Essay About Christmas Undecorating

Good news on the writing front - the Hartford Courant yesterday ran this essay I wrote about when to take down Christmas trees and holiday decorations. Got the idea from passing by a house on my way to work that, as of Friday, still had its tree up. A little late, I thought...


When Should The Christmas Tree Come Down?
Holiday Dilemma: So, when is the right time to undecorate from the holidays?

By DAVID POLOCHANIN

January 15, 2012


Their tree is still up, its large, old-school glass bulbs aglow in the front doorway, as I pass by each morning. It's now Jan. 13, well past Christmas. I wonder when the homeowners will take it down, and then privately wish they wouldn't.

At least, not yet.

The small white bungalow in Glastonbury shines a light on an interesting seasonal question: Just when is the socially acceptable date to take down the Christmas tree and its related decorations?

Opinions vary, but it was my understanding that New Year's Day generally meant curtains for the Christmas season. Those who like to hold onto the holiday feeling leave the tree up until Jan. 6, when the Epiphany is celebrated. For many Christians, this is an important day. For others, it justifies prolonging packing up ornaments.

Our tree is currently on our back deck, still in its base, near the grill. My wife removed all of its decorations and lights and then hurt her back dragging it through the living room during the early morning hours on Dec. 26, before I woke up. She feels the need to cleanse our house of the clutter that inevitably gathers around the tree, such as dirty socks, magazines and used paper plates. While I would have enjoyed a few more days with the tree, what's done is done.

I don't sweat it anymore, and at least I didn't have to personally remove the tree, which I should add gave me two weeks of poison sumac after cutting it down. I learned that calamine lotion doesn't work.

At some point when I have a few minutes, I will carry the tree out into the woods behind some live evergreens and toss it beside trees from previous years, which resemble brittle skeletons of their former selves.

While Christmas trees are one matter, the outside lights and decorations still clinging to life can become, dare I say, a tad tacky, a tiny bit embarrassing, even an eyesore. In some neighborhoods I have seen those fake icicles dangling from the front gutter all year long. Is this some kind of personal statement, or simply the manifestation of a common syndrome: man being lazy?

Getting up on a ladder and removing the icicles would only take an hour, but there are so many excuses for leaving them up, and I can hear them now: It gets dark before 5 o'clock; it's too cold to do it; there's a game on soon; they look good next to real icicles; they could increase the value of our home if we decide to put it on the market in January; and, of course, the obvious: Why would anyone remove them if you have to put them up again in another 330 days? Not that I would use any of these excuses myself, but being a home project procrastinator, I understand every one of them.

This year, we took the family out one Saturday night in December and drove around admiring Christmas lights, an occasional tradition. With our two young children in the back seat, LITE 100.5 on the radio (have they stopped playing Christmas carols yet?) and hot chocolates in our hands, we enjoyed the lengths that some people go to when celebrating the holiday. The flashing light displays, the wreaths, the figurines of Santa and Frosty and Rudolph, and in one yard, Homer Simpson, were all a delight for us to see. That is, until we had to pull over and my son had to go to the bathroom in a parking lot. His bladder, it seemed, was bursting with hot chocolate.

It was a joyous season, but I'm happy to have moved on with the Christmas holiday. Still, when I pass by the front of the white bungalow, I hope to see the tree in that door, for just a little while longer.

David Polochanin, a teacher in Glastonbury, lives in Marlborough.

On Writing

It's the second day of the year - and I've just tied last year for total number of blog entries.

I kind of took last year off in the blogging world. (If you're reading this on facebook and want to see my actual blog, it's http://the30somethingsuburbanguy.blogspot.com)

But 2011 was a pretty good year for me writing-wise. I had my first poem published in October, in an anthology by Native West Press. In June, the Hartford Courant published an essay I wrote about my observations taking a walk around Glastonbury. And in August I had an essay published for the website of an educational journal, Middle Ground. Three pieces is not a remarkable number if all I was doing was freelance writing, but for having a fulltime job, it is respectable. I've definitely done worse.

The biggest news I received last year related to writing was that my request for a sabbatical leave from teaching for next year was approved. This is unquestionably huge. For many years, I've dreamed of taking a sabbatical to pursue opportunities to write (and hopefully get published) and next school year, this will be a reality. I have proposed five writing projects, including books of poetry and short stories for readers in grades 6 through 10, as well as three professional education journal-type articles. This will officially merge my experiences as a writer and journalist and teacher. For three years, I worked fulltime at big New England newspapers (Boston Globe, Providence Journal), and then went back to school to become a teacher, which I've been doing now for 14 years. Since I started teaching, I have written articles, essays for the Courant, the Boston Globe, the Christian Science Monitor, Education Week, and some websites. Since 1998, I'd guess, I've had more than 30 pieces published in all. My sabbatical will afford me the time to develop and market substantial writing projects for children, which I plan to use in the classroom when I return to teach.

Having this year off will be a gift, and I am grateful. It's been a goal of mine for the last 7 or 8 years to take a sabbatical for the purposes of writing, and I now have 7 months to plan what I'm going to do. (A lot of this planning has been done already.) Someone has asked that I blog each day while on sabbatical, and while I think the idea is interesting - tempting, even - I plan to pour most of my writing energy into poems, short stories, and professional articles. However, I do plan to post more to this blog, to "keep the tools sharp", as my former journalism professor Wayne Worcester used to say, and share random opinions as well as the relatively ordinary things that happen to me.

Hunting for Better Television

It is a typical Friday or Saturday night. The kids are in bed, probably not sleeping, but at least they have retreated upstairs for the evening. After checking emails and maybe facebook, the adults have the TV and the night to themselves. We surf, and surf, and surf. Since getting rid of the DVR, we are committed to watching live TV, which is usually not very good. And so, what we end up watching, for the millionth time, is House Hunters. It’s the only thing we seem to agree on.

House Hunters is not actually terrible. It is entertaining, or I wouldn’t watch it. But it is not that great, either. There are varying degrees of House Hunters quality. Seeing a young couple get a first apartment is not interesting. Actually, watching the house hunter(s) look at anything worse than my own home is usually grounds for not watching the show. Why would you do that? Of course, I have, but the point is to get a peek inside a home that you cannot afford. To gain an inside look at a really exclusive place, with a pool, outdoor kitchen, five bathrooms, a palatial lot, three or four car garages, 3 or 4 fireplaces, etc. We do not want to look at a house like our own, a colonial built in 1973 that has cracks up and down the driveway, a rear gutter that’s literally hanging from the roof, a damp garage, electric sockets that don't work, a bad washing machine hookup, and a water filtration system that is about to give out at any second.

But we’ll even watch those episodes, the crummy ones. It’s amazing how the producers make the cities look attractive to live in. Many times, the personalities of the people buying the home leave a lot to be desired, but in this reality TV world, that’s the catch.

So, when/if people ask(ed) what we watched, or what we did on Friday or Saturday night, if we were being honest, we would probably say, “Watched House Hunters again.” This is so lame.

It seems the only truly good network show out there is “Parenthood.” There was just a great write-up about the series in the New Yorker. Awesome cast, good plot lines, just good dramatic television. In a time when everything is either reality-based or a spinoff of Law and Order or CSI, “Parenthood” is refreshingly, well, old. It isn’t sensationalistic, it’s not violent, it’s just a bunch of intertwined stories about a family, from grandparents to their grandchildren, most of whom have very real flaws, that is really engrossing to watch. Maybe this is because I’m a parent myself and can relate to some of the stories, but I can’t think of a better show on TV right now.

I’m sure there’s some better programs, or maybe as good. Some like “The Good Wife”, but I can’t get into the idea. “Mad Men” has won tons of awards, “Weeds”, which I’ve seen, is good but too far-fetched for me to buy into it. I’ve also seen “Nurse Jackie” on some most popular lists.

What you won’t see on there is House Hunters, but it’s probably what we’ll still be watching, every Friday and Saturday night, right until the very end, when the couple picks from the three homes they toured - as long as the house is better than mine.

Time to buy stock in Band-aids

It was another day of skinned knees and bicycle wipeouts in the driveway this weekend, at least four crashes just today by my count, which means that we went through more than our typical allotment of Band-Aids. Good thing we bought backup boxes.

Within one two-hour span yesterday, I put three Band-Aids on my kids' knees. This does not count the number of Band-Aids they put on themselves. The only reason I know this is because they left the little wrappers behind on the bathroom floor.

Out of curiosity, I checked the stock price of Johnson and Johnson, which owns the Band-Aid brand, and it is currently trading at $66 a share. While a look at the last five years is not that promising as a potential investor - stock high $71 a share, low in the mid 40s - I have to think that Band Aids are on the upswing. The marketing alone of cartoon characters on them - Mickey Mouse, Cars movie characters, princesses - means that we are buying a box of them every week in the summer. I know other families are in the same boat.

But the true magic of Band-Aids is that they work on the placebo effect. Kid gets a Band-Aid on their cut and suddenly they start to recover. Add Neosporin and you've got instant healing. I witness this often. My kids could be bleeding profusely, little bits of sand mixed in their leg or arm gash, but you slap a Scooby Doo Band-Aid on it, and within minutes my son -- whose left elbow is broken, by the way -- is jumping off the retaining wall or riding his bike full speed into the garage, where he crashed into the wall yesterday. It takes more than a scrape to hold him back from putting himself in another dangerous situation.

Of course, it's because of Band-Aids that he has this kind of courage. I think I just came up with their new advertising campaign.

A Day of Pain, Some Tears

As a parent, there are many days when kids get upset and cry, but usually they are not crying over very serious matters (“I was sitting there first!”; “____ won’t give me [some toy].”; “I don’t want to go to bed now!”) and they recover quickly.

But yesterday was one of those days when tears were produced for, from my point of view, more genuine, more unsettling reasons.

First, it was Alison’s last day at swimming lessons. She is almost four, now. She’s been going to a place called the School of Swimming in Rocky Hill for two weeks, and it’s been a trial getting her there – it usually takes a bribe of ice cream or soda afterwards for her to keep it together. Not just that – but on the last day, kids in every age and ability (there are probably 40 kids taking lessons at the same time) are encouraged to jump off the diving board into 9-foot-deep water. This is quite a challenge for a little girl who cannot swim on her own in 3-foot-deep water or put her head in the water for more than 2 seconds.

So I’m watching her and she’s clearly nervous. Not much talking on the car ride there. Sort of like me going to the doctor’s. She had already told us in the days leading up to the final class that she was not going to jump off the diving board. She was adamant about that. Like reassuring parents, though, Claudine and I were positive and upbeat to her, telling her that she'd “have fun” and I think we may have said, “Don’t worry, Ali. You’ll do great.” or some vague comment like that.

But pretty much from the moment the class started, through its more brutal middle right to the end-that-couldn't-come-any-sooner, Ali was a mess. My wife had to leave pool area because Ali wanted to be held but she wanted Ali to soothe herself. (Good call.) Ethan and I stayed beside the pool watching Ali, and she came over to me, a sign of true desperation, but I told her to stay with her group, which was walking alongside the pool toward the diving board. A swimming instructor held Ali's hand as the kids made their way to the other end of the pool, the deep end.

Ali could not stop crying at this point and I reached the point where it was hard to look at her. I knew we were doing the right thing by enrolling her in swimming classes, it is never too soon to learn this life skill, but she was clearly emotionally distraught about having to jump off, or even consider, the diving board. She sat there on the edge, shaking, looking up at the ceiling, hoping someone would come rescue her. Perhaps she was praying in her own way.

To be aiding and abetting this kind of experience makes one feel guilty and distressed. A parent’s instinct is to not put his or her child through pain, yet here I was supporting it.

When the lesson was over – Ali did walk out onto the diving board, amazingly, and she waved at the spectators before turning around and sitting back on the edge of the pool, which is way more than I expected – I think there was a collective sigh of relief in all of us, from me, my wife, and Alison. We, of course, praised her on the great job she did. “You’re such a big girl! Awesome job going out on the diving board!” When I half-jokingly asked her on the way home, as she licked a lemonade ice pop, if she would go back for another lesson, I heard a “No!” so sharp that I think she knew what I was up to. Don’t even mess with me, Dad. It ain’t happening.

Less than five hours later, my wife calls and says Ethan, our 6-year-old has fallen while playing at a birthday party, and he’s hurt his arm. Now, he’s hurt his arm before and it’s usually not resulted in a serious injury. He recovers quickly. The pain is acute but over quickly, and there's no lasting damage. But this time, when he came home, it was clear that he couldn’t really use his arm – his left one, thankfully – and my wife decided to bring him to the emergency room.

The doctor examined it, took X-rays, and discovered that there was a break in a bone near his elbow. “I don’t think he’s going to need surgery,” he said. But Ethan’s arm is wrapped in a soft cast, hanging in a sling, and we have to make an appointment for him to see an orthopedic surgeon next week.

Ethan is clearly bummed. He is an active kid who likes riding his bike (sometimes with one hand despite having two), climbing across the monkey bars (effortlessly), hitting wiffleballs, shooting hoops, climbing trees. I don’t know what the prognosis will be, but if he’s in a cast for a month, it’s going to be a tough month.

We’ve already upgraded our cable so that we can watch Red Sox games, and there have been visits to the library for books and the Redbox for movies. He got a new Star Wars puzzle today, but it was painful seeing him try to put it together with one hand. Not knowing how long Ethan will be sidelined is probably forcing us to overreact a bit. (We've been without cable for three months.) But even if he’s in the cast for a few weeks, we need to find things for him to do. Summer vacation started 3 days ago. This is supposed to be a time when you can use both arms, you're feeling healthy, and you can enjoy the long hot days, swimming at the lake, running through the sprinkler, playing Frisbee, you get the point.

In a parent’s mind, there’s always something you think you could have done to avert such accidents, but in reality there is often nothing that could have been done. You can’t predict every fall. You can’t make every experience safe. Kids get hurt. Period. I have a scar on my nose to prove it when I ran facefirst into the kitchen counter when I was two. Stitches ensued. The scar is still apparent. My wife broke her arm after falling off her bed at the same age. She was trying to use the bed like a trampoline.

There’s a children’s book that I used to read to my kids a few years ago titled “Could Be Worse” about a grandfather who used to tell his grandkids that line whenever there was a problem. Spilled a drink on the morning paper? Could be worse! Lost your favorite toy? Could be worse! Got a C on a homework paper? Could be worse!

I think I’m going to pull out that book tonight to remind myself of this alternative philosophy because, even though yesterday was not the greatest of days, things definitely could have been worse.

CAKE at Toad's

I've been to most major concert theaters in the state, but last night was the first time I'd set foot into New Haven's Toad's Place, "Where the Legends Play", according to its slogan.

When you look up at the walls and see the white and black placards of the many acts who have played there, you get a sense that the claim is valid. U2, Bob Dylan, Red Hot Chili Peppers, James Taylor, Billy Joel, Rolling Stones -- they've all played in the basement-like dungeon near Yale, where a string of green lights adorn the walls and bar. It is not a pretty place. There was no seats, really. Just a stage, three bars, and a giant floorspace.

CAKE played at Toad's last night; they rocked for a (barely) two-hour set. A kind of short, but solid show. The music was tight (and loud). My ears are still adjusting to the level of bass that pumped across the concert floor.

Besides Wilco, CAKE is one of the few bands I know that produce really good music, yet airplay has been generally minimal. Since the mid 1990s, CAKE has produced probably about 8 albums, yet the band was most popular when their hit, "The Distance" was atop the charts. Since then, CAKE has continued to churn out very good music and the band tours in places like Toad's Place or The Webster Theatre in Hartford, where faithful fans pack smaller venues. Tonight, they play Boston's Orpheum Theatre.

By 9:15 last night, Toad's Place was jammed with bodies, mostly people in their 20s and 30s. I was probably above the median age, which I would say was somewhere around 28, which felt weird, but strangely satisfying.

I was surprised with how crowded the place had become. At 8:15, when we arrived, the place was about 10 percent full. I thought there would be an embarrasingly small crowd. By the time the show began, there wasn't room to move. We stood for three hours in all, and once the show was going for a little while, you starting absorbing sweat from people (mostly dudes) around you. For a while, an air of claustrophobia settled among the crowd. Many may have been comforted by it. Elbows into elbows, feet touching feet, people stuck in their standing room only two foot by two foot space. When we moved at intermission to get something to drink, we gave up our "good spot." We were relegated to a back corner for the second set, which was not as good as the first.

It was good to go to Toad's, at least once, although I'd be careful about who to see there. The acoustics were good directly in the center of the stage, but the quality of sound dropped significantly at the edges of the room. But, for $42 a ticket, seeing CAKE play, and standing 25 feet from the stage, was a relative bargain.

"The Names"

It's been a LONG time since I've posted to this blog, although I thought a bunch of times about writing on it since January, my last post. Anyway, with the ninth anniversary of 9/11 passing yesterday, I wanted to copy a poem here by former US Poet Laureate Billy Collins which was written some months after the terrorist attacks. It is the only poem I've ever read in the New York Times.

As people debate whether a mosque should be built two blocks from Ground Zero (talk about throwing gasoline on a still smoldering fire), I think it's important to remember "The Names."


"The Names" - Billy Collins

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.