I’m getting too old to lift Christmas boxes from the attic. If you’re like me, we can’t eat as much food on Thanksgiving Day, anymore, either. It kills me. I vow not to stand by and grow old without a fight or fuss.
The new year’s coming. It’s time for new resolutions. Join me as I continue to throw fear and hesitation out the window. In 2016, I’ll paddle out in the choppy surf; forget this paddling out only when the surfing conditions are glassy and perfect. Truthfully, the majority of my old surfing buddies are packing up their boards and hanging up their baggies, trading them for old mens’ Bermuda shorts. It scares me. But then again, my tired 58 year-old body surfed big waves with 69 year-old Randy Miller and 62 year-old Mike Doncette on Costa Rica’s Osa Peninsula last summer. Those guys are amazing watermen; still catching waves like school boys skipping class!
What’s the world coming to? I should probably be fishing instead of taking down these boxes. Damn this stuff! My eyes are getting old; it’s getting more difficult to see the little red or green holidays ribbons Karen tapes to the outside of the containers. A tad bit more easy to identify, but no lighter to lift.
The surf’s big today; five, six, some seven-foot sets coming in, but the wind’s on it a good bit; bet it ain’t easy getting out, maybe I’ll go for it, but probably not today.
When the wind blows a semi-gale northeaster like this for a week or more at a time, I find the garden provides a solace in its quietude. The garden settles one’s soul like a rainbow.
Speaking of stormy weather, it was a heck of a wedding we had last month. Seriously, it was an outdoor ceremony and thirty minutes before and thirty minutes after the event it was raining buckets in Douglas Park. Spectators watched as the bride and groom shared their faithful vows as a living collage of jumping mullet, dancing wavelets, and flashing lightning unveiled as a backdrop over our great Indian River Lagoon.
But, my mind wanders, as it does so often now. Back to the Christmas boxes; opening the first box, a flood of Christmas memories come gushing out like a surging full-moon tide. Aged pictures of our kids sitting on Santa Claus’s lap sit on top of wrapped handmade ornaments they made in elementary school. It makes me sentimental every time I see this stuff again. Maybe taking the Christmas boxes down from the attic ain’t so bad after all!