Hang in there, better times are coming soon

                        
SUMMARY: The sight of fall flowers still standing strong against winter's perilous chill has Mike Dewey smiling as he reflects on Christmas decorations, a full moon and the political landscape as Twenty Twelve rolls on. Sometimes, you're just amazed at how good life can be. Take the miracle of our flowers, for instance. When I planted them, back around the time when the baseball playoffs were just hitting their stride, I had no idea that now -- a couple of weeks from the Super Bowl -- they'd still be flourishing. Peonies and pansies, stretching toward the sun in the middle of January. A year ago this time, we had experienced an eight-inch snowfall, something rare for this part of the nation. Everything was dead, including the flowers I'd planted the previous fall. That was OK, kind of reminded me of being back home in Ohio, where only a simpleton would expect flowers planted outdoors to survive much past Halloween. But this winter, for whatever reason, the fall flowers are rocking and rolling and growing and surviving. And it's not like I've gone all back to the land and built a greenhouse or something. No, I've just tended them and talked to them and made sure that they get whatever sunlight they can whenever they can. My indoor plants are thriving, too, which perhaps sets an example for those stranded outside. And, of course, we still have our Christmas tree standing tall in the sunroom, though it's fake, like the poinsettias that adorn the front of the house. What? You're surprised that my wife and I still have all our Christmas decorations up and shining? We subscribe to the Ebenezer Scrooge theory of the holiday season: a person should keep Christmas in his heart and celebrate it all the year. I have no idea what a person might think when he or she would walk into our home and see the nativity scene or the card tree or the stockings still hung with care. I imagine they'd label us kooks. But that's as may be. I've heard, over the years, from faithful readers who keep their decorations up longer than we do. They write about contentment and continuity and coming to grips with the fact that they're unusual. Unique. Special. I was outside the other night, turning off the trees and the lights, when I decided to start a fire in our chiminea. It wasn't cold, by Ohio standards, but it was chilly, somewhere in the low 40s. As I gathered wood and kindling, I noticed that my fall flowers were still thriving on the patio, settled in comfortably on either side of the outdoor stove. I hadn't watered them in a week or so, but there they were, all healthy and pretty, such a fine vision. A full moon hung, like a Christmas ornament dangling in the sky, and stars were everywhere, flashing lights of encouragement. The thing about starting a fire in the middle of the night is you have to be vigilant. No stray sparks can be allowed to skitter away on the breeze, possibly setting the woods ablaze. "Um, Mister Dewey," I could hear a cop say, "it's about that fire you built ... I'm afraid you'll have to come with us." So I stay silent and strong, standing before the chiminea, making sure nothing except branches and leaves get incinerated. And, oh my, you should experience that aroma: October in January. Something akin to a miracle's taken place this new year and I don't mean the self-immolation of the Republican party, which seems intent on losing behind Mitt Romney's "I like being able to fire people" PR disaster. I'm sure he means well, but it's a tough sell these days, when bosses everywhere are sharpening their long knives, slicing jobs to protect the bottom line. Romney reminds me of his father George, the governor of Michigan who, as the GOP can't-miss nominee in 1968, famously plunged off the deep end of public opinion when he babbled something nonsensical about being "brainwashed" into believing the war in Vietnam was winnable. But what do I know? Dick Nixon was elected and, well, you know how that went. The country's in a rotten mood and killing off jobs might actually work as a campaign pledge. It's not as if President Obama's awash in a sea of good feelings. No, in this year of our Lord Twenty Twelve, I foresee terrible trouble and, to quote Creedence, and a bad moon's on the rise. The way I see it, 40 percent will vote GOP, 40 percent will vote Democrat and the 20 percent in the middle will determine the future of our nation. No pressure there, undecided voters. But let's put politics aside. November's a long way off. Let's get back to the garden. When something like flowers in January happens, I'm tempted to believe that anything's possible and that no matter how bad everything seems, a better tomorrow awaits. A good friend of mine appears to have beaten prostate cancer. My great-niece is to be baptized before the month is out. When your phone rings, it might be good news. A knock on the door could mean new hope. So let's smile as the flowers continue to thrive, inside your heart or your mind. It's a cold season, sure, but that doesn't mean we can't keep the fires of hope well tended. Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560.


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