It’s only been four days since my last entry, the usual number of elapsed hours between the Thursday of one week and the Tuesday of the next, but it feels like so much more. Granted, the Christmastime Extravaganza kept us hopping, but there’s something more to it than that. Something elusive and transient, yet somehow concrete and permanent. It’s the relativity part of time defined through example and negated by experience. In a way, the period between Christmas Eve and today passed in the blink of the proverbial eye, yet there seems so much temporal distance between the two points that I almost can’t remember the days as having come around at all. It’s a strange and fascinating study in perception to consider time flying while it also stands still, and the only way I can describe it is to tell it.
It all started last Wednesday, when we took Trey for a ride on the Polar Express. In many ways, the experience was an education in misery and misfortune, all of which was fortunately trumped by Trey’s exuberance and complete suspension of disbelief as he truly believed he journeyed to the North Pole to meet Santa Claus. We travelled along with my parents, all nestled snugly together within the cozy confines of a Ford Edge, which is a vehicle far less spacious than its appearance suggests. My father drove and my mother rode shotgun while Brittany and I were relegated to the back seat like middle school lovers headed to a sock hop – a condition that, while not ideal, would surely have at least proven itself to be comically interesting at some point, had it not been for the giant car seat wedged along with us into the impossibly narrow space. Trey and I enjoyed window seats with Brittany shoehorned between us in a display of homo sapien smooshiness that had to be experienced to be appreciated, leastways if you aren’t in the circus business and of the clown car persuasion.
The Ford Edge is a roomy enough car, except that most of that room is devoted to the front seat and the inordinately large storage space in the rear. The bench seating between these two extremes of spacious interior to which Brittany, Trey and myself were so sardinely confined for hours and hours may technically hold three people, although such a torturous practice is recommended only for those who thrive on discomfort. The middle seat is too impossibly narrow to accommodate any adult who isn’t Karen Carpenter and, since I’m no Calista Flockhart myself, the 3+ hours of the journey to Palestine, Texas were, shall I say, less than ideal. Granted, the vehicle would probably seat three children much more comfortably than three adults (or, as it were, two adults and one enormous car seat), but the close proximity of child-to-child would be a recipe for inharmonious disaster of the ‘Will you stop touching me?!’ variety, if ever there was one. No, I would recommend no more than two people of any age be sequestered away into the rear seat of a Ford Edge, unless the idea of threatening to turn the car around every five minutes is appealing to you. It’s either that, or spend your entire trip shouting to the back seat and promising to give someone something to cry about whenever you get back home.
When we finally made it to the Texas State Railroad Station, we were about half an hour early for our departure. This would have been a fine time to take in some of the outdoor festivities, except that it was cold and raining, and the various kiosks housing these outdoor festivities were located in a grassy field that rendered them naught but tiny islands amid an ocean of frigid and slippery mud. We decided to head inside, instead. As we were walking, the shriek of a train whistle pierced the chilly air, and from down the track steamed the Polar Express itself, decorated with Christmas lights and frosted windows. We watched it pull into the station and begin the slow process of unloading train cars full of excited children and their beleaguered parents, then made our way into the gift store. Trey immediately activated his Thomas The Tank Engine radar and sussed out the location of the nearest toy train table, over to which he somehow dematerialized and teleported instantaneously. I bought him a souvenir golden ticket that doubled as a ten dollar refrigerator magnet, and we headed out to the platform to board the train.
Trey was shouting, “All aboard!” as we walked up the steps to our car and handed our tickets to the conductor. We made our way down the aisle to find a group of vacant seats that could accommodate six adults and four children, as my sister and brother-in-law were meeting us at the station to take the journey to the North Pole together as a family. I found a suitable spot and ended up sitting across from an old childhood friend of mine, who also happens to be my dentist. We exchanged hellos and introductions just before the conductor climbed aboard to announce that we were about to get underway. A few seconds later, he walked back into our car, shouting my last name and asking us to get off the train…
Due to the rain and the hostile lack of signage in backwoods places like Palestine, Texas, my sister had been delayed just long enough to become entangled in the cluster of insanity that was the parking lot, and was going to miss the train. And, since you can’t hold up a train on a tight schedule for one carload of passengers, my mother made a plea to the powers-that-be at the ticket booth to allow us to exchange our tickets for the next train. However, since this was against the railroad’s policy, the negotiations apparently required the furious application of both tears and the unstoppable force of her theatrical will to anyone who would listen, in order to draw the haggling to an agreeable close. Having achieved both success and a level of infamy amongst the railroad’s staff, she eventually persuaded the conductor to board our car and ask us to disembark and wait for the next train. It was a bit infuriating and heartbreaking having to explain to Trey that we somehow boarded the wrong train, after we’d just spent time convincing him that we had, in fact, hopped on board the really real Polar Express. His confusion and disappointment were, thankfully, short lived as he waved goodbye to the train with fat tears beginning to pool under his normally happy eyes. Within a few moments, he spied his cousins rounding the corner and heard them calling his name. The tears went away without ever having properly formed, and the three of them were dancing around in circles singing Hot Chocolate before we had time to get properly upset.
We boarded the next train as easily as we had the first, although this time the conductor eyed us with a cautious stare of weary trepidation. (My mother dressed in full battle Persuasion Armor can be a force of nature only the extremely foolish would dare taunt a second time.) We found our seats, and the boys bounced around excitedly as the music from The Polar Express began playing through the car’s speakers. The conductor shouted out a quick, ‘All aboard!’, followed by a chorus of children parroting the same words back like a confused and cacophonous countersign. The train whistle blew, the bell clanged, the wheels began to squeak, and we were finally moving along the rails towards the North Pole.
A short time later, after the conductor had finished punching the letter B into each child’s ticket, the much-loved Hot Chocolate sequence from the movie was re-enacted by a small army of railroad employees clothed in chef’s garb and dancing madly about the car. A trolley came down the aisle, dispensing cups of not-so-hot chocolate and cookies while the song played on an infinite loop and children danced in their seats. Trey sipped his lukewarm chocolate and ate his cookie by means of crumbling 98% of it into his lap. He, like most of the other children on the train, was wearing his pajamas and the bits of cookie seemed to attach themselves to the material like some sort of doughy velcro. We brushed him off as best we could, but mostly we just succeeded in merely moving the crumbs from one spot on his pants to another. By the time the lights on the train dimmed and the first notes of Believe started playing from the speakers as the twinkling lights of the North Pole came into view, we’d given up.
Trey flew to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass, calling me to come sit next to him and gaze out upon the wondrous vision he was taking in. I grabbed the camera and began snapping an embarrassingly large amount of photos as I tried to capture this special moment of his childhood innocence and awe. Of course, all I actually managed to capture were silhouettes and Trey-shaped blurs, but not for lack of effort. A few minutes later, Santa Claus climbed aboard the train just before we left the North Pole and began traveling back to Texas. As we clanked down the tracks listening to music and singing Christmas carols, he eventually made his way onto our car, flanked by his elite elf guard. He handed out bells to all the children (which is significant if you know the story), and Trey eagerly grabbed his and began shaking it with unbridled enthusiasm. His cousins joined in, and soon the car was filled with the ringing of bells mixed with piped-in music and the discordant sounds of dozens of adults singing various Christmas carols off-key and with missing words. Trey and his cousins were jumping around ringing their bells and shouting incomprehensible phrases through the shining teeth of their smiles. It was, in a word: madness. And, in another word: magical.
We steamed back into the station just before God became angry with Man and attempted to drown him in a second flood. The mass exodus of train passengers meant an instant influx into the already confusing parking lot which, I should point out, was more of a field than anything else. Now, combine a grassy field with a deluge of rain and put a bunch of family-sized cars in it and see if you can possibly imagine what happened next. We decided to avoid this insanity and instead chose to hang around the train station until the crowd had dispersed. I bought Trey another golden ticket magnet to replace the one I’d bought earlier and subsequently lost somewhere along the way. And, since my sister appropriated Trey’s Thomas The Tank Engine blanket to cover her baby from the cold, I also purchased a large fleece Polar Express blanket for him. Eventually, we made it back to the car and freed ourselves from the parking field sometime around eleven o’clock that night. Brittany opted out of the clown car scenario and climbed into the rear storage bin, which was much more spacious. It was also, for whatever reason, much colder than the rest of the car and Trey was not in a sharing mood regarding his blankets. So, with her shivering herself to sleep in the back and Trey and I chatting in the middle, my father pulled out of the train station and back onto the highway.
At this point, it was no longer raining. What was happening could not possibly be described as rain, since that particular noun lacks the punch necessary to convey the torrential downfall of massive sheets of water that were pouring over our car like an angry Herbal Essences waterfall. The trip home was a slow one, punctuated by the shrieks of either high winds or my mother as she grabbed hold of her seatbelt with one hand and prodded my father to slow down with the other. We eventually arrived back home sometime around two-thirty in the morning, with an entire evening’s worth of preparations left undone. It was, needless to say, a very long day that culminated in an even longer night, followed by another day that was longer still. Nevertheless, it was a fun time that Trey will not soon forget, and I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
I’ll save the rest of the Christmas stories for Thursday, when I’ll wrap up this yuletide fun and get ready to return to my regularly scheduled ranting and raving. I’ll be going into the tragedy that was my Christmas Eve spent wrapping presents and assembling toys, so come for the comedy that is me trying to build anything, and stay for the rich and heartfelt rewards of Trey not really giving a crap. Ho, ho, ho!
Want some books? 'Course ya do!
NOTE:I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.
I'll take care of it.
Humor | Nonfiction Available now from the following retailers
Have you ever lived through an experience that was so humiliating that you wanted to die, but when you tell it to all your friends, they can't stop laughing?
Have you ever made a decision that seemed like a good idea at the time, but you're still living with the hilarious consequences years later?
If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.
You're welcome.
Short Stories Available now from the following retailers
The nine stories of rage and sadness collected here range from the most intimate of human experiences to the wildest realms of magic and fantasy. The first story is a violent gut-punch to the soul, and the rest of them just hit harder from there.
Those who tough it out will find a book filled with as much hope as despair, a constant contradiction pulling you from one extreme to another.
Life might knock us down, over and over, and will the beat the ever-loving snot out of us from the time we're old enough to give it attitude until the day we finally let it win and stop getting up.
Always get back up.
Gaming | Nonfiction Available now from the following retailers
This isn't just a book. It's a portal to other worlds where there be magic and dragons and hilarious pirates. Okay, not really. But this book is about those portals, except they're called video games.
The Life Bytes series of books take a deep dive into one man's personal journey through childhood into kinda/sorta being a responsible, competent adult as told through the magical lens of whatever video games he was playing at the time.
Part One starts way back in 1975 and meanders down various digital pathways until, oh, around about 1993 or so.
If you're feeling nostalgic for the early days of gaming or if you just want to understand why the gamer in your life loves this hobby so much, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack this bad boy open.
I'll try to not be boring.
Horror Available now from the following retailers
What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.
What follows is nothing more than a series of journal entries involving shadow people, sleep paralysis, and crippling fear. It’s not pretty, it doesn’t follow story logic, and nothing works out well in the end.
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Disclaimer
The views and opinions expressed on this website, COQUETTING TARRADIDDLES, constitute a work of creative nonfiction, should not be interpreted as factual, and are solely of the individual author of this website, KRISTIAN BLAND, and are not the views of any other individual or organization, or of any individual or organization otherwise affiliated with the author unless explicitly stated within the content of the website.
Publishing Schedule
Coquetting Tarradiddles publishes new essays Whenever I Damn Well Feel Like It, except where prohibited by law.*
*Prices and participation may vary. Always consult a physician before beginning a new reading regimen. Individual results are not guaranteed. If you are pregnant or may become pregnant, do not handle past participles or wayward adverbs. Side effects may include an increase in intelligence followed by overwhelming waves of anger, frustration and rage, irritable bowels and/or various effronteries to good taste and decent folk everywhere. Ask your doctor if Coquetting Tarradiddles is right for you!
Hey i am new on here, I stumbled upon this chat board I have found It positively useful and it’s helped me out a lot. I should be able to contribute & help other people like it has helped me.
Cheers, Catch You Around