Winter Wonder Land


It’s the small things that count.  You know, those little things that brighten the day, turn the tide on all that came before, and sets the stage for even greater appreciation.  Here’s a fine example:

I pulled up to my local post office yesterday (well, actually I drove over one village because the helpers there are a bit more friendly and a whole-lot more helpful than the ones in my city), and as I was unloading my cargo I found it necessary to make return trips to my car.  This is when I encountered a couple of angels who promised to stand guard over my laundry basket of tidings (yes, it was the one I use for the daily dirties) while I lugged a second round of proceeds into the building.

Upon my return, the lovely angels assured me that they have held my place in line, but I quickly relented, telling them that I would be a bit and that they should go forward without me.  About this time, a gentleman of likewise age and character came stumbling into the recesses of my holding area.  I made way, clearing and stacking my items as he set out to apologize for being unsettled, unorganized and overwhelmed.  (This is where I got my chance to play my earlier fortunes, forward.)  Looking at the stressed and fretted gentleman, I set about to reassure him that he was fine, and he need not to concern himself on my account.  Commotion aside, I jokingly admitted to him, as I pointed:

 “I’ve had my moments this morning, too”!   (Actually, I’d been having moments for about 57 years, but I held off on too much info, not wanting to see him bolt before he got his life together  and  his packages shipped.)

As I scanned  the likes of his malcontent, I noted a pair of little girls slippers, a sweater, and something else nondescript and unidentifiable.  To one side of his mêlée, he held a gift bag, tissue paper , a roll of strapping tape and one of those convenient, “Put it all in here and we’ll charge you one price” boxes.  As he fumbled to organize his parcel,  the postmaster called me forward.  I left him behind and became busy with my own agenda.   Mr. Dis A. Ray was left to his own devices,  however crude or elementary, as exemplary, or astonishing  they may be.

My helper, at the counter, began to tally and tag the seemingly endless array of joys I’d bundled, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed  that, Mr. Dis A. Ray, was now standing right beside me, one cubby over, and enjoying the assistance of a second postal worker.   With nervous chatter, ‘Mr. Dis’ goes round-about saying that he has been putting this off, waiting until he can wait no longer, and explaining that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s in charge of doing it anyway.  He eagerly accepts the help of his postal buddy and as these two gentlemen set about wrapping the childs gift I find myself challenged by Mr. Dis A. Ray’s exclamation:

 “Hey, I don’t care what becomes of it after it leaves my sights.  I just want to be rid of it!”

This is when I finally snapped myself out my sugar-induced, caffeine-ladened stupor and returned my sights back to my own affairs.  Had I been guilty of the same frenetic frustrations, caught up within my own trappings?  Had Christmas gone from being a joy, to being a burden?   Why just earlier that morning I found myself wrestling a no-good, cheap roll of strapping tape, cursing myself all the while for purchasing something so vile, worthless and useless. (Had I no sense?).  Even earlier,  I had managed to wrangle dozens of cookies from the recesses of my own oven only to notice that this NEW oven has a cracked and failing touchpad.  Yes, and then there’s that hiccup with the robotic vacuum boy, Mr. Rogers, that newly discovered cracked tile in the kitchen, and the fruit-fly, Holiday Infection Convention droning away and using the countertops as their landing pad.   And, lest we forget the laundry basket that I’d used to carry this sleigh of goodies in, somehow I didn’t think those proceeds were at home washing themselves in the likes of that sorry excuse, Mr. Maytag.   (He moans at me one more time and I’m letting my vile spew…. Suzie Samsung is alive and waiting.)  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I almost allowed that  “Mr. Dis’  to array my own categories of happiness during this festive season.  Why, I’d had a lovely time wrapping those scored goodies, and when that strapping tape tried to be a bad mother to me, I simply gave her up and went and found two other faithfuls.  That new oven sadness?  That’s remedied, or about to be,  I dialed Mr. G.E. so fast his head now spins like Mr. Maytag’s.  Cracked tile?  Oh, surely you jest! I think my next home project is a make-over of all the broken tiles. ( Mosaic flooring is probably the new vogue.  I’ll simply be a few steps ahead of Martha on that one.)

Yes, the man almost got to me, but then I remembered who I was, and I quickly recovered.  I’m sipping coffee and typing this morning knowing that the countdown is on and the panic, subsided.  Surely Mr. Dis A. Ray has rebounded by now, too, or, is he back in line this morning attempting a second mailing?  One, we’ll never know.  Two?  Well that would be his second package and chances are he doesn’t have the mojo. 

His recipient has no idea that her slippers and sweater have been so badly man-handled, shoved and stuffed into tissue and bag in careless abandon.  She’s much too young, the thing she will remember:  The  joy and excitement upon receiving her package.  And to tell the truth, isn’t that the  ALL and EVERYTHING of Christmas?

I hope that thought finds its way back to Mr. Dis A. Ray before it’s too late.  I’d hate to think he missed it.

Everyone deserves a bit of happiness.  Especially, Santa.

~ by coffeegrounded on December 11, 2009.

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