Christmas OD
The Source
A good friend of mine totally lost it. She said that she simply pulled over on Morton, somewhere between Hardees and Subway, then simply screamed. She said she’d overdosed on Christmas and there were still two weeks to go. The good news is that the dear lady was able to carry on with her round of holiday business and she thinks no one witnessed the incident. Pushing her for a few details I learned that she’d just dropped her son off at his Christmas pageant rehearsal. He was playing a shepherd and had been practicing since early November. “He’s cried all the way to every rehearsal,” she said. “It’s not like we’re forcing him into show biz. I keep asking him if he wants to drop out and he says he wants to stay…he just hates it, that’s all.” The kid could be a metaphor for many of us during all the holi-babble. I’d just come in from a trip to town in which I’d waited in a fast food drive up for coffee. The lady ahead of me was shouting at the boy at the pick up window. I have no idea what burr was rubbing her Christmas buns but there was certainly no reason to throw a McFit over French fries. I then stopped to have some copies made, only to be told that the copy-making person was on break and that I should come back in twenty minutes. An interesting way to conduct business. Then there was the aspect of trying to pull out on Morton without the aid of a stoplight. By the time I got home I was sympathizing with the bawling shepherd. Then this guy came to my door…. I’d called the furnace repair company two weeks ago, asking if they’d come and scope out my ductwork and sparkers. (I learned those two industrial words last week.) Two weeks into the waiting I was ready to again consult the yellow pages when the white van pulled up and the young man said, “I’m here to look at your furnace.” Marlin Perkins could feature a trip into my basement on his Wild Kingdom. I went there once when I bought the house 30 years ago and I’m sure I’ve returned a time or two since. All I remembered about the little dungeon was the sight of a dead animal in the corner. I think it was an animal. I think it was dead. Look, I don’t go wondering around your basement unless I have a reason and I’ll give my cellar the same courtesy. It’s small, it’s dark, and things die there. But this guy…maybe 30 years old, wearing a cap that had already seen several dank basements that morning, a pocket full of mysterious-looking gauges and gizmos, and a smile wider than the front grill of his van…this guy was just totally cool. “It might be dangerous going down there,” I said. “No problem. I’ve probably seen worse.” He didn’t actually say that he’d seen worse. He was guessing. I accompanied Mr. Furnace to the basement where I literally led the way with a broom to sweep away the cobwebs. His first job was to find the furnace. Leaning an ear in the direction of a telling whrrrr, he moved an old bookcase (Why is there a bookcase in my basement? Does that mean I own it?) and found the thing. I excused myself and went back upstairs. If I once found a dead animal in my basement then that meant he got there somehow…alive. And then…and here’s the coolest part…as I sat upstairs at my computer I heard the sound of singing from the basement. Mr. Furnace began by humming, then whistling, then actually singing! I’m sure he didn’t know how easily the sound carried up through the ducts, but this guy was happy! He was in my cobweb-strewn basement, sticking his hands into the bowels of a long-neglected furnace, besotting himself even further, and the guy was singing! Hey! I was blessed! I was totally blessed! The angry French fry lady, the inept copy clerk, the mangled mess of Morton, and even the crying little shepherd boy suddenly dissolved in a sweet nectar of joy. He thought he was checking my furnace. In fact, he was restoring my smile. Of course it even added to the blessing when he climbed out of the furnace cave and said, “Everything looks fine! You’re good for another winter!” “Great!” I said. “And what about my furnace?” “I was talking about your furnace.” Then he smiled and hopped back into the van, off to sing in someone else’s basement. Like a baby in a manger, sometimes God sends the tiniest things to bring the greatest joy.