I search on the internet and the find that the only thing new about Richard is my own writing on this blog. What’s happening? It’s been almost half a year. Wouldn’t it be convenient to imagine Richard never existed?

But then I think about the Martins. How are they moving forward? How important is the trial to them? When is the trial?

(I was just called for jury duty; but not for a criminal case–Thank God.)

Yesterday, I came upon a poem about being in prison. My son was home sick and asked if I’d read to him while he ate his soup. I picked up the book that I found at the Marlboro Book Swap last year, and blew off the dust. I had intended to read excerpts from A Call to Character on a regular basis, but the practice died long ago.

“Let’s find something about kindness,”I say.

My son smirks with embarrassment.  Just a moment earlier he snapped at me in that sardonic “tween-age” fashion.  In my best NVC, I let him know it stung. With his big heart, it pains him to know that he’s hurt me, even if he can’t help himself.

“Darn, there’s no section on Kindness, only Compassion” I say. “But you’ve got plenty of that.”

“Read anything,” he says, delighted to have me seated beside him all day.

I flip through the stories and plays and fables, and a poem catches my eye in the Self-discipline category. I begin reading… to myself.

“Read aloud,” my son begs.

“This one is about being in jail; I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“Read it,” he says; and so I proceed:

Advice to Those Who Will Serve Time in Prison

...To wait for letters inside,
to sing sad songs,
or to lie awake all night staring at the ceiling
                              is sweet but dangerous.
Look at your face from shave to shave,
forget your age,
watch out for lice
                       and for spring nights,
       and always remember
              to eat every last piece of bread--
also, don't forget to laugh heartily.
And who knows,
the woman you love may stop loving you.
Don't say it's no big thing:
it's like the snapping of a green branch
                                             to the man inside.
To think of roses and gardens inside is bad,
to think of seas and mountains is good.
Read and write without rest,
and I also advise weaving
and making mirrors.
I mean, it's not that you can't pass
        ten or fifteen years inside
                                       and more--
               you can,
               as long as the jewel
               on the left side of your chest doesn't lose its luster!

(Nazim Hikmet)

Kelly Salasin, January 2012

ps. My apologies to those of you who clicked the link to MacArthur Rd above. I couldn’t help myself. That song won’t leave my mind today, especially as it rains on top of our long-awaited snow.

We thought about waiting for more snow to lend more of the season, but we opted for what we had, not knowing if the weather would offer more or take what little remains.

The sun was bright on the hill and the view spectacular, and so was the wind chill which made for little argument over which tree was the best. Even the new guy at the baler was surprised at how quickly we returned dragging our balsam behind us.

It was such a tiny tree that it hardly needed to be shortened when we got home, but my husband took off a foot any way–with the chain saw–about which my 16 year-old explained, “Mom. He’s a man. He has to use the most powerful tool available to him.”

A simple hand-saw had been all we used at the tree farm. It was our resident enthusiast  who did the sawing. Eleven-year old Aidan also pulled the tree carriage down the hill and was just as spirited when we sent him back up the hill to return the carriage while my husband loaded our evergreen on the Civic.

I love seeing trees on top of cars. I like counting how many pass us in a day. This absorption with Christmas trees is definitely not p.c. of me, as most of my rural friends feel compromised in even cutting down a Charlie Brown one from their own woods, while others forgo the tradition altogether and hang their ornaments from evergreen boughs.

This year I actually considered this, out of fatigue. I didn’t want to face the dramatic overhaul that is required in our small livingroom to accommodate the evergreen; but this year’s choice was so trim–that we only moved a chair.

Our tradition is to leave the tree unadorned so as to appreciate it for as long as possible for its simple gift of green.  Next we add the lights, and these too are left in their twinkling solitude to inspire us.

The big night comes when the ornaments are unwrapped from their labeled boxes and carefully placed upon the boughs for the right effect of color and shape and medium and reflection.

We add egg nog and festive foods to this occasion, and then do the same with the holiday leftovers when it comes time to pack up the ornaments–on Little Christmas.

The tree itself remains, lit and then unlit, until I can bear parting with the Balsam beauty in favor of order and an extra chair.

The Christmas tree is one of my favorite traditions along with the advent calendar and book entitled, December Treasury, that my in-laws gave me years ago.

Each day of December is featured in this book created by National Wildlife with poems and photography and nature writing to accompany us through this first month of winter.

“The Ancients” is today’s offering. It’s a piece by Hal Borland, an author and  journalist, who probably penned this piece during his time as a nature writer for the New York Times. Although Hal died over thirty years ago, he understands my affection for the evergreen, and so I offer it here for all those who question and for all those who are similarly afflicted.

Evergreen Reflection, Kelly Salasin, December 2011

The  Ancients

    One need not go into history to find the reasons for veneration of the evergreen tree or bough as part of the Christmas season.  They are of the enduring things of this earth, and man has known them as long as man has been here.  The pine, the spruce, the hemlock, the fir – all those conifers that know no leafless season – have been held in special favor when man would have symbols of life that outlast all winters.  And even more enduring, in geologic time, are the ground pine, the ground cedar, and the club mosses, most venerable of all the evergreens. 

    We gather them now, even as the ancients gathered them reaching for the reassurance of enduring green life at the time of the winter solstice.  For the pines and their whole family were old when the first man saw them.  Millions of years old, even, even at a time when millions of years had no meaning.  When we gather them we are reaching back, back into the deep recesses of time.   But, even as the ancients, we are reaching for reassurance, for the beauty of the living green but also for that green itself, the green of life that outlasts the gray winds, the white frosts, and the glittering snow of winter.

    So we bring in the pine, the spruce, the hemlock – and now, because of the cultivation of Christmas trees on a wide scale, we do so without desecrating the natural forest.  We bring the festoons of ground pine and partridgeberry, feeling a kinship with enduring things.  They help us to catch, if only briefly, that needed sense of hope and understandable eternity.

-Hal Borland