Thankfulnessapalooza 2023 - Part Two (of Three)

Okay, dear readers, let's see if I can find ten more things for which I'm thankful, and not ten things for which I've previously expressed my gratitude on this here blog. [spoiler alert: I think I can!] If you missed part one of this year's list, CLICK HERE!

Okay - let's do this...

Pretty, and loud. TSO in DC, 2022 - photo by Joe

I am thankful for all the concerts I've been fortunate enough to witness. This could be its own long, long post, but let's just list some of the live acts I've seen... Pretenders, Iggy Pop, Art of Noise, Tangerine Dream, Bon Jovi (at Giants Stadium!), KISS, The Who, BRUCE, AC/DC, Depeche Mode, Midnight Oil, Styx, Ian Hunter, Jimmy Buffett, Rush, Yes, Shriekback, The Cure, Peter Murphy, some others I'm not recalling at the moment, and a whole lot of Trans-Siberian Orchestra and Simple Minds.

It's like 2016-2020 all over again - photo by Joe

My workplace "protesters." Most were rescued from the free table, and earlier this year, when we closed our crumbling-but-beloved suburban office, most of them were given away to worthy recipients (local police took some!). A few made the move to the DC office - a move that they are still officially protesting, although I'm pretty sure they secretly love it there.

Thank you for rescuing us! - photo by Joe

Speaking of the closing of my suburban workplace - I rescued these lights from its abandoned patio and moved them to my own. I'm weirdly proud to have them live on in my backyard.

It's... It's indescribably beautiful! - photo by Joe

Okay, this one's a little odd, but whatever. We have a drink cupboard. It is almost never as perfectly fully-stocked as it is in this picture, but on the rare occasions when this happens, it is kind of a work of art, to this beholder.

Hey - I'm FLYIN' here... - photo by Joe

Not much to say, here. I'm thankful for serendipitous fly-by photobombs by shorebirds, when shooting a sunset. 

"Is that a lot?" - photo by Joe

It had been a few years since I bled out a hasty little novel in a month, and I was urged to go for it again (more on the urging later this month, probably), so I did. It needs a LOT of revision, and it's still not done, but it exists. So, yeah. Thanks for the word count, 2023!

"Why isn't Joe here today?" - photo by K. Schrader

Super thankful for our dogs in the workplace program. We have hardly any PEOPLE in the workplace, so there are precious few dogs, but one of my favorites is this little sparkplug named Mabel. Her human sent me this picture a couple of days ago, when I was working from home. I feel so guilty, I might just have to start going to the office every day...

"I'm hungry, and you're gonna be my new person." - photo by S. McVeigh

Speaking of the office - I'm SOOOOO grateful to mark one year since this sweet dude found the perfect home. He was abandoned outside the HSUS building out in the 'burbs, and sort of lurked in our storm drains for a few days before a few of us mobilized to coax him out, catch him, confirm (via his chip and a helpful local vet) that his owners didn't want him back (dicks), and get him into a loving home. One year later, he's pretty much the king of that castle, so it's all good.

Note the snow-free pavement - photo by Joe

Snow. I'm very thankful for snow. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA no! I'm an adult now. I have zero use for snow. However... I will grant you that it is pretty, and if it could just snow enough to coat the ground and trees, and leave all paved surfaces wet (no ice, please), then yeah, I could consider being a teensy bit grateful for it.

"Where are the hot buttered rum recipes?" - photo by Joe

Gnomes. How can I not be thankful for these dudes? They're a lot like the thankfulness thing, in that it is increasingly challenging to come up with new ideas for them. Will we do it again, this Christmas? Yeah, we probably will.

Thanks for coming, you three. Four? FIVE??? No, probably not five... but a man can dream. See you tomorrow...

Santa Fe Santa Jinglebell, The World's Most Christmassy Tramp

The last Christmas Eve train, a coal drag headed for Baltimore by way of Hyattsville, rumbled southeastward into the DC suburbs.  The light Mikado locomotive that had pushed it up the hill from Brunswick had turned around on the "Y" at Gaithersburg and was headed home.  Motor cars puttered in the distance.  The air hung motionless and frozen.  It felt like snow.  A lone figure, hugging himself against the cold, stepped out of the shadows and stood under one of the handful of street lamps that dotted the small downtown that stretched for less than a mile along the tracks.

He figured it was already at least seven o'clock, and if he was going spread any goodwill this Christmas, he would have to get to jingling, and soon.  He checked his shoes, he checked his sleeves and then his tattered cap.  With all his bells fastened tightly, he did a little dance.  Jingles filled the chilly air.  He wiped his face as best he could with his dirty old washcloth, then cleared his throat and let out a few practice "fa la la's."

Gaithersburg, Maryland was not by most accounts a hobo-friendly place, although to be fair, no place was.  The B&O mainline snaked through town, but there was no yard - only a short siding and the Y-shaped engine turnaround.  It was a small farm town, and its 25 mile distance from Washington, DC might as well have been 250 miles in the 1930s.  The lonely tramp beneath the street light had walked and ridden and trespassed his way here from New Mexico over the past four months.  

He had two reasons for making sure he was here for Christmas.  First, he knew he was unlikely to run into any other hoboes, here.  This was important.  None of the other rail-riding bums could stand him or his incessant jingling, singing or preaching about the Nativity.  Plus, he was a hobo, and most hoboes didn't like each other very much.

The other thing that attracted him to this sleepy little town was a small two-bedroom house on Chestnut Street, near the fairgrounds, and that's where he was headed this Christmas Eve.  He stopped a block away from the train station and did some jingling and singing.  Usually, this netted him a few pennies and a threat or two of arrest.  Tonight, the last-minute shoppers were many, and after a few minutes at the corner of Summit and Diamond, he had nearly three dollars and a new pair of second-hand gloves.

He bought a yo-yo, a cheap rag doll and a few candy canes at the drug store and jingled over to Chestnut Street, humming the Coventry Carol to himself.

He was earlier than last year, and the lights were still on inside the tiny house.  This meant a longer wait in the cold, but more importantly, it also gave the drifter a chance to peek inside.  He crept, keeping his jingling as muted as possible, up to the side of the house, to the window that he knew was the living room.   

They were still up.  Both wore flannel pajamas; James covered in firetrucks and little Caroline still in pink footy things.  He hadn't gotten a look at them last Christmas, so he was a bit taken aback at their increased size.  Their mother, adorned in her favorite Christmas apron, was helping them hang their stockings, trying to hurry them off to bed.  The drifter-turned-peeping-Tom felt a wave of hurt slosh through him.  They were fine.  She was fine.  The house looked well-kept.  There was, still, no man in sight.  He felt low - lower than usual. 

It had been five years.  He had never met Caroline, who was a few weeks from entering the world when he had left.  He only knew her name because he had seen it scrawled in glue and glitter on her Christmas stocking.  Every year, he came to the house on Christmas Eve.  Every year, he brought with him a bag of candy and a couple of toys, as well as every last cent he had managed to beg, borrow or steal since the previous December.  Every year, he stood there searching for the courage to knock on the door, to beg forgiveness, for permission to re-join the world.  Four times, he had failed.  

This year, he came close.  He watched the children hang their stockings.  He saw them scamper off to bed.  He watched their mother as she poured herself a glass of wine, then carefully filled the kids' stockings and arranged a small pile of gifts beneath the tree.  He waited about half an hour after the last light had gone out, then tiptoed up the steps and onto the front porch.  He placed his annual gift to his abandoned family gently on the doormat, along with the same note he always left, a  barely-comprehensible apology for taking off the way he had.

He hesitated.  He put his hand on the door and whispered, "I love you," then turned and started down the front steps.  From the darkness behind him, in the porch swing, he heard a throat clear.  His instinct to run was overwhelmed by his instinct to freeze in his tracks, so he froze in his tracks.

"You know, Franklin, those jingle bells are a lot louder than you think they are."

"I was afraid of that."

"Sure you were, sweetheart.  Sure you were.  You know what I think?  I think you wanted to be heard, jingling around out here like one of Santa's elves."

"I don't know what to say to you, Nancy.  I don't know where to start.  I should go."

"You can start with 'I'm sorry,' Frankie, and see where it leads.  Come inside.  It's freezing out here."

"I know nothing can redeem me, but I am truly sorry, Nan."

"Merry Christmas, you smelly old hobo.  Come inside."