During our first year of hiking Atticus and I climbed Mount Liberty and Mount Flume on Christmas. It was a surreal event as we left before the sun was up, then headed high into the clouds of the two four thousand footers into deep snow that clung to trees and made them look like misshapen beasts. It was frightening and we were alone as the cold wind swept through the dense clouds and we had to watch our step. Civilization seemed a world away. Eleven miles later we returned to our little car without seeing another soul and our new Christmas tradition had begun. Since that day in 2005, Atticus and I have been on many a mountaintop for Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, and sometimes both and its never been as lonely or as frightening as that first time when we stepped away from the tradition of spending the day with others. But some of my favorite Christmas memories have to do with Christmas Eve in Newburyport. We lived downtown for ten years. Right in the heart of it. By three in the afternoon on December 24 every shop and restaurant typically closed it and it could feel as lonely as those mountaintops on our first holiday hike. It was as if the world had vanished right outside our third floor window as we looked down out on the dark storefronts. A quarter of a mile down State Street there was always a majestic Christmas tree lit as beautifully as any Id ever seen. Each year a new one went up and seemed grander than the last and each was nearly as tall as the Federal style brick buildings. But on Christmas Eve no one gathered near it but one fellow and he did it for several years. His name was Mike, and he was one of our two homeless people in town. I have two favorite stories about Mike. The first has to do with his habit of often standing right outside the Richdale convenient store on the corner of State and Pleasant, right below our large apartment windows. Because I wrote The Undertoad, and it was a controversial newspaper, people who knew where I lived often looked up into our windows and since I took on some interesting characters, including some not-so-nice police officers (we had nice police officers as well), I often kept the blinds to my windows closed for privacy reasons. But that only seemed to make me more mysterious for passersby. One day Mike asked Danny McCarthy, one of the good cops, for a couple of dollars and as he often did, Danny gave him the money. Mike quickly ducked into Richdale where Danny figured he was going to buy a couple of hot dogs and a Coke. But when Mike emerged he didnt have any food, he had the latest issue of The Undertoad. Danny couldnt believe it and laughed about it. I never miss an issue! Mike said. Not many people did. The writing was colorful and people always learned something interesting about those who led our little city. Mike said to Danny, Id like to meet the guy who writes the Toad one day. Id shake his hand for what he does. You see him all the time, Danny said. Nope, never have, Mike said without looking up from the paper. Yes, you have. He walks around with that little gray dog, Max. Wait . . . thats him? Seriously? Yeah, Dan said. Then he looked up toward my apartment across the way and pointed it out to Mike. He lives right up there behind those shades. What? Oh shit! You think hes watching us now? Mike took a few steps back away from the street AND my windows and stood against Richdale. You think hes watching us now? One of those blinds is bent! Danny couldnt help but laugh and asked Mike what he was afraid of. Im so screwed. Im surprised he hasnt written about me yet! What would you have done where Tom Ryan would go after you? I ask him if I can borrow money all the time and he always gives it to me but Ive never paid him back! I always lend you money and you dont pay me back either, Mike. Yeah, but youre not the Toad. Mike and I were always friendly, even if he didnt know what I did for a living. But once he did know he became an unofficial reporter for me, like thousands of other Newburyporters. One late night when I saw him by the docks on the waterfront, Mike told me the story about how he missed his father, who had disappeared when he was young. He was a drunk and could be unpredictably violent. But Mike said he was best when Mike was a little boy and his father would come home late at night after drinking. Young Mike would sneak out of bed to where his father was watching television and eating peanut butter out of the jar. Hed tell me to get another spoon and hed pick me up onto his lap and wed eat peanut butter out of the jar together. It was the best! We didnt talk. We just hung out together and during those times he was all mine. Ive loved peanut butter more than anything my whole life. Its probably because of that. Well...I also like a good bottle, as you know. With that he closed his eyes and smiled at the memory. Later that year, when Christmas approached, Mike would often pass out drunk at night beneath the giant glowing Christmas tree in Market Square. On our final Christmas Eve in Newburyport, before we started our new mountain tradition, Atticus and I walked through the lonely night to see Mike sleeping on a bench, curled in a fetal position. I sat down on the bench and gently shook him awake. What...what? He rubbed his eyes and he coughed Oh, hey Tom and Atticus. (By this time Max had died and Atticus had been with me a for a few years.) Just sleeping off a bottle or two. Mike, we wont be around tomorrow since we are going down to my dads house in Medway. I wanted to give you your presents tonight. Presents? For me? No. I . . . uh, I didnt get you anything. Sure you did. Youre one of my best reporters. Youre always nice to Atticus, and your friendship is a gift. Mike looked at the few presents I had for him. I hate to open them and ruin the bows and wrapping paper. In the first he found some wool socks. In the second some gloves and a hat. In the third was a new coat. In the fourth was a bottle of peppermint schnapps. But I saved the best for last. Mike already had tears in his eyes and his voice was shaking each time he thanked me. But when he opened the last present the tears rolled down his cheeks and he didnt know what to do with himself so I hugged and held him. Sorry, I probably stink, he said, pulling away. Yeah, you do, but thats okay. That Christmas Eve we sat into the early hours of the morning near that brightly lit tree, Mike, Atticus, and me, on a bench looking up at all those lights and ate from a five pound tub of peanut butter. Mike and I each had our own spoons and Atticus waited nicely as we took turns offering him some. In a little city where thousands had far more than theyd ever need, there was a man with smelling of booze and body odor, wearing a new coat, silently putting peanut butter in his mouth while savoring each spoonful. He had less than anyone else I knew, but that night he was as rich as any of the three kings. Whenever weve been on a mountain on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, I open up my backpack, take out our food and water, often play Christmas carols, and, if it is at night, I string portable lights around trees or rocks. Theres always a tiny jar of peanut butter at hand for Atticus and me to share, and a prayer is sent Mikes way to thank him for one of my favorite holiday memories.
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 13:18:58 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015