Dac Crossley's Western Blog

The Two-Faced God

The Roman god Janus had two faces. The god of beginnings and endings, of doorways, of war and peace, Janus looked forwards and backwards. He gave his name to our month January, the gateway between years.

Today, on the cusp of the new year, Janus is someone to mimic. A look back at 2013, a peek at 2014.

I’m glad to say goodbye to December; for me it is a cruel month. Far too many obituaries. I lost each of my wives in a December, both my wife’s parents, my father, and many friends from my childhood.

Goodbye to Christmas, too. For me, happy holiday memories soon morph into longings, longings for the children to be children again on Christmas morning. Longing to be a child once more, myself. Farewell, Santa Claus.

With this forward-looking face, Janus shows us a blank page. Let’s shed our holiday garments and tired old responsibilities. Rev up the energy, charge into a new space.

Those of us of a certain age no longer make New Years resolutions. With age comes that bit of wisdom. But January is a chance to change course, if you will. I am overweight. I view that as a problem that’s correctable. Like Bill Gates, I will formulate the problem and identify a solution. I will continue my walks. I will watch my diet.

Wait a minute! I do that now. What’s wrong? Careful reflection reveals to me that it’s the snacks that do it. Why do I eat when I’m not hungry? When do I snack? Mostly, it’s watching television that brings on the urge for chips.

So, a solution suggests itself. Don’t watch so much TV!

You fine god Janus, let me peer over your shoulder.

Dac Crossley
December 31, 2013

“Each day the world is born anew, For him who takes it rightly.” – James Russell Lowell.

A Crossley Christmas

Those of us of a certain age view Christmas through dark glasses. The old Christmas memories needle at you. The nest is empty now, and the fledglings have started their own. Yes, there are those assurances – you’d be welcome, granddad – yet you know you’ll be surplus.

What’s the answer? Road trip!

One particularly troubling year we picked up my father – a recent widower – and my wife’s widow mother and drove down to Jekyll Island, Georgia for Christmas.

Jekyll Island was owned by a set of wealthy New Yorkers. They build their own little vacation village of ornate “cottages,” club house, tennis courts, riding stables, and so on. The Island is now owed by the State of Georgia and the “Millionaire’s Village” is a well-maintained tourist trap.

We enjoyed some good old Holiday Inn hospitality, walked on the beach, and talked of happier times.

Until the problem of dinner arose. The HI wasn’t serving. We drove to nearby St. Simon’s Island but found everything shut down. Except for one shabby-looking restaurant – “Let’s keep looking.”

There wasn’t anything else. Back to that little restaurant. Inside we seated ourselves at a long table. And dishes of food were set in front of us.

“May we order?” my father asked.

“No, sir. No charge. We’re feeding you homeless people today!”

WELL!! We looked at each other – what should we do? Mama dug in and pronounced it good. So we ate, homeless as we were on Christmas. Dad laid some money by his plate.

Now, here’s the good part. The TV cameras came in! People ducked away, but not I. I smiled for that camera.

And I was featured on the six o’clock and eleven o’clock news. “Homeless man being fed on Christmas Day.”

And THAT, my friends, made for a happy Crossley Christmas.

Christmas Dinner in South Texas

My mother didn’t seem to enjoy cooking. So, we usually managed to eat Christmas dinner at someone else’s table.

I had two grandmothers living there in little Kingsville, Texas, and of course we visited each of them on Christmas day. My brother Walter and I were induced to break away from our new toys by the offer of breakfast. I was a big fan of chocolate milk – “Coco-malt” but not Ovaltine, not even when it was served in a Little Orphan Annie mug.

Then – it was off to Grandmother Baird’s house, first stop on a Christmas morning.

My Nan-naw had one of those big claw-foot oak tables on which she’d lay out a huge meal. Southern farm food, many vegetables, perhaps a platter with nondescript fragments of meat. Avoid those! Her creamy mashed potatoes, her mushy green beans live in my memory. Each of us had his own place at the table – my brother and I side by side. The Baird family, fire-breathing Methodists, didn’t believe in much in the way Christmas decorations. But they were joyful. Your Christmas presents hid under the tablecloth in front of you. My grandfather Baird had the largest pile of presents – he augmented his position with bricks shoved under the tablecloth in front of him. And he was the first to holler, “Christmas Gift.”

Grandmother Crossley came from a ranching tradition, the arid Nueces country north of Laredo. She liked to cook. And she served steak for Christmas dinner, a meal much more to my liking. She hung decorations all over the place, not somber like the Baird family. My “Nan-nan” once had a little Christmas tree with real candles on it, burning away in the parlor. So impressive to us kids, but frightening to our parents.

And in the evening at Nan-nan’s, stuffed to the gills, all presents opened and enjoyed, we’d gather around her Atwater Kent radio and listen to Lionel Barrymore read “A Christmas Carol.” Listening to that scratchy, wobbly voice, I could believe he was actually Scrooge.

Finally, driving home down bumpy, calieche-paved streets, my father would inevitably announce, “Only 365 days until Christmas.”

My mother never laughed at that.

Dac Crossley
December 9, 2013

“Each day the world is born anew, for him who takes it rightly.” – James Russell Lowell.