Holy cow.

It’s been more than four years since my last C?WC? post, and these are my sins.

Well, probably too many to list here. But the biggest one of all: not posting on this blog, or the others I’ve created over the years. There’s the professional blog (very out of date). And the one that gives my take on various historical events, both significant and mundane (I had fun with those posts; maybe time to revisit?). And then, the one I started when I moved to New Mexico almost 15 years (15!) ago.

But this was the first, the one I devoted the most energy to, the one I still go back to read when I want to revisit some of the milestones of this part of my life, the highs and—mostly—lows. (Or when I want to get teary-eyed, which this post always accomplishes.)

I wasn’t too low when I started C?WC? almost 18 years ago. And the name was a little tongue in cheek; though I was the right age for a midlife crisis, I didn’t feel like calamity was at hand. But little did I know!

Within a year of joining the blogosphere, I left a city I loved and moved back to Connecticut—not by choice. And my marriage, which had been teetering but that I thought could still endure, crumbled, literally leaving me all-too-often a crying mass of humanity on the floor of the home I did not want.

So, yeah, that was my midlife crisis. No blowing wads of cash on a Porsche, no affair with some hot, much younger woman, no trying to regrow the ponytail of my youth (OK, I did consider it for a time, but the moment passed).

What has happened since the tumult of the first few years of C?WC? Well, the aforementioned move to the Land of Enchantment, which is still enchanting, despite the myriad problems the state faces. Some theatrical successes, but not as many profound ones as I might like, though I have helped gather together a group of like-minded playwrights, and that has been satisfying. Many wonderful trips, with those of the last few years taken with a wonderful new partner. Six years of being alone ended with our finding each other—online, after we both slogged through many fruitless dates, which could be the subject of its own post.

Yes, it’s not easy finding love at this age. This age—an age that belies my subhead above. This is not midlife, baby; this is senior citizen status, with Social Security and Medicare and an increasing list of pains that won’t go away and the threat of health condition that can be treated, but that spur anxiety (and as my faithful readers know, all six of you, anxiety has often been a constant these past 18 years). On the flip side, I’ve scored some good discounts at museums and movies for having reached this ripe old age. And $2 off at Great Clips!

If you’ve made it this far, you’re probably wondering: is there a point to all this? Well, I would reply, has there been a point to all of these posts over the years? Other than my trying to work through life’s challenges, my challenges, by doing the one thing I’m marginally good at—writing. And for too long, I haven’t been writing. I hope sitting here at the computer and then putting these words online will jumpstart writing of all kinds. We’ll see. In the meantime, I’ll keep worrying about death—oh, that’s a biggie with the transition from midlife to what one friend calls geezerhood—protesting our slide into fascism, traveling as much as possible, and loving my new honey, who gives me such joy.

Yes, there is an anniversary this month—17 years ago, my ex and I picked up Callie at her foster home, after assuring the rescue agency that had taken her in that we were not secret cat torturers, convicted felons, or some other kind of reprobates (I’m pretty sure there was no fingerprinting involved, but it seems like we went through everything just shy of that). I never remembered the exact date we took her home, but it must have been early in the month; searching through all the paperwork in my Callie folder revealed a document we signed on February 3, 2005, hence this post today.

What was Callie’s fate before she ended up with us? She had been a stray, but fairly well cared for before she began her life on the streets. The rescue agency took care of spaying and chipping her, and she was in good health when we first saw her. But I wondered what psychological trauma she had endured, the blows to her sense of identity, as she went through a series of names. The agency listed her just as “JKitty” on the health forms. At some point, someone there dubbed her Hawthorne. Hawthorne? Was there some allusion to The Scarlet Letter that I was missing? Then, when we got to the foster home, her caretaker informed us that she had been calling her charge Princess. Well, that was not going to last. Somehow, independently, the ex and I each came up with a new name: Calliope (at least that’s how I remember the story). So, Callie. And now, more often, just Cal (unless she’s thrown up, again, and it’s just as likely to be “fuckin’ Cal…”)

And what has Cal endured in those 17 years? A medical visit to rule out that some string we thought she had eaten hadn’t gotten lodged in her GI tract. A trip to the groomers when her knots proved too hard for us to come out, resulting in the “lion cut” you see here. I swore I would never subject her to such humiliation again, but it turned out to be a hollow promise. Sorry about that, baby.

Then, there was the move from Chicago to CT by truck (she was a trouper after the initial caterwauling). The divorce of her “parents”—it was pretty much a given that I would get custody, that Cal was “my” cat after she replaced Julia, who had been my cat pre-marriage and who died suddenly soon after we reached Chicago, though I always thought Cal preferred my ex. A two-month stint at my mother’s before moving to Santa Fe, during which time Cal showed her skills as a mouser several times over. Most memorably: on the morning I was going to begin my drive west, she woke me up with the mournful wail that I now know means, “I got this friggin’ mouse. Now what?” I later found blood on the floor and no mouse carcass, so I assumed that was the day’s breakfast.

Cal didn’t make that drive to NM with me. She got to fly here with my sister and her boyfriend, and by all accounts she once again traveled well, though I’m sure it was sheer terror and not any innate imperturbability that kept her quiet.

Life in New Mexico has been mostly pretty laid back for ol’ Cal. Except for the two cancer scares, which had me a nervous wreck, and which I’m sure she wasn’t too thrilled about, either. Especially when her condition after her first surgery took a turn for a worse. She lost a lot of weight, and it really seemed touch and go for a while. It didn’t help that when she had to take medicine, it was impossible to pill her. I didn’t feel as bad about my inadequacy when I watched two techs in the vet’s office wrestle with trying to get a pill down her throat. We do liquids and injections as much as possible now.

As most pet owners know, getting into surgery and imaging and all the rest is not cheap. I’m thankful I could afford to say each time, “Do what you have to do.” But now, as she closes in on 19(!), I know there will come a time when some illness or chronic condition ends this relationship. And like any relationship, there have been challenges.

I know it’s not fair to make comparisons, but…Julia was the kind of cat that would sit in your lap for hours, clinging to you as you shifted positions on the couch. Callie has never once sat on my lap. And, of course, there is the puking. Plus, stretches of incessant meowing that can start to get a little unnerving. And even with all the hunting instinct she showed back in CT, at times here she has refused to go for the kill. During one summer with a bad mouse infestation, I woke up several mornings to that wail, then heard her chasing the mouse around the house, catching it, and then letting it get away. I would get up and try to catch the intruder so I could toss it outside (yes, realizing it would probably find its way back in again). Cal, from what I can tell, has not detected a mouse in several years.

But if those are the low points, I’d say the 17 years haven’t been too bad. Despite not being a lap cat, Cal, has her affectionate side. Curling up on the bed inside the crook of my legs. Crawling under the covers while I do a pre-sleep crossword, my bent knees forming a tent over her. The usual cat licks to the face when I get on the floor and hang with her. And lately, she’s been spending more time by my side on the couch. I treasure those moments. She can also wrap me around her little paw—she calls for me to come out of the kitchen, then marches to “her” spot in the living room, where she has trained me to follow so I can spank her butt and otherwise shower her with attention. Once she even “made” me follow her upstairs to the door in my bedroom that leads to a deck. She wanted me to open the door so she could look out—I think she was on mouse patrol, making sure nothing got in the slight gap between the door and the floor.

Perhaps more importantly, for someone who has lived alone for almost 12 years, Callie has been my companion. Working alone at home, I find something so comforting in knowing she’s around, even on the days when we’re in separate rooms for hours. I’ll look for her and just watch her sleep, and I feel…serenity? Gratitude? Love? All of the above.

Sometimes now when she sleeps, she snores, and it makes me chuckle. She also sneezes a bit, which concerns me; it’s gotten so bad a few times that she’s sneezed blood. The vet says there is a growth in one nostril, but it’s not something to do anything about, unless it grows. So, I live with this aging, sneezing, puking, snoring, loving cat, so thankful for the time we have spent together, and for the time still to come. Thanks, Cal.

But first: Hi. Yes, just the first post of 2021. Been such a fun year…

So, the anniversary. 15 years ago today, I watched my father, struck silent by a stroke a few days before, breathe his last. It was early afternoon, a Friday I believe, and he had never regained consciousness after the massive brain hemorrhage. From what I recall, the doctors doubted he would ever be himself—Dad, Bern, Bernie, Pop—again, if he recovered. We did not take any extraordinary measures to keep him alive. It was just a matter of waiting in the hospice section of Hartford Hospital for him to die. I remember sitting in that room and talking to him, hoping something might sink in. Of course, I’ll never know if it did.

15 years. A lot has happened since then, eh? But several things remain constant. I miss him terribly. I miss the unconditional love he always had at the ready for everyone in the family, not just me. I miss the comfort he would have given me during some of my more difficult moments since 2006 (and there have been plenty, trust me). I miss the hugs.

Oh, I have the memories, of course: the roughness of his day-old stubble against my peach-fuzz face. The hours in my grandparents’ barn, where he worked at one project or another in his little workshop, and I watched as we both listened to the Red Sox on a cheap, plastic radio (he indulged me, since he was a Tigers fan). I remember his teaching me how to drive a standard on the ’64 Chevrolet pickup, three on the column, that would have been mine if Dad hadn’t left the key in it one evening and some punk kid hadn’t taken it out for a joyride that ended with it being totaled (the kid was fine, if I remember correctly).

And who could forget the many hours we spent together, bonding as so many fathers and sons do—cleaning offices. No fishing expeditions or afternoons at the ball park for us; it was emptying baskets and ashtrays—in the days when smokers could still indulge at their desks—and cleaning bathrooms and vacuuming halls that brought us together. And there were perks: getting to play an early video game on one office’s enormous supercomputer, or following my father up into the belfry of the South Congregational Church to watch him wind up the clock that kept South Glastonbury on time. Then, on our Saturday outings, with the cleaning done, we headed to the local “luncheonette,” where it seemed everyone knew and said hello to Bernie.

There is this memory, too: the memory of how I could not really grieve his loss at the time. I was in the midst of a years-long emotional crisis, and it was only when that crisis reached its crescendo, several years after his death, that I realized how much pain I had kept inside when he died. And how many tears—especially the tears. So, when I cried over the emotional crisis, I realized I was finally crying for him. The loss. Not having him there, his love, during that time of upheaval. And even now, with that upheaval pretty far in the past, the tears come so easily. I’ve felt them flow in therapy, many times, and in bouts of spontaneous crying not directly related to him, though he always seems to be just behind whatever unleashed the latest jag. Hell, even when talking about him on dates with women I barely know (do I know how to make a good first impression, or what?), the tears start to trickle. And sometimes, just a random thought of him is enough to trigger the flow.

It dawned on me today: I don’t have any pictures of the two of us together. Mostly because he was the picture taker, at family gatherings or special events. Or I was, in later years. Maybe somewhere at my mother’s there is a picture of us together, but here—nada. Is that weird? It definitely feels like a loss. Another loss.

Luckily, I have my memories, the good ones far outweighing the bad. And I have the sense that if there is any good in me as a person, it mostly likely came from his influence. His ability to make others feel comfortable. His willingness to help. His smile.

15 years. And I feel his presence every day.

An addendum: I’ve found many little interesting tidbits from his life when I’ve gone through his papers and belongings. I’ve always loved this one:

I could go on about my pandemic experience (as boring and lonely, mostly, as anyone else’s, I reckon) or US politics (shit show), but let’s ignore all that and try to get into the spirit of the season, even if COVID has hijacked some of the usual fun and frivolity.

I got my tree this week, a little earlier than usual as I tried to create some Christmas spirit to mitigate some of the gloom of the year, especially with the virus going into overdrive. And the excursion got me thinking of Christmas trees past, which got me thinking of my father (not that it takes much to set me down that particular memory lane, with teary eyes and sniffles to follow).

I don’t think my father deliberately set out to channel Charlie Brown and bring home the scrawniest, sickliest-looking trees. And I don’t think that was always the case; in my early childhood years, I seem to remember some fine specimens, if a little short. But I think as time went on, he looked for a tree later in the season, or he knew my mother wasn’t the most enthusiastic tree person, or he really did feel sorry for those overlooked trees relegated to the far corners of the lot.

But put aside those trees. A much better memory is trudging with father, often through the snow, to cut a fresh tree. That tradition started with ex #1, the one who shall not be named, because she liked fresh trees. I don’t remember when Dad and I first made the trek, saw in hand, to one of the local spots offering fresh trees. I know they were not some big operations; one in particular was just a neighbor down the road who had some pine trees scattered across his property. We’d bundle up, walk around for a bit, sizing up the offerings, then make a decision. Well, I made the decision, remembering his penchant for the Charlie Brown specials. Then, most often than not, he would cut as I held the tree up, then we brought it to wherever I was living at the time.

The tradition continued long after ex #1 left the picture, through #2, right up to #3. And in between the matrimonial blunders, Dad and I would do the ritual even when I lived alone. We did this even as he hit 80; I’m guessing the last year was the winter of ’03, before I moved to Chicago.

By the time I came back East and wanted to do the annual search for the best fresh tree, Dad had died. The ritual ended, too. Now, I go to the lot not far from where I live, where local guys come to sell firewood and trees cut in the nearby national forest. They’re fresh enough; this year’s tree was cut just the day before I bought it. But it’s just not quite the same thing as going out with Dad, bundled up, saw in hand, to spot the just-right tree. Of course, a lot is not the same these days, with him gone and me getting older and more decrepit. But one thing is still true: I always love my tree. And the memories.

Of course, there were reasons for the hiatus (there are always reasons, some better than others). Some work busyness. The ongoing semi-depression. And the sense, since COVID-19 descended and George Floyd was murdered, that I have little to say about the major crises of our day that has not been better said by others. So, instead of delving into the shit show that is life in America on this Independence Day Eve, 2020, let’s do something a little lighter, something I love. Let’s a have a little travelogue!

Not that I could totally escape our present reality while traveling, not the pandemic part. My first little jaunt got underway just as the pandemic was ramping up here in the ol’ USA. A Connecticut friend wanted to explore Death Valley over her March break and had asked me several months before to come along. Always up for an adventure, I said, “Hell, yeah!” So, on my 60th birthday, we boarded a plane for Las Vegas.

The panic was already setting in, but the numbers were low, at least here in New Mexico and in Nevada. The plane had only 42 people on it—I’m sure way below the norm for a flight to Vegas on the weekend kicking off spring break. And I have to admit, I wondered as we boarded if we were tempting medical fate by going forward with our trip. We did make one concession to the unfolding crisis—we would not spend my birthday evening in Sin City,  but instead head right for remote Beatty, Nevada, our base for exploring Death Valley.

The drive from Beatty after the snow.

The scenery in Beatty, an old mining town, was attractive enough. And it was a short drive from there to the national park. We spent two wonderful days exploring, and the weather was perfect: mid-70s by day, cool at night, and some snow even dusted the mountain peaks before one sunrise. We saw the lowest point in the US, the sand dunes, the aptly named Artists’ Drive, with its array of multi-hued rocks, and Golden Canyon. It was hard not to see stunning views almost anywhere we looked.

But in the background, news about the slowly worsening pandemic was always bubbling. And I got a foreshadowing of the political division it would spawn as a I waited for a takeout pizza. Two Texans came in and started chatting with the waitress. They were convinced the virus was a hoax—hadn’t our Dear Leader said so?—and part of a much larger, nefarious liberal plot to take away their guns. Which, they assured, they would not give up without a fight. I bit my tongue and tapped my foot; where is that damn pizza?

With the news getting grimmer by the day, my friend and I decided to head home one day earlier than planned. When we got back to Vegas for our flights, the casinos had just been shut. The city was like a ghost town. And for the next two weeks, I hoped I had escaped contact with the virus.

Good news: I had! And like most everyone else, I spent the next few months in various phases of lockdown. Then, it was time for another trip, one I had planned months before. I had booked an Airbnb in Cortez, Colorado, where a local theater was going to stage one of my plays. The show was cancelled, of course, but the trip must go on. I headed out last weekend, explored Mesa Verde National Park (no guided tours of the cliff dwellings, unfortunately), drove up to Telluride (don’t need to go back to that overpriced tourist town again, though it was a pretty route), had a socially distanced beer or two at a local brewpub, and headed home. Some things had changed since the March trip. More people were wearing masks, though not uniformly—common in Telluride, less so in Cortez and Pagosa Springs. And the uncertainty of what was in store was gone. We knew in June that the huge death toll would keep growing, as cases surged all around. The only uncertainty left was, how many more would die, how long would the virus spread.

I’m glad I made my two pandemic trips, especially as I contemplate the likelihood of having to cancel one if not both planned trips to CT this summer. I’m pretty sure most of my travels for the rest of this year will be close to home. But as baseball fans are wont to say, “Wait till next year!”

I hope.

But I didn’t. Instead, I moved to the couch (sometimes a change of scenery helps me sleep—well, that and another lorazepam), put on some soothing ambientness from Brian Eno, took deep breaths, and finally crashed, knowing that tomorrow (now today) was another day. And that it was. A much better day.

On the road, north of Las Vegas

Even before yesterday’s bout of depression/anxiety/pain, I had decided to take a Labor Day road trip to explore a wildlife refuge I had recently spotted while cruising south on I-25. So, hitting the road at 6:30, camera in hand, I headed past Las Vegas (the first one, home of the Rough Riders Museum and a quaint little plaza and a recently refurbished Fred Harvey Hotel), through the high plains of eastern New Mexico, to reach the Maxwell National Wildlife Refuge. It and the nearby town are named for Lucien Maxwell, who, during the late 19th century, acquired a NM land grant of some 1.7 million acres—the largest chunk of U.S. land ever owned by one person. He built a grand home in the town of Cimarron, current population just under 1,000, which I passed through for the first time as I headed west toward the Enchanted Circle. After going through Bobcat Pass (elevation of almost 10,000 feet) and a brief stop in Red River, I continued around the circle through Questa and Taos before heading home.

It was a long day—some 9 hours and 300-plus miles, which is ironic given how much I say I don’t like driving. And I don’t, usually. But when I first moved here, I realized early on that the only way to explore this vast state (more than 121,000 square miles, making it the fifth-largest) was to drive. A lot. It helps that usually the roads are uncrowded (though today there was a Texas exodus of visitors heading home).

And it really helps to have a constant supply of good tunes. Today I listened mostly to mix taps (yes, tapes, actual cassette tapes, played in my car’s tape player. I am so happy I have a cassette player in my car!). Artists from Stevie Wonder to Jefferson Airplane to Talking Heads kept me singing and bobbing for most of the 300 miles.

I hope this post and the pics scattered around here show that it was, indeed, a better day. Will the slightly more buoyant mood last? Who knows? Tomorrow brings a dreaded revision and hours home alone. But today was good. And right now, that’s all that matters.

Don’t go to a movie in which one of the lead characters is dying of an unnamed terminal disease when you are dwelling on how much you fear your own death because of certain undiagnosed medical conditions, which only compound the dread of mortality you’ve lived with since your first panic attack at age 26, followed several years later by a cancer diagnosis.

Seeing that movie will only ratchet up the anxiety you’ve been feeling ever since recent blood work indicated there is something off in your body, blood work prompted by the chest discomfort and shortness of breath you’ve been experiencing for almost two months when undertaking the simplest physical exertion. Anxiety also fueled in part by your doctor’s foot-dragging in getting back to you and setting up further tests that might explain just what the fuck is going on.

And of course, if certain other aspects of that movie’s plot remind you of some situations you went through during your last marriage, situations that contributed to your divorce, then you should definitely not go. Because that plot will only remind you that the person who said she would be there through sickness and health is no longer there; not that she could cure whatever is prompting these health issues or end the ensuing, enduring anxiety. But a hug and comforting word or two could probably do wonders under the current circumstances.

(To be fair, that ex did go out of her way to show concern for you and provide care during recent surgery, and would probably do so again. And for that you are eternally grateful.)

But if you do go to that movie, and it finally ends and you walk back to your car, try to block out or tamp down the hatred you feel rising up, the metaphorical bile flooding your gut. The hatred for the dog walking contently with its owner across the railroad tracks, for the happy loving couple that passes you by, for the old crumpled shirt left beside the sidewalk, for the asshole drivers who remind you of the bigger asshole who almost hit you yesterday—just a foot or so away from your left leg as you crossed the intersection where you had the right of way—whom you curse silently to yourself, even as you wonder what it would be like to be hit, just a glancing blow perhaps, enough to break bones and make you scream in anguish, but just that. And especially the hatred for yourself, for all the stupid decisions you’ve made, and most certainly the ones that have probably contributed to your health issues.

You thought the movie would be a distraction. Sometimes you just don’t know what you’re in for. And as you drive home and think about all this, you remember that it’s probably not a coincidence that crisis appears twice in the title of your blog. And that maybe the next time, you should stay home and watch an episode of Bojack Horseman instead of going to the movies, so you can laugh at the exploits of someone even more screwed up than you (even if he is an animated talking horse). And that you’re thankful for therapy and drugs and the people who care about you, even if they’re not there to give you that hug you so desperately need.

Yeah, I’ll pass.

I’ve never quite understood the appeal of a season that can leave you dripping sweat at any hour of the day, if you’re not lucky enough to have central air or if you actually have to set food outside at some point. Of course, my bias is magnified because I’m not a beach person (potential risk of melanoma? Sand in everything? Jellyfish stings? Getting cramps and drowning, just as your mother warned you about? No thanks, bub). But unless you live at the beach, the cooler temperatures and soothing water can’t provide constant relief. Hence, the need to deal with summer where you spend most of your time, which for me means my home.

I know neither Chicago nor CT will rival the Deep South or truly tropical regions for life-draining humidity, but the heat waves that can stretch on for days and recur throughout the summer are bad enough. And then we have the other joy of those climes—the mosquito onslaught. Yes, there’s nothing like lying in bed in the middle of the night, hearing that telltale buzz, and debating whether to hunt the little sucker down before it feasts or wait for it to alight and then smack it good. Or, as in one CT town I lived in, there’s nothing like hearing the sound of that familiar truck coming down the street, a sure sign of summer—the whooshing made by the insecticide sprayed all around. That’s one truck the kiddies won’t be chasing.

Aside from the natural challenges summer has presented in the past, I think my associating the season with some of my most awful moments doesn’t put it in a good light. There was August 1988, when I came home from surgery and sat in the apartment in the midst of a heat wave. Even better was the summer of 2010—my wife had just left me, I was prone to spontaneous crying jags while curled up on the floor, bedbugs had invaded the home, the humidity was oppressive,  and the temperature inside never went below the upper 80s. Fun times.

Summer in Santa Fe means tons o’ outdoor music.

My emotional health of late has been almost as precarious as it was in that last summer from hell. But this time there is one big difference: I’m spending it in Santa Fe. Now, our little city is far from perfect, but as I tell anyone who doesn’t walk away as I once again sing its praises, Santa Fe has some sweet weather. Let’s start with the biggie for the summertime: no humidity. When dewpoints in New England soar to those sticky and energy-sucking 70s, we’re rarely seeing anything above the still-comfortable mid-50s (and yes, it is the dewpoint, not the relative humidity, that tells us how sticky things are). And as far as mosquitoes—I can sit in my backyard well past sunset and there’s nary a skeeter in sight. In almost eight years, I’ve never gotten one bite.

The end of another beautiful Santa Fe day.

I was thinking about all of this as I sat out the other evening on my insect-free patio, listening to music and watching birds taking their last day’s turn at the feeder. An evening after a day when I was outside enjoying temps in the mid-80s, a light breeze, and a big, beautiful sky. Yes, the monsoon rains can sometimes put a damper on activities, and the hail can ravage farmers’ fields. But not often. Not enough to dissuade me from thinking that if I have to endure summers somewhere, this is not a bad place to be.  Even if I won’t have someone meeting me on the rooftop.

Wait a minute. Who am I kidding? That’s a lie.

Not the two-weeks-in-Norway part. That’s true, and I have some of the pictures here to prove it. No, it’s the journal part. Somehow, a person who makes his living as a writer and who, for more than 10 years, has routinely set down observations on life and love and every little thing that pops into his head in this and other blogs, did not write a word during the Norwegian adventure. And I’m not sure why. It’s especially surprising because on two previous trips to Europe, both taken decades ago, I kept journals that I still have, and that I do reread from time to time. They record observations of what I saw and the people I met, and on more than one occasion, they served as a form of therapy as I worked through teenage and young adulthood angst. Even on short trips around New England or to Montreal, I’ve jotted down random musings, as much as a way to pass time alone in restaurants and hotels as to impart any profound thoughts.

So why nothing this time? I dunno.

Maybe it’s because I was just enjoying the moments as they unfolded and the company I was with. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned my traveling companion before here at C?WC? We’ll just refer to her by her alias, the Professor. We have traveled together before, and traveled well, but never for so long a trip and one so far from home. The good news: We are still friends (we survived our one kerfuffle, one I take full blame for). And I reckon we will travel together again, if the opportunity arises. But no, the Professor was not the reason for my journal-less journey.

Maybe I set aside the pen this trip because I was so focused on taking pictures. Or because my handwriting keeps getting worse and it’s not practical to haul out the laptop everywhere to jot down a few random notes (though I did plenty of blogging on one well-documented trip, the Cruise from Hell).

No, I think the simple truth is, I needed a vacation from writing. From even thinking in the writer’s mindset (which for me means constantly writing in my head about this and that, and then eventually putting some of it down on paper). And maybe, as much as it’s difficult to admit, as I approach—gulp—60 and having spent most of my adult life writing for either money or self-reflection (sometimes more successfully than others, on both counts…), I’m just burnt out. Or, to paraphrase the singing Germans during Madeline Kahn’s big number in Blazing Saddles, “Don’t you know I’m pooped?”).

So, for the Norway trip, all I have are memories, not the thoughts and impressions noted in the moment, and that’s ok. Some random observations: It is a beautiful country. Well, duh, that’s what drew me there in the first place. The cruise through the fjords was all that I hoped it would be, even if I did whine at times about the lack of sun. But we knew what to expect weather-wise, and we actually enjoyed being bundled up on deck snapping away at the scenery, the wind so strong at times it blew you around the corner. Then there was the midnight sun, as the first three days at sea were above the Arctic Circle. But even with the perpetual light, it was hard to stay awake for our midnight calls at several ports.

This was not a typical cruise, which I was ready for and which I thought would appeal to the Professor. The Trollfjord is one of about a dozen ships operated by Hurtigruten. They sail up and down Norway’s coast, dropping off mail to tiny seaside towns, and Norwegians use the ships as a form of transportation between the islands that dot the coast and mainland ports. The ships ferry cars as well. There’s no casino on board, no entertainment to speak of, except for what you bring along. We played a lot of cards and enjoyed watching two DVDs that we bought used in a Salvation Army story in Kirkenes, our port of departure. We read, too, but mostly we just soaked up the scenery of snow-covered mountains packed tight against the water.

We explored a bit on land as well, starting and ending the trip in Oslo, spending almost two days in Bergen, and taking a side excursion to the town of Flam, where I stayed in my first International Youth Hostel in more than 30 years. We weren’t packed ten to a room, as in one memorable stay at the hostel in Sete, France, but you still needed a token for a shower and towels were not included in the room rate. Did the experience make we want to backpack my way across the continent again? Nah. But for one night, it was fine. Our other land accommodations were through Airbnb, and all were great. No hassles with the hosts, clean, affordable, and close to city centers without feeling touristy.

As far as food—well, it’s never easy being a vegan on the road. The ship did offer a vegan meal at dinner, and there was plenty to eat at the daytime meals, if the offerings did get a little repetitive. The Professor had her first taste of reindeer meat—there will not be a second—and we both skipped the last dinner to get a veggie burger in the ship’s café. For me, the most memorable meals were Ethiopian in Bergen; pizza at a little place in Oslo run by two Italians; street vendor vegan pad Thai; and the simple-but-filling pasta we cooked at one of our Airbnbs.

Were there mishaps? Would it be an adventure without mishaps? But they were tiny ones—a forgotten rain jacket, getting slipped a bank note no longer in circulation, some rude tourists (let’s retire the saying “Ugly American,” because some of the antics on the ship proved that Germans and Scandinavians can be just as ugly. But they were the exception, by far).

I can’t say I came away with any great insights into the Norwegian character or polis. I knew beforehand that the country’s great wealth comes from both taxes and dividends derived from North Sea oil and gas, which you can read about here. The Norwegians have this odd little concept of using that wealth to benefit the country. Yet, while Norway is famed for its social safety net, you can still find beggars in Oslo, as in any other big city. And I saw something in Bergen I had never seen before: a woman squatting to pee in the middle of sidewalk (at least I think that was all she was doing…).

But this trip wasn’t about sociological observation and comparison, for god’s sake. It was a vacation—the first real one for me in a long time. An exploration of a new place filled with beautiful sites. An adventure. Though with a touch of home; I was struck by the ubiquity of English and its use as the lingua franca—it’s how the Chinese guy in front of me at the hostel checked in, and it’s how workers from different countries communicated in restaurants and bars. It certainly made life easier for us, especially since the only Norwegian I mastered was takk (thank you). And I will note that if you go to Norway and enjoy beer or wine, as the Professor and I do, bone up on where and when liquor is sold. The regulations are tight. And the prices are eye-popping.

I love traveling. I would go to a different country every year, if I could afford it. I’ve traveled alone and I’ve traveled with friends and spouses. Hell, I’ve even traveled with my mother. It’s better to have a companion, I think, which I’ve written about here before. You create shared memories that you’ll never forget. Even if you don’t have a travel journal to prompt them.

So, no, no cutting. Just a quick stop at the makeshift mercado off the old highway, with the new highway below, and the snow-laced Jemez Mountains in the distance. Yes, a quick stop, because the first tree he saw would do the trick: tall, mostly full, with patches of white from the unexpected dusting that had come the night before. He could already see how he could maneuver it in the house to hide the bald spots and scrawnier limbs. And the price was right: less than what he had paid for smaller trees in the past. He hated to think about the money, but it had been that kind of year.

At home, he struggled a bit to get the tree into its stand, but then, it was upright, and ready for decorating. Ah, the decorations—each its own little bit of memory. But first, some water for the tree and—ah, crap. Something gave way, or his perception of the tree’s balance in the stand was hideously off. It crashed to the ground, sending water everywhere—boiling water, because his first love from decades ago had told him that the heat opened up the sealed bottom, sealed after the cut that brought the tree down, and the heat would open it up again, so it could take in the water it needed to survive in the home. If a cut tree can be said to survive. Was the boiling water theory true? He had never bothered to check. But he remembered it, and repeated it, long after the relationship ended.

The tumbling tree brought back another memory, of waking up one morning years past and seeing the fully decorated tree on the ground, fragments of glass ornaments dotting the red brick flooring like remnants of an earlier snow. Was it the cat? No, too easy to blame her, and over the years, she had been surprisingly uninterested in the green pyramids he had dragged inside. It was the balance, he knew—he had not been careful about the balance.

He would not repeat that this year. The first ornament would not go up until he was sure the tree was secure. As much as he could be sure anything could be secure. Which led to this: the memory of another past love taking out a box of ornaments—yes, his ornaments, the ones he had collected—and dropping it. More shattered glass. It was an accident of course, and a good reminder of the impermanence of things. And relationships. He thought there would be many more Christmases with her. He wondered what hers would be like this year, some 2,000 miles away.

Enough of all that—time to decorate! The Christmas songs went on, a beer popped open, the lights wrapped the branches, then the careful placement began.  Matching each ornament’s size and weight to the peculiarities of this tree. Nothing too low, in case this was the year the cat’s curiosity was piqued. Nothing too heavy on the outer limbs. Trying to put the shiny ones near the tiny white lights, and making sure the favorite ornaments got a place of honor.

This was when the flood of memories erupted. He remembered where and when he bought so many of them: on trips, at craft fairs, at small shops selling local goods. Then there were the ones that were presents—some from friends and family, most from women from the past. Many of them featuring cats doing “cutesy” things. Christmas kitsch. And he loved them all

Then, of course, there were the ones he had inherited, the ones that used to hang on his family’s tree when Christmas meant a break from school and hopefully some sledding and, yes, usually some disappointment because his friends always seemed to have more impressive hauls. Because forget the lessons in catechism class—he knew Christmas was all about the presents. And his grandmother’s ravioli. No matter what else was on the menu, from antipasto to the Torrone candies, it was the ravioli that mattered. That made it Christmas.

Over the years, he learned, finally, that it wasn’t really about the presents. Of course, as he left his religion behind, it wasn’t about Christ, either. No, he liked to think of it in terms of the pagan aspects—bringing a piece of nature into the house to get us through the darkest days of the year, remind us that that the sun will shine brightly again. Or some such. And it was about celebrating tradition. Some things from the Christmases past remained. He made ravioli every year. “Made”—well, not like his grandmother had, rolling out the dough using the biggest rolling pin he had ever seen, maybe the biggest in existence, and filling each tiny pasta pillow with a meaty concoction he learned only later contained venison (or so he was told). He bought his ravioli. And, naturally, it always stirred the memories, though it was never quite good enough. But the sauce was homemade, that he could do, simmering for hours on the stove. He hoped each year he would have someone he could share that tradition with, the Christmas ravioli. Since the inadvertent ornament breaker had left his life, it was always a crapshoot.

But in a relationship or not, surrounded by friends or family or not, the tree always went up. The ornaments came out, found their perfect spot, and he was happy. At the end of each night, in those weeks when the tree stood so tall—he loved his living room with the 10-foot ceiling!—he turned off all the lights in the house. The tiny white bulbs glowed, and as he took off his glasses, they acquired a pleasing, fuzzy edge. Still, he could see well enough to pick out the ornaments he loved best: a hand-painted, modern rendering of Mimbres art, done by a Native American artist he met at an art show; another local creation, with the couple from American Gothic rendered as smiling Dio de los Muertos figures; his own Christmas band, with ornaments of drums, and horns and a mini Gibson guitar; the prancing horse constructed out of pipe cleaners, a crafty creation made by a talented friend. And capping it off was the tin star he had made, the tree topper he had sought for so long.  It looked like it had been executed by a fourth grader with dexterity issues, but he didn’t care—he had made it, and it made him smile.

This year, admiring the tree each night had been a somewhat melancholy endeavor. He was alone. It had been a tough year. He was—shit!—getting older and often didn’t like it. But the tree reminded him that the year was almost over, and it would be standing as the New Year began. The New Year offered hope. And whatever happened, he would have another tree next Christmas. A new tree, with old memories strewn about it.