Years later, a way to catch the train to Smilesville

  • By Mike Dewey
  • January 16, 2011
  • 289
                        
Picture, if you will, an artificial Christmas tree, well past its pseudo-evergreen prime, a seasonal artifact that, in other hands, might well have been disposed of, burned, cremated, dumped, forgotten. And yet, against the odds, it still survives, 40 years down the road. True, its best days and nights are probably behind, but there it is, standing tall and strong and proud, crowned with a golden angel, wearing 1,500 lights and half as many ornaments, bedecked with tinsel half its age. How, you might be asking yourselves, could such a treasure become even more beautiful? Relax and kick back, faithful readers, and allow me to tell you a story, one that just could bring a smile during this, the darkest and saddest month of the year. January, as you might recall, owns the deaths of both of my parents: Mom died 30 years ago and Dad followed her, on Jan. 30, 1999. I've been orphaned for a while now, but even in my mid-50s, I sometimes wish that I had a parent to talk to, if only to say, once more, how thankful I am to have had them in my life for as long as I did. For most of you, I suppose, the holiday season is long gone, a mere memory already, and that's fine, that's just great. You've moved on, crated away the decorations and are looking ahead, probably toward the promise of an early spring. That's utterly and understandably normal. I can't follow that path, however well-reasoned the steps. No, I choose to keep Christmas alive and well throughout the melancholy of January and my wife, for reasons that elude me, has chosen to accept my dedication to extending the season. Never does she say, "Mike, it's time to take down the decorations." Or, "No one else in the neighborhood still has a tree lighted up outside." She's on my side, all the way. Which is why I'm a very lucky man. My wife, I believe, understands that getting through January is very difficult for me. She gets it. All I want for this month is for it to go away, to speed its sand through the hourglass and vanish. January is all hideous hospital smells and care-nothing doctors saying stuff like, "She won't last the night" or "He's not going to be able to stay here past Monday." January is a cesspool of loss. January is the worst that could happen. January stinks to high heaven. January ... doesn't exist. Or at least it didn't until this year, when my wife rescued me. On Christmas Day, which we celebrated well past 9 p.m. more than three weeks ago, I opened what in my family, as I was growing up, would have been called my "Big Present." Back then it was a guitar. Or a Swinger camera. Or an English racer. One thing Mom and Dad always did was outdo Santa. This year, my wife did it, too. On Christmas night, I opened an electric train set. A Lionel. I've always wanted one, ever since I was a kid. And finally, there it was ... and the best thing about it was the label on the box that said, "For Ages 8 and Older." "Perfect," I said, a decades-old smile breaking across my face. "Thank you." It wasn't until last Sunday afternoon, though, that we finally dedicated ourselves to the task of assembling the track around the Christmas tree, attaching the power source, hooking up the boxcars to the engine and setting up the tunnels, the billboards and the power poles. I was expecting nothing, being used to sad January moments, when I engaged the throttle, I wasn't disappointed. The train just sat there. Dead. "Well, sweetheart," I said, forcing a smile, "at least we tried." Suddenly, as if on its own, the engine began to move and, within seconds, the whole train was making its way around the tree, happily chugging and leaving smoke in its wake. There are only four cars, not counting the locomotive out front. The track consists of 12 pieces. The transformer can barely provide enough juice for a circuit or two or three. But, to me, it's perfect. It moves along ... and keeps putting January far, far behind us. Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560.


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