Here comes Christmas!

They’re usually spread all over the airwaves around this time, each year. Because nothing says Christmas quite like the stumble-trap of a miniature railroad system circling hour after hour around the base of your tree.

My grandmother, she’s 93 as of yesterday, and she had this train set that she would year-in-year-out place around the Christmas tree, letting it silently circle on its tracks, beneath the Douglas Fir.  Inevitably, she’d forget that she had put a train set around the Christmas tree and would trip over it, repeatedly, each time remarking how dangerous it was to put such a train set around a Christmas tree, in the first place.

I’m not sure where her insistence on this particular tradition stems from, but it’s as clockwork as the Breaking of the Egg Nog Two-Cup Rule, which happens just as soon as Aunt Rub gets to town, and manages to get all of herself in that brave wheelchair and swaddled into the den, and then parked in the corner between the brick hearth and the game cabinet.  She gives but one gift, each year, “[...] for the family,” she says, and that gift is a new boxcar to add to the impending pitfall that was the train set.

Well, that and her company. So, a gift and a half, I guess.

Despite this, and the thousands of tales that I’ve collected in my lifetime, which continually spring forth from every family holiday, I developed no especial attraction for trains.

Or egg nog.

But, I did, even though I wasn’t aware of it at the time, begin to harbor a slight, festering desire to actually ride a train. A bona fide train.

Which led to my embarking on such a trip with America’s premier railway system known as Amtrak, this time last year. Not to be confused with Amway. Also, by “premier,” I mean, The Only Railway System in America.

First of all, I’d like to point out that trains are expensive. I accepted that, though, because I’d decided if I was going to take a train, I would need a sleeper car. (That’s where the money is made).

Next, I had to settle on a location. It just so happened that a friend of mine, at the time, was debuting a new musical he’d written, at the University of Michigan, and since I’d never been to Michigan (indeed, I wasn’t sure it was even a real place and/or was in Canada), I chose Ann Arbor, phoned ahead and told him I was “on my way. Riding the rails, I am.”

I've got nothing but time.

Enjoy that, he said. I’ll see you at midnight.

That’s another thing I’d like to point out: trains do not like to run on a conveniently timed schedule, especially not when traveling long distances.

If you’re visiting someone far away, they will feel the exact same amount of pain you did while en route because they will have to wait up until your train arrives. Thankfully, my friend was jovial and looking forward to the visit.

So, was I. I was riding a train, for crying out loud. For seventeen hours. For seventeen hours I was riding this train.

Somewhere in Missouri, I decided I needed to take a bath. I had, up to this point, an OK-I-think-I-could-enjoy-first-class-despite-the-claustrophobia attitude, and also Seasons 4 and 5 of The Golden Girls. Bea, Rue, Estelle, Betty, and I could get through just about anything.

Until it dawned on me that I couldn’t take a bath. It’d have to be a shower.

Well, I thought, that’s fine. Hot water is hot water.

Which leads me to another point I’d like to make: trains do not have extensive hot water resources. I have never been and never will be a fan of a cold shower. But, what’s even worse, is waking up from a fitful night of “sleep” (contrary to my popular belief, the rocking of the train does not encourage a good night’s rest), and standing naked in the middle of an already cold, steel box with a thin veneer of plastic on the walls and a large drain in the middle of the floor waiting while the water finally heats up to a Can’t This Do For Now temperature and then immediately loses all warmth and becomes a spray of ice.

This is, as far as I know, the complete and utter opposite of Hot Water.

Add to that, this: the “shower area” consisted of a crawl space totaling perhaps fifteen inches in width, length, and height. It was small, you see. There were no shelves, obviously, and only one small bench, so slick that anytime the train jerked, which was all the time, every piece of dry clothing I had slid off the bench and directly into the cold shower with me.

Plus, the complimentary towel was about the size of a King James. It left nothing to the imagination…and I have a big imagination.

Feel free to use as many as you need.

When I finally tired of my struggle to be clean, another problem reared its ugly, ugly head.

I couldn’t figure out how to turn the shower off.

I tried and tried and tried…I read the diagram they had posted on the shower wall, indicating in large, who-couldn’t-figure-this-out lettering accompanied by those ubiquitous stick figures, who I imagine had hot water, but it was of no use. The water would not be turned off.

I had a handful of dirty clothes, clean boxer briefs (which were wet), a toiletries bag, and an envelope for a towel, basically, so what was one to do?

I slid open the pocket door, stepped out of the shower, and ran like hell all the way back to my cabin, leaving the water running. That’s what one does.

For future reference, though, one should at least take time to dry one’s feet. I left a puddle trail the size of Peoria (which I’m sure we were passing through at the time), all the way from the shower to my cabin door.

Sigh.

In short…I had the time of my life.

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I miss the Ramones.

Someone, a long time ago like before I was born probably, once said, “Times, they are a-changin’.”

This person was either buying a new watch, replacing the battery in an old watch, or just given to random outbursts of speaking the painfully obvious.

Also, they might have been Bob Dylan.

Whoever it was, I tip my hat to them, and secretly, I call them a Philosopher. (Unless that person is Bob Dylan; I don’t call him a Philosopher since his Oscar win).

My deepest wish is that Time had a NASDAQ code.  Because it is, I believe, the only thing on this earth that is consistently circular; that makes it a safe bet.  There’s nothing Time can’t change; there’s nothing Time doesn’t affect.

It’s like an oxymoron. (But don’t ask me how, not yet).

I mean, look — Time “waits for no man,” “heals all wounds”; is “of the essence,” is always “marching on”; is “money”; and if you stitch with it, you save nine people, or something like it.  I’d say that makes it quite similar to a daily miracle.

It should come as no surprise, then, that Time is where it’s at.

But, don’t be fooled; it doesn’t have ticker, or a stock profile…not through S&P, NASDAQ, NYSE… No, the symbol you’re thinking of refers to Time Warner.

And I wouldn’t invest in them.

It’s not all fun and games with Time, though. One thing I particularly dislike is when Time sneaks up on you. And does the unthinkable.

This has happened to me twice since last Sunday.

When I was growing up, it was just me, U.L., and your three basic TV channels. Four, if the weather was good in Meridian. I saw plenty of PBS, a soap opera or two (when I was sick and stayed home and Daisy would let me because Lord knows she couldn’t miss ”Loving” to save her life or fix me some soup). Once I saw half of an episode of ”The Tonight Show” starring Johnny Carson before U.L. woke up from the chair and realized I was still awake.  I was mostly addicted to ”Dr. Who,” to be honest, which U.L. didn’t understand. So, he didn’t interfere.  But, you get the point: aside from the annual Macy’s Day Parade and Miss America (if Mississippi made it to the Top 10), there wasn’t a lot of variety.

That’s my stock, so to speak. I come from the Time when all contact lenses were hard and dangerous, and you couldn’t get cable if the actual cable wasn’t long enough to reach your house. No lie.

I fully expected things to stay like that, to not change. I sort of counted on U.L.’s house not to find the 21st Century (or the 20th, for that matter) because Time stood still way out there on Route 5. And I liked it that way, just fine.

It never was long enough.

But, lo and behold, shocker of shockers, last week I went to visit U.L., and what should I spy on the eave of the carport but a small, concave-shaped disc. A “satellite,” I believe the young folk call it.

DSL. Broadband. The Works. The Whole Nine Yards (but better than the movie). 

I was shocked.

I ran into the house, decrying his betrayal of my childhood. He responded by admitting NOT that he was sorry, but that he was now, terribly and embarrassingly, addicted to FOX News.

I died a little bit, right then, when he said that.

As if it weren’t enough to discover that he’d finally gotten ”cable,” now that I’d moved away — the one thing I begged for as a child, the one thing that would have ensured my undying devotion and love to him when he got old (and I was contemplating a nursing home), the very access that I dreamed of, as a child, that would be my portal to Fraggle Rock and the dreamy Atreyu…why on earth would he want ”cable” now?  To torment me?

If that’s so, then, Well played, U.L., I thought. Well played. 

But, I had no socially acceptable way to respond to this obsession he now had with FOX News. 

I didn’t know what to do: rip out the cord and throw the box away?  Climb onto the roof and kick the heck out of the satellite dish? I was rather immobilized as I tried to find a safe and humorous way to diffuse the awkwardness of his admission in front of Amanda. (You know, she went to Wellesley).

He was laughing about it, though, as if that would throw us off. Please.

FOX News viewers have a scent. It smells like scorched truth, the next morning, right after the scab has first gelled.

Yuck, that was gross.

Anyway…so, yeah, he’s got cable now, and can watch just whatever he wants…which is apparently just FOX News…all the time.

Oh, and the second thing is I have a new job. Theatre Director, small community college (small in other places, also, unfortunately)…it’s not been the best week for me, getting my feet wet and re-learning the joys of a Necessary Paper Trail. I’m trusting that things will get better.

They have to…because, right now, I feel like I’m teaching junior high. And I really hate that feeling.  It’s so restrictive, isn’t it?  And many of the faculty are reminiscent of a Stepford Wife/Male Escort, and not from the right side of the railroad tracks, either.

On top of that, I have to drive fifty (50) miles each way.  (But, I’ll reserve that hatred for the Economy).

Sigh. The Time Sneak wasn’t the job, per se, but the unforeseen amounts of paperwork that was not mentioned during my interview a month ago…suspicious minds, indeed.

I miss you, too.

So, now, I’m sitting here in my office, and I want so much to say that I wish for a simpler, kinder, gentler Time, but I’m afraid that’d just mean sleeping.

And really long baths.

God, I love a bath. When I take a bath, Time stops. I don’t care what’s happening beyond that bathroom door; I slide into the tub (per my ritual of heating the sides of the tub before getting into it), pour myself a glass of — you know, let’s save my strange bathing rituals for another blog.

The point is: I can’t keep an hour from itself, but I can certainly waste one.

And I think that’s exactly what I’m about to do.

I’m going to slip out of my office, through the back door, and drive a full, fast hour home…to the only thing that loves my body, without comment…the tub.

The current time is 12:19 PM.

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I must say, wrapped as it was in that beautiful red gift paper, it was quite a thoughtful-looking Christmas present. That’s the allure of wrapping paper, though, isn’t it?

I learned this early on:  people will take anything on this earth if you just wrap it pretty enough. 

It can be a thoughtless happy, a re-gift (as American as the NRA), a genuine present, anything. Many is the household item, kitchen utensil, family portrait, that I, as a child, took and re-wrapped and gave to Nana or U.L., or Tigi, or whomever. They always graciously opened their presents, oohing and aahing, as if they’ve not used that wooden spatula a million times last week alone, or as if it were a sheer stroke of amazing luck that the picture frame already held a portrait of our family in it.

I'm just a boy who can't say no.

I had this prepared sensation upon opening this particular present, myself. (Although, who knew, it might be a wonderful gift). To my initial dismay, it was oatmeal soap. I thought I’d quickly rebounded with the expected smile.

I had not.

My sister-in-law, as a method of defense, immediately followed what must have been a sustained register of confusion on my face by saying she made it.

“It’s got oatmeal in it,” she continued.  Since when did oatmeal become a saving grace?

I thanked her. Because that’s what well-behaved people do.  I took it home and for a week, let it sit on the counter in the bathroom, adjusting to the scent of it. I’ve never particularly liked oatmeal.

And then, as was bound to happen, I was caught in between real soaps, one afternoon, and had no choice but to use it. It was…rather nice. Smooth after effect, no oily residue. I began to hold secret joy in using it, though I couldn’t have told you why.

It quickly became my daily routine: the use of the oatmeal soap came right before brushing my teeth; after my gargle of Listerine. Every morning, this is how I started my day.

Never, ever did I even remotely think that I would need to safeguard the oatmeal soap from the Natural World. I mean, the soap was in my bathroom, wasn’t it safe from the outside?

And at first, it was innocent enough.

An ant or two here or there.  Not a big deal.  I’m no expert on ants, but I’m guessing they have big mouths, because by the time word spread, and it certainly wasn’t spread by me, one morning there were ants galore everywhere, and of course, that was not to be tolerated.  So, away went the oatmeal soap.

Shame. That.

We were ant-free for a few days.  But then, you see, what happened is that those ants decided that perhaps we’d simply put the oatmeal soap somewhere else, and they took it upon themselves to find out where the new hiding place was.  In their small, insect minds that place became the bathtub.

And that, in my opinion, is where they made their fatal mistake. 

I adore bathtubs; I love to bathe. I love to shower. I have an entire bathing ritual that I must observe every day, and yes, it takes a goodly while, and yes, I may do it several times a day, but I can’t help it. This need for cleanliness is innate and omni-controlling; it’s one reason I caved into to the blame oatmeal soap, in the first place.  Once while on a long road trip, I stopped midway at a friend’s friend’s house (twice removed acquaintance of mine) for the sole purpose of bathing en route to my destination; I’d gotten hot in the car. 

So, as you may imagine, to come between me and my bathing is a capital offence.

Furthermore, I will admit that I was naive in my initial attack against the ants. I’d had no previous beef with ants, I didn’t know their martyred ways of constant, constant coming and coming and coming.

We both learned quickly, though.

So, anyway, there, in plain view, a few days later, was the typical slightly curved solid line of ants down the corner of the wall and onto the cold edge of the tub, stretching out from the base of the corner to the Pomegranate and Mango Body Shampoo, positioned ever so preciously unaware on the other side of the bathtub.  I took several hand-wound layers of toilet paper and annihilated the entire string of them. 

C’est la vie, I said to myself, giddy at having found an opportunity to incorporate a French phrase into some part of my day. Isn’t that the mark of the wealthy, to pepper dialogue, even monologue, with French? Triumphant, I settled into my bath, with my New Yorker, and continued to giggle, this time over the horrendous choices the poetry editor had made (such awful poems in The New Yorker, really, just sad; I need to call him or her). 

The following morning (and in tangent here I should point out that I do not do mornings) there they were again.  I was mortified.  How stupid is the ant!  Did they not realize the evening before that some of their own did not return home?  That their brothers, daughters, neighbors had been killed?  I had killed an entire line of ants the night before, and this new string of ants, I mean, had none of them noticed?  What, were they like, sitting at church going, “Hmm, wonder where Nancy and Peter are?  Not like them to miss church?” (I’d killed the ant string on a Sunday evening, hence the church reference).  Was the ant indeed this daft?

I mean, good gracious!  The stubbornness of the ant is boggling to the human mind.  And that’s when it hit me.  See, ants relay information to other ants through chemical releases (http://www.cell.com/current-biology/retrieve/pii/S0960982206018343), and after watching them, up close, I’d like to personally add that they also communicate through the movement of their bodies and antennae, much like the honeybee (I’m making this part up, naturally, but still, it’s my blog), and so, like the honeybee they are able to discuss and determine what’s going on, who’s gotten married, who’s been fired, who’s going to graduate school, etc. by simply gyrating their thoraxes in a cloud of chemicals (or it may be thoraces) vigorously in several directions (I am still making this part up). 

See, when I killed that string of ants the night before, I’d made the mistake; I had left no warning to the other ants by leaving behind a few dead bodies.  Having seen none, they probably just assumed that the other ants had gone on back home, had done their jobs, gotten off early, whatever.

Well, that was fine and all for last night, then, but not this time, I told myself. 

No, sir, not this time.  This time I was going to give the ants a bit of an alcohol problem, rubbing, not drinking.  If the ants wanted to talk through body language, then I was going to give them something to say.  I wrapped my finger around a Bounty napkin, dipped the edge of it in isopropyl and crushed ant after ant after ant…but just a few, and scattered along their visible Maginot line.  That’s where the beauty of my plan lay.

See, what would happen now is that the following ant would come across this isopropylized dead ant and create a panic unlike any ever seen before in the ant world that would ripple up and down the ant line, like a busy signal.  It was going to be a message they would understand loud and clear. 

I stood back and watched.  I could almost hear the panic taking shape through little conversations that I started making up for the ants’ reactions as each one discovered the dead body of another.

Whoa!  Oh god, oh god, oh god, Betsy’s down!!  Oh god, god, she’s down!  She’s, I don’t know, she’s like completely unresponsive!!  Tell James.  Oh god, oh god, she’s dead.  Move it!! Get out of here!!

Sweet Jerusalem! Roger isn’t moving.  Roger?  Roger?  Wait, no, no, nothing about this makes sense, something’s not right.  Roger!?  Oh sweet mother of pearl, he is flat out dead.  Heaves above!! Get the hell out of here…call Moody, he’s got to know, he’s got to warn the others!!

No!! No!  You bastards!! Not Emily…no, no, no, no…she was was too young, she was too young…no, no, no…

Now, replace that sandwich with a bathtub, please.

It was pure terror, mania, ants were going crazy. But, they didn’t retreat. No. They put up a united front and kept on coming, by the veritable dozens.  Dozens…

So, I waited awhile and let them all group themselves together by skill, gender, or whatever categories they were utilizing, and then I turned the shower head on them and washed them down the drain.

After that, it become a daily war.  Wake up, take a shower, turn the shower head on the ants, dress, brush my teeth, turn the shower head back on the ants, and go to work. I called pest control when gnats, after absolutely nowhere, started showing up with the ants; it was all just too, too much.

I appreciate that persistence has no pesticide, at least in its intention, but I couldn’t allow for insects to have such truisms, not in my bathroom.

So, I did what anyone would have done, and probably done before it’d gotten this far: I called Orkin.

And then…my sister-in-law.

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