GRENDEL AND ME (January '09)

Bernie Moore

Zzzzzz...

I was talking to Grendel the other day, and he expressed disappointment that we have not dragged in a Christmas tree to watch in its final throes of decay and degradation.

“Boss,” he said, “I really miss the glitz of the tree.” Even though I’m basically colorblind, I do like the twinkling and sparkling. Reminds me of the gleam of a mousie’s eye trembling in a corner.”

“Your talking through your hat,” I replied, “There has never been a mouse in this house.”

“Just doing my job,” he smirked. He had me there. I know he’s active at night, else why does he sleep all day? Still, I’ve never seen any spare mouse parts rotting about.

“Not a creature was stirring, not even…you get the drift?” Continuing his smugness.

“Yes, yes, but still no tree. It’s too much work. Especially vacuuming broken ornaments under the tree.”

“Boss, I have no idea how that happens.”

How a cat can lie with a straight face!

By now his eyes were drooping and soon he was fast asleep, ass over teakettle.

Well there I was, thinking about Christmas and not all too happy about not being able to find the box of Christmas cards I bought to house the gift cards I dispatch every year, because I am one of the world’s worst gift selectors. You know the cards with scenes of Past Christmases that not one of us has ever known. Sleighs and fireplaces and ten room houses on no less than ten acres reminiscent of the time Sears and Roebuck and Industrialism and that bastard Dickens conspired to convert Christ’s birthday into the centerpiece of the gross national product.

My wife is frustrated about gifting me, as the scuba gear I have is carefully selected and then reselected as safety advances through our product inventory. The chances of her hitting on the perfect gift are remote. So I guess it is among many of us; if you’re not a diver, it’s hard to buy for a diver. So I guess it is with skydivers. Used chute; plenty of jumps left in this old baby. Opening bid $1. Of course there is the old
give me a list option, but I have always balked at that. There have been a few surprise gifts in my lifetime where someone got me what I didn’t even know I wanted. The sheer delight of someone else getting ahead of me in my own mind

is a rare and delicious experience. And even more so when you can pull it off on someone else.

Rare.

So rare. Like having a French Angelfish swim into your focal plane just as you snap the shutter leaving you with a full frame, sharp, head on portrait. Like finding a massive cancellation on a luxury dive cruise leaves you and three others the sole divers on a weeklong voyage. Like finding a dozen twenties in you dive bag, left over from the last trip.

But the days are getting shorter. And darkness is creeping up inexorably, and I fear it will overwhelm us and drive us into oblivion where we will perish and stiffen for all the ages. This is serious business. We must bring back the light. So let us light fires, and candles, and lights, and dance and sing through the darkness. Make revelry and hope we are amusing enough to please the powers of darkness, so that we may be kept around for another season, another year.

Do not go gentle into that good night…

Rage, rage against the dying light

Thomas

And the triviality of gifts will pale to the joy of longer days and the promise of warmth. If there is one thing that New Englanders are, we’re long on optimism. The darkest day is temporary and only lasts but a single night. This piece is being clicked out on the eve of that day with the full knowledge that things will get better the day after tomorrow. With a foot of snow on the ground and another promised for tomorrow I am going to lug the golf clubs in for cleaning, have my regs serviced, check the hoses, the bladder on my BCD, change the battery in the dive computer, check the bottles for vis dates, so I’ll be ready when the first opportunity shows itself, and hope the wetsuit doesn’t shrink too much over the winter. Somehow a piece of dive gear in the hand in January is comforting; the offices of husbandry reassuring.

I have again sworn off going to Boston Sea Rovers and Beneath the Sea, but I know I will yield and head for them when the bell rings. Got to see the shiny new gear, the old faces, and the pics and videos that fuel the appetite, and make an appointment or two to paradise. With a little luck the air fares may go down.

Ah, that man’s reach should exceed his grasp,

Else what’s a heaven for.

Browning