celtic_writer

Christmas Shopping with Oliphant

Now that Thanksgiving is over, all the garlic mashed potatoes have been consumed, and no one wants to look at turkey again until next time, thoughts turn to Christmas.

Back in my younger days, I worked retail one Christmas season. I could wait at least another millennium before that ever happens again. I was employed to assist in the mens furnishings department of a very fashionable clothing store in an upscale mall in Chevy Chase, Maryland. For those of you who know me, that's funny enough. But wait, it gets better.

Every morning we were lined up and our appearance "appraised" by this six-foot-three German amazon named Gert. Gawd help ya if you had a hole in your stocking, wore a wrinkled piece of garment, or had a hair out of place. I am surprised the woman didn't open your mouth and examine your teeth, just in case you were lying about your age. Plus Gert had this thing about eyeshadow, and insisted we females wear it. "It makes a voman's eyes pop out of her head," Gert would tell us in her Arnold accent. "The customers vill love it." We, the shop help, looked at each other with confused expressions. Who the hell wants to be assisted by buggy-eyed women?

With our eyes, to the best of our knowledge, still in their sockets, we were released each morning to assist the general public in buying extremely overpriced gifts for loved ones near and far. The people were astonishing. It was as if they hung a huge sign above the store's front door that read, "Please come in and be rude...and destroy the place while you're at it." They were snotty and nasty, to us and each other. People in $1000 suits pushing and shoving to be able to be the first to buy extremely foul-smelling aftershave. A woman dropping a shirt on the floor cause it bored her and it was just too much trouble to put it back on the shelf. You wanted to blow a whistle, have all the customers line up, and simply group slap the crew of them. By the end of each day, the section of men's ties looked like a snakepit, and no employee could leave the premises until each tie was refolded and back in place.

There was another rule: if you sold it to 'em, you had to wrap it for 'em. I wrapped so many packages that Christmas, I think it is the reason that if I wrap a present for you today, it's because I really like you. Picture some haughty matron in a fur coat tapping the floor with one of her $300 shoes and sighing a lot because you were taking so long to wrap the 27 things in her order that you were making her late for her nail appointment.

But, being Irish, I did have a bit of fun with some of the real jerks. On the Saturday before Christmas, the action in the store was 100% Grade-A Bedlam. I was ordered to people the cash register by the section called "Underthings for Men." A surly self-important chap with about 47 pairs of packaged undershorts walked up to the counter, slapped them down, threw his American Express Card at me and declared, "I am in a hurry." I looked at the card. It said, "Mr. Wright." I looked at him, smiled sweetly and said, "Ah, my mother always told me I'd meet you someday."

He screamed for the manager, the police, anyone in authority who could assist him. The manager, a friend of mine, came to the rescue. He could tell the guy was a total doink, but listened carefully to the story, and managed to keep a straight face when he demanded, "Mary, I want to see you in my office." We made it to the shoe department, then around the corner to where the shoe stock sat when he burst out laughing. I had to give him the tissue paper from a shoebox so he could wipe his eyes from laughing so hard.

But there was one fellow who made that season jolly. On that same Saturday, I noticed a man, as stoic as a Zen monk, waiting his turn to be waited on. He was calm. I helped him find everything he needed, and he smiled as I pushed the buttons on the cash register. I remember he inquired about how I was doing in all the madness. He handed me his credit card, and it simply read "Oliphant."

I remember I read the name, looked up at him and smiled. I always admired his work, as he spared no one, "liberal nor conservative, sinner nor saint." And he signed the credit card slip, and drew one of his famous tiny ducky characters at the bottom of the sheet, with the words, "Have a Merry Christmas."

Image: Red Barns, Claude Monet (French, 1840-1926)

Ms. Barley

Walked the Labs along the river early this morning. We surprised a great blue heron, one standing stoically in shallow water, hunting breakfast. It squawked its displeasure, then flew low along the Potomac, transforming its body into flight. It is cold, but clear here.

When I returned, I received an email from my brother Fran with the sad news that the clan has lost one of its own. Her name: Barley. Her form while on this earth: Wheaten Terrier.

Years ago, when she was a pup, Ms. Barley would come to Aunt Mary's Summer Canine Camp, to play with the Labs for a week while her family went south to the beach. At that point, Barley was unaccustomed to stairs, afraid to go down the six in this split level to the freedom of the yard. Ms. Margaret, ever the teacher, took over.

Margaret ran down the stairs to the landing by the front door, turned and woofed at the nervous wigglin'-tail Barley, who whimpered at the top step. "C'mon, Barley. You can do it."

Nope. Not yet.

Margaret ran up the stairs, nudged Barley on the side of her face, as if to say, "Watch," and bounded down the steps once more. Barley cocked her head, then put her front paws on the second step.

This lesson didn't take very long, as Barley had both beauty and brains. A few more minutes of this tutorial in motion gave Barley the courage to plunge down those stairs to the joy of running around the yard with her instructor. After that, traveling up and down was no problem.

"I mourn the hole in my soul without her," my brother wrote in his letter this morning. Yes, I am reminded about that in the sound of Margaret's more-labored breathing as she walks along country roads at dawn. And how it is noticable that Walt has a few more grey hairs on his chin these days when he places his head on my leg as I sit working at the computer.

These dogs are our teachers. They show us that it is OK to bark when something isn't right, that there is nothing wrong with making a fool out of yourself when you care about someone else. That treating others well is the respectful thing to do. And that loyalty never, ever goes out of fashion.

Image: Soft-coated Wheaten Terrier from The Faithful Dog

Exploding Turkeys During Cold Season

Talk abounds in northern VA about the menu for the annual Thanksgiving clan gathering here a week from tonight.

I have been contemplating frying a turkey, a process much different from the traditional baking method.

According to The Food Channel, one must purchase two hundred dollars worth of equipment and supplies in order to dunk the unsuspecting bird in boiling peanut oil for about 45 minutes. And, according to the gent on cable, one should also have a fire extinguisher close by, just in case the turkey is too tubby for the amount of oil in the pot, causing spillover into the heating unit and a must-do call to the local fire department.

There is also talk of not-quite-defrosted turkeys exploding when placed in hot oil, blasting bird innards to the yards of neighbors, who might think there'd been a drive-by turkeying and call the authorities.

There are also lots of people sneezing here. The cold season has started, and every ah-choo reminds me of the unique remedy touted by my grandfather, John Leo Casey.

Pop Casey, as he was known, was a short Irish fellow from Jersey City who worked as a dispatcher for the Pennsylvania Railroad. He was a crusty gent, and at 5' 2" tall, called everyone he met "Shorty." He lived to get a rise out of you.

One Thanksgiving during my childhood, my mother Dottie M. came upon a Three Stooges-like scene of her father and my 7-year-old self out on his driveway. He was holding me back with his hand on my head and I was swinging my 7-year-old arms with all my might in an desperate attempt to punch him in the stomach, the result of him ticking me off about something during that happy holiday celebration. Dottie M., appalled by my un-lady-like behavior, commanded me to stop. Pop said, "Leave her alone. There is something wrong with a kid who doesn't have any spirit."

Pop would tick you off. Then, assured of your strength of character, let you in on the secrets of life. Like how to cure the common cold.

According to Pop: "If you have a cold, swallow a thumb-full of Vicks Vapo-rub and wash it down with a swig of kerosene. It'll cure whatever ails ya."

I remember sitting there, three white dots and a big cartoon balloon above my head, thinking, "This is totally whacked."

But he did use his own remedy. I witnessed it. Plus the man smoked three packs of unfiltered Pall Malls a day...and lived to be 84.

Don't anyone light a match.

Image: Turkey, by Ms. Vicky Kate Gillen, then age 8.