For the first time in 10 years I’ve put up a Christmas tree. The last time was the year my son left home after HS graduation. Yep, I’ve got a 26 year old, but that’s not the point so bring your brain back here. The point is it’s been a decade since I last put up a tree, strung the lights, hung ornaments, cared. Not about the holidays — I’ve continued to care about them. I’ve just not cared to decorate.

The best Christmas I’d had for the span of my entire adult life was that first Christmas I threw care to the wind and dared to not bother with any of it. I was free. Free of the stress of attempting to fit it all in, free of the burden to take it all down and store it away after the holidays were over, free to sit back, sip cider, watch the fire, listen to the crackle of logs, bake at my own pleasurable pace, lay back on the sofa with a warm blanket and just soak in the joy of the season, and my freedom.

I spent time walking around town, gazing at lights, listening to children’s tinkling laughter. For the first time I understood what the spirit of the season was all about. My heart was light.

An INSTANT de-stresser. A Christmas standard — and a wacky favorite. I just hope it never wears out. Where in the world would you EVER find anything like this for a replacement?

My mother, sister, aunt, and girlfriends, were horrified. And have continued to be horrified.  The walk-to-the-beat-of-my-own-drum leanings meant I relished their horror to an extent. I’ve wanted to answer their burning question, but I never really had the stage for it.  Until now.

So what kind of person doesn’t put up a tree?! I’ll tell you what kind of person. A woman who was a single mother working 60+ hours a week, with shopping to do and food to prepare for her contribution to the family holiday gatherings, sitting in front of a mound of crappy gifts she’d overspent on because she didn’t have the time to bargain hunt with tears of stress streaming down her cheeks while she threw tape and paper on them, all the while knowing she had to face the reverse of it all when the holidays were over. A woman who wanted to sit on the sofa with a son and read Christmas stories sipping hot chocolate, but instead stayed up past midnight stringing lights because, that’s what we do for our children.

What kind of person doesn’t put up a Christmas tree? The kind of woman who’d gotten her son raised and decided to take some time for herself. And I liked it. A lot. So much so I’ve reveled in the pure, undecorated experience of the season for 10 years.

Speaking of horrified…..Push the red button and he sings and dances “I’ll have a Blue Christmas Without You”. Makes me LAUGH. Everyone who sees him HAS to push the button. You should see the aghast looks on some faces. Priceless.

My life changed when I married 5 years ago. For the better. And the easier. And while I could have easily decorated the past few years, my husband’s take on it all was equally as unconcerned as mine.

We had 2 things we retrieved from the basement every year – a hooked wool rug of a frog dressed like Santa sitting on the back of a huge trout and a 2 ft. tall Elvis holding a guitar who swayed and sang “I’ll have a Blue Christmas” when you push a button on his base.

Our decorating conversation went something like this. After dinner one of us would look at the other and say “you wannna decorate?” The other would say “Yes!” We’d silently walk downstairs to the basement, get one decoration each, carry them back up the stairs, place them, push the button on Elvis, straighten the rug, smile to each other, and sit back down. Done. It was GLORIOUS.

Now THIS is my idea of decorating. A room in a box! It reminds me of all the times in grade school we had to make a diaroma — remember those?! I purchased this when my son was very young. It and Elvis and the frog/santa rug are pulled from the basement every year and voila! my decorating was done! Except for this year.The tree in this lovely little box got a 9 ft. companion. The process was traumatic and cathartic at the same time.

Every year has brought mounting pressure to decorate our lovely home. Our friends and family never caught on to the humor of Elvis and the frog/fish rug. Their appreciation was woefully lacking.

I succumbed this year. My son is home for the first time in many. It seemed an appropriate year to open the stored Christmas boxes and get back on that horse. I can’t say I looked forward to it. The last time I went through the steps, it was gut wrenchingly stressful. My brain hasn’t forgotten that feeling. But opening those boxes revealed things from my son’s childhood I’d forgotten about. Smiles and sounds and delight.

The vice-like stress of it all was gone, replaced with only pleasurable memories and a sigh of relief. The dread was over. That time in my life was behind me.

The Tree, The son, and the Dog. And no presents! How funny! What a bomb of a photo shoot and how very memorable.

I’ll never decorate like I used to. The pressure disappeared when my son left home. I too grew up and realized I didn’t care what anyone else thought, and the overwhelming need to keep up with the feat of decoration my hyperactive and overachieving Mom had always managed (and still does) blissfully receded and then disappeared completely from my lengthy to-do list.

I’m much happier with less stress and wholeheartedly believe those around me are happier as a result. They don’t care about how many strands of lights are twinkling in my house or the footage of my tree. I’m kinder, more cheerful, more tolerant. My relaxed self is a gift to others. And I firmly believe that that is a gift my friends and family prefer over any other kind of wattage.

A friend’s contribution to my getting back on the horse, and a generous contribution at that!

For this not-so solo road trip, pack tents, sleeping bags/blankets,  food and camping gear for 17 people (7 kids), guns, ammo and hunting licenses for hunting white tail deer, a 4-wheeler or two, fishing equipment for either flyfishing or not, and clothes that run the winter time gamut from rain gear to 70 humid degrees. Instead of pulling a trailer because the truck won’t hold everything, tow an old 4-drive Toyota Land Cruiser (1981) and shove everything in.  And plan on a ruined tire or two on some gravel road, and getting stuck up to your axle on some patch of bottom land. If you do all this, you’ll have the basic components for a Southeastern Oklahoma Thanksgiving.

Every Thanksgiving is spent in Choctaw County, fishing, hunting, 4 wheeling, stomping around in heavy boots, stepping in cow piles, playing horseshoes, basketball, camping, and eating. We’ve outgrown the house and now have to set up camp to bed everyone down and remove some of the chaos from inside. It’s still a zoo. Everyone seems a little too okay with that.

Betsey, the white 1981 Toyota Land Cruiser was bought on Ebay. My Dad thinks we’re insane. He’s probably right.

Located in Southeastern Oklahoma, Choctaw County is economically poor. You can candy coat that and use words like impoverished, poverty-stricken, etc. but it all means the same thing. According to the US Census data in 2000, it was the most impoverished county in the state based on the percentage of individuals with incomes below the poverty line. Almost one third of the families with children under the age of 18 make an income that puts them below the National poverty line. 10% of the residents have Bachelor’s degrees or higher, less than half the National average. These are simply the economic facts. I was raised there, graduated HS there, and still spend a fair amount of off time there. So I can say these things.

My parents instilled in all of us the need for a college degree. We all managed to get one. That may be the only common directive from our parents we actually acted upon. So 2 of the 3 of us left the county to pursue our dreams. But we come back often, and we bring our children, who love it. And if I could have, I would have raised my own child there. My brother would likely say the same about his children. Economically poor doesn’t translate directly to a less than rich life. There’s a permeating sense the American dream is still alive and well. Of the contentment that can be achieved by hard work, early hours, long days, dirt under your fingernails. Of the honor of living within your means without the pressures of city life and its excesses. Simplicity is still king.  And we honor that simplicity by spending a Thanksgiving anyone would be thankful for.

We fish. And some of us even catch something.

Build rubber band balls

Hang out with the dog on the back of Papa’s truck during feeding time

Practice fast pitch — well only one of us does that

Play barn side football

Get hurt playing barnside football

Pose with Papa while he’s attempting to do daily chores. He has to work especially hard to get anything done.

Gawk at Papa’s trophy room.

Pretend we’re 4-wheeling

Show the world how cattle are really just pets.

Have Thanksgiving dinner in a large workshed.

Take a moment to pose while playing on Papa’s haybales.

Were it not for the haybales, the kids would have absolutely nothing to do. NOT. But they are a fine playground.

And one of us attempts to make art from a lone horseapple left hanging in a Bois’d arc tree. A weak attempt.

Last week’s solo road trip through the Oklahoma panhandle, northern New Mexico and up through Colorado to Ft. Collins was for a friend’s birthday celebration. She turns 50 this fall and while not exactly jubilant about it, she’s one of those people whose looks, disposition, and mindset belie their age. But in a very grown up way. By that I mean she’s not fighting it tooth and nail. There’s no bitterness about the fact her youth is behind her. Her joy to be alive is still very intact.

The line between my friend’s lack of jubilation and another’s bitterness and discomfort with where they’ve landed on the other side of “youthdom”, is a fine one; I’ll give you that. It’s not just how you dress or what you drive or whether you’ve sought help in the form of botox or a facelift. Taking advantage of what’s available to make you feel and look good is not the line unless you widen that line with a marker of desperation.

You can’t finger a man as going through a mid-life crisis simply because he can finally afford the hot car he’s had his eye on since turning 16. In other words, it’s difficult to define other than you simply know it when you see it. Most of us know someone hanging on a little too enthusiastically, with a little too much “this was not supposed to happen to me” attitude that gives the arrogance of youthful ways a nasty twist, now with wrinkles. I want to walk up to them and say, “give it up Bub, grow up, you’re not anymore special than the rest of us”. In their mind it’s more painful for them to have to age than for anyone else. It’s more difficult for them to give up all those youthful benefits. What a crock.

Similar to many things, we Americans have a sense of entitlement towards the right to be young and if not that, then youthful. Many become angry as our youth slips away, reacting to it like a younger sibling managing for the first time to swipe our favorite toy from our clutches. There’s no anger like it. And for the most part, it’s downright unbecoming if not ugly. It’s as though we own youth as a hard won possession and by gosh no one should be able to take it from us. It’s ours and ours alone and we spent years of our lives paying for it when in fact we did nothing but breathe. And we would have screwed that up too but we somehow managed to stay alive.  The fact that everyone lucky enough to live long enough loses their youth too, is of no comfort. The loss of youth is a personal affront on their humanity. Get over it.

The fact is like everyone else, those too desperately hanging on, had their chance. Now it’s someone else’s turn. The problem is in the middle of it we abuse it, take it for granted, screw it up, and then feel it was stolen from us. The puzzling correlation here is the one between how badly someone screwed up during their youth to how badly they react when it’s over. Weird. The people I know who screwed it up the worst are the ones that want another go at it. You screwed it up the first time, now you feel you need another pass? What kind of reward system would that be?

Funny thing is, this phenomenon occurs generation after generation. The generation behind me? I’m watching them closely. Trust me, they’re screwing it up too. They don’t listen either. To get the generation currently in their youth to realize what they’ve got is like the dead talking to us and telling us what lies ahead. It ain’t happening.

So there’s a lot to take comfort in. First, there is justice in this world. Secondly, we have more of everything as we move past our youth – more money, more wisdom, more smarts, more experience, more things, and actually more fun. It’s the more wrinkles part that appears to negate all the above in one flabby arm’s fell swoop for many. I say wear long sleeves and get to swoopin’.

Road Trip Photos

Colorado Bugs

Oklahoma bugs

New Mexico Bugs

High Tea – The Brown Palace, Denver

Brown Palace finger sandwiches. That’s the bday girl’s hand in mid reach. 6 of us had high tea at the Brown Palace in Denver. None of us had ever done anything like this. And while the food was very dainty, we requested seconds and then thirds. They didn’t make much off us that day. LOL

null

New Mexico National Monument in the Raton-Clayton volcanic field. Capulin volcano is extinct. On a clear day you can see 4 states from Crater Rim Trail’s highest point — New Mexico, Texas, Colorado, and Oklahoma.

Texas County, OKLAHOMA

Wild Horse, Colorado

There’s a lot going on in Bust, Colorado for a population of only two.

I don’t always stay in roadside dumps. Here’s the Eklund Hotel in Clayton, New Mexico still proudly standing since the 1890’s. The room was large, modern, and comfortable. All that for a nice price and a history lesson to boot. P.S. that’s not my vehicle.

Solo Pronghorn