Бабушка

With the holiday season upon us, I took the time this past week to put up my tree. Nearly all my old ornaments were shattered when I took them out of storage, so I decided to replace them this year with sturdier ornaments—the kind that could withstand being poorly packaged for 11 months at a time. I found these solid wood nutcracker ornaments at Rite-Aid, only the store by my house only had a few of them, so I called all the other stores in the valley and only one of twelve had any. So Saturday morning I set out to drive downtown to pick them up.

“It’s just that everyone’s acting all cruboppled.”

As I rushed down to the store I was listening to Christmas music (naturally) and this cheesy song about some guy who saw a kid who wanted to buy his dying mom a pair of shoes but he couldn’t afford them came on the radio. Sure it’s got a good message and everything, but it was too sappy for me to take seriously and I didn’t have the patience for a sappy song, so I popped in a CD instead.

When I got to the store I just jumped right into line—I didn’t have any items in my hand because my ornaments were being held for me behind the counter. In front of me stood a tiny little Бабушка (bab-oosh-ka). Now, I don’t speak Russian, and this is pretty much the only word I know (it means grandmother), but it’s the word that describes this lady perfectly. She was only about five feet tall, but sturdy as a fire hydrant. She had a scarf tied around her head and over her ears so that she looked like the old lady in that drawing of the optical illusion where, depending on how you look at it, you can either see a pretty young lady or a wrinkly old woman. “He counted pennies for what seemed like years.Then the cashier said, ‘Son, there's not enough here.’He searched his pockets frantically,Then he turned and he looked at me…”

I wasn’t really paying attention to what was going on, I just know it was taking for ever. Turns out, the babooshka was trying to buy a couple of boxes of chocolates and she didn’t seem to have enough money. I can still remember what was going on in my head while I watched the cashier tell her that she only had enough for the chocolate covered cherries and that she’d need two more dollars for the other chocolates:

“Man, I should have gotten in the other line, it’s going faster… Geez, I hate it when my money clip just floats around in my pocket, I really need to spend these two bucks, they’re starting to bug me… these ornaments will cost more than two bucks, so maybe some other time… hmm, that old lady only has enough for one or the other… gross, she picked the chocolate covered cherries! I hate those things… she’s probably getting them for her grandkids, boy are they going to hate having to eat THOSE to show their appreciation! Oh, look, she doesn’t understand that she doesn’t have enough… too bad she’s Russian and not Mexican, because if she spoke Spanish I could probably do something to help her…”

“I do not make myself merry at Christmas…”
“That certainly IS true.”
“…And I cannot afford to make idle people merry.”
“That is certainly NOT true.”

Not ONCE did it occur to me that I could help out the old babooshka. There she was counting her pennies frustrated that the cashier wouldn’t allow the exchange. And there was the cashier tucking away the other chocolates, frustrated that the old babooshka wouldn’t stop persisting that she needed them. And there I was completely oblivious to the fact that the very same two dollars that were bothering me from inside my pocket would have been exactly enough to help her out.

“For a father who wouldn’t save you on the ship, Jack?
A father who COULDN’T save you, Jack.”
“No, he WOULDN’T.
I mean, he was there… and we were there… but he wouldn’t try.”

Finally, she left with her chocolate covered cherries and I got my ornaments and was on my way. A block south of the store I was stopped by a train at the railroad crossing. It was a pretty long train. Well, long enough that while I was waiting there, it finally occurred to me how stupid and selfish I had been and it honestly hurt my heart to think about that poor little lady, who just wanted to buy an assortment of chocolates for her grandkids, it was in my power to help her, and I didn’t even try.

“He was a tight fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge, a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, clutching, covetous old sinner.”

Guilt is a funny thing. Sometimes you ought to feel it and you don’t and other times you’d rather not but you’re consumed by it. This was one of those all-consuming guilts. When you experience guilt like that you wish you could go back in time and stop yourself from making the mistake. I often feel that way when the guilt is so overwhelming that it is clearly disproportionate to the crime and the reason you wish you could change what you’d done, isn’t because you wish you hadn’t done it, but simply because you can’t endure the pain caused from the guilt of having done it.

“Max, help me! I’m FEELING!”
“And what happened next, well in Whoville they say that the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day.”

This was one of those all-consuming guilts, and I knew the only way I could alleviate my shame would be to go back and try to do what I had neglected before. I figured the babooshka would be long gone by now, but no amount of rationalization healed my hurting—I had to at least see if there was anything I could do. So I turned around and headed back to the store.

The babooshka was so old and so slow, that even after I had been waiting for the train for several minutes, she was just now reaching the sidewalk on the other side of the parking lot. I took note of the direction she was heading and judged by her lethargic pace that I had plenty of time to run in, buy her chocolates and run out to give them to her before she got to her home or wherever she was headed.

I bought the chocolates; they were those golden Ferrero Rocher candies. And hustled back to my car peeling out in the same direction of where I last saw her. She was no where in sight. I drove around for about half an hour up and down just about every side street within the zip code, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. Every five minutes or so I would think, “well, she’s not here, let’s go home,” but my conscience (still sore with shame) convinced me to look for “just five more minutes”.

“Santa, hold on. Can I talk to you for a second?”
“Yeah, but make it quick, Santa’s got a little get together he’s late for.”
“Okay. I know you’re not the real Santa Claus.”
“What makes you say that? Er, just out of curiosity.”
“Look, I’m old enough to know how it works…

but I also know that you work for him.”

I think I understand why I felt so guilty, let me explain it this way—I believe in Santa Claus, even though I know he depends on my parents to deliver his toys to me. Why do I believe in him? Because I’ve experienced 24 christmases in my lifetime and he’s never let me down once. Would I still believe in him if he all-of-a-sudden let me down? Maybe not, who knows—I doubt it will ever happen, because I know my parents are willing to do their part to perpetuate my belief.

“Sometimes the Lord answers our prayers through other people.”

On the same note, I believe in God, even though I know he often depends on other people to deliver his love to us. I can’t help but think, maybe that sturdy, little old babooshka was praying for help to get something nice for her grandkids, and the Lord was trying to answer her prayers through me, but I wouldn’t listen. I’d hate to be the reason she stops believing.

I’ve still got those Ferrero Rocher chocolates under my tree. There they will stay, as a haunting reminder of the shame of selfishness. And not only a reminder against selfishness, but a reminder of the importance to always keep an eye peeled for the opportunity to help. Especially at this time of year, I ought to be looking for chances to help others who are down and could use a reminder that they’ve got a Father in Heaven who’s watching out for them. If something as simple as a friendly smile, a listening ear, or a two dollar box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates is enough to convey that message, then I hope that from now on I would be willing to give such a gift any time of the year.

“Turkey day”

I’ll always remember that’s what my Grandpa Bryant called it, “turkey day.”

Well finally, for the first time in six years, I went home for “turkey day”. Don’t feel too bad for me, it’s not my first time home in six years, just my first time home for thanksgiving in six years.

“Blast! This is why I hate flying.”

My flight left at 7 am, which meant I needed to be to the airport no later than 6 am. I really hate being anywhere early—I know its selfish, but I’d rather be right on time or be waited on than have to wait on someone—not that being there before something begins is all that bad, I just hate to be surrounded by people when they know I have no excuse to leave.

Speaking of hating to be around people, I hate the boarding procedure—you can either get on the plane early which allows you to chose your seat, but forces you to hang out in your reclining straight jacket THAT much longer, or you could be the last to board the plane, limiting your uncomfortable time on board but limits your seating options to only the few seats that everyone else on the plane chose to avoid for one reason or another.

“I think I can actually hear you getting fatter.”

I was the very, very last person to board—during that long, dooming walk toward the back of the plane, my eyes searched frantically for an isle seat, or at least a seat next to a skinny person—I hate sharing the arm rest, not that I demand to have it to myself, but if you’re next to a heavy person, you don’t even have a hope to occupy it, some people need all the room they can get.

“I trust you’ll stay on-a-top of things.”

Well, luckily I ended up getting an isle seat next to a skinny girl who happened to be with her boyfriend or husband or whatever. Sure, its annoying to watch them lay all over each other, but I didn’t mind a bit because the more on top of him she is, the more space I have to myself.

“Oh, how I envy your freedom: games all day long, no studying dreary old books, staying up late as you like, eating JUNK food…”

My good friend Ray and his cute little family picked me up. We did some Christmas shopping all together, than we dropped off his wife and kid at their place and he came back to my parents empty house with me, where we played video games and raided my mom’s secret candy cupboard (the one above the microwave).

“Say, Fozzy, are you tired?”
“Nope, wide awake!”
“Hmm, me too.”
“Zzzzz.”
“Hmm, me too. Zzzzz.”

I’ve been looking forward to watching the new Around the World in 80 Days movie with my family for nearly six months, sure it may not look all that great, but a.) my Dad loved the old version, b.) Jackie Chan can sometimes be pretty funny, and d.) it’s a Disney movie, so how could you possibly go wrong? Well, I couldn’t stay awake long enough to find out if I had gone wrong. In fact, I don’t know if I finished a movie without falling a sleep my entire trip home.

“[The Turkey Bowl] is a special game, a unique game. The men who play it make it so. All of them are fearless. All of them are strong, quick, and all of them are part of a story that began long ago. A story written by men who found in a sport a demanding measure of their own courage and ability.”

For a healthy American young man, playing football on thanksgiving morning is not only a right, but a duty and an obligation to carry on the tradition. Since I was 11 years old, I can think of only two thanksgivings when I didn’t play in a turkey bowl, and although I really had no choice in the matter on either of those occasions, I look back on them with a measure of guilt and shame. What would my forefathers think? How ashamed they must feel at the thought that I broke a tradition that has been in place since November 1621, the historic date of that first good natured competition, which pitted the Plymouth Rock Pilgrims against the Wampanoag Redskins.

“All eyes are set on one glittering goal, the chance to play and win in the [Turkey] Bowl.”

When I’m at home I can always count on the people from church having a turkey bowl, and usually my high school buddies will have one too, so when I’m home, I usually end up playing in both.

During the Mormon Bowl, we play the young men against the adults—I’m sure this doesn’t sound very fair—men against boys? But considering that the young men always have a handful of guys from the highschool football team, and that the adults generally consist of more than a handful of guys well beyond their prime, it turns out to be a pretty even match. Only, even is a pretty relative term. For example, the weight of one bowling ball might be even to the weight of a million thumbtacks...

“There I was, all alone. I looked up and I was surrounded. They were here, there, everywhere. A whole bunch of ‘em! They were coming at me from the right, from the left, right, left, right, left. They were right on top of me. And then… I let ‘em have it!”

This year’s young men’s team included nearly 40 twelve and thirteen year olds. True, you’re average twelve year old is only about five-foot three, and wouldn’t be considered too challenging an athletic opponent, but you fill a football field with a couple dozen of them and offensively it makes it nearly impossible to run a decent pass route, and defensively, even when you’ve got the intended receiver thoroughly covered, the chances that a tiped ball lands in the awaiting arms of one of those prepubescent players is far greater than the chance of the ball finding an unoccupied area of real estate to settle in.

“Put me on the one-foot line, ‘n give two minutes to go, ‘n give me all three of my time outs, ‘n give me my boys. And then let me hear my name over the loudspeaker. Let me hear the roar of the crowd. Let me have ‘em booing on one side. Let me get in and call the play ‘n see their eyes roll as I call those plays and talk to ‘em. Let me feel the hair on my back crawl up—I mean, that’s what the [Turkey] bowl does to you.”

I openly accept my own bias, but I think it’s safe to say that I was clearly our team’s most valuable player (a close second might have been Jan Lee’s son in law who reeled in 3 interseptions in 4 series). Not only did I haul in countless passes, 3 touchdowns, and run back an interception for another score, but once I manned up on their speedy high-school hot shot receiver, he didn’t have another catch the rest of the day, except for two on two trick plays (ie: surround the kid with 20 of their little 12 year olds, then spread them thin so Heath is covering all 21 of them)—it was a lucky catch.

“Woo! You know you can’t bring that weak-@ss stuff up in this humpy bumpy! ‘You kill the jo, you make some mo.’ You know that, baby! ‘Else you in for a long day—a LONG day—‘cause Triple T’s up in this b*tch!”

I keep my comments to a minimum when I'm playing with the church (not that I have a potty mouth to hide, I just don't like to talk myself up too much around people that I'm clearly better than), but as soon as the Mormon Bowl ended I met up with my high school friends for another game, and I talked plenty of trash there. By this point, I was too tired to have any spectacular plays, but other than two dropped passes, I was automatic for an eight-yard pick up at anytime. But playing with old high school teammates is something I’d never pass up. We’re all a step or two slower than we were then (except Bobby Jones who ran all over us), but our mouths and wit have quickened a little, which seems to make up for things.

“Football is a rough game and often a cruel one… Pain in inevitable.”

I didn’t bring my football shoes home with me because I knew that the Mormon Bowl would be played on the turf at the high school and I was sure my old turf shoes were still at my parents’ house, but I couldn’t find them anywhere, so thanksgiving-day morning I frantically shopped around Covington looking for some cleats, and the only size twelves I could find at 8 am were some baseball shoes from Fred Meyer. They fit well for the most part, but about half way through the game with high school friends I could feel the beginnings of a blister. I played another hour or so, and by the time I got home and took my shoes off, both layers of socks I was wearing were blood soaked—it wasn’t quite as bad as Lieutenant Dunbar’s feet at the beginning of Dances With Wolves, but it hurt a lot, and a week later it still hurts.

But a blister was the least of my worries, I was so sore from all the football that my muscles couldn’t carry my weight for about three days. I’ve never run a marathon, but I’ve heard they take 3-4 hours to finish and that your body takes a long time to recover from it, well, I played from 9 am til 1pm, so it was about the same amount of time, only I wasn’t just jogging, but making diving catches, out sprinting defensive backs, and chasing down double reverse plays. That coupled with the bumps and bruises of mild physical contact made me so sore that I couldn’t even walk down a flight of stairs. And the most embarrassing part was that we didn’t even play tackle—in either game. That was the first time I’ve really felt like my body’s getting old.

“Nobody means what they say on Thanksgiving, Mom. You know that. That's what the day's supposed to be all about, right? Torture.”

The rest of the day was spent on the other half of Thanksgiving Day traditions: family and food. It was good to see my dear old Gramps, who’s struggled enough with health lately that even when I’ve been home, his visits have had to be brief, but this time we got to spend the majority of the weekend together. With our family, BEING with family is only part of the fun, the real fulfillment comes with heckling and torturing each other, and no two people have ever enjoyed doing so more than my cousin Erica (aka: Bearica, Umerica) and I.

“You may ask, how did this tradition get started? I'll tell you... I don't know.”

One tradition that I’ve been introduced to while I’ve spent the past six thanksgivings away from home I picked up from the Turner family—my old roommate Travis’ family has been nice enough to adopt me as a pseudo son for the past four years. I don’t really know what it has to do with thanksgiving, I think it’s just because that was the first time I’d met the entire family and the prank was brought up in conversation and I had never heard of it. It has since become a tradition to pull the prank on someone each year and it’s always the new guy, the person who’s never heard of or seen what everyone’s talking about.

“Get back here, boy. You're a disgrace to this family and its proud naval tradition.”

This year we had my Uncle’s stepson Jason with us for the first time. Seeing that this was the first time for this tradition in MY family, we could have rightly done it to anyone (accept Stacy, who had the pleasure of being the “new guy” at the Turner’s the year after my first time), but since he was the “new guy” it seemed extra fiting that he be the one to endure it. The prank is this, you get a mason jar, some matches, a wet slice of bread, and a trusting newcomer to the group. The new comer lays face up before the huddled group, and pulls up their shirt just enough to expose his/her belly button. You lay the wet bread on his/her naval then stick a dozen matches head up in the center of it. You light the matches, then cover them all with the mason jar. Within seconds, the matches devour all the air in the jar and the victim’s stomach gets suction-sealed to the mouth of the jar.

Jason was a good sport, even after he saw the softball-sized hickey it left around his belly button. Many pictures were taken to document the event, and everyone laughed, but from the mood which lingered in the room following the display, I got the feeling that I’m going to have to force this for the next few years before it has a chance to stick into the Bryant/Elton family tradition.

“Ohana means family.”

All in all, it was a great trip. I saw a lot of family and a lot of friends. It seems like the older I get and the farther from home I live those are the two things that define a good vacation. As the calendar year draws to a close, I’ve noticed that I’ve used every one of my 15 days of personal days off from work either at home or with my family and best friends. Travel and adventure are okay I guess, but I’d take an all-night Xbox marathon with friends, or a teasing-heavy dinner with family any day over a European vacation or a Hawaiian holiday.