Statutory warning: I maintain an irrational loyalty to premium audio equipment and an unfortunate habit of noticing what everyone else successfully ignores.
The thermometer read minus four Celsius. "Feels like minus thirteen," chirped Alexa, with the sort of sadistic glee one associates with dentists announcing root canal procedures. Undaunted, I set forth on my morning constitutional. Christmas morning, no less. One doesn't let a little thing like potential frostbite interfere with one's daily perambulation. That way lies softness, and softness leads to elasticated waistbands.
The kit: four layers of clothing, two winter caps (one concealing what nature chose to make aerodynamic), Gore-Tex boots, thermal underthings, and my faithful Bose over-ear headphones. Twenty-five years I've stuck with Bose. Longer than most celebrities stay married. In Singapore's swelter, I use the in-ear sort—unless one fancies braising one's brain in its own juices. But here in Wisconsin's arctic wastes, the over-ear models are the ticket. They muffle wind, seal out cold, and prevent one's ears from snapping off like frozen biscuits.
Thus armoured and caffeinated, I ventured into the frozen wastes.
The previous evening's reconnaissance had revealed something distinctly rum. The neighborhood blazed with Christmas lights—enough wattage to stage Diwali and the Blackpool Illuminations simultaneously. Snowmen stood guard. Light-up reindeer grazed. Santas waved mechanically from rooftops. The whole nine yards of festive fol-de-rol.
Only one tiny detail missing: people.
Not a soul. Not one. I peered through windows (gentlemanly peering, naturally—none of your vulgar gawping) and found rooms as empty as a politician's promise. It was like stumbling onto a film set after the crew had packed up and scarpered, only someone had forgotten to turn off the lights and the electricity bill.
Where were the blighters? Had they all been beamed up? Won a collective trip to Barbados? Spontaneously combusted?
The more prosaic explanation, I fear, involved the standard modern pattern: Young folk flee for Cities with proper coffee shops and reliable WiFi. Leave elderly parents rattling around in houses roughly the size of Westminster Abbey. Check in via FaceTime twice yearly. Consider duty done.
Houses, not homes. Homes have voices, laughter, burned Yorkshire pudding, arguments over the remote. These structures had all the warmth of a banker's handshake.
This morning's walk made the previous evening's effort look positively carnivalesque.
Lights: off. Streets: deserted. Churches: locked, littered with dead leaves, looking rather how I imagine the morning after the office Christmas party. Not a creature stirring, not even the proverbial mouse. The only movement came from those ominous grey clouds overhead, which had the decency to merely threaten rather than assault.
One pictures the scene inside those fortresses of solitude: Amazon boxes on the doorstep. DoorDash DashMesh long departed, his delivery app pinging cheerfully. Inside, Grandma or Grandpa—or both, if lucky—unwrapping gifts with arthritic fingers. Audience: the television (CNN burbling), the dog (snoring), the cat (judging).
The neighborhood pub where they once held court? Wheelchair won't budge, old sport. The Christmas ball where they cut a rug in '63? Hips replaced, knees shot, dancing days done. The family gathering with siblings and their rowdy offspring? Busy Timothy has a "conflict"—lacrosse tournament in Connecticut, terribly sorry.
What's left? The pre-paid plot at Eternal Rest Gardens. Location secured (nice and quiet). Coffin selected (mahogany, very dignified). Tombstone design approved (tasteful font, none of your Comic Sans nonsense). Wreath size determined. All sorted, all paid for. Just waiting for the final curtain. Then – rest in peace, and celebrate Christmas in the netherworld.
But wait! Aren’t these oldies already resting in peace in those homes, nay, houses?
Merry Christmas to all. Especially to those celebrating it alone, with only the cat for company and CNN for conversation.
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