Post holiday post

1) We broke with tradition this year, and abandoned the obligatory turkey with all the trimmins in favor of pasta with a big pot of meatballs and sauce (and sausage, and pork). In doing so, preparation, cooking, and cleanup times all dropped by at least two thirds, allowing more time to clean the house, spend with family, and the hallowed watching of the television. I’d meant to watch football, but somehow the Godfather marathaon seemed more appropriate given our meal choice.

1a) While spaghetti and meatballs seems like a far cry from traditional Pilgrims ‘n’ Indians fare, our Thanksgiving dinner fulfilled many of the requisite functions of the meal and the day: more food than anyone could or should possibly consume; abundant leftovers, and; more to the point, leftovers that could be made into sandwiches. Sure, there’s nothing that compares to leftover turkey, stuffing and gravy reheated, laid out on a couple of slices of good, thick, crusty bread, dressed with cranberry relish, and made into a messy, unwieldy, delicious sandwich experience, but there are times when a good meatball grinder is good for what ails you, you know?

1b) Successful as the meal was, The Kid has already requested that we have the traditional meal again next year, which is fine.

2) For me, the Holiday Season ™ doesn’t officially begin until we put up our tree, which we won’t do for another couple of weeks yet. At the same time, I recognize that my personal timeframe lags well behind the societal norm, or at least the market driven, media fueled post-Thanksgiving chaos that we’ve trained to think of as the societal norm. Among all the other things that means (Sales! Crowds! Dubious Bargains! An Almost Total Loss of Perspective! Mass Hysteria!) comes the first salvo in the month-long assault of holiday music. I have very simple requirements in this area: I don’t feel like I’ve had my full Festive Holiday Experience ™ for the year until I hear certain songs on the radio: “Christmas in Hollis” by Run D.M.C.; “Step into Christmas” by Elton John (I hate myself just a little bit for this one); and, of course, “Christmas Wrapping” by the Waitresses. So I drove over the mountain and down the highway to the in-laws this weekend scanning radio stations the whole way. No Waitresses. No Hollis. Half an Elton John. But really, no Waitresses. On the other hand, I heard Peggy @#$%ing Lee “Rockin’ Around the God-*^$@ed Christmas Tree” about a half dozen times. This does not bode well for my enjoyment of this festive season of Joy and Cheer ™

Hail

On a beautiful fall night in 2004, I watched, breathless, as Keith Foulke fielded a chopper back to the mound, ran a few steps toward first base, and flipped the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz, giving the Boston Red Sox their first World Series championship in 86 years. It was the perfect way for the Series to end. They secured their victory with a textbook play. It was the the sort of thing that every kid who plays ball gets drilled into them from the first time they take the field, the kind of routine play that professionals make dozens, even hundreds of times over the course of their career, the distilled essence of the game into a single essential moment. It capped off a long, dramatic season of struggle and teamwork. It was the realization of hope deeply felt but rarely indulged in recognition of so many past disappointments.

It was @#$%ing awesome to behold.

For me, the ultimate expression of that moment did not come on the field at Busch Stadium under the carmine light of a moon in eclipse. I saw it in the New York Times the next morning, in a photograph of Red Sox ace pitcher Curt Schilling embracing Sox veteran Johnny Pesky. The look on Mr. Pesky’s face in that photograph distilled for me what it means to be a Red Sox fan: joy and disbelief in equal measure, hope rewarded and doubt vanquished, yesterday’s mistakes redeemed by today’s actions, all in a place where people, despite their outward differences, share a common, sacred and unbreakable bond.

On an unseasonably warm November night in 2008, I watched, breathless (and, truth to tell, a bit queasy), as the networks tallied up votes, and projected states for one or the other of the leading presidential candidates. I sat, increasingly tense, as the outcome seemed increasingly certain. I felt hope, but it was tempered by the bitter lessons of the past. I was hesitant to believe given the realization that taking things like this for granted in the past resulted in chaos, disappointment, and eight years of leadership that I believe has done profound damage to our nation, its people and our standing in the world, leadership whose mistakes our next president will have to work tirelessly to rectify while also working to achieve their own agenda.

Even when CNN made its announcement shortly after 11:00 p.m. Eastern Time, I could not bring myself to celebrate. Like the Apostle Thomas Didymus, merely hearing the news from a third party was not enough for me. My faith required proof. My doubt affected the members of my family with whom I watched the results. My mother declared she could not believe, could not celebrate, until I did.

Still, as the networks showed signs of celebration in Chicago, in Atlanta, in Harlem and Times Square, and in Washington, D.C. (in front of the White House no less!) it became difficult to hold on to skepticism. As the time came for Senator McCain to take the stage and give his concession speech, we woke up The Kid so that she could witness history in the making.

Then, finally, my resolve began to crack. The first fissure came when I read the words “President-Elect Obama on the television screen.” The next came when I sat down on the couch, put my arm around The Kid — my daughter — and realized that the fact I wanted her to see this moment justified my belief. Finally, the image of Reverend Jesse Jackson standing in Grant Park with tears running down his face shattered any illusion I had that celebration was premature. The look on Reverend Jackson’s face in that moment distilled for me what it means to be an American: joy and disbelief in equal measure, hope rewarded and doubt vanquished, yesterday’s mistakes redeemed by today’s actions, all in a place where people, despite their outward differences, share a common, sacred and unbreakable bond, and must shoulder the same obligations of — as President-Elect Obama noted in his victory speed — service and sacrifice.

Like the 2004 Red Sox, President-Elect Obama’s victory also capped off a long, dramatic season of struggle and teamwork. It was the realization of hope deeply felt but rarely indulged in recognition of so many past disappointments. It came as the result of putting all the right pieces together, and executing a plan for victory day after day, of making mistakes, learning from them, and improving based on what was learned.

I’m exhausted this morning, and all I did was bear witness to history. I can’t begin to imagine the bone-tired fatigue that everyone who worked harder, fought stronger, and struggled more mightily for so long must be feeling today, beginning with President-Elect Obama — and does that phrase not have a lovely ring to it? He delivered on the promise of hope; now he must lead us, inspire us, and charge us all to turn hope into action.

I can’t wait to see what the next four years bring.