Christmas Memories 2004
12/27/2004 05:43 p.m.
(This will be added to as time allows, it is written out and being copied into this journal periodically) I "Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn." A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith, p.1 It is Christmas Day in Chinatown Brooklyn, and we can hear Mrs. Lee downstairs, struggling with her granddaughter on their way out. Our house creeks with excitement, and sudden bursts of energy appear out of nowhere. Unexpected creeks. I listened to the hum of the icebox over the crackling white tube overhead. I had the TV on in the bedroom, with a crackling Christmas morning fireplace scene. Being only 31 degrees outside and minutes before 7am, the heat hadn't kicked in yet. I dragged the comforter into the living room, draping it about my shoulders. Yesterday I piled a small mound of presents mailed to us in the living room on a desk chair (fronting for the arm chair we lack) There were no Christmas lights or even a tree this year. No shopping spree as the TV predicted; only a quiet morning alone. Two of us--two of great thick families, sharing one apartment in a single-family two-storey turned snug, homemade three-family. Ours is a studio really, with a fridge in the living room and a dividing wall to allow for some semblance of defined living space. The fluorescent lights overhead beamed onto us with a sickly hospital tint, like memory on film, superimposed on real life. But we grinned at each other, sharing $6.99 white wine before worrying about breakfast. Like every Christmas I ever knew, the TV came on, but it was bland, more so than any Sunday sports results. Movies followed, but everything interrupted them by the second two-hour sitting. By dusk we were beckoned from our sanctuary, and we dove from the perch like doves searching for a communal connection. Our apartment disconnects us; we are in Chinatown, any other day here. No Christmas around this vortex. No rowdy comradery of family about, no friends who travel to Brooklyn nearby, really. We seek familiarity beyond Brooklyn borders, and find her communal family ties across the Hudson. II The techno dance mix of 103.5 echoed on the speakers as clean up music. It seemed to move the mist; we were boiling water on the gas stove by mid-afternoon when the heater left us to our own devices. The lazy day shower, put off for presents and holiday hoopla, found us at lunchtime with no hot water. Merry Christmas! The house became chaotic, bubbling with energy, scorching the stove with stony splashing water. A blue pail led to a conservative shower, the boiling water poured over us like hydrotherapy. As we took turns, our living room, once serene, began to vibrate, steep and spill over us too. By early evening, the heat of the radiator enveloped my right cheek and ear, more holiday wine blushing along with the heat. By day's eve, warmth wakes the house with stale, drying air, as the sun fades into light-blue streaks reflecting shadow light on the tan wall beyond the living room window. No romantic fire escape to retire to at dusk, with this 500sq. ft mass of semi-space. But in such quarters, it all feels like a tree house. Hiding from the outside, we've thrown ourselves into this option, against good advice, but proud of making it at the same time. We are making it in Brooklyn, together. Two of a kind, though individuals, we are learning how to cope with less than nothing on Christmas.
I am currently Blessed
I am listening to inner ponderings