PeterGlenshaw.com

Holiday Greetings in the Age of Facebook

I'm guilty.  Maybe you are, too.

Guilty of sending a once-a-year holiday greeting to friends around the globe.  A holiday greeting replete with either a single photograph (large) or several photographs (small).  The pictures and greeting are all designed to say the same thing:  still here, getting older, kids getting bigger, hope you are well.

And then, with the greeting and accompanying photograph comes the holiday message.  It's usually a one-page synopsis of the past year.  Something like -- Jimmie has graduated from 8th grade, Sarah is entering junior nationals in (fill-in-the-blank-sport), and Mom/Betsy still enjoys her job as a (fill-in-the-blank occupation).  Like the holiday greeting and photograph, it's meant to convey a simple message of stability and pace, the slow/rapid passage of time, and a desire to connect -- maybe just once a year -- with people who had some deeper connection in our lives a while ago.

Facebook seems to have changed all of that impetus.  Instead of once-a-year holiday messages, I'm updating my "status" all the time, sometimes on a daily basis, to so-called "friends," the ones either brave enough to ask me to be their friend or to accept my invitation.

As a result of becoming a "friend" of someone, I get a series of updates...

This friend is glad to be home in his bed after a long series of flight delays.

This friend is closing on a house purchase.

This friend is going for a run.

Don't get me wrong.  I think Facebook is pretty cool.  It's wonderful to find people who either meant something to you long ago, or who mean something to you now, and keep connected thru small versions of the annual holiday greeting.  There's some talk of addiction to Facebook, wherein individuals get absorbed in detailing their own lives online (which seems like a pursuit bound for failure, e.g., "I'm online with Facebook writing about my life on Facebook") or pursuing others to join them in the quest for friends and followers (in the case of another popular, and potentially all-encompassing social network application, Twitter). But for the most part, if you are an active adult with a decent portfolio of responsibilities and interests, there's only so much time for documenting your off-line life to the on-line world of friends and followers.  

I think the more interesting question is, what does Facebook do to our memories of friendships and our attempts, through holiday cards, to keep them alive?

Thomas Wolfe wrote famously about our inability to go home again, and yet this very holiday weekend, my wife and I stood in the church where we were married, in her adopted hometown in Vermont, during the Christmas service and I marveled at how I "knew" or at least recognized many of the people in the crowd.  The minister who married us.  The choir leader.  The soloist.  The choir member who went to high school with my wife. 

The funny thing is, these people and I are not exchanging anything.  We're not Facebook "friends."  We're not even holiday-card exchangers.  We see each other once or more a year.  We nod.  Sometimes we speak.  Maybe even shake hands. 

Maybe memory has a more powerful boundary to it than we realize.  If time recedes our accurate recollection of past events, that memory still persists and despite all of the efforts made to reconnect -- whether it's Facebook or holiday cards -- most memories remain a walled garden of sorts. A place where we deliberately don't go.  If holiday greetings have a standard narrative ("all's well here, how about you?"), maybe Facebook is similarly doomed.  My status can be updated in Facebook, but do you really know me any better?

Perhaps the missing ingredient with Facebook, and with holiday greetings, too, is time.  We knew these people, and spent time with them.  Unstructured time.  Work time.  Sports time.  Love time.  Student time.

Now it's different.  We barely have enough time to manage our lives, let alone reach out to others.  And forget about including others alongside in that experience.  So we rely on 140 character bites (Twitter) and short sentences on Facebook to convey meaning and connection.  It's not much better than a holiday greeting card, and certainly no worse. 

Look, Facebook is great.  And I love reading the holiday cards we get each year.  I even enjoy writing our annual holiday message.  But none of my friends should think these efforts, despite all of the good intentions which surround them, really do the trick of bringing us closer.  We are more updated, but we are not together again. 

Twenty-six years ago, I sat in the clean, empty two-bedroom apartment that was Ground Zero for my four closet college friends, my girlfriend, their girlfriends, and the friends of the boyfriends and girlfriends.  We had graduated from college the day before and in an hour or two, we had to vacate our home.  In that narrow window of time, when our "house" had never been cleaner, I remember thinking, this time will never come back again.  

Sure, we had good times again.  Reunions and sleepovers and weddings and even an adventure or two.  But that particular time -- that committed devotion to one another -- would not and could not return. 

It's great to get the holiday cards from my college friends.  And it's fun to get the sometimes daily updates from Facebook.  But our memories remain untouched, and my connection to these people remains largely untouched, too.  If we want to change that condition, something more powerful than a good piece of software will be needed. 

A quick post on a cold night

It's past 9:30pm on Saturday, December 20th, and I am bushed, beaten, but happy.  It's been a full day of winter, and I'm ready for the soft relief of a pillow and comforter.

Last weekend, the ice storm from H-E-double-hockey-sticks descended on New England.  While Lyme and most towns in the Upper Valley avoided the brunt of the storm, it kept all of us occupied enough to make the joy of winter seem out of reach.

Not today.  We awoke to some 14 inches of fresh, fluffy powder on the ground, cool temps, no wind, and opening day at the Dartmouth Skiway.  Far from the burden of ice and no power,  we schussed down the slopes and glided thru powder that nearly reached my knees.  Everyone looked good on Winslow Hill today.  It was rock-star skiing and boarding time.

Mid-day came, and it was time to leave the feathery world of the Dartmouth Skiway for the hard surfaces on which a basketball game is played.  No good news here, at least a first glance.  The middle school boys team I coach got walloped, at least in terms of the score.  But what was amazing, frankly, was how solidly we played despite being overwhelmed in terms of talent and experience.  These are the games when a coach can see progress being made, even if the players cannot.

Afternoon comes and it's off to cross-country ski, this time thru the generously tracked hills and valleys of a Lyme landowner.  Despite the cools temps (16 F), the x-country skiing was fantastic.  Lots of snow, beautiful trails (cleared just today of some 13 trees felled in last week's storm), and the nice company of a fellow Lymie also out for a quick ski before dark.

Upon getting home, it was time to do some damage control.  More snow -- maybe a foot, maybe more -- is expected tomorrow.  So it's onto the roof above my office (where I write now) to clear the snow and ice.  An hour later, and it feels like I've moved snow heaven & earth.  After eight years of clearing this roof, it feels like I know every trick to loosen the frozen white stuff.  Still, it's work and when I repair inside, my muscles and bones are cold and aching. 

After making dinner for two adults, three teenagers, and two kids (and eating vast quantities of food myself), it's back outside to clear more snow from our back porches.  Though the snow remained light and fluffy, there was still some 14 inches of it to be shoveled, pushed, and cracked.  By this time, after nearly 12 hours of being in the snow in one form or another, the stuff feels like an old shoe.  

And then, finally today, a walk in the dark after dinner with my dear dog, Bear, in the beautiful snow surrounding the Lyme Common.   While we walk, he barks at shadows and I trudge ahead.  I see plowed driveways and Christmas tree lights.  I feel the sting of cold on my cheek and the crunch of the snow under my boots.  There is a lone star visible in the sky.  He imagines seeing another dog that deserves a bark.

Funny thing is, come winter, especially winters like last year and maybe this year, I spend as much time outdoors as I do in the summer.  With the right amount of snow and cold, the season becomes alive with possibility and promise.  In those circumstances, winter is a joy.  It becomes an unbridled feeling of landscape and contact with the earth, a time when generations come together to enjoy a special place, an opportunity to find just the right intersection of clothing, athletics, and poetry.

I'm ready for bed, but let's hope the snow keeps coming.

Snow

Note to readers...I wrote this post more than two weeks ago. 

A very quick post to say simply that the first real snow of 208-2009 is here!

It began this morning about 8:30am, as I sat in a conference room overlooking the Connecticut River.  Small flakes, lots of them, flying and settling and dropping, dropping, dropping onto the ground.  By 10am, the ground was covered, the skies were still grey, and the snow showed every sign of falling throughout the day, albeit in modest, early Winter-fashion.

By 7pm or so tonight, the storm had begun to increase and as the picture shows, we've begun to get some modestly decent snowfall.  This particular snowfall is a bit too wet and crunchy to accumulate an impressive amount -- in fact, it almost feels like man-made snow in its consistency.  But the the bottom line is we have an honest-to-goodness, first-of-the-season snowfall.

What a marvel!  What a delight!

Driving around the Upper Valley tonight and, later, walking around the Lyme Common, I was reminded of the peacefulness and beauty which comes with each and every snowfall. The snow is clean.  Everything it touches seems beautiful again.  Lights from houses sparkle in an entirely different way in the snow.  For myself, at least, there is an incredible sense of renewal with each snowfall, but especially the first major storm of the season.

Real storm clouds are ahead.  The auto bailout is in serious trouble in Washington.  The World Bank is predicting severe economic recession among emerging economies worldwide.  There are quiet whispers even among Obama economic team members of double-digit unemployment and the kind of recession that defies response from a simple stimulus package.  The weeks and months ahead are genuinely troublesome. 

But on this night, in a small corner of New England, a few inches of clean, beautiful snow fell unencumbered of the worries of humanity.  To walk, touch, taste it was a delight.  A joy.  A needed break.  

Snow

A very quick post to say simply that the first real snow of 208-2009 is here!

It began this morning about 8:30am, as I sat in a conference room overlooking the Connecticut River.  Small flakes, lots of them, flying and settling and dropping, dropping, dropping onto the ground.  By 10am, the ground was covered, the skies were still grey, and the snow showed every sign of falling throughout the day, albeit in modest, early Winter-fashion.

By 7pm or so tonight, the storm had begun to increase and as the picture shows, we've begun to get some modestly decent snowfall.  This particular snowfall is a bit too wet and crunchy to accumulate an impressive amount -- in fact, it almost feels like man-made snow in its consistency.  But the the bottom line is we have an honest-to-goodness, first-of-the-season snowfall.

What a marvel!  What a delight!

Driving around the Upper Valley tonight and, later, walking around the Lyme Common, I was reminded of the peacefulness and beauty which comes with each and every snowfall. The snow is clean.  Everything it touches seems beautiful again.  Lights from houses sparkle in an entirely different way in the snow.  For myself, at least, there is an incredible sense of renewal with each snowfall, but especially the first major storm of the season.

Real storm clouds are ahead.  The auto bailout is in serious trouble in Washington.  The World Bank is predicting severe economic recession among emerging economies worldwide.  There are quiet whispers even among Obama economic team members of double-digit unemployment and the kind of recession that defies response from a simple stimulus package.  The weeks and months ahead are genuinely troublesome. 

But on this night, in a small corner of New England, a few inches of clean, beautiful snow fell unencumbered of the worries of humanity.  To walk, touch, taste it was a delight.  A joy.  A needed break.  

Cold

Two nights ago, our house was cold.  I mean, cold.

The core part of our house was built in the 1850s and on nights like that one, when the outside temperature had fallen to 7 F° and the wind blew hard and strong, there wasn’t a lot we can do to make the house feel Florida warm.

Sure, the addition we built a few years brought good insulation and windows to that section of our home.  But in the core, where we eat and where I cook and write, the windows leaked like sieves.  A couple of mornings ago, in the midst of this cold snap, one of the windows in my office – which used to be our mudroom and entrance to the house – actually had ice form on the inside of it.

Last year we blew insulation into our garage and the storage area below our living room.  It made a huge difference.  Suddenly floors and walls that had been cold to the touch felt comfortable in even bare feat.  But this year, we gambled wrong and pre-bought propane at the peak of the market price.  As a result, we’ve been keeping the house deliberately cool.  Thermostats throughout the house have been set 65 F°, and so far it’s been just fine.

But not tonight.  Or last night.  When I awoke a few mornings ago and went downstairs, I entered a world with a maximum temperature of 58 F°.  Chilly! 

So we donned vests, ate our breakfast quickly, and left for work and school – hoping to find buildings warmer than our own home.  I glimpsed my two boys walking to school that morning.  Although bundled against the cold, they nevertheless walked backwards against the wind.  I made a similar journey on my trek from a distant parking lot to my office that same day.  I arrived with numb fingers and expect my two sons felt a similar sting as they pulled off their gloves.

On nights like that one, when I try to throw the baseball against the pitch-back for my dog, Bear, there was no snap in the return of the ball.  The pitch-back itself was fatigued with cold. I wrap myself in layers and try to imitate proper pitching former, but between the gloves on my hand, the bundle of clothes around me, and the unsure footing which comes from hard ground, ice, snow, and big boots, the result is an awkward throw which frequently misses the pitch-back and more often errantly lands in the woods behind it.  Welcome to the frozen grapefruit league. 

As I kissed three little heads a few nights ago, I noticed how the layers of clothing and blankets seemed to increase from just a few days earlier.  And yet, frankly, there wasn’t much complaining.  Maybe it’s because we’ve seen a lot worse.

I remember five or so winters ago, when we endured several weeks of temperatures that fell below -20 F° every night and daylight temperatures in the single digits.  I remember taking loyal (and I mean, loyal) friends from Boston to the Dartmouth Skiway to schuss downhill on days that took your breath away.  When there was no one else skiing.  When you took one run and then came indoors. 

We live in New Hampshire.  The state motto is “Live Free or Die,” but frankly, it would be more accurate and fair if our state motto became “Live Cold or Die.”  In some eight years of living in the great Granite State, I’ve learned to embrace cold as a way of life.  It’s not ideal, but it’s not so bad easier, at least not for us.  We get cold, but for all of the complaining, we’ve got a pretty light burden in this kind of weather.

Far too many New Hampshire and Vermont residents face nights like tonight in far worse circumstances.  Judging only by the absence of insulation I see in their homes, there are probably thousands of families in the Upper Valley tonight where the indoor temperature is far less than what I am experiencing right now. 

Our house, with its drafty windows, is replete with plastic and blankets across drafty openings.  We’re trying to find inexpensive ways to keep the expensive heat from leaking to the unforgiving outdoors.  I touch the plastic on the windows in my office and find them cold to the touch.  But I wonder what sensations are being felt on cold nights by kids and their parents whose homes are far less insulated.  Will the kids go to school hungry?  Will they be ready to learn?  And will their parents be ready to handle the cold road ahead?

One of the truths I’ve learned about the cold is that it can quickly shutdown the most reasonable parts of our humanity.  People will do just about anything to feel warm.  The warmth can be physical, it can be emotional, and it can even be visual.  But if people perceive that warmth has gone away, and won’t return for a while, a certain desperateness emerges.  A dicey picture results.  To whom or what will people turn in these frozen circumstances.  Food?  Alcohol?  Another person? 

I won’t pretend to know the answers to these questions, but I can suggest some better answers.  We need more energy efficient, affordable homes.  We need people to work harder and study smarter to avoid the economics of holding-on-by-a-finger-nail middle-class living.  We need alternatives to LPG, oil, and coal that don’t harm the environment and provide heating comfort at a reasonable price. 

And finally, on cold nights, we probably need each other.  Sure, it’s sounds kinda kumbaya, but so what.  On nights like this, when the pitch-back isn’t working too well and I need to walk my dog, Bear, around the Lyme Common for his exercise, I am reminded of the simple values of community.  I see the lights of the holiday tree on the Lyme Common, the lights surrounding trees and porches and fences of simple houses, and the quiet stars in the cold night sky.  I know who lives in every lit house.  I can tell you something about their politics, quirks, and contributions to our town. 

Warmth comes from many places.  I am grateful for my furnace and income for providing the heat which I enjoy.   I also deeply appreciative of the community in which I live, and the bonds which exists among us in good weather and bad. 

The Ordinary & Simple

This weekend, on an early Winter night, as I sat on the bed of my eldest child, quietly listening to her daily prayers and (as you shall see) sneaking a quick lullaby of my own into the affairs of the evening, it occurred to me that this moment of perfect harmony shall very soon disappear for good. 

Tonight, as I sat there croaking a simple melody and before I could do anything about it, a very mixed but strong feeling came over me, a sensation filled with emotion, joy, and regret.

What was once a daily ritual of prayers and two quick lullabies at night has understandably begun to recede in the face of the maturity of my daughter.  At the age of thirteen, my daughter, frankly, no longer needs me to sing her lullabies at night.  She only just barely needs someone like me to remind her to pray at night, and probably that is a stretch, too.  By mutual agreement, my lullaby nights have shrunk to twice a week (Wednesdays and Sundays).  The indulgence is my daughter’s to give.  I am merely grateful recipient, and on nights like tonight, when it isn’t a Wednesday or Sunday, when I can sneak a song into the evening routine, it’s an evening that’s hard to forget. 

But whether this was Wednesday, Sunday, or any other night, the fact remains that these songs and my presence at her bedside will soon no longer be needed.  For the past 4,700 nights, give or take a hundred or so, I’ve been at the bedside of my daughter, not just singing songs or saying prayers or talking about the events in the recent past or the future to come.  I’ve simply been there.  Night after night, with a kiss on the check, with a pat on the head, with an eye on a person who has grown from diapers to braces and whose books at night have stretched from “Good Dog, Carl” to “Animal Farm,” I’ve been there.  Simply been there. 

I was there when she was sick.  I was there when she did not want to see me.  I was there to read a book until I fell asleep beside her, snoring away while she wondered what came next.  I was there to laugh, to giggle and joke about classmates and movies and fill-in-the-blank quizzes from books, the kind that predict what kind of person you might become.  I was there to try and answer questions, about everything from school homework to the Middle East, from soccer tryouts to school dances. 

I’m sure in the future that the questions will continue and so will our talks.  But over time, I’m also certain that less and less of these talks will occur at her bedside.

That’s perfectly OK.  That’s the way it ought to be.

But can I be given, for a just moment, an instance of memory and regret?

There are times in my life when I think of my father, who died more than five years ago, and wonder what he misses most.  And while I have no doubt that he simply misses each of us, his sons and daughters, and his wife, too, and the simple joy of companionship, I also wonder if he misses even more ordinary things.  Like pumpkin pie.  A good football game outside.  A funny movie.  Spicy food.

I don’t know what the future holds.  Regardless of my personal beliefs, I also don’t know what really comes after our death.  But what I do know, on this day, in this hour, is that the preciousness of simply and ordinary things cannot be denied.  In our darkest hours, at the times when hope fades quickly, I believe it is memories of moments like these which carry the greatest meaning for many of us.  It moments like these when we truly understand the majesty of life and love.

To be certain, there are other important things in life that matter.  Like the Ten Commandments.  And the Golden Rule. 

But maybe, just maybe, there are things in life which matter just as much as these documents of wisdom. 

Like when your son sits on your lap at the dinner table.  Or when you read a book together in bed.  Or when you hold his hand in the middle of the night as he’s sick.  I remember everytime, and I mean everytime, I’ve placed one of my kids behind the wheel of our car and helped them drive some 500 yards home, them working the steering wheel, me working the gas and brakes.  There’s a kind of nervousness at first – like, how am I going to do this?  And then slowly, slowly, confidence builds.  The road becomes easier to navigate.  And soon, whether it’s my daughter or one of my sons, the challenge of driving seems conquerable.  Hard?  Maybe.  Impossible?  No.

There’s a night ahead when I won’t put any of my kids to bed.  They will be grown and while the moment won’t carry much much majesty for them, it will for me.  On that night, like this one, I will step back and stare at the stars.  Stare until I can’t seen any further.  Stare because the simple and ordinary thing which was such a part of my life is gone, never to return.