New Year

A reflection on the new year

I rose from bed early, made coffee, fed and walked our Bullmastiff Tassie, then loaded in firewood for the heat-stove. The sun rose in the eastern sky, up over Pulpit mountain, as crisp, cold air of another new year entered my lungs and reddened my nose. All the visible things around me stayed familiar, my wife, my home, gratefully unchanged by Time’s passing guard. but it's the invisible things around me, free-radical things that churn and generate a fusion between past and present that prompt me to write. I sit with a cowboy brewed cup of joe at the beginning of a new year and scribble passages torn out of pages from my ‘heart, mind and soul’ notebook regarding moments from my past. And I marvel that my narrative, a mere cartoon, a doodle I continually self-indulge in, still holds resonance decades and lifetimes later.

I watch personally hand-mauled splits of wood catch fire, wick dancing flames and turn a glowing orange around their splintered edges. The dull black stove warms the room, softening my focus and I pause to remember back to my early manhood. I remembered sitting with friends in all-night-restaurants like Denny's, Sambo's, Kappy’s. I was just one member of an ever divergent group of young men that ordered carafe's of coffee, mountains of single-serve creamery cups and borrowed or stole a hoard of sugar packets from empty neighboring tables. I often expressed my individuality by ordering a warm slice of pie while grinning down abstaining member’s taunts and ridicule with pie crust crumbs clinging around my lips. 

The group usually trickled in shortly before midnight and stayed until ‘sunrise specials’ were served to sleepy day-lighters seeking drowsy nourishment before their commutes to work. Sometimes one of my cousins would be there, regaling episodes that occurred during his nightshift at the mental hospital, or an artist friend from college would bring his latest girlfriend and we’d watch them hold hands or on a different occasion, listen to them argue. The mix would vary from location to location, dictated by time or season, but mostly would consist of friends from school or work and whom ever tagged along. Even the waitresses, bringing fresh coffee would kibitz to break the monotony of their jobs.

I can’t begin to explain the flights of conversation, passionate arguments, candle-enlightened debates that went on in those vinyl upholstered booths -strewn with stained and chipped ceramic cups, saucers and glass ashtrays-  the range of subjects our conversations tackled defied belief then and now. Although I’m sure I did my fair share of talking, contributing my own youthful monologues for consideration, I’ve probably… thankfully forgotten most of my immature babbling. For me, coursing through the late witching hours over percolated diner coffee, conjured hallowed magic only allowed a moment in time to savor.

Those 2am hours, crammed shoulder to shoulder, birthed camaraderie as we helped each other evolve into burgeoning worldly individuals. Waving arms and flicking ashes, we measured and reacted to each other’s nascent maturity, across a leveled, veneered tabletop plane. Humor and insight were glibly tossed back and forth amongst the clatter of plates and the squeaking between vinyl and denim. Thin skin and political correctness wasn’t catered to. Those were the days when people could really get to know one another. Manipulative social trends hadn't yet gained strength enough to put bits and pieces of technology between one individual and another.

Tassie our bullmastiff curls in front of the stove while I sip strong, black elixir from my mug and remember when people sought a different light and shared -in ancient campfire fashion- their obscure, personally discovered Life-riddles. A time when we could look into each other’s eyes and possibly find an answer to those riddles or at least some innocent, common hope. The diner group shared a connection of blood and flesh and joy and sorrow- desire,hunger,lust, without any surrogate go-betweens. The brave few that sat and opened their minds, listened with their hearts-challenged and laughed in front of all present, contributed hammers to forge the raw ore of dreams.

Decades later, I understood that these late night-early dawns were essential moments that created and made up the ethers for reflective meditation and cognitive introspection to those braving rights of passage. That tight window booth not only stood as enclave, but was open to the influences of the outer world on all sides as well. In reverie, I saw how our discussions rambled, our personalities collaged to form a formidable staunch to later interfering social trials and indifferences. Such were those days. Such were those gatherings. Such were the conversations. 

Funny… it was all just going to hang out and get a cup of coffee, unfettered by agendas or relationship disclaimers, hiding no political allegiances or excuses dictated by an omnipresent time clock. What went on was an invisible sowing of seeds, the translucent fertilizing of a future crop. But no one noticed then. Life moved fast, the centrifugal force of obligation and responsibility pulled at convergent seams. The years pushed on, the participants and locations changed until the ritual was no longer held. Things changed. Life redefined. Now…words, considered nothing more than mere semantics are swilled like so much hash-house coffee. Innocent youth eventually succumbed to a varying series of drunken sprees, struggling, thankless careers, brutal divorces and declining physical and mental health. Everything eventually turns relative, while grey areas shrink into black and white. 

I reach down and scratch behind Tassie’s ears. The stove fire has burned to embers and needs more splits of wood. My mug of coffee needs a refill and my wife will wake soon. Although I remember, I still ponder at how each new year led me to a slower, simpler lifestyle. I’m now more recluse, less interested in bubbling, babbling melting pots of social discourse. I abstain from having my views and opinions and experiences googled for authenticity or compared to contemporary internet consensus. To me, those social and generational practices witnessed in coffee boutiques lack respect and genuine integrity. They smack of paranoia, and lack a kind of “present presence” for lack of a better definition. I guess all impressions can be summed up as a “generational thing.”

I look out the window and watch forest squirrels shake snow off Larch bows as they jump from one limb to another. The only sound in our house is the unsynchronized ticking of battery operated wall clocks and the occasional clacking of the heat stove expanding. During the rare event when someone from back East comes to visit, they ask why we are whispering. My wife and I smile at each other and ask them why they are shouting. The comparison usually goes unrealized. 

The New Year is a moment, a day, maybe a week when most people speculate about future plans. For me, the future begins anew each day when I open my eyes and begin daily chores, and communicate with my wife through smiles and gentle caresses. I try to leave our mountain home less and less, as our lifestyle is very difficult to convey to those obtuse…

Author's Note

A reflection on another new year, from a personal perspective. More essay than story, but...maybe leaning in a different direction. Should this piece have more character, information or specific personality??? Critiques and comments welcome.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

I'm glad you lit that fire so's I could cling steadily to the wall, me being a fly who's way out of season and all. I've seen how educated people have tons of fancy and learned things to say about our scribblings, but I am a simple fly who only knows what I like or don't like. Well, I like this. It conjured images of you and your friends drinking coffee and being young. I saw much more, and it all seemed real and honest. So it isn't just me who thinks big city folks talk too loud? Of course flies who're hatched in an outhouse mostly only hear country folk talking.
Seriously, my friend--I enjoyed this one a lot.

[roarke]

I'm glad you liked and that reading this prompted some rhyme from you my friend. I wish back in the day, I was inclined to write, and kept a notebook handy. Trying to capture these scenes now, forty decades later, I fear some of the ambiance has worn thin, but for guys like us, that rumbled around back then, I guess the nostalgic flame never completely burns out. Thanks Sam.

[barleygirl]

This is a top-notch bit of reminiscing that doesn't sound too self-indulgent & it serves to create a larger example of tolerance. Lately I've written a few poems that remind people of the difference between "now" and "then" . . . in the responses, I get many older people wishing for social times just like you are describing here. This is what it's all about, being together in the flesh & learning to be tolerant & even appreciative of the friends who beat their drum differently. My personal preference would be to have you use more SHOW and less TELL in this piece . . . for example, a line or two of dialogue to SHOW us these friends being this way, etc., . . . but since this is reflection, it reads like that & it's not boring like most reflection would be . . . it's lively & word-crafted for strong imagery (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Phibby Venable]

During the rare event when someone from back East comes to visit, they ask why we are whispering. My wife and I smile at each other and ask them why they are shouting. The comparison usually goes unrealized.
--because things have become so strident and loud, and with so much texting, we may be losing the ability to remember tones and tempos of normal conversation. Enjoy this very much -- those who handle wood and watch fires born to dancing, born to dying out, seem to have a clearer view of things . Plus there is nothing like the heat, the smell, the beauty of wood. I like how the heart pauses and remembers here. Carry on!! blessings to you.

[roarke]

Thank you so much for the read and comments P I appreciate very much how you also see the world expressed in metaphor.