Pleasure Pocket

Far in the darkest recesses of my banks of memories are the pleasure pockets. The pleasure pockets contain those memories that are held dear. Those that are guaranteed to bring a smile to my face, a lightness to my heart.

Pleasure pockets, a necessary device of health and survival evolved to combat bad times and bad memories threatening to overtake and swallow.

Thankfully good times have begun to outdistance the bad and the pockets of pleasure are becoming full and more potent with each passing day. These days, recent glumness aside, are amongst the happiest of recent memory. Certainly pleasure pocket worthy.

The holidays, year end thoughts and celebrations tend to evoke trips down the memory lane.

Out of the pocket is a memory of the last happy holiday my brothers and I shared.
I was five that year, mom and dad were still together. We had a huge tree, festooned with ornaments and buried in tinsel. Having discovered a closet with many wrapped packages, we spent many waking hours trying to find a way inside the wrappings without being discovered. W, being the oldest, took charge of the eventual expeditions. Mostly failed effort because we were never left alone long enough to properly explore. Still, the effort was fun and as I recall, exciting.

We still believed in Santa Claus and decided that these packages must be above and beyond whatever Santa was going to bring. We thought ourselves some lucky ducks indeed. Later, when I thought about the expeditions I was always grateful we didn’t succeed. This experience, like many others from my childhood, taught me lessons. I hid presents much better than my parents did.

That Christmas Santa brought me an Easy Bake Oven and a Thumbelina doll, my brothers a train, one of those bouncy riding horses and a football. My parents hugged and kissed a lot and we had a huge dinner gathering with two aunts and a bunch of cousins.

What I remember most about that Christmas is the laughter. Everything was funny. The lopsided cake, my dad’s latest stray getting into the tree-again, the look of my younger brother as he bounced on his horse, his Cowboy hat flopping around on his head. Even my older brother begging to go outside to play football without his boots didn’t disturb the glee.

We all laughed that day. And it was good. And memorable.

I hadn’t experienced another Christmas like that one, until those that included my kids. That Christmas was the catalyst for those I would attempt to create for my kids, hoping to provide for them more than pockets of pleasure.

The one pictorial reminder of that day is faded with age, fragile to the touch. Still it prompts the pocket open, allowing the pleasure to spread. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.