Today is not the first time I’ve posted on this calendar date–9 January–in this webspace; a couple of years ago, I posted something of a hopping piece at this time of year, after all. Nor yet is it the only time I’ll have marked what is, for me, the significance of the day; that, I’ve done at least thrice in this webspace. The last of those is probably the most relevant, being the one that most directly addresses what I would mention now: today marks sixteen years I’ve been a married man, and all of them to the same most excellent woman.

It was a cold day in the Texas Hill Country, I remember, a reminder that winter touches even the limestone stage where Aestas enjoys long residence. But it was a good day, one of the best that I’ve had, and one that made all of the better days that followed possible. (I think I may be forgiven some sentimentality about the matter, especially since the statement is accurate; I have only gotten to where I am because I have had the support of my most excellent wife, and there have been times when the fact of our public solemnization of our relationship has maintained it.)

Someday, perhaps, I will write here a fuller account of the day. For now, it will be enough to say: Happy Anniversary, my beloved, and I hope for many more anniversaries with you!

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For a few years, now, I’ve made a point of making some comment or another at this point in the year, remarking about the USian practice of engaging in a lot of buying on the day following Thanksgiving. The comments have varied in length and form, ranging from pompous prose to some alliterative verse I think I did decently. In that, I suppose they’re representative of my writing. I get prolix, I know, and I do still enjoy compiling verses, even if I haven’t been doing nearly as much of it lately as I might like. (Between work and having been sick recently, I haven’t had the energy to give to it, which I lament.) They’re perhaps more acerbic than average for me, but I do get…on…about more than a few things, so maybe that’s not really the case.

I had meant to continue the “tradition” (how “traditional” something can be that one guy does for a few years, I’m not certain) with this entry into this webspace, finding something else about which to gripe at some length. But I really don’t have it this time around. To my understanding, it’s simply not as big a deal anymore as it used to be. A lot of things aren’t, honestly. While some of my outside engagement has me involved in holiday festivities, those don’t seem to be attracting as much attention and demanding as much engagement as they previously did. Perhaps I am projecting, and I’ll admit that may not be the best thing, but it seems there is more apathy afoot. It could just be me, but I don’t think it is; what I see suggests as much, although, here as elsewhere, I’ll admit that my experience is probably not entirely representative. Even so, I’m subjected to advertisements like anyone else, and there seem fewer for holiday stuff than I remember.

What to make of all of it, I have no real idea. I don’t necessarily trust my own perceptions on the matter; as noted, I’ve been taken up with other things for a while, so it’s possible it’s all going on as normal and I’m just not looking at where it is. It may be that there is increasing recognition of the…disjunctions I’ve noted on occasion. It might be that the prevalence of consumption culture means there is no effective difference between the day before Thanksgiving and the day after in terms of how much and what people want to buy; being able to get things delivered in a day makes waiting for a holiday less an issue, I think. It’s also possible that it’s simply a matter of people having less money to spend–and everybody knowing it; no point spending money to bring in customers who aren’t, after all.

Of course, there’s irony in my saying that last, since I would like to have some more work coming in…

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Once again, the time has come for me to wax loquacious on the subject of work. I did it last year at around this time, just as I’d done in the preceding years, and there’s no reason for me not to do so this time around. As it happens, I’m actually in the same lines of work this year as last, which is nice; not having to retrain for a new job all of a sudden is a good thing, and getting better at a job held for a while is a better one.

As far as that job goes, things are better. I know more about the work I do, I do more of it, and word has spread and is spreading in the community that I have at least some idea what all I’m doing. I’m glad of that much, to be sure. I am still well aware, however, that the work I do is less work than the work a lot of other people do. For the most part, I plug away on my own in an office space, communicating with clients through email and making my workspace more or less commodious to myself. I don’t have to be on a sales floor listening to customers complain about things that they did wrong and now have to pay for; I don’t have to be out in the Texas Hill Country summer sweating and struggling. It’s an inside job with minimal heavy lifting, so how fitting it is that I should take the day off–and I did take the day off, more or less–is an open question.

Admittedly, given that my work is what it is and that most of those with whom I would have to conduct business are themselves closed, it makes sense that I would save on the utility costs associated with my being in the office. Since my wife and daughter are also both off from work and school, for much the same reasons, it makes sense that I would take the chance to spend time with them–which I am, and happily. And I am minded of some old wisdom that bids each and every one of us to take every opportunity to rest that presents itself.

So much said, I still find myself somewhat ill at ease with taking for myself a holiday intended to honor the laborers that have made this place. I am not among them, not anymore, although I yet rely upon them, as do many. What right do I, who do so little, have to be at ease, especially when many who work are even now at work–and some at work doing things because I have bidden them be done? At the same time, what good would it do for me to work now, to be at work now? Would my setting to the tasks that await me–and there are some of those, certainly–somehow ennoble me?

I do not know, and that uncertainty bothers me for several reasons. It’s the kind of thing that pervades my thoughts, not just today but on many holidays and observances. I try to set such things aside and enjoy what opportunities do present themselves…but there’s always the nagging voice in the back of my head, just loud enough that I can’t quite ignore it…

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It is somewhat odd to me that, as I look back over this webspace, I’ve only had one prior post come out on this date, and that relatively recently. Given how calendars tend to work and that I’ve got more than ten years posting here, I’d’ve expected to have marked the occasion more than once before–but such hasn’t been the case. Some, I’m sure, will accuse me of anti-patriotism or anti-Americanism for it; it wouldn’t be the first time, and I’ve my doubts it will be the last. After all, how many people who have bedecked themselves in red, white, and blue, draped themselves in flags, and shouted their jingoism with full throat are themselves thusly accused?

This is not about that, though.

I believe I’ve noted before that holidays–not just this one, but the fact of the holiday today invites reflection on holidays generally–are…difficult for me. I’m not a celebratory person by nature or habit (which is the case is not entirely clear); I am…wary of revelry and the indulgence that often accompanies it, certainly for myself. And it’s not, or not just, and issue of wanting to maintain appearances; were I more concerned with how I look to others, I would make a point of being out more among the day’s festivities than I have yet been. I’ve put in appearances, now and again, but rarely; I’ve attended the big Fourth of July event in my hometown exactly once, for example, and I’ve never made it to any of the other major area events for the day. Instead, I’ve either worked the day, or I’ve kept more or less to home–although that’s not really different from most other days for me; they find me working or home, rarely “going anywhere” or “doing anything.” But that’s not a new observation for me, either.

Such ruminations, such reflections, are typical of my holiday experience. I fail to feel what those around me do, and instead find myself living largely in my head. (Again, that’s not really different from most other days for me.) I don’t much feel connected to the traditions being honored, which I will stress is an issue of me more than it is of them; I am not owed outreach in this regard, and I am not complaining that I do not receive it, but am simply observing that I do not and that I do not seem to have it in me to reach out, myself. While such things as the cookout happen with me–I do enjoy doing so, but that’s another thing that’s not different from most other days for me, and I keep in mind Robb Walsh’s comment in one or another of his cookbooks that there’s a perversity in heating your house while you’re trying to cool it off–I don’t necessarily understand why so many of the other surrounding traditions have grown up or continue, and they don’t speak to me at this point in my life. Fireworks are pretty, yes, but they’re also expensive, and neither pets nor people with many forms of PTSD do well with them. Parades are neat, yes, but I’ve marched in enough of them to know they’re also markedly uncomfortable. A day off is nice, for those who can get it, but a whole lot of those who can make things an awful lot worse for those who can’t–and I’ve been one of the ones who can’t pretty often in my life.

I suppose that’s moving toward an actual point, here. Celebrate what you celebrate, sure, but keep in mind as you do that what you do still affects others. That it’s a holiday doesn’t mean you should be a jerk.

But that’s yet another thing that’s not really different from any other day.

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I‘ve written on this date in previous years (notably here and here), and it occurs to me as I look back over the records I have in this webspace (nearly ten years of them, now!) that it is a bit odd that I’ve only written as many times as I have on the date. As with a similar recent observance, however, I don’t know that I have anything to add to already-existing discussions of the events commemorated today; I’m not a historian whose work covers the 1940s, and I’ve already told my parents “Happy 44th Anniversary,” so that brings me more or less to the end of topical commentary.

Not that that will stop me from rambling on about something else. So much should be obvious by this point.

I have known a few people who took part in the events 81 years past, although I cannot claim to have known them well. Growing up where I did, it was unavoidable; growing up when I did, “known them well” was not something very much available. I cannot say with certainty what many of them would think about today, although I can guarantee that many of them would find much fault with how things are–and I’d even agree with some of them. (Not all, of course, but my curmudgeonly self doesn’t agree with anyone on everything–not even my curmudgeonly self.)

One point that I recall having heard voiced and with which I agree is appreciation that there has not been such a thing happen since as happened then. There have been fights, conflicts, wars since, to be sure; there are still many of each ongoing. But the scale and scope…those have not been equaled, so far as I know, and I do not think that such a thing could be wholly hidden anymore. (Whether that’s a good thing or not, I cannot say; most likely, like most things, it’s both.) That there has not been so large a thing, that so many have not had to face such things at once, I have been told by some who were there is a good thing; I cannot argue the point, and I do not care to try.

I have ideas about the lingering effects of such events. I have not done the work to bear them out fully; I do not have access to the resources that would allow me to do so, and I am not sure how many such still exist or would continue to exist long enough for me to be able to find them. The life I live now has many attractions, but access to research apparatus is not one of them, not for most things, not really. But I know that at least some of those attractions are results of what happened 81 years ago today, just as I know a great many of them result from what happened 44 years ago today, and insofar as those are true, I am grateful for what took place–even as I share the hope that the earlier kind of thing never happens again.

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A time of year has come again about which I have written several times before (here, here, here, here, and here). It might well be thought that, with five earlier commentaries about Memorial Day in place, I’d not have more to say about the matter, that I’d’ve exhausted myself in noting the ostensible purpose of the observance and the complicated, nuanced, fraught, and sometimes contradictory actualities of the same. And since it appears once again that a Memorial Day weekend is not seeing me uproot my family and relocate to another part of the world, that avenue of discussion would seem to be cut off, as well.

It’s true that, this time, I’m not going to wax loquacious about the ways in which the day’s observance fails to live up to its promise. I’m not going to launch into some seething semblance of a Jeremiad this time around. I’ve done both before, clearly, and it is just as clear that my doing so does no good. I don’t feel better from some kind of catharsis, and my voice is all too easily drowned out by the cacophony into which I have shouted it so many times in the past.

No, this time, I will simply make note that the day is the day that it is, and I may perhaps find some moment to silently reflect on things. Other than that, I have work to do, and I have my family to attend to, and either of those things would be enough to occupy me well. That I have both is a blessing, and I am not unmindful of it.

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Two years ago, I wrote a rumination on Cinco de Mayo, the commemoration of the Mexican victory over France at Puebla. I’ve had a chance to look back over the piece, and I stand by the assertions I made in it. I remain pleased to celebrate a portion of my wife’s heritage and my daughter’s, and I acknowledge the fraught history that underlies such of my own (trained, not inborn) heritage as I do so. Too, I will be going to look for tacos for dinner tonight; I do still love me some tacos.

As I write now, though, I have to think things are even more fraught than they were before. The prevailing political rhetoric at work–not only where I am and have been, but also more broadly–is not one that would seem to lend itself to any kind of multiculturalism, even that which was subsumed into something of a gestalt cultural identity decades and more ago. I know I am not the only one who was taught with pride about the six flags to have flown over Texas, and it continues to boggle my mind that groups of people who in so many other ways have not advanced beyond the understandings inculcated into them in fourth grade have moved away from one of them that might actually have some good in it. But then, many things do boggle me.

For my own part, I do what I little I can to learn more about that history, including the unpleasant parts of it that are often elided in the name of “teaching true history,” the parts that proceed not from Great Man narratives traditionally promulgated because they present a whitewashed vision of events such as conduce to the formation of particular opinions. And even if we assume, as many do, that the Great Man narratives presented are reasonably accurate insofar as they go, they are not representative; the records left behind in diaries and journals, in the logs of junior soldiers and on the backs of kitchen cabinet doors, do more to describe how things were for the majority of people, the kind of people among whom I would have been had I been then and not died young from some malady that modern medicine and vaccines easily address (I have never been the kind of medievalist who longs to live in the bygone days I studied, in large part because I have studied them, and I’m not much more fond of many more recent times). It is less easy.

It is less convenient to learn such things than it is to learn others. It does oblige me to look at myself and my background more carefully and closely and to deal with the ways in which those I have succeeded succeeded because others were made to fail. It is also a fuller and more accurate thing, and it does give me some hope that, rather than failing to live up to the examples of the past, I might well be able to move beyond them.

Trite as it is to say, things can’t get better if they stay the same.

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