The spirit

It happens to me every year.  As much as I may want to be dismissive about the enormous commercialization of Christmas and roll my eyes at the fact that Christmas decorations and candy and gifts are already on the shelves before Thanksgiving, at some point I always get sucked in; possessed with the Christmas spirit.  It's a matter of the senses: the smell of pine and cinnamon, the sound of beloved Christmas carols, the feel of fluffy red Christmas stockings, a glimpse of the first cleansing dust of snow.

Today was the first time that I seriously considered getting a tree.  I realized that it was enormously important to me to have a tree this year.  I didn't like the notion of getting it by myself, but when I ventured to Fred Meyer today I found a tree I couldn't leave behind.  It was a Noble, one of the most desired of Christmas tree options in the Pacific Northwest.  It was small and I wanted something diminutive for the apartment.  Finally, it was on sale, and I have very little resistance against a bargain.  

So, I bought it, carried it up the three flights to the apartment and pulled my small box of Christmas decorations out of the storage closet.  I used to have lots of Christmas decorations, but somewhere among all of my many moves in the last few years, they were lost - given away inadvertently, most likely, in a box sent to Goodwill.  The loss I most regret is a little angel that used to sit on my Grandma and Grandpa's tree top every year.  She wasn't very elaborate, but she had a rhinestone on her eyelash and I thought that made her magical somehow.  My consolation is that my current tree topper lights up.

I think the little tree looks good in the little living room, between the plant stand I found at Goodwill and the crackly cat tube that the cats use to hide from each other, despite the rather revealing 'window' on the side.  Stockings for over the fireplace are next on my list!

Thanksgiving alone?

Thanksgiving a la Norman Rockwell

I honestly thought I was going to end up spending this Thanksgiving alone.  The prospect bothered me immensely, and I realized that Thanksgiving is, perhaps, my favorite holiday.  It’s more laid back than Christmas.  It involves cooking for others, which I always enjoy.  And it doesn’t require loads of decorations and presents, just a turkey and side dishes, and loved ones with whom to share a meal.

My childhood Thanksgivings are happy memories.  They usually took place at Grandma's house, where she did most of the cooking and other family members contributed various desserts or a jello salad side dish.  The meal involved passing lots of Grandma’s best china around her long dining room table, eating delicious food, and laughing with family.  I suppose it is that sense of family that I am trying to recapture when I make my own Thanksgivings now.

The first Thanksgiving meal I ever cooked was, perhaps appropriately, after I had moved to Oregon in 2000.  I did the whole thing myself – turkey, gravy, two kinds of potatoes, stuffing, green bean casserole, scalloped corn (a family tradition), and dessert.  I made the meal for myself, my then beau, and his friend, another voluntarily displaced Hoosier.  For that meal, we became a little family unit and it was excellent.

Until a few days ago, the last Thanksgiving meal I cooked was two years ago.  I, again, did the whole thing myself.  That has become a personal tradition that I actually enjoy.  It is absolutely rewarding to prepare food for someone you love.  I did that two years ago, and he was appreciative and helpful and we were a loving family of two and I was content.  His only request was that we finish the meal in the living room rather than at the dining room table so that we could watch football. 

This year I found myself approaching a Thanksgiving alone as my adopted Oregon family had made other plans.  They tried to include me in those plans, but I was wary of inserting myself.  I considered just making a small meal for myself and sharing turkey with the cats.  It only took me a moment to deem that prospect pathetic.  Then my adopted Oregon family emailed to say they had spent so much money at the grocery store that they had been given a free turkey.  My friend had to work, but if I wanted to come over and cook the meal, we could have Thanksgiving on the Saturday before the actual holiday.  I gladly agreed and so found myself, two days ago, making a Thanksgiving meal in the home of my friends.  We sat down later and enjoyed a good meal, had an excellent conversation, and expressed gratitude for the good things in our lives. 

Intimate Entertainment

A scene from the NW Classical Theater's
production of Dracula

That title sounds awfully provocative!  But perhaps provocative isn't a bad way to describe a recent entertainment experience that I enjoyed at a small, local theater here in Portland.  The Northwest Classical Theater is located in the industrial area of downtown Portland, across the river from the city center.  It's not an area that I usually frequent, unless I venture down to see a film at the Ominmax theater at OMSI (the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry).  I had actually had tickets to a Sherlock Holmes play at this theater years ago, but I never made it to that performance.  Thus, I had no experience of the theater and few expectations when I recently bought tickets to their production of Dracula.

Yes, some of us actually enjoyed reading about vampires before the advent of Twilight.  Bram Stoker's novel is a classic of Victorian fiction, and I still enjoy reading it.  I find new layers in the story each time I read it or see a film adaptation.  Coppola's visually lush Bram Stoker's Dracula does hold a permanent and influential place in my mind, however, I was eager to see a live production of the play.  I was curious to see what modern actors would do with the story.

I drove to SE Lincoln and 6th Avenue expecting to walk into a theater and take my place in a row of seats next to a hundred or more theater goers.  I expected to be looking down onto a stage and merely hoped I would get a seat with a good view. What I walked into was a small brownstone building with a large rectangular main room.  A jovial man in jeans took my e-ticket and directed me through a doorway draped in lack.  Apropos, I thought.  When I walked through that doorway, I entered a room the shape of a breadbox and nearly as small.  This was the theater.  A rectangular box with black walls and a concrete floor that was painted black.  Along each long side wall, red bucket seats were arranged in a neat, tight row.  I counted twenty seats along each wall.  The only stage setting included a bed at one end of the room, a 'coffin' at the other end and a small, slightly raised wooden platform in the center of the room.  I took a seat near the bed, my knees just a foot or so away from the silky purple bedspread draping off the edge.

That platform in the center of the room was occupied by a man who seemed completely at ease, as the forty of us filed in and found a seat.  He was young, thin, and wore a tuxedo.  He lounged in a wooden chair that looked much less comfortable than he looked.  Two other young men sat at the edge of the room, both dressed in black slacks, boots, and white smocks that looked a bit like chef's uniforms.  They leisurely read what appeared to be old fashioned newspapers.  After I was seated, I noticed that the man in the tuxedo wasn't wearing any socks.  I thought, "What kind of a theater is this that their actors aren't even provided with socks as part of their costume."  Every once in a while, the young man would turn and look at one of us, the audience, and grin.  He did it to me twice and I was totally disconcerted.  I looked away as if I was very taken with a spot on the black wall across from me.  Soon, the doorway's curtain was pulled down and we were enclosed in that tiny rectangle together: the two white clad men, the grinner in his tuxedo, and forty playgoers eager to see Dracula come alive.

The young tuxedoed man soon revealed himself to be Renfield, Dracula's pet, whose mind the count controlled and destroyed.  He wasn't wearing any socks because he was in an asylum and having one of his delusions.  The play had started and the actors were just a few feet away from me!

It was the most real, intimate, and visceral entertainment experience I have ever had in my life.  When the scenes would change, the lights would go completely down, the room bathed in darkness.  I couldn't see a thing, but I could hear the actors moving around, taking their places, right in front of me.  At times, I could feel the long gowns of the female actors brushing my leg or across my feet as they walked by in the darkness.

Best of all, the actors were fantastic.  They were compelling and believable.  They never even glanced at us or broke the spell of the play, yet they pulled us in with their vivid, emotional portrayals of the characters.  They screamed, they ran, they fought and cried.  Dracula bit Mina and Lucy and fake blood spilled from his mouth.
And, in that, I did see one of those new layers of the story.  I had personally never seen the story as particularly titillating or erotic, though it was quite controversial in the Victorian era and its sensual undertones have been much examined in literary criticism circles today.  Yet, it was only at this play that I saw it, that I understood how intimate and sensual the story is.  When the actor who played Dracula was kneeling on the bed in front of me and the actress who played Mina was sucking fake blood from a supposed cut on his chest, I recognized the implicit carnality of the scene.

I have been telling everyone about my experience, and I can't wait to go back to the theater for another performance.  Their next production is of Two Gentlemen of Verona and I'm already looking forward to it.