NYE, 2015

 It was our first NYE together and, being that the mountains were lackluster in their choices of events and parties, we decided on Duluth.  To my surprise, this was a different Duluth than the one printed on my Duluth Trading work t-shirts.

I was surprised that at their festival there would be a free concert, and y’all know how I love live music. Not only was it a concert, but it was the Brothers Osborne. Matty had booked us a room at the Best Western for the weekend.

This adventure kicked off as most of mine did, in an old, gas-eating, slightly drafty black Jeep. I made my way down I-85, and this time I didn’t miss my exit.

It was one of those red-nosed, hand-blowing, knitted-hat nights. We arrived at the festivities, parked away from the crowd, and made our way to the sights. In the town square, food trucks lined the curbs, kids wove through the crowd, and there was a strong smell of coffee mixed with hot chocolate. We joined a line and shuffled toward a meal whose thin plate warmed our hands.

We nudged and inched our way toward the stage and landed just a couple of rows from the band. What do I remember from that concert?  Her gloved hand in mine, our eyes meeting, her hair falling against my coat, and our last first New Year’s midnight kiss. Oh, and Brothers Osborne was there to provide a high-energy soundtrack to our personal fireworks.

We quickly made our way through the chilly drizzle to Matty’s car which seemed a mile away.  I delighted in splashing in the puddles on the sidewalk while catching a couple of side eyes. We made it halfway when…

Matty: My ears are cold — where’s my knitted hat?

Philip: (Pats coat pockets, pants pockets, panics.) Ummm… ummm…

M: Didn’t you put it in your back pocket?!

P: Wondering which puddle it was currently lying in. 

M: …

P: Ummm…. Sorry?

Christmas Lightsabers

 

It was a small apartment located a quick walk from downtown Brevard. The type where you could stand in the hallway and touch the bathroom door, both bedroom doors, and the kitchen bar. The space normally allocated for a dishwasher was occupied by a stacked washer/dryer—the door kinda latched and you’d get the random piece of clothing thrown at you.

I enjoyed walking to downtown, especially at Christmas. On those walks I relished in the mountain air, so cold you could see your breath, people bustling about from small shop to small shop, the steady flow of amber-lit snowflakes mounted to light poles, and a Christmas tree at least 20 feet tall with ornaments the size of my face.

Inside the apartment, Elle and I had decorated a three-foot-tall tree that sat beside a black IKEA cube-style bookshelf. The multi-colored lights danced along the mustard yellow walls. Her stocking was pinned to the wall, and a UNC blue Elf on the Shelf kept careful watch over the whole scene.

The week before Christmas, all of my shopping was done and we had nothing but time on our hands. This time, Elle and I drove the Jeep to downtown Brevard and saw the new Star Wars movie at the one-screen Co-Ed Cinema. She was so enthralled with the film that she clapped at the end. We took another short drive to Marco Trattoria for some very good Italian food to round out the night.

This Christmas was also mine and Matty’s first Christmas together. We were in the beginning of our journey together. She was going to spend the first part of it with her family, then drive up to spend the rest with me. Leading up to Christmas, it was all I could do to contain my excitement. I felt like a six-year-old sneaking a 2am peek at the living room to see if Santa had shown up yet.

Christmas arrived with shiny wrapped gifts, a stocking full of candy and small trinkets, milk and cookies carefully placed on the bar, and wrapping paper strewn about the living room. Elle, at her young age and with her own money, had purchased me a koozie and a football-themed ceiling-fan chain pull.

After a dark multi-hour drive through Atlanta, parts of South Carolina, and some of WNC, Matty arrived. I met her in the parking lot and helped her bring presents and bags up the stairs and into the apartment. With limited funds, we exchanged presents. She gifted me a Tervis tumbler adorned with the same Star Wars characters that Elle and I had watched earlier in the week, and a couple of boxes of my favorite cereal!

The next morning I thought I heard a creak and a cracking. No, it must have been my imagination. But, there it was again, I definitely heard something. I then realized what was happening. That minuscule apartment was bursting at the seams from all the joy, love, and Christmas magic that it had held.

Smitten for a Mitten

It was a cold, dark, and slightly damp early December night, the exact date being lost to the echoes of time. As a family, it was decided that the Christmas tree would be a real one. Not one of those fake K-Mart trees that the branches snapped in and the needles never really spread out. 

I was bundled up in a heavy winter coat, a knit hat, cowboy boots (with duct tape on the bottom to keep me from slipping and sliding), and mittens.  The family piled into the car and off we went!  On the side of the road was a tree salesman.  I scooted and waddled out of the car doing my best Stay Puft Marshmallow Man imitation.

Beneath the full moon and string lights, we searched for the perfect tree. Some were too short, some too tall, some too round, and others too lean.  Out of nowhere, a light shone on a tree in the middle of the lot and we worked our way towards it.  It was our Goldilocks tree. Just right. 

My dad looked down at me and asked for one of my mittens. I begrudgingly pulled it off and handed it to him. Being the giant of a man that he was (almost six feet tall!) he placed my mitten at the top of the tree.  There it was, a wooly fabric star looking down on me and my now freezing left hand.

What did he just say?  We’re going to look at the other trees?! To make sure??  

Glad he has both of his gloves. 

It was an eternity of checking every other tree on the lot to make sure the mitten tree was truly the one, instead of some random tree propped up in a corner. We finally returned to retrieve my hand covering and buy that tree. I gingerly pulled the mitten onto my hand and felt the blood defrost and begin to flow again. 

We loaded up the tree, climbed in the car and headed home. The next day it was decorated with multi-colored lights, shiny garland, handmade and store-bought ornaments, and silver, stringy icicles.  I heard someone say that next year we would have to get another real tree.

I guess that would be ok as long as Dad used his glove to mark the tree.

The Most Good

Ho! Ho! Ho! Chocolate Chip cookies in the oven. 🎵Jingle bells, jingle bells (sometimes Batman smells) 🎶. Small town Main Street shops all dressed up. Twinkling lights tucked behind silver garland on evergreen trees. 

Stockings hung by the chimney with care.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

The gentle ringing of a bell being swayed by a volunteer near a red kettle. Every Christmas season you can find Salvation Army bell ringers full of joy and holiday spirit, collecting donations for those who otherwise would do without. They take on the weather and have long hours on their feet, yet they’re always in a jolly mood.

Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!

There I was in line with my family, and we were going to see Santa Claus — and this close to Christmas too! I couldn’t believe my eyes! The line wrapped around the Salvation Army building and was full of families like ours. I was fidgety and impatient, rocking from foot to foot and slowly shuffling forward when the space became available. Counting ahead — only three, no, now only two. Oh, now just one! We’re in front of Santa! What do I want?!

Tap. Tap. Cha-ching.

The Blue Ridge Mall in Hendersonville, NC, was like most small-town malls. The biggest store was always K-Mart, there was a bookstore, an arcade, and a K-B Toys tucked among local franchises. It was a sight to see all the people hurriedly completing their Christmas lists. In the middle of it all? A dark evergreen tree with steady amber lights adorned with shiny garland and paper angel ornaments. The white paper angels bore the age, gender, wants, and needs of a child, and at the bottom a red Salvation Army shield. They called it “The Angel Tree” for more than one reason.

Mom. Mom! MOM!!!

Little Philip: Look what I have!!

Mom: Where did you get those?

LP: Santa!! Here at the Salvation Army!!

Mom: …

LP: Look! He gave every kid two presents each!! See?!

Mom: I do.

LP: I’m going to ope…

Mom: Not until Christmas.

LP: But…

Mom: Here, help me with this box.

LP: Ugh. Hey, this is kinda heavy.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

Almost every year in elementary school, as the holiday season started, there was a canned food drive. Usually, a cardboard box covered in shiny paper would be placed in each classroom, and sometimes the winning class would get a pizza party or at the very least extra recess time. I always made sure to bug Mom for at least one can to bring to help out.

Click. Crank. Whirr.

There were quite a few cans in the brown corrugated box that I lugged from the Salvation Army building to the car. Cans of different pastas, boxes of cereal, boxes of mac and cheese, canned cranberry jelly, pouches of tuna (though we didn’t have a cat, so I’m not sure…), and multiple cans of puréed pumpkin. But Mom always bought pumpkin pies from Ingles.

🎶 Silent night, holy night 🎵

That Christmas passed like all the others — crisp cool air, family, home-cooked meals, and gifts from Santa, Mom, Dad, and others. We sat among the discarded wrapping paper that covered the floor, playing with each toy until we fell asleep from exhaustion.

And that Christmas for my family and many others, the Salvation Army did the most good.

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The Salvation Army showed my family the most good at a time when we didn’t have much. If you’d like to know more about the work they do, you can visit them here:

https://www.salvationarmyusa.org/

A Joyous Ruckus

 

WHAM!! PUSH!! POW!! SLAM!! RUN!! SWING!! GRAB!! PULL!! DODGE!! JUMP!! Pant. Pant. Pant. Hands on knees. Rest.

That’s about how my first mosh pit went at a P.O.D. concert that I dove into with Lam. I had been against the stage before, close enough where the bass determines your heartbeat. I hadn’t even thought of moshing before then. Lam let me know this was a mild one compared to others he had been in, THANK GOD!

The next concert with Lam was Disturbed with a Daughtry opening at Gas South Arena in Duluth—a venue where I had attended other concerts and All Elite Wrestling shows. This time we were on the same concrete floor that was usually covered in ice for the hockey games. After grabbing a couple of drinks, we made our way toward the front and stopped about two rows of people short of the stage. The surging crowd pressed us closer to the security railing with each passing song.

During the booming drums and screaming guitars of Daughtry, I decided to FaceTime Elle. She could barely hear and probably understood even less of what I was trying to share with her. As the song finished, Lam grabbed my phone and exclaimed to her, “I’m taking you guys to Counting Crows for your birthday!”

There was no mosh in this pit, just people singing, jumping up and down, dancing, and headbanging. The crowd exhaled pure energy back to the rockers. As the lights came on after the last song, I noticed something: the band was throwing out drumsticks and guitar picks! And I was close enough if one came my way!

Looking up, I saw a flash of green triangular plastic heading my way. Could it be?!? Yes!! A pick—maybe I could catch it!

I anxiously stood on my toes and pressed forward, just like I was back in the upper bowl of the Asheville Civic Center at the Neal McCoy Ingles Food Show, not wanting to miss out.

I felt my fingers tap the flying guitar pick and instantly I was wide-eyed, mischievous, and full of awe—just like Elle at the Salvage Station when she tapped Michael Franti’s shoulder.

The feel of hard plastic brushed against my hand, and I was back at Philips Arena, slow dancing my last first dance in the aisle with Matty while Luke Bryan sang only for us.

As I pushed against other hands and fingers, the pick jumped and tumbled around.

Then it fell still.

After all these years, did I really, finally catch the pick?…

Reggae and Jeep Snores

 

It’s just an old black Jeep. I bought it when Elle was four and I’ve had it ever since. It’s taken us up and down many highways and still bears her middle school honor roll sticker on the windshield. It wobbles, shakes, and is noisier than a plane about to take off, but it always got us there.

One of our many adventures ended up at the Salvage Station in Asheville. It’s an open-air concert venue that is home to stacked shipping containers, food trucks, picnic tables by the river, and Elle’s second concert with me. We arrived early enough to grab a bite to eat and explore the grassy field for a place to sit during the Michael Franti concert that we were about to witness.

Near the front, concertgoers had already laid out blankets, towels, and anything else they could to secure a spot close to the action. Remembering from earlier, I took us over to a couple of smaller platforms that were set up away from the main stage. We sat on the ground between them and waited for the music to start.

The opening reggae band finished, and after a short delay, Michael Franti began to play. As the sun set and the night sky filled with stars that mimicked LED fibers, the crowd surged toward the stage; realizing we wouldn’t get close enough to catch a souvenir, we stayed right where we were with our unobstructed view.

Magic struck during the middle of the concert when Franti hopped off stage and began singing and strumming his guitar through the crowd. And his destination? One of the two platforms that we were situated between! Elle would be close to the action after all! I glanced down for just a second, and when I looked back up—he was right beside us! She looked to me for approval; after a quick nod, she hesitantly reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.

As I looked back down, her face was beaming and the Cheshire Cat could not have produced a bigger grin. I looked back up, blinked, and just like that the music had finished, and the stage lights were now aglow. We hurriedly made our way to the parking lot, climbed into the Jeep, and began to pull out.

“Wasn’t that great?! You got to tap him on the shoulder!!”

She quietly snored from the passenger seat.

Tax Fraud

 

Our massive neighborhood loves to celebrate Halloween. The loop across from the clubhouse is shut down and security directs traffic around it. If you’re getting home late from work, you may as well bring a pillow and blanket because your wait to just get in the gate is a long one.

The Magnolia Loop hosts all kinds of Halloween antics. There are flash mobs featuring witches, decorated homes that rival Christmas Vacation, and candy for days! Trick-or-treaters wander from house to house, often with mouths agape and bags filled.

Because of all the ruckus, houses like ours, tucked out of the way, rarely—if ever—see any costumed kids. One Halloween, while minding our own business watching TV (probably Below Deck), we heard the familiar ring of the doorbell.

Matty: “Are we expecting visitors?”

Me: “Not at this time of night.”

Matty: “Huh.”

Matty opened the door, and the last words she was expecting to hear were shouted out, “Trick-or-treat!” There stood two kids and their mom. We had left the porch light on, and they followed Halloween etiquette and pulled into our driveway searching for candy.

I’m not sure a ghost could’ve been any paler than we were in that moment. Matty told the kids, “Just one second,” and we both hurried off to the pantry in search of anything to drop in their bags. We collected a few items, handed them off, and, once they had left, we shut the door and turned off the light that signaled we had candy.

Reviewing the Ring camera footage that night, we heard the kids exclaim, “They gave us apples and Pop-Tarts!” They didn’t seem too thrilled. The mom mean-mugged the camera, and I instantly knew we had ruined her Halloween parent tax.