Save Your Bows

By Timothy Anderson

“The only thing I regret about my past is the length of it.

If I had to live my life again, I'd make the same mistakes, only sooner. “

~Tallulah Bankhead

The traditions of our lives often pass by without recognition, unacknowledged and cast off until sometime later. It is only when confronting the lonely places, an Interstate highway, a solitary walk in the park, or the serenity just before sleep, that those moments return to grace our lives. These dusted images remind and reflect who we are, where we came from, and sometimes can direct us toward our destination.

In late 2002, the night before Christmas Eve, my boyfriend Pete and I were mid-point in the near 400 mile trek to “Grandma's house.” As we drove to the tap-tap rhythm of the windshield wipers, I found myself transported into one of those backward glance moments. Rolling ever westward over Interstate 90, I felt motion ease the stress of the holidays. The snow spit gentle flurries punctuated every few miles by blinding squalls. The highway became covered in the finest star-dusted powder. A veteran of these uncertain nights, Pete grabbed the left lane as the headlights caught the swirls. Novice drivers bunched together and slowed, while residents of the high country claimed the left lane and made their time. Eventually the holiday sounds of the radio could hardly compete with the scraping of ice accumulating on the wipers. Entering another whiteout, we slowed and waited for vision to return. Surrounded by the snow, I saw her reflecting back at me across the windshield.

I don't know how old I was in that memory, but I knew that I was back in Oregon, on our small horse farm. I crept downstairs to my mother's sanctuary, her art studio, and stood watching her. She sat, bent over on a wood-framed chair, painting a clock, applying her intricate designs as Christmas carols played on the radio. I could hear her hum softly along to the songs that gave her spiritual relief.

Brushes lay scattered everywhere. Assorted paint, both mixed and colors yet to be harnessed, waited still fresh in their tubes, competing for precious space on the cluttered table. This was my mother's domain. Hers was a sacred place of magic, a tranquil oasis, where she quietly created beauty on wooden furniture, plaques, and ancient trunks. Sometimes she painted great seascapes or brilliant sunsets. Sometimes it was bowls of fruit or deserted barns. Sometimes she painted things she would never finish.

Tonight her art of choice was rosemaling, a near-lost Norwegian cultural tradition. , Rosemaling took form in the painting of long scrolls combining blended earth tones. My mother delicately moved her brushes, applying the pigments in consistent even strokes. Blending colors, and crisscrossing lines of pattern against the wood. Abstract flowers appeared, dancing around the face of the clock and highlighting the Norwegian words trotting across the bottom margins of the timepiece.

I couldn't read the language but I knew it was something wonderful, a wish or a blessing that would appear on a kitchen wall or atop a hutch. I knew that the clock was most likely bound for my step-grandmother, a woman who'd made my mother's life difficult, if not pure hell. Bringing back fairy tale images of the evil step mother, the story of Cinderella seemed almost pale in comparison. That my mother could devote such attention and detail to a gift bound for a woman who'd visited so much pain and anguish upon her and her children, seemed the most basic tenet of forgiveness.

Standing on the stairs, I made sure not to break the silence framing my mother's thoughts. She seemed so lost in the world of one who'd found an escape. The brush strokes of love, repeatedly applied, as if they might erase decades of rejection, disapproval, and the jealous impulses of a stepmother who left doubt where assurance should have resided, seemed enough for my mother.

I crept back up the stairs, fetching my coat and rubber boots to go feed horses. Slogging through the mud, I fought the December cold dampness that stung my face and represented the entirety that was our lives in Oregon. Looking back toward the house, I could see the lights coming from the basement where she remained. That moment would forever remain in my mind. The light of one who sought whatever means necessary to banish the darkness created by another is an image I cannot easily set free.

Returning to the present, I looked at Pete and our rig so loaded full of presents. I wondered about such excess and if we too were seeking some sort of approval and acceptance that might never come, regardless of the beauty and thoughts behind our efforts.

~ ~ ~

Nearly a month prior, on the day after Thanksgiving, I gingerly stepped inside my parents' home, already decorated with 9,000 Christmas lights. And 7,000 feet of Garland. And two artificial Christmas trees, the older of which resembled a giant toilet bowl cleaner. Their collection of decorations represented enough purchases from various Christmas stores to ignite an entire region's economy. This year I'd avoided the annual decorating blitzkrieg. Yet my parents, in all their wisdom, left one task still to be completed: The annual decoration of the Christmas Village.

I'd dreaded the task for weeks. My mother insisted that I had to decorate her village. “You always do such a nice job, Tim. I can't make it look as nice as you do.” I'd protested as the Thanksgiving turkey was passed around the table the night before, but my lack of enthusiasm was completely dismissed.

“Tim, your mother wants you to do it, and I expect you will. What's wrong with you that you can't decorate your mother's village this year?” My father applied the guilt in consistent even strokes.

I held my tongue but I could certainly find a lot of things wrong with her village. My participation in this holiday tradition threatened every remaining gay gene in my body. For starters, my mother was completely addicted to “Dickens era Village” pieces, representing various horrors from the Charles Dickens classic, “A Christmas Carol.” I'd endured enough “Tiny Tim” slams as a child to have serious issues with the entire story.

Worse yet, all of Mom's village pieces and accessories were period correct, which is to say they were directly modeled and cast from the same nightmare on your wannabe Victorian street as the famous tale. Mom knew her Victorian style guide. She had plenty of cobble stone shoppes, quaint little lamps, and enough electrical cords attached to each of these “hand painted collector's heirlooms” to rival the wiring found in Grand Coulee Dam. And she refused to accept modernization of any kind. No vehicles, or even subtle neon in her village.

During my second try at completing my college education, I'd been blackmailed and coerced into helping in the annual transformation of my parents' humble McMansion into a showcase of Christmas Spirit. To help keep the Peace on Earth, Goodwill to parentkind, I'd hung their lights, doused their fake Christmas trees with even faker snow, and even tested the loyalty of friends who I conned into assisting me.

I no longer live with my folks. With a place of my own 400 miles away from them, I thought I was safe from the influence of Scrooge, Tiny Tim and the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future. Yet my parents still sought my participation in the erection of “The Anderson Christmas Village of 2002 ~A Heritage of Remembrance.”

I knew I had to do something. The pressure to permanently end their reliance on my yearly reconstruction of the Victorian village hung over me like mistletoe. Each December the village came to life on top of my mother's ancient upright piano. Christmas after Christmas, I was charged with the development of a master use plan for the temporary construction, viewing, and eventual decommission of “The Anderson Christmas Village~A Heritage of Remembrance.” Season after season, streets were laid, structures arranged and electrical cords wrestled with as I attempted to create a village worthy of the title. Accommodations were made for the cat, toddlers, and the changing of batteries. With each passing celebration, my mother made the task increasingly difficult as new pieces were acquired and set aside for their grand unveiling and subsequent addition to the village. My mother's fondness for all things circa 1800 fed my desired permanent escape from Christmas Village Creationism.

At first I struggled with various implausible schemes to enable my exit strategy. I could “accidentally” drop a piece or two, but then I'd most likely have to pay for them. I could assist in the disassembly process, safely storing crucial village pieces in places where they'd not be found again until the next IRS audit. Unfortunately I'd also be enlisted in the Victorian Christmas Rescue search party and if not discovered, my mother would just replace the missing village pieces. I knew these solutions were not the answers I sought.

Finally and most brilliantly in the middle of my holiday drive to Seattle, I realized the solution to my problem. The “Anderson Christmas Village” had simply not cost my father enough. I understood! Ding, ding, ding, the light bulb went off. I could win Dad over to my side! But only if I could drive the cost of this annual assemblage of authentic Victorian buildings right through my parents very unauthentic Victorian roof.

~ ~ ~

I sat down in their living room, surveying their collection of Department 56 Dickens' Village boxes. Happy forest green Department 56 packaging covered every spare surface, table, and couch. Each Victorian replica waited silently for the inevitable annual unveiling. I began unpacking each structure. I unrolled the fake snow carpet with “Magik Sparkles.” I untangled cords, sought outlets, and comforted figurines forever sentenced to a life of plastic snow and ceramic frostbite.

To my horror, I discovered that the “cobblestone” rubber road which bisects the village had been tightly rolled with rubber bands. Unrolling the only road the residents of Dickens' Village had ever known, it looked like a kiddie coaster with humps and bumps. Nothing would make the damn thing lay flat. I searched for figurines unexposed to the Atkins Diet, hoping to secure their cooperation in weighing down the road. None of the round women I found were heavy enough to flatten our little road to perdition.

I began arranging the pieces at odd angles, cramming them closely together with authentically Dickensian compactness. Soon enough, the village was completely finished, with the exception of the road which still refused to lay flat. And a wide expanse of exposed, empty piano top.

“Mom, Dad, I need you in here. I've got the village up. But there is a problem.”

Both parental figures rushed in and stood in the center of the room, staring at the marvelous village that twinkled from the piano top. Little Victorian houses, stores, and other assorted testaments to “A Christmas Carol” huddled together, lopsided at the far end of the piano.

“Tim, there's a big hole at this end of the village.” My mother wailed. “It doesn't look right. You can't be finished.” She paused. “Are you?”

Shrugging I offered. “Mom, I used everything you gave me to put up. Unless you have other pieces that you haven't unpacked, everything is here. We need to crowd the buildings together or else it won't be authentic. They didn't have culdesacs, or large view lots in those days. Everyone lived right on top of everyone else. Do you have any more pieces to add?

My mother shook her head miserably.

“Are there any other pieces that you wanted to get that you haven't purchased yet? There's a Christmas Store in the mall. We could run down there real quick like and get them and I can finish this up later.” I turned away so my father couldn't see the smirk that threatened to consume my composure. Looking at Pete's sour look, I instantly knew he was already one step ahead of me. He shook his head now in a silent, unspoken, “Don't you dare.”

My dad never saw his undoing until it was too late. Mom was already lobbying my defenses down father. “We can't just leave it like that! Is there room on the credit card?”

In a huge tactical error, my father acknowledged that he'd just received a new credit card.

Waiting for the predictable bargaining that would come next, I listened as my parents began their negotiations. I stepped back out of the fray. The hole at the end of the village was unmistakable. The other structures, light fixtures, and figurines were all meticulously arranged with such an eye toward authenticity that even Ma Hallmark would have been pleased. My mother took note that the purchase of additional pieces was far more preferable than the rearrangements of the pieces already on display. As they discussed the options, she admitted that indeed there were additional pieces that she had been considering.

“I really like the Ebenezer Scrooge piece. It has dancing people upstairs and they move around one another. I don't have many action pieces and those dancing people are so happy. It's a bit on the expensive side though.” Her confession didn't seem so much an argument against the acquisition of such a village piece but rather an attempt at lessening the sticker shock that was to follow.

My father handed my mother the virgin credit card and looked at me sternly. “I blame you for this. I just want you to know that.”

As the three of us headed for the door, I couldn't help but think this was working out far better than I'd hoped. I just knew that somewhere above us the ghosts of Christmas Spending, Christmas Over-Spending and Christmas Spent were doing the “Jingle Bell Rock” in our honor.

~ ~ ~

My relationship with my parents has been a difficult one at times. I admit I have often been a generous contributor to the uneasiness. Having been out of the closet for over two decades, I know from first hand experience that many ministers have gay children. I've always wondered why so many of these Baptists, Lutherans, and other theological types haven't formed an association, a support group or some other effective way to affirm their kids, each other, and remind the world that just because you have gay kids, doesn't mean you are a failure or that the Lord has forsaken you.

These mostly gentle servants of the Lord not only face their own fears and prejudices but they must face their parishioners and their beloved children, while at the same time looking over their shoulder for the lightning bolt that must surely be on its way from God.

Not even Job dealt with this issue.

The Apostle Paul never covered this striking crisis of faith in any of his letters to the early church. So what gives? What do you do when you are the leader of a flock and one day you wake up and realize that your son is not only the fastest kid on the block, but that he does amazing things with saddle blankets on walls, can recite every Village People and Abba song by heart and he is simply fabulous when let loose with his mother's Dickens Village? These talents are not just blessed upon every child.

My poor parents.

It gets worse. Recently my parents and I have engaged in discussions that have left all concerned deeply unsettled. Some of our heated arguments involved exploding HIV transmission rates in the gay community, while others involved risky behavior among truckers. Sitting around the kitchen table we explored bareback, (non condom) sexual activity among truckers, truck chasers, prostitutes, and drug users, and I confessed far more knowledge and expertise about sexual activity, closeted lives, and the sexual realities of the post AIDS era than any parent would want to know. This is not the life most Lutheran ministers dream of for their children. While reading one particularly outrageous story regarding condom outreach among lot lizards (truck stop prostitutes) my father threw it down and exclaimed, “I'm sorry, Tim. But I just can't read this.” The thought of his son, on his knees in a truck stop parking lot, using his mouth to put a condom on a prostitute's fingers, was far more than Pastor Anderson could stomach. I never had the opportunity to mention to my father that I wasn't much for the taste of latex either.

I love my parents, and I know that in spite of all the outrageous things I have dropped into their laps, they love me. Yet I also know that they cannot accept me as a gay person. They accept me as their son, as a trucker, a writer, and a complete financial disaster. But they can't do the “I'm Coming Out” dance, join PFLAG, or even acknowledge who I am to most of their associates. What pain that must cause. The awkwardness, the excuses, and the changing of the subject must be unending. It's not that I am disowned. It's just sometimes I'm not exactly claimed either. I guess that's where Jesus comes in.

Although my parents and I have lived through this stalemate for many decades, after all this time I still believe that even if Christ were to appear before them and offer the grace of His understanding, they wouldn't easily change their perspective regarding my sexual orientation. I know I am one of God's kids, I just wish they had confidence and peace of mind in the same arena.

Naturally the most perfect time for all of this unsettledness to come boiling over and burn everyone within several states is during the holidays when tensions are high. Unfortunately, in our family, although BEING high might make everyone relax, partaking of certain distractions is highly discouraged. There has to be an outlet. Some other way we can blow off steam. Something, anything, to ease the pressure. And so we bake.

My parents enjoy a huge kitchen in their McMansion. There are places for fryers, counters for rolling dough, places to put hot things and places to keep cool things cool. There are gadgets and whatchamacallits, and if needed, twenty people could work in that great hall. Mom and Dad's kitchen goes unused most of the year. But as the holidays draw near, after numerous trips to the store to re-provision, they set out to bake. Norwegian pastries. Chocolate and caramel fudge. Toffee and cookies. All of these delights appear after marathon baking sessions that fill the house with aroma.

It is a blessed time to be alive and a terrible time to be on a diet. The cooking of these delicacies is a labor of love. Food is also a credible distraction. As many people have learned at Lutheran potlucks, the most difficult time to question someone is when your mouth is full. Lutherans have dedicated their lives to making sure that at most every opportunity when folks gather together, our mouths are very full. It is for this reason that so many assume us to be a generally peaceful people.

Diversionary baking became an effective strategy on the home front as well. During the holidays we eat, and when we are tired of that, we eat some more. Our mouths are full. Our minds are distracted. It is easy to love and offer good tidings of joy and mirth when your stomach and taste buds as so satiated. Maybe this is not the most healthy and wholesome way to deal with our disappointments. Yet the pleasing reality of food, the definite answers it provides to an elemental need, might just allow us to forget the questions that we cannot answer and would rather not ask. The Anderson array of pastries, sweet stuff and traditional meals is certainly an approach that over the last decade has contributed to a general sense of peace.

Especially, as the Almond Toffee Chocolate Candy is passed around again and again.

~ ~ ~

Arriving at the mall, at the height of the busiest shopping day of the year, we finally found parking in the next state. Already convinced this was the worst idea in modern history, Pete was having none of the Yuletide, “Ho Ho Ho” action. The mall was insane, with screaming kids, picture posing Santas on meth, and not enough room between the aisles of most displays to allow breathing.

Heading directly to the holiday store, I began looking for a village figure or piece heavy enough to weigh down my mother's Victorian cobblestone path. I finally found “Lumberjack”, US $27.50 (“coordinates with otter creek sawmill”) “Lumberjack” defined flannel, boasting a bundled up butch woodsman leading a draft horse. I also realized the beast of burden pulled a substantial log behind, and I resisted showing the piece to Peter and asking, “Got wood?” Lifting the ceramic piece, I decided it was definitely heavy enough to paperweight the road.

Next I spied “Dairy Delivery Sleigh”, US$ 37.50. Another long, extended piece, “Dairy Delivery Sleigh” portrayed a highly detailed dappled gray draft horse pulling a long milk wagon sleigh. Reigning the huge horse, a bundled up rider huddled inside the carriage. Again, this piece felt heavy enough so I grabbed the last remaining boxed one, and turned to find my mother.

Pete did a quick mental tally of the money already on the line. “Tim, that's $65 and we don't have any buildings!” Turning to acknowledge the obvious, I nodded. “I know. This is going to get expensive.”

“But Tim, your father…”

“There she is, over at the sales counter. Let's see what she thinks.”

Approaching the counter, I heard my mother discussing a boxed village piece with a sales associate who stood patiently behind the counter. We listened as the two women discussed the piece in question. Sure enough, my mother had already found the last remaining Department 56, “Ebenezer Scrooge” Dickens' Village Piece in all of western Washington. US $85.00 (“Comes complete with detailed interior scene, three dancing ghosts and Ebenezer Scrooge.”)

“Are you sure those are ghosts dancing upstairs,” my mother asked the patient saleswoman. “I don't want any ghosts in my village. Ghosts are demonic and I don't think satanic elements are appropriate in a Christmas Village.”

I couldn't believe I was hearing this from my mother. The clerk was equally incredulous.

Pete, seeing the writing on the wall, turned, and muttered “I'm not watching this. I'll be waiting for you two at that bench over by Santa in the middle of the mall.” He was gone.

“Mom, are you kidding?”

“No Timothy, I am not kidding. Those are not ghosts dancing up there. They look like people!”

“Mom what part of “A Christmas Carol” did you not watch? Hello? I mean, don't “The Ghost of Christmas Past,” “The Ghost of Christmas Present,” and “The Ghost of Christmas Future” mean anything to you?”

The saleswoman seemed fascinated by our exchange. At first, the short smiling woman behind the counter thought my mother was kidding. But now it seemed entirely plausible that my mother wanted her “Dickens' Village” pieces without well, that nasty and troublesome Dickens element. Or maybe she just wanted the family values version; one Scrooge story, hold the three ghosts, please.

In an attempt to calm the situation, I held up the two long, heavy pieces I'd found to weigh down the road. “What do you think of the “Dairy Delivery Sleigh” and “Lumberjack”? Personally I think Lumberjack is very rugged and masculine, eh? Look at those shoulders, Mom!” Camping it up, I held Lumberjack with affection. The sales lady giggled. Mom was having none of it. She'd already noticed that the boxes I held were a different color than the Dickens' Village accessories. She ignored the broad shoulders comment.

“Tim, are those Dickens' Village accessories or are they from some other set? I only collect Dickens. You know that.”

Looking closer at the boxes, I realized that indeed the items I held came from the Department 56 New England Village Series. Yet they were the exact same size as the Dickens pieces. I saw no harm in combining the two. Each set seemed to reflect the same time period. Gazing over my mother's shoulder, I saw the Department 56 Krispy Kreme Doughnut Shop from the Snow Village set. US $85.00 (“Set of 2, Krispy Kreme and the Krispy Kreme bow tie design are registered trademarks of HDN Development Corporation-A Krispy Kreme Doughnut Corporation Subsidiary”). A deliciously evil thought overcame me as I imagined sneaking into the living room on Christmas Eve and setting up a complete Krispy Kreme stand including illuminated “Hot Donuts Now!” sign smack dab in the middle of Victorian land. The conversation between the clerk and my mother brought me back into the present.

“Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I think he's right. The figures dancing in the upper room of the Dickens' Village piece do appear to be the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future. Remember, this piece is an accurate and authentic replica of the home from the classic Dickens story. Also I think you'll be relieved to know that many of our customers mix and match pieces from the New England Waterfront Village Series with the Dickens' Village Series. I'm pretty sure they were meant to be combined.”

We both watched my mother for any sign of agreement. My mother carefully inspected the two pieces I held. “Are you sure they are interchangeable?”

The woman nodded.

Abruptly changing course, my mother said, “I'd like to see it please”

“The Scrooge piece, right?”

Mom nodded.

The sales associate carefully unpacked the house, removing the protective plastic and gently handed the authentic replica of “Scrooge gets down with his home boys” to my mother. Gingerly, Mom turned the ceramic piece to examine it from every possible angle. Looking carefully at the figures, frozen in dance around Ebenezer, she turned to me. “Tim, those are clearly people. They are not ghosts. See for yourself.” She handed the piece to me.

I squinted into the little house. Ebenezer stood in the center of the room. Surrounding him were three figures, in various disco poses. Ebenezer appeared decked out in multicolored earth tones. The other three characters seemed somewhat ethereal; white, maybe silver, and well, very ghost-like. And what was with that other little detail? Weren't those chains hanging all over them?

“They're ghosts, Mom.”

“Stop it, Tim, those are people! Quit this already! If you expect me to buy the two of you lunch, then I suggest you start seeing people. And you better start seeing them quickly!”

There was no point in arguing with her. I could always claim later that hunger had created illusions of people, and that in desperation, I gave into her fantasies.

“I think I'd like the “Ebenezer Scrooge” piece and I'd also like the “Teaman & Crupp China Shop” US $64.00. My mother put the virgin VISA card on the counter and the woman rang up the sale. I watched as an expenditure rivaling a moderate car payment transformed the former undeveloped hole in my mother's village from open space to crawl space.

The sales woman handed me the sacks, and smiling, added, “Tim, you be nice to your mother. Remember what Santa says about being naughty.”

I paused and turned back toward the woman. “If Santa is still checking his list this late in the game, then I am pretty much already screwed.”

“Young man, you better watch your language.” My mother glared at me while the woman behind the counter bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing.

I didn't catch the link at the time, but my mother's warning to watch my language was a timely admonition. On the trip from the ranch over to my parent's house, I'd repeatedly warned my significant other that my parents were conservative. He'd have to watch his language if he wanted to make a good impression, and so far he'd been nearly angelic.

Now, as we joined him in the mall, he couldn't help but notice my mother's acquisitions. Looking at the sacks, he rolled his eyes. I could only shrug.

Making our way to the truck, we dodged all sorts of suicidal drivers. As we inched our way out of the parking lot, a crazed woman suddenly appeared out of nowhere, driving the wrong way against oncoming traffic. Without thinking I screamed, “That bitch! Did you just see what she did? Like she couldn't wait along with everyone else.”

My boyfriend looked at me in horror. My mother piped up, “Tim, that wasn't very nice!”

“She could have killed us all” I protested. I've been in enough accidents for one lifetime.”

Yet as we drove to McDonalds, I realized that my language described hypocrisy. I'd warned my boyfriend to watch his use of colorful language and here I came off with my own offensive potty mouth. Boyfriends are not known for just letting slights like this go. I was so busted. I never used words like that in normal every day life, so what was up with this? Had the stress of constructing a simple Christmas Village led me here? Or did my short fuse result from being in such close proximity to my parents? As a result of my Scrooge like behavior, was I going to get a visit from Christmas ghosts myself?

My father met us as we walked in the door. Surveying the damage, he confessed that he “didn't want to know” what our journey to the land of holiday retail therapy had cost him. Unpacking the boxes and removing each item, I swore that I was going to be on my best behavior. I'd make sure my mother's village became a breathtaking testament to Department 56, Dickens, and the innocent world my mother sought to reclaim.

The Lumberjack and Dairy sleigh figurines perfectly weighed down the road. The “Teaman & Crupp China Shop” filled in one of the remaining open spaces left in her village. Setting aside the last corner lot for the prized “Ebenezer Scrooge House”, I figured her most prized piece should inhabit the village's most valuable parcel.

Carefully I unpacked the piece, and removed the plastic. Untangling the cord, I plugged the Scrooge residence in. I stood, mouth agape, gazing into the most disturbing and yet ultimately humorous of scenes. Gently placing the Ebenezer Scrooge piece among the others, I bent over in silent awe. I could barely believe what I saw.

Unlike the other pieces, the light fixture in this house was not golden, nor did it glow over the fake snow and Magik Sparkles with warmth and invitation. At first, although the light emanating from the house of Scrooge seemed familiar, I couldn't place it. Silver, and electric, the spell cast by its glow seemed very out of place from the other pieces. Under that sheen, as the three figures danced and twirled around Scrooge, the moment seemed lifted out of a very different time. Scratch the Victorian era, make that a Studio 54, don't get home until 5 am in the morning, party hearty, palace of lust era.

My mother, I realized with a start, had a very intense choice to make. Either she could acknowledge that indeed her village did have ghosts, as per Dickens and his “Christmas Carol,” or she could embrace the only other alternative that explained the spectacle dancing before my very eyes.

Now I understood my familiarity with that strange and compelling light. For, I'd known lights of similar texture with their hypnotic, if not sexual draw. I recognized this analogous incandescence as a presence whose constant pulse had beckoned to me ever since I'd come out. I could place those pulsing strobes and the way their reflective light turned those who danced with me into near angelic if not haunting figures of beauty. Alas, the figures in Ebenezer Scrooge's home dancing and twirling did not have to be ghosts. No, these happy men, dancing alone while dancing together could represent an altogether different “other” interpretation. An interpretation that still supported my mother's innocent theory that yes, these were just ordinary people. But a theory that went one wee little step further. Indeed these were just three male people, dancing beneath a disco light. Indeed those three male people, dancing beneath a disco light, danced around a very well dressed fabulous stranger. Folks, we didn't have to live in the cold world of a Victorian Christmas a second longer. We had a choice! For Alas unto them recognition was borne that upon this night and for ever after this could be Queer Eye for the Fundamentalist Christmas Village. Here was the Fab Four dancing us into a very stylish Yuletide Rave. My smile faded a bit.

Yet, as I watched their hypnotic rhythms, these ceramic figures circling a lone stationary man, I identified with the Scrooge figure in his stillness. The stationary Scrooge figure seemed on the verge of a decision, representing both myself and nearly every gay man I'd ever witnessed in the final stages of the party. He seemed to be standing unsure, in those hesitant instances before last call. Those moments where one wonders if one more dance will be enough to satiate.

Bent over my mother's piano, I could actually see Scrooge standing as testament to those of us who sometimes frequent the nation's temples to rhythm and letting go, wanting to participate but for some reason reluctant to dance. Although part of me couldn't help but giggle at the thought that I was witnessing the first gay moment in my mother's Victorian Village, that she'd unwittingly introduced the joyless residents of the village to same sex dancing, another part of me wondered what had taken so long to find the joy in what should have always been a merry time in a happy little town.

Somehow, I knew that if I shared my discovery with my mother, we be having a love-in the likes of which the Anderson household had not seen in a decade. I knew that if forced, she'd choose to re-interpret the dancers as ghosts. Sometimes even a dance with Satan is preferable to a spin around the floor on the arms of the homosexual agenda. It didn't matter to me. I already figured that somewhere in that happy little house, the one with the most flawless lights, precise sound, and amazing people and inhabiting the best view in Dickens' Village, the ghosts my mother refused to acknowledge were already partying. Her lack of acknowledgement did not offend nor did it dampen their mood. Christmas Spirit overrode any hesitancy.

~ ~ ~

In recalling Christmases from my youth, I can still see my mother as she spent many hours bent over her work, painting in her studio, preparing the gifts she would give. The labors of love she created for so many loved ones probably went unrecognized. Yet as an adult, I am beginning to think that those timeless hours, spent alone with the scent of oil and acrylic paints, must have been self guided magical journeys. Each dab of paint, blending of color, and application, carried a thought from the past, toward a new, future memory.

Now each year, I sit before a keyboard searching for meaning as Christmas approaches. The journey of the past year's dances linger. Across my screen many memories and meanings compete for acknowledgement. When I pause and stare outside, trying to catch those glimpses, sometimes I see those moments lifting up in reflection from the whitened river below, as the inevitable snow glides down from heaven. I can only imagine the memories, both joyful and sad, that my mother has relived preparing her own tokens of love.

In our family, Christmas was always celebrated on Christmas Eve because my father had sermons to prepare and services to conduct on Christmas Day. In the parade of all those Christmas memories marching now toward middle age, I look back on those seasons and above all else, it is my mother who seemed to have so many expectations. During the holidays, I believe she came out of her shell, softened, and maybe tried to recapture some of the magic she'd lost over the years. Somehow the actual presents never seemed to match the air of wonder hanging over the many homes we've celebrated Christ's birth in over the decades. This air of expectation represented a season of light in the midst of our darkened northern winters, and I know my mother at times became more childlike than her children as the combinations of tradition fell among us.

And did we have traditions! Unwritten, yet practiced with precision came each year, like clockwork. My father always put all his gifts aside, refusing to open any of them until everyone else was finished. My grandfather would delight in the antics of grandkids, and no matter how hideous or homemade the gifts from his grandchildren, he would laugh and roll with delight and we just knew that the treasures he held in his hands were the most amazing things he'd ever received. I suppose that considering the love that went into those offerings that just might be true.

Other traditions included my sibling's annual reenactment of the birth of Jesus. I still can't write about some of those hysterically funny escapades as everyone in my family has threatened lawsuits. I need good representation before I go telling that story on the mountain.

Another tradition revolved around my parents' unique relationship. My mother always bought gifts for my father that she wasn't supposed to. She always overspent. And although some years my parents agreed not to purchase anything for each other because funds were limited, never once did my mother comply. Upon discovery of these presents, my father always grew red and embarrassed, threatening to take each one back.

I believe this practice was my initial introduction to the abstract truth that some rules were made to be broken. On those rare years when my father actually complied with the spousal ban on gifts, my mother's sadness at being forgotten, and my father's failure to pull a rabbit out of the hat at the last minute seemed overwhelming. Gifts to her from her children erased some of that sense, but I still remember the unwritten rules that seemed so firm and yet pliable around the twinkling tree.

As we've all grown older, I have to wonder at those traditions. They came out of nowhere, but despite our differences, they unite us still. My mother's admonition to “slow down” while unwrapping our gifts, remains just as firm now as it was when I was a child. She still struggles to track the ripped wrapping paper, representing a feast of difficult to keep up with thank you notes. I know that even in the midst of the chaos of Christmas Eve, she is already in preparation to gratefully write generous relatives.

I can also still hear her pleading, “Save your bows!” Sure enough in the center of the room always stood a cardboard box that as Christmas Eve waned would fill with bows and bits of brightly colored ribbon. Some of those bows, already reused for nearly a generation, passed from relative to relative, reflected seasons already golden in retrospect. “Save your bows” defines Christmas at the Andersons like nothing else. Those bows, so worried over, are the most wonderful link pointing us back to what came before. Rejuvenated, year after year, the tape on the back of each has small fragments of wrapping paper, representing previous history and already forgotten generosity. “Save your bows!” is a call to save our traditions. We can reuse them, finding meaning from the past.

A lot of people today complain that Christmas has become all about overspending. We hear warnings on the news, on the radio, and from credit counseling services about the dangers of blowing holiday budgets. But when you think about it, Christmas seems at its core a lesson in overspending. God sends his only son to humanity to serve as the ultimate sacrifice. No reserve account, no holding back, but rather the deluxe, complete with all the accessories gift set representing everything He had to give. What generosity, offered to those who had nothing to offer in return. God was the first to buy on credit, and to pay a debt over time. And maybe, He was also the first purchaser to really need credit counseling around the holidays. He definitely went in the red, big time, with that first Christmas gift.

As the snow falls and the holidays approach, I believe the Christmas Story calls us all toward overspending, going into the red, and giving all we have. Loving the cultures of the world that hate us, and pouring our resources upon them until we have nothing left to give, seems the only way out of the mess we are in. If there is any hope to be found on Christmas Eve, it is that we have many gifts to offer, and that we should all make the choice to overspend, as if our lives depend on it.

In the meantime, I have this strange feeling, that as much as I dread a return to all things Victorian, I will once again set up my mother's Christmas Village this year. I am comforted knowing that once again the Dickens' Village White Party will rage. That the Abba remixes laid down in the house of Scrooge will be flawless. That all the earth-toned people in the land of Dickens will dance like they mean it. And, that even those ghosts of Christmas Spending, Christmas Overspending, and Christmas Spent, the same ghosts that aren't even supposed to inhabit mom's village, will be celebrating a wonderful Christmas Spirit hand in hand with all the other characters of “A Christmas Carol.”

Hopefully for those of us still living in the real world, as we tear through the holidays, at some point we will remember my mother's admonition. Save your bows.

Merry Christmas and a happy 2004.

From all of us at the High Mountain Ranch

© 2003 Timothy Anderson

Editors Note: The story” Save Your Bows” was written in December 2002 before Tim's surgery. The photo's that accompany this story were shot in November 2003. As in year's past, once again, Tim found himself decorating his parent's Christmas Village. Again, as in previous years, this year Tim's parents found a huge hole in the center of their sacred Christmas Village. As a result, Tim's mother was forced to acquire an additional village piece. We'd like to introduce our readers to “Cratchit's Corner”, US $80.00. (Interior scene of Bob Cratchit's wife and daughter setting the table for Christmas Dinner) 

In previous years, the Anderson's have also relied upon Tim's guidance in decorating their yard. Under duress, Tim's supervised this year's “lighting the yard so you can see it from Heaven” operation. The McMansion was again transformed into a winter wonderland. Upon the completion of the decorating blitzkrieg, a thousand points of light lit up the neighborhood. Unfortunately, as the family gathered to survey the beauty of so many Christmas lights, the main circuit breaker blew and the yard went dark.

Before any additional holiday lighting displays are attempted, the Anderson's require electrical engineering consultation and for the remainder of the 2003 Christmas season, certain segments of the yard remain conspicuously darkened, out of necessity to safeguard the circuit breakers.