reds of wrapping paper. I can see where I sat on the family room floor 70s shag carpet. I opened up every single present, one by one, in the middle of the night. I took out bubble gum, chewed it a bit and tried to put it back in its wrapper. I devoured gummi bears until I could stomach no more. I can also see a grouping of stunned adults when I came back out later from my bedroom a few hours later to start Christmas - and broke down crying in the hallway.
I remember always waking up early as an only child and impatiently waiting for Mother and Mo to fix coffee (instant) and settle themselves in their bathrobes as I sat on the floor waiting to divvy up the loot. Can we start? You two ready? I also remember the sound of champagne being opened and the sight of Mo coming out from the kitchen with two mimosas afterwards.
I remember the time Mo forgot to buy Christmas presents for anybody. That was the day I just took off for the beach with friends by noon to escape the foul humour pervading the house. Mother´s anger was palpable.
I remember driving to The Coffee Cup in Pensacola to pick up the turkey each and every year. All done - just reheat.
I remember the time we drove to New Orleans to stay at a hotel. The big day arrived, and by mid morning we decided it wasn´t so warm and cozy after all and said shall we drive back home? Then we ended up at a truck stop in Slidell eating with only one other family who seemed like they just missed being cast in the movie Deliverance (for looking too rough).
My favorite family Christmas of all was a trip to London. They splurged on a flat that used to belong to Rudolf Nureyev. I flew separately from Virginia where I was in University and I have this vivid memory of stepping out of the taxi and my parents opening the door with big smiles - and then Mother giving me a bone crushing hug. We had a flawless Christmas eve dinner at The Connaught Hotel and then took a taxi to St. Margaret´s church of Westminster Abbey for midnight service. We were the last to be let in and sat on the back row. Red cheeks all around. The Moultons were tipsy.
Growing up in the US, it was always Thanksgiving I enjoyed most, not Christmas. Thanksgiving is not just a day, it´s a whole long delicious week. A non secular crisp Fall feeling. College football and happy Pappas drinking beer and shouting at the television. Playing neighborhood football on the front yard in our sweaters and jeans. The changing of the leaves. As many people as you could fit around a table eating turkey and stuffing and greens I never touched myself. People sleeping on sofas in the middle of the day without fear of judgement. Less tension, less pressure. Women laughing. I cannot remember a single Thanksgiving fight but I definitely recall going into Christmas often thinking “just hope the family doesn´t end up in a fight.”
I grew up going to church. Everyone I knew went to church, really, be it Presbyterian or Episcopalian or Methodist or Catholic. We also had / have a strong Jewish community in Pensacola but some of my good friends who were Jewish “practiced Christmas” anyway because, well, it was fun. I also had heard of Baptists and I could see these big Baptist churches with neon signs along the side of the road but I am not sure I grew up close to any Baptist families. You could also always spot Baptists out at restaurants - they were the clean cut ones in white short sleeve oxford shirts drinking iced teas all around. If somebody wasn´t drinking wine at dinner, in my father´s book, well, that meant “they must be Baptist.”
I went to a Christian school until around 5th grade. East Hill Christian. Then, to impress my fellow classmates in music class one fateful afternoon, I dragged out the word “bitch” in a long lazy gurgling belch, and the teacher immediate went red, turned off the lights in the class and told everyone to be quiet and still. Who said that? Who just profaned? she asked the class. Nobody said anything. I certainly was not feeling inclined to make a confession on the spot. So she left and brought in the principal, who was known for being quite born again. He did the same and no response. Except his look was meaner and scarier. So then he took out every single person in the class and interviewed them one by one to ask who had uttered the profanity. Every single one ratted on me except this girl who liked me. Maybe even had a crush on me.
I was dragged to the principal´s office where he threatened to call my mother. And I said “go ahead.” And so he did. “Mrs. Moulton this is Mr. Roberts from East Hill Christian School. Your son has just uttered the five letter word meaning female dog.” To which my mother said “you mean bitch?” I could hear my darling mother´s voice clearly through the phone. In that era she was famous for a drawl and a laugh that could carry an entire crowded restaurant of southerners. She snorted when she laughed too but there was no laughing or snorting now.
Mr Roberts went red in the face. “Yes Ma´am precisely. Now do I have your permission to administer corporal punishment on Buddy?”
(Now you know - my hometown nickname´s Buddy. Most old friends from the US call me Buddy to this day, not Kelly.)
If you lay one hand on my son you perverted son of a bitch I will sue you and this school so fast it´ll make your head spin is what I heard come from the phone in response. I just kept a straight face. Give the phone to my son please.
Mr Roberts, lips taut, gave the phone to me.
Buddy, you listen to me, I just want you to leave that office, gather your things and wait for me on the sidewalk.
Ah, I so loved my mother in that moment. I knew she would be super pissed off with me later. But in that moment, she was my knight in shining armour.
I withdrew that day. We picked up the neighbour´s son, too, Cavet White. It turned out he had said «Holy Cow» in class that very same day and was told to write a five page paper on why cows were not holy. In Pensacola we were completely unaware that in some parts of the world, cows are indeed holy.
Until high school we averaged two Sundays per month at St. Christopher´s church in East Hill, where I was also baptized and confirmed. I became one of those kids who walks in the opening procession down the aisle, sometimes carrying the cross nervously and hoping I would not drop it. Once I passed out in Church because it was so hot and the A/C was broken and I was bundled up in heavy scratchy robes.
It was always horrifying when Granddad attended because he not only had one of the worst singing voices in the state, he also sang with the gusto of a lead tenor. I would just stare down at my shoes and avoid eye contact with everybody.
I grew up playing tennis and there comes a time in Florida when, if you want to be any good, you must drop all other sports. Tennis is a year round sport in the Sunshine State.
As I got better, I occasionally started appearing in the finals of tournaments. Finals are on a Sunday. This caused a conflict with church duties of course if I was also signed up to be a choir boy that day.
A vivid memory - standing in the kitchen on a bright early Sunday morning, looking out towards the pine trees in the back yard through our big bay window, both my parents in the family room in their bathrobes reading what my father called “the mullet wrapper,” ie the Pensacola News Journal, and I was speaking to the head of the church youth group explaining that I had made it to the Finals, which meant that I could not, I am so very sorry sir, make it to Church that day.
Son, it´s time you made a choice between tennis and God.
I took the phone handle away from my ear, cord dangling to the side, and I said “Mom, Dad, I need to make a choice between tennis and God.” To which both my parents responded immediately in unison, without looking at each other or looking up from their papers—
Tennis!
I returned the phone headset to my ear and said I choose tennis sir and hung up the phone with a quiet click.
I won the tournament that particular day at the Pensacola Racquet Club, beating my arch nemesis, Brian Seaver, with a steady game of heavy topspin and high net clearance balls, pushing him back from the base line, never letting his attempt to flatten out the ball and increase the pace knock me off my plodding rhythm.
I went on to minor in religion at the University of Virginia. Old Testament, New Testament. The differences between Buddhism and Hinduism. Literature and Religion which introduced me to Flannery O´Connor who resonates with me still to this day.
I remember the writings of Paul Tillich who said, in so many words, doubt is a fundamental element of faith. That was such a load off to read.
I can see myself reading Graham Greene´s The Power and The Glory in a banged up third hand sofa, oblivious to the fraternity life around me, transported. (You should put this one to the top of your Christmas reading list.)
Church for me since college has been limited to Easters, weddings, baptisms, funerals and Christmases.
A Convenient Christian.
I think the concept of faith is fascinating - forget religion per se. Must it be that “rational thought, “facts,” “science” and “logic” trump all other systems of thought and belief?
I find faith liberating. Scary and comforting at the same time. Feel a bit silly. Feel very peaceful.
I want to get out of my mind not stay in it all the time, swirling around and around in stream of conscious thought.
So let´s say I believe in a big pink floating benevolent pig in the sky whom I can never see but whom I believe is all mighty, all powerful and who ultimately knows best? She has her reasons for life being the way it is, a daily soap opera of tragedy and comedy, some characters written poorly, some written with laser precision, etched in my memory forever.
And let´s say belief in The Pig brings me great joy, stills my cauldron of a mind to a pool so that I am able to get on with meaningful creativity, undistracted connection with friends and family and focusing on the small joys of life, be it cutting vegetables like a Jiro sushi apprentice in the kitchen or just reading a short story by Shirley Hazzard?
So what if The Pig does not exist? What´s the harm? What´s the foul?
Faith manifests itself in other ways. I have lost faith in the US. I used to be a big believer. I have great faith in Norway. I cannot count the times I have lost and regained faith in myself over the years. (As of this writing, I have newfound strong faith in myself again). I´m a 51 year old father of 3, ages 4, 6 and 11. Two girls. One boy, the oldest. I can only have faith that, despite their parenting, they will grow up to be happy and healthy adults. I hold to the credo that parenting is not what we say but what we do. They absorb how we are into their souls. So if we take care of ourselves, we take care of our children. Shaking my fingers at them and chastising them has no lasting effect. A major exception to this is that I am a complete Nazi about table manners and this causes nearly daily strife and tension, and I am the source of it. I have faith that this world will see its way through the crisis of Corona and continue to live and thrive. I do not have faith in how we are managing our natural resources and I have no idea what to believe regarding the data or sometimes what to do about it. Frankly speaking. Is Mother Nature tougher than we realize or more fragile than we realize? I would like to say out loud that I have faith I will live to be 100, but then I fear I will jinx it completely. And there´s another funny aspect of faith - superstition. Almost everyone I know has an element of superstition in their bones, even the most rational of them. Funny, that.
I am going to do my best to switch off from now until the New Year except to nurture my writing, which I do not view as my job. Read. Go to the gym. Try not to snack. Play Yahtzee with the kids. Make good coffees for my wife. Drink only good wine.
Today we shall go for a walk as a family and keep the fire lit most of the day.
Merry Christmas.
Happy Christmas and a great New Year to you and the family..
Merry Christmas, Buddy ❤