Oniontown Pastoral: Godspeed, Sherlock Holmes

Can you tolerate a moment’s grouchiness during this Christmas season? If 2023 were a man, he’d be whiskery and unkempt, a frown-shaped mustard stain on his ratty black t-shirt. As he departs, I hereby say, “Don’t let the door hit you on the tuchus.”

What a year it has been. Amidst much joy and goodness, 2023 has also inflicted pin pricks along with several sabre thrusts. Don’t cry in your eggnog for me, but consider the following.

The early months saw the decline of my mother-in-law. Wife Kathy was weary from daily stops at Edna’s house to tend her fragile skin or drop off groceries or pick up laundry or . . . well, you who have cared for an ailing loved one know the drill. By May round-the-clock nursing was in order. My wife and I were ourselves nursing a glass of Pinot noir one evening when she thought and I said, “You know, let’s have your mom stay with us.” We both knew what this move would entail.

We also know that moving Edna onto our enclosed front porch, which Kathy had painted lavender and called her happy room, was one of the best things we’ve ever done. Two weeks after settling in, Edna died quietly, old and full of years, with her only daughter whispering calmly of love and promise and taking her by the hand to the river, as the old hymn would have it. We mourned, but as the days unfolded, Kathy would stop suddenly say, “John, she was happy. She was so happy.” Her last days were graced by love, good humor, gentle care, lavender walls and spaghetti westerns on the television. Endings matter. Edna’s was merciful, and this truth has warmed grief’s cold valley.

By the end of June, this aging couple finally got their new kayaks on the water. It was delightful, but also a reckoning. I didn’t know that paddling through Presque Isle’s lagoons calls upon a man’s abdomen to supply propulsion. Taking in the doggone splendor, I had to admit that my torso boasted no more muscularity than a fresh s’more: melted marshmallow and Hershey chocolate protected by the fortress of a graham cracker. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, but I’ve got my marching orders.

Kathy and I celebrated our fortieth wedding anniversary by traveling to Maine in October with a stowaway: a sinus infection. Yours truly retained the scourge until a week ago. Ever the overachiever, Kathy is not only still fencing with it, but fighting walking pneumonia. This is more than a pin prick but less than a sabre thrust.

As if to guild 2023’s lily, the Coleman’s foxhound Sherlock Holmes died suddenly in November. His health was always erratic. He was restless and quivering on the 20^th. The next morning Kathy and son Micah got him to the veterinarian in time for his last breath. Our buddy possessed a finicky digestive system, sensitive skin and his breed’s lust for the chase. He hooped endlessly. He was a lanky galoot. His forehead was glorious to kiss.

Holmes and his K-9 siblings have countless needs, but one consuming want: to be loved. By glad coincidence, human beings are wired to love. Even a curmudgeon who shuns company, for example, turns to warm butter when Buster or Daisy cuddles up. Whatever diversions purebreds or mutts may enjoy, their vocation is to receive love. When they breathe their last, we are left holding the affection we are bred to give.

A few days after Sherlock Holmes passed, Kathy was given a Russian tortoise—the size of a saucer. We named him Mycroft after the brilliant detective’s lethargic, introverted brother. He is hard to read, but as he carries salmonella, nuzzling him would be like kissing a raw chicken.

So here we are. A new year is in sight. These twelve months have been rough for more friends than I can say. In the days this missive has been curing, I learned of two unexpected passings: Julie, who rang up my chocolate milk and ham salad at Veado’s Mini Market on Hadley Road in Greenville; and the son of dear friends, gone far too soon. Hours ago I sent love to those friends. The immediate response: “Means the world. One just never knows what’s around the corner.”

But this is the Christmas message, right? In all circumstances, welcome friend and stranger alike. Whether merry or melancholy, years should be measured by the sum of love and hospitality granted. In 2023, countless hearts have ached. Looking back, may you and I stop and suddenly say, “In spite of the injuries, we were happy now and then. We were so happy.”