I am sitting out side and it's before dawn, the sun just has started to light the sky, and it's Christmas morning. The weather is promising another sunrise over the pond, it is a sprightly 4 degrees; the frogs and geese are all but silent across the pond. Alexa rings the workday alarm, seeming oblivious to the holiday and how some of us would rather just celebrate the promise of another spring, or the uncomplicated life and promise of a man who walked the earth at the year zero and abandon the gifting, the race to the markets, the crowds and the fuss.
The pond comes from nowhere when it rains enough. In this valley of mostly flat, the waterways are a mystery. There's no clear understanding of downhill, and were it not for the 36 foot drop to the ocean, 100 miles downstream, the water would have no where to go. Scouring the maps and charts, both new and historic, I have found no mention of the waterway that produces the pond. To the north is a creek, Dry Creek, which would be a menace were it not contained by levees. It frequently floods the roads and the town it runs through. To the south is Magpie creek, which is led through concrete channels until it eventually meets Steelhead creek, an ungraceful canal draining to the river. In between lies the pond.
Despite the lack of indication on any map, the nearby road over this puddle declares in stenciled letters, "Robla Creek OC", and down the way a bit is some facility with the moniker "Robla Creek." There are references in flood control projects referencing the "Dry and Robla Creek mitigation project".We pretty much live in this uncharted creek. If it rains more than a lot, the pond fills beyond constraint and surrounds the house. This isn't necessarily bad. It teams with life and the caroling of the frogs is a welcome indicator of the changing season. The fritter of daily life is held at bay by the pond and there's a quietness, a stillness, that emerges, despite the capital nearby. It's perfect for reflection.
When my siblings were alive Christmas was a family event with turkey and hot toddies. Santa would come early, and sometimes couldn't put the bicycle together ... everyone would overeat to their own punishment. I often described it to my friends as a Rockwell painting. My grandmother, and later my mother, would express themselves as the matriarch in the kitchen with all the heart they could muster.
When I went to grad school I quickly realized that those days were gone. I often would drive out to the beach, as I had done a few times with my brother; my children spending Christmas morning with their mother and I enjoying the memory of my brother. Still, a big Christmas dinner and Christmas eve with my family with me sometimes driving thousands of miles to be there.
The passing of my mother changed that. Now, the remnants of my family are spread like the leaves of an old maple. The last time we all got together was after the last of my siblings passed.
At that gathering I did what I've often done, giving something of mine as a gift. Historically, these "Used" gifts were not always well received. Giving a gift of my tattered copy of the "Fountainhead", or a plain unadorned 150 year old black lacquered antique Japanese sewing box were greeted with something less than joy, despite the apparent richness in them that I perceived. At Christmas that year, in the spirit of my uncle who always came through with some cool sports gear, I gave my nephew a baseball signed by Willie McCovey from my collection. I secretly hope he's swinging a bat at that in some sandlot.
I don't give many gifts these days at Christmas. What I try to do is give something every day if I can; if I want to give something as a gift, I just give it immediately, there's no reason to wait. Giving the 20 dollar tip for the door dasher, the ever present work to improve our lives, the vegetables from the garden to anyone that would want them, some book from my library; this fills my life.
I also have a reflect differently on the gifts I've been given. Lately, I've spent a bit of time out by the pond thinking about those gifts, enjoying the sounds and sights around the pond. The geese are waking up, clamoring about some unknown, perhaps just which pond to sit by next.
