• christmas mayhem •

Hm…kids are in bed?…check. Presents arranged under the tree, yup. Puppy stockings hanged at puppy eye-level, yessiree. Everything is as it should be, and yet…something is missing, or so it seems, to me. It just doesn’t quiiiite seem like the Christmas’, of my childhood, really, nothing like the ones I remember: and it isn’t Bing Crosby, crooning ‘White Christmas’, or commercials with Santa riding electric Norelco shavers down fluffy hillsides on TV. Something doesn’t seem…for lack of a better term, sufficiently, ‘Christmaseey’, to me. Hm, what could it be?
On the couch, under a light blanket of fleece, and with a snoozing pup on my lap, I sit comfortably, reflecting (mostly), with affection, on the Christmas’ of the past, of my childhood memories.
I recall…the smells, under the smoking, incandescent, two-inch colored bulbs that would burn the hair off’n a hog, of burning tinsel, of a house filled to the brim with sniffing, farting, wheezing (visiting) relatives, snoring to beat the band. Beneath are background sounds: from the back wall, from behind the tree, the, ‘color wheel’, with it’s changing light, bathing the ceiling in reds, then blues, to greens, to yellows, then, again, to red, to blue, to green, to yellow, with it’s, ‘creek-creek’, creaking sound, perpetually…and then, it comes to me–the full recollection of the, ‘main event’, which I shall, to you, dear reader, relay, with alacrity:
Even though I am so very nearly forced to sleep with my sister in her bed, that it makes my skin crawl to consider (I am, six, maybe?), all because ‘Grammaw’ says she’ll “be darned” if she’s “…gonna spend another sleepless night getting kicked in the back by (her/she), ‘that whirligig’,” and sister, decrying, “Me, sleep with ‘Pee-bag’? I would rather DIE than wake up WET again! MOTHEEEER!!!”, things seem to have, in the end, worked out just fine, for me.
I am ensconced on the floor, quite happily, under a floral linen sheet, on a thing momma calls a ‘pallet’ (is that a ‘Texas’ thing, or does everybody have them?), me, ‘keeping time’, like no metronome, ever, kicking’ my legs, languidly, ‘stretched out’, all three feet of me, and so very nearly directly under the tree, as to be, for me, a spritely woodland fantasy: and looking up, a mighty spruce, redolent of sap, the tree-topper scrunched at an odd angle to the ceiling, which, due to it’s unnatural girth and size, the tree is actually pressing against it, I see.
(Dad had apparently got a ‘huge deal’ at the Kiwanis, ‘yearly sale’ for the behemoth tree, since no ‘ranch-style’ homeowner in a fit state of mind, would even consider buying it–not if he wanted to stay married, that is, or, at least, that’s what most of the least intrepid men imaginable, had said, the woosies.)
And then I hear it, from waaay, up top of it. A glass ornament, descending: (*bing!bing!bing!*) hitting every branch, on it’s way down, and then (*crash!*), it ‘busts’ on the floor, by my head, right next to me. In the changing light of the creaking, ‘color wheel’, the detritus looks, to my six-year-old eyes, like a castle in ruins, which, of course, I think, absolute perfection, naturally. Then another irreplaceable ornament comes cobbling down, with the same cascading rhythm: (*bing! bing! crash!!*) ‘Wait a sec,’ I think. ‘One, okay, that’s an accident, but two? Uh, oh!’
Then, from up in the tippee-top of the tree, an unearthly mewling, and a rustling, emanates. Mandy, that stinkpot, she’s in the tree!
‘How’d she git’ up there?’ I wonder, and, ‘There’s gon’ be hill t’pay!!’ (We weren’t allowed to say, ‘hell’. Or, ‘shoot’, or ‘dang’, none of that good stuff.)
Did I mention that the entire floor was wall-to-wall with sleeping bodies? Brothers, sisters, cousins, relatives of every age, and make and model, a proverbial potpourri of large and teeny bodies, and overlapping arms and legs, every ‘which-a-way’ …then (*snap!), the tree makes a sound that can only mean one thing, ‘tiiiiimmmbeeeer!’, that big sucker is a-comin’ DOWN! KEEERRRRRRAAAASSHHHH!!!!!! “AAAAAAHHHHHRRERFGG!” Screams ensue, in every octave at once: cries of horror, shock, and dismay, entreaties for mommies, pathetic moans, and declarations of every caliber, all of it, muffled by a ton of poking, bending branches, bursting ornaments, entangling electrical cords, clinging tinsels and popcorn strings; everywhere, wall to wall, were scrambling bodies, writhing in pain. All in all, a sap-tinseled, hellish hysteria! What a sight to see.
It was heavenly.
Parents, aunts, uncles, extended relations of every description, together with exclamations too pithy to print, groggily rousing. Lights flicking on and off, a melee of scrambling feet, shrieking moms, cataleptic kids and crying babies– And Gramps, at the wet-bar, sitting on a high stool, above it all, surveying the scene, and, with a ‘clink’, and a ‘snap’, of his old Zippo, and lighting a Lucky Strike, and laughing, to beat the band: laughing, laughing, laughing, with his dried-out vocal chords, like Zeus had swallowed an organ-grinder, and his monkey, and Gramps, slapping his knee, as if it could possibly need further punctuation, the ensuing cacophony.
“It’s a nightmare! A nightmare!” says momma, over, and over again. “I’ll make coffee,” says Gram. “Where’s…that…damn cat!” mutters dad, through clinched teeth. “I’m gonna…just wait…’till I…” (Dad never could finish a sentence, sufficiently, when on a ‘killing spree’.)
And then, I’m here, and now, again, and it’s Christmas Eve, the kids are abed (dreaming of iPhones and X-boxes, presumably), and all is quiet, except for the pooch, snoring quietly next to me, and then, it comes to me. I realize what I’ve been ‘missing’, all this time. It’s quiet. All too quiet, or so it seems to me.
“Christmas mayhem,” I whisper, to myself, mistily, as I empty the last drips of egg nog, into a half-filled glass. (Those ‘dang’, kids have drunk ‘most all of it.)
‘Oh, that’s OK’, I think. (I always add a little milk, too, ‘thick’, ‘straight’, for my taste, anyway.) I add a bit of ‘one percent’. A dash of nutmeg. Ooooh! That first sip! Yum.
Standing in the kitchen, with the ‘fridge’ light slashing convivially across my toes, I come to the conclusion, that, maybe, just a little, I shouldn’t mind a teensy bit of, ‘mayhem’, with my Christmas, just for old times’ sake.
‘Well, the day is still young,’ I think. ‘Anything can happen.’
The kids. I grin. They’ll soon be awake.
~ Tim Burchfield
(Revised 12/25/16)



• bob’s tail •

This, ‘fake news’, has got to stop.
Okay, people, listen up:
It’s, “Bells on Bob’s tail ring,”
not, “Bells on Bobtail ring,”
not, “bobtails ring,”
nor, “bobbed tail ring.”
And most definitely not,
“Belson Bobtellering,”
or any other thing.

Bob is the horse.
He pulls the sleigh.
Bob has a tail.
That tail has bells on,
which is attached
to the aforementioned Bob, okay?
Those bells, Bob’s bells,
yes, those very, ‘jingle bells’:
It is they that ring.
So please, bear that in mind,
should you go, a’caroling.
~ Tim Burchfield


• pyro •

When you meet, for the first time, the boy’s girlfriend, and, while eyeballing your kitchen for potential accelerants, and chuckling fondly, she whispers, confidentially, “My first ‘passion’, was pyromania,” as if to say, ‘Ah, the good times we had.’
And, while thinking of your priceless collection of origami hanging in your basement (and, of course, the lives of your children), you’re like, ‘Heh…surely…she’s pulling my leg.’
It didn’t happen, but don’t you already feel better about your day? You’re welcome.
~ Tim Burchfield


• i don’t get people •

I actually heard myself say,
“I don’t get people
who don’t do things my way.”
But take away the double negative, and it’s,
‘I do get people who do.’
No, way!
That’s not true.
In fact, I’d probably find them incredibly irritating.
Monkey see, monkey do.
How cliché.
~ Tim Burchfield