The Salvaging Army by Nadine Sellers

Hey, hey! Mr. And Mrs. Medium and all the Media offsprings thereof; we, the wise, the hungry, the serene and the distraught, We want to be heard. It's our time, so, listen! These are not bells jingling in front of your favorite store, these are coins we saved in our own pockets. We do not wear costumes nor bang on red buckets to gain your attention. We are only discernible by our undistinguishable demeanor. Neither grinch nor scrooge, we, people, individuals and various relatives are not against anything; we are for love, peace and quiet. Love thy neighbor? Pass the peace please? And could you folks just be quiet down there! I'm trying to think. You may never meet us at midnight, on a highly advertised date, pushing you and your shopping mate out of line for first dibs at mediocre bargains. We, will not scream under a pile of chintzy Chinese cashmere, nor touch base, yelling and scratching at a frail old lady in the undies department for a single bit of lace; however cheap. No! we, will be snuggling up to our silk pillow, the only sounds, a sensuous snore and the rustle of happy sheets. Our children will neither clamor nor implore, they will giggle in yellow snow and pick pinecones in the park. No one will blackmail us, nor cajole us into fake reciprocity at the time of traditional begging. And it won't be us, knocking on your door at dinnertime, coaxing you to stand in stocking feet with the heat oozing out between your reluctant legs into the street; you may have to stand there awhile listening to carols rehearsed over and over precious time. Checkbook in hand, ready for yet another overblown charity, you will scrimp and cramp happily in the name of multitudinous acronyms. Empathy beware, for soon you may resemble the needy. Crackling metallic paper being pulled over semi-secret surprises will not keep us awake in the bedroom, while someone frantically wraps last minute orders. Precious sleep-time will not be wasted in anxiety attacks over the diminishing quality of workmanship. None of us will loose another nerve cell to impatience, worrying if and when the package-du-jour will arrive on time, time printed on the slave calendar of a lunatic society? Our conscience does not stir in the late hours while we wonder if it is the right size, color or, hell-forbid, popularity correct, brand??? Self doubt will not plague our post dinner quality time. Creeping apprehension will not ruin life, as we perceive it to be. We no longer buckle in shame for fear of the inevitable faux pas at the in-laws. Yes! the meat may be dessicated, the wine too warm and the pie too wet, well! We still have no corner on the miracles market here. Fallible as we remain, each of us can trace our conscious living to the excesses of others. When we notice foam peanuts blowing in the winter winds, boxes crumpling under wet snow, plastic crystals cracking in the rubbish; we deplore the loss of resources. If you smile at the sight of last years' tinsel stubbornly clinging to the arbor vitae across the picture perfect street. If you grin at the thought of the local mall cancelling the bells orchestra presentation, in favor of a potentially violent midnight rush on the newest overpriced gadget. If you are laughing right now, consider yourself a single step away from joyful enlightenment. We are an anonymous salvaging army; we turn ears and hearts away from the pernicious media. We refuse to salivate in front of obscene displays of futility. No matter the price, we will not be coerced into purchasing or borrowing for yet another unnecessary item. Selfish pleasure aside, we have marked in indelible ink, a clear line between need and wish. Letting the occasional wish slip smoothly into permissible indulgence. Besides the draconian measures it would take to restore the planet's waters and atmosphere, we can start by saving ourselves the troubles and rapacity evident in neighbors as soon as the words, happy or holiday, are joined in any sequence after halloween. Imagine the emotional economy we practice! We do not force our aunts to buy unwanted gifts, we do not impose our taste on bitter sisters and tired mothers. Forget about poor fathers, they are programmed to agonize over the size of their bonus and to hang the energy wasting lights before the snow sticks to the roof! No more cracked guest soap in the family bathroom, no more fading candles to be dusted in the foyer. No more receiving the same toiletries you gave your cousin 3 years ago. Although we admit there is pride to be derived from regifting; saves earth, saves money and truck loads of foreign oil as well. Hey! We could finance an orphanage with good will and miserliness. There are bibles written on the subject of creative giving, amuse yourself at perusing them in the store, then go home and implement the ideas therein. Artists are born every season! Oh! We like Rudolph just fine, sure! we tap our toes at jingle bells. But, please, don't force us to watch another blingy commercial, our closets are full, our yards are weed-free, the trash bin lid clamps down securely. What more do you want? The ads leave your expectations dangling, like a child tugging at a dry breast, never quite satisfied. The office and the school are replete with goodies and wrappers to swell the rubbish heap and stretch your marks with post holiday regret. Yes! The economy wants your dollar; high interest claps at every click of EFT transfer. Charges, popping like corn kernels on overheated overdues, stop the leaks and pay the piper.Congress is bankrupt and courts are replete. An army of oriental workers will sleep well tonight on a fistful of your earnings. Sleep tight little spender for tommorrow comes the bill. Long distance 18 wheelers pull triple trailers swerving on the highway to avoid snowbound idiots who ignored the "chains mandatory" signs downhill. Cold cops line up at the state border to check your breaks or your goods. News fulfill the gore-junkie's best wishes with multiple accidents, crime that happens to other people, and the inevitable warnings of holiday depression sandwiched between suicide reports and ads for more unaccessible glamour. The overworked delivery van driver fusses on her cell phone at her latchkey kids. They know party-time is now or never; No mom at home, dad long gone? That means twelve hours of non-stop fun? Praise the frantic do-gooders who want their stupid stuff tonite! For those of you who missed the first wave of back-to-the-landers, here's your chance. First question - do you buy a cut and dying tree? Do you recognize a tree farm tree? Or - do you have a ready to stretch phony in the basement? Either way - you lose! History demonstrates that the Christmas tree is yet another invention of materialistic man? Tree growers? Well not quite! At the time and place of the reported birth of baby J. there were few pines to be had in the Negev. A few cedars of Lebanon perhaps; but a bit further North afoot or by donkey. It was the Celts who conjured up the seasonal reference to the Epicea species as a token of the solar renewal, on the date we know as the 24th of December. Clever to appoint an iconic conifer to the cold month in the South of England?. Through ages, the tree of the month caught on, but seemingly only for winter, by then, the Romans and their imperial subsidiaries had embellished upon the original premise; they added berries to branches, Germans put red apples in a good year to symbolize fruitfulness, or brag to the tribe. By 1521 the Anabaptist refused to prescribe to the idea that they had to bow to a highly Catholicized Mary, they temporarily ditched her out of the creche and kept the kid. (I believe this was the beginning of the fall of family values), one parent households have struggled ever since. By 1740 the last of the mainland creants and miscreants had adopted the tree theory. England caught on a hundred years hence. 1840 was a good year for glass balls to hang onto dead trees. Plastic facsimili would enter the tradition in the 1950s stateside. The rejection of Miss M, mother of the adored swaddled babe, did not affect the ever growing marketable momentum. Creche scenes in all sizes and ever increasing creativity pop up in every city park and every self important lawn across exsurbia. As proved by National Gross Product figures ( not figurative) the numbers grow every advancing year, that's your number! Well? Now, are you going to commit arboricide in the mountains? inhale tree farm pesticides? Or do you want to fashion a wreath out of a few bows you may have surreptitiously pruned from your mother's blue spruce out back? Don't supersize me, I barely fit in my glitter-free dress. Don't Christmasize me, I barely fit in my conscience right now; so, no doves on my plate, no inflatable Santa on my lawn, I'll do like the sanctified Nicholas who distributed precious dried fruit and goods to needy nomads at the low end of the grazing season. My nomads of choice are homeless, mostly toothless, the better to grin, my dear! And a very happy self to you!

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