a.k.a. V.J.

There is a period in the Central New York seasonal cycle between when the last of the fall foliage drops from the trees and when the first serious snow accumulation arrives. It’s a time of dreary landscapes filled with bare tree limbs silhouetted against drab skies, dampened by cold drizzle and fog. Generally, that is the state of affairs in November and early December. This year, it extended through Christmas and remains so as of this writing on New Year’s Eve.

Gloomy weather aside, this December has been an enjoyable, relaxing period for me. Since the fall semester ended earlier this month, the past few weeks have been a much-needed decompression. I taught two courses this semester, on top of my full-time job. That’s a lot; too much, really. I felt over-extended throughout the fall. I have found, over the years, that my emotional and mental well-being is at its best when I stay busy. When I have too much free time, malaise sets in. That said, there is a tipping point when “staying busy” becomes “not having a spare moment to relax.” I’ve figured out where that point is and will try to stay on the right side of it in the future.

Speaking of emotional and mental well-being, our family Christmas was a decidedly low-key affair this year. That was by design. The household collectively decided that we didn’t need a lot of material stuff, nor did we need to check all the experiential boxes of a typical American Christmas season. (i.e., no social media posts of us, as grown-ups, wearing garish matching pajamas on Christmas morning.) Being a thoroughly secular lot, we wouldn’t be delving into the spiritual aspects of the holiday all that much either. That’s not to say that we were abstaining from celebration or being Grinch-y; we just dialed everything back in scale.

The modest Christmas approach was quite enjoyable. We attended a couple holiday concerts that Griffin performed in. We had a tiny tree that sat atop Millie’s crate. (Said crate takes up the corner where we traditionally set up a full-sized tree. Rather than displace her sanctuary, we worked around it.) We exchanged a few gifts. There was food and candy and a few well-chosen TV specials, highlighted by Alastair Sim and Emmet Otter. There was even some eggnog, but that was a regrettable choice I won’t be repeating next year.

The best thing about this holiday season has been the free time. As per usual, I had a surplus of unused vacation days at work that I had to take off before the end of the year. I’ve been off since December 22, and have been taking it easy that whole stretch. The dogs seem to like having me around more, probably because I’m the member of the household who spoils them. I make no apologies for that.

In addition to dog-doting, I’ve spent time this month continuing my antiquing spree. I don’t buy much, but I enjoy looking at the oddities and curiosities populating the shops. Of course, for every interesting item I’ve seen, there have been ten items that can only be called old junk. Much of the merchandise in antique stores probably wasn’t worth buying when it was new and only now has value based on the novelty of being a “blast from the past.” Still, I enjoy a good blast from the past. Bring on the Bicentennial commemorative plates and Burger King Empire Strikes Back Coke glasses! I’m here for all of it.

My only other recent activity of note has been my reading. I’ve decided to take on one of the classics. A friend of mine recently posted on Instagram that Moby-Dick was his favorite novel and passed on some advice that the work is best approached as a series of meditations rather than as a story, strictly speaking. This friend is a high school English teacher and a man of taste, so when he named something as his favorite book, it seemed that I should give it a chance. I started plunging into it a few days ago with an open mind, and free of expectations of tight plot progression, and I have to say that I’ve been loving it. I don’t think that I could have appreciated this book as a high schooler, when many are exposed to it. I’m not even sure I would have liked it at age 30. But given the stage of life I’m at now, the themes and digressions of Melville’s classic are resonating with me. I’ll leave it at that for now, as I will probably write about the book at length after I finish it.

And now I sit at year’s end, recounting its last month as a pot of New Year’s Day black-eyed peas simmers on the stove. This would probably be a good place to look forward to 2024; to express hopes and intentions for the next 12 months. I’m not going to do that. What’s the point? I will simply take the new year as it comes and hope that it will do the same to me.

Happy New Year, good reader!