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doghasitsday[Text]
A couple things: I'd like to come back to work in the kitchen, if that's all right. I can work multiple shifts, too, or anywhere else I'm needed. Back where I come from, where there was people there was always lots to do, and lots of jobs nobody wanted, so that's where people like me tended to come in. Now I'm just used to keeping busy.Second, I
[Video]
[For the first time Harold switches his camera on. Most may or may not have seen him in the hall, someone or two people may have been caught with him under the mistletoe in the last week or so. He's mostly friendly, mostly quiet, but the sort of person who excuses himself before he's worn out his welcome. He's relatively thin, not unpleasantly so, but there are telltale signs he didn't used to be that way. Slightly ill-fitting clothing -- not because they are the wrong size but because he is accustomed to wearing things that hide shape. There are lines along the upper part of his neck where there was once a crease, a sign that he once had a double-chin. He looks less friendly and diplomatic, more obviously nervous. He pushes his glasses up further on his nose, takes a breath.]
I can't help but notice that lotsa people have been getting into the spirit of the season around here. [small laugh] As well as you can, I mean. It's kind of weird that this place has seasons, but I guess it makes people more comfortable?
I just wanted to say that seeing it makes me happy. Sure, the mistletoe is a bit much -- and I'm sorry, by the way -- but see, all of this, back home? It's gone. This is actually my first Christmas since my family died, since everybody died. And even if people back home continue to celebrate, it's not going to be the same for them, is it?
I remember, ah -- [a frown, how did he want to say this?] -- I believed in Santa Claus when I was a kid. Believed in him so much that I'd write letters, and follow-up letters. I'd leave cookies out. My sister tried to ruin it when I was about five, but I think I held on for another couple years after that. After that, it just...felt like something normal to talk about like it's there. It's like a figure of speech -- a person's not really ever a tiger, you don't catch your death when you go out in the cold without a jacket. But people still say these things. I still mentioned Santa sometimes. "Best get to bed already or Santa won't come." I think I said that every Christmas Eve night, right up until last year. It's not like I believed anymore, but it was almost tradition. It's how Christmas Eve went, like the sun rising and setting, it was bound to happen. We'd take the ferry out toward Little Tall and watch the lights and drink cocoa, come home, maybe watch a special on TV.
Then I would say that, and it would be time for bed.
But I didn't say it last year. Everything else was just the same. Amy helped mom all day in the kitchen, baking goodies mostly, but also doing some early preparation for dinner the next day. We were having family up. My uncles and their families. Once everything was accounted for we went to dinner and then to the ferry. There were these huge light displays all along the water, some on the shore, some built up on boats -- designs of candy canes, winter scenes, Santa Claus and his reindeer, seasons greetings from Little Tall Bank... Old Christmas music played on the speakers. Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, those sorts. The classics.
Ears and noses red we went back home, warmed up by the fire. One of the Rankin/Bass specials came on. Can't remember which. One of the Santa Claus ones. When it got to that time, we were all stretching and yawning, about ready to head off on our own. And I remember I opened my mouth to speak and my Dad cut in.
"Just go to bed, f--"
[He stops himself there. and one can't tell if he cut himself off because he won't say it or if his father couldn't quite say it back then. He shakes his head.]
I remember it shocked me at the time, shocked everybody. [Hurt his feelings a little. Humiliated him. Ruined the moment entirely.] But I didn't argue. Dad and I hadn't been doing so well lately. I just let it go, didn't want to ruin it for anyone else. I went to bed, and when we were up again the next morning it's like it never happened. Dinner with the family went off without a hitch. Nobody drank too much or argued.
It was just Christmas.
So [He smooths a hand back through his hair.] I guess in saying all that I just mean I'm happy it still happens. Somewhere. Thanks.
A couple things: I'd like to come back to work in the kitchen, if that's all right. I can work multiple shifts, too, or anywhere else I'm needed. Back where I come from, where there was people there was always lots to do, and lots of jobs nobody wanted, so that's where people like me tended to come in. Now I'm just used to keeping busy.
[Video]
[For the first time Harold switches his camera on. Most may or may not have seen him in the hall, someone or two people may have been caught with him under the mistletoe in the last week or so. He's mostly friendly, mostly quiet, but the sort of person who excuses himself before he's worn out his welcome. He's relatively thin, not unpleasantly so, but there are telltale signs he didn't used to be that way. Slightly ill-fitting clothing -- not because they are the wrong size but because he is accustomed to wearing things that hide shape. There are lines along the upper part of his neck where there was once a crease, a sign that he once had a double-chin. He looks less friendly and diplomatic, more obviously nervous. He pushes his glasses up further on his nose, takes a breath.]
I can't help but notice that lotsa people have been getting into the spirit of the season around here. [small laugh] As well as you can, I mean. It's kind of weird that this place has seasons, but I guess it makes people more comfortable?
I just wanted to say that seeing it makes me happy. Sure, the mistletoe is a bit much -- and I'm sorry, by the way -- but see, all of this, back home? It's gone. This is actually my first Christmas since my family died, since everybody died. And even if people back home continue to celebrate, it's not going to be the same for them, is it?
I remember, ah -- [a frown, how did he want to say this?] -- I believed in Santa Claus when I was a kid. Believed in him so much that I'd write letters, and follow-up letters. I'd leave cookies out. My sister tried to ruin it when I was about five, but I think I held on for another couple years after that. After that, it just...felt like something normal to talk about like it's there. It's like a figure of speech -- a person's not really ever a tiger, you don't catch your death when you go out in the cold without a jacket. But people still say these things. I still mentioned Santa sometimes. "Best get to bed already or Santa won't come." I think I said that every Christmas Eve night, right up until last year. It's not like I believed anymore, but it was almost tradition. It's how Christmas Eve went, like the sun rising and setting, it was bound to happen. We'd take the ferry out toward Little Tall and watch the lights and drink cocoa, come home, maybe watch a special on TV.
Then I would say that, and it would be time for bed.
But I didn't say it last year. Everything else was just the same. Amy helped mom all day in the kitchen, baking goodies mostly, but also doing some early preparation for dinner the next day. We were having family up. My uncles and their families. Once everything was accounted for we went to dinner and then to the ferry. There were these huge light displays all along the water, some on the shore, some built up on boats -- designs of candy canes, winter scenes, Santa Claus and his reindeer, seasons greetings from Little Tall Bank... Old Christmas music played on the speakers. Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, those sorts. The classics.
Ears and noses red we went back home, warmed up by the fire. One of the Rankin/Bass specials came on. Can't remember which. One of the Santa Claus ones. When it got to that time, we were all stretching and yawning, about ready to head off on our own. And I remember I opened my mouth to speak and my Dad cut in.
"Just go to bed, f--"
[He stops himself there. and one can't tell if he cut himself off because he won't say it or if his father couldn't quite say it back then. He shakes his head.]
I remember it shocked me at the time, shocked everybody. [Hurt his feelings a little. Humiliated him. Ruined the moment entirely.] But I didn't argue. Dad and I hadn't been doing so well lately. I just let it go, didn't want to ruin it for anyone else. I went to bed, and when we were up again the next morning it's like it never happened. Dinner with the family went off without a hitch. Nobody drank too much or argued.
It was just Christmas.
So [He smooths a hand back through his hair.] I guess in saying all that I just mean I'm happy it still happens. Somewhere. Thanks.
