Bear with me here, this might not seem very Christmas-y, but it surely is. It’s about hope or possibility or, maybe, just plain weirdness. Of the three, I chose hope.
Remember The Late Show with David Letterman? Each year around the holidays Darlene Love performed Baby Please Come Home. It was an annual tradition. I can’t sit still when I hear that song, I’m stricken with happy feet, happy hips, happy everything. It’s Motown, people, and that thing rocks. At the first note I’d grab the dog and we’d dance. He wasn’t enthusiastic, but I was taller and had leverage.
Sadly, my beloved, strong-willed dog passed away last month and this has been a woeful holiday season. Yesterday I finally steeled myself to pick up his ashes from the vet. They’d been there for weeks, waiting. Even so, the mere sight of the box sent me over the edge. I erupted into blubbers while the tech tried feverishly to console me. Embarrassed and self-conscious, I took the box and hustled out of there mumbling some sort of thanks or apology or gibberish.
On the way home, through a fog of sorrow, I heard Baby Please Come Home on the radio. It was the U2 version, not Darlene Love, but still … what are the flipping odds? To me, it was a bright, beaming, numinous ray of hope. Hell, it was a Christmas miracle.
Happy Holidays To One and All.