The Finer Things

Liminal Spaces, Issue 1, Volume 2

I grew up middle class, a child of the 80s. The middle class is an ambiguous term synonymous with “The Nothing” in The Neverending Story. It has no boundaries, it gobbles up everything in its path and is mysteriously nondescript. What it means to me is there was always food on the table, a roof over my head and clothes on my back, but I had to earn everything else through hard work. As the son of a gainfully employed postal worker and nurse, the youngest of four siblings, I had just enough to feel safe and secure — insulated from life’s most pressing concerns — financial and emotional.

That changed when I turned 13, and my mother died of cancer. It split my existence into two distinct eras, the first carefree, an idyllic slice of Americana, and the second, a dismal wasteland of confusion and aimlessness. In the years after her passing, I realized her initial outlook helped me survive that transition, which had very little to do with our economic status and everything to do with how we regarded our station in life. My parents never sought to elevate themselves beyond the middle class and were content to live within their means.

I’m reminded of this every year on New Year’s Eve, when (at least in the United States) a great number of people agonize over their past failures and form grandiose visions of a more prosperous future. Since we just experienced this custom, I thought it necessary that I write about it, thereby heaping on the anxiety, increasing the pressure for you to succeed at explosive levels. Just kidding. I don’t feel the same pressure anymore, although it took time for the release valve to work its magic sufficiently, a gratitude I owe Mom and Dad.

I dislike modern New Year’s celebrations because they’re framed around achievement, in such a stark contrast to the New Year’s celebrations of my youth. I could easily blame the Internet and social media, the productivity culture that permeates western thought, or maybe we’ve become too self-involved as a society; these are tired, played out excuses. No matter the cause, New Year’s Eve in our household involved a tradition that gave me an appreciation for the nuclear family and the importance of our love for each other. It was an annual event when we casted off the supposed chains of middle class living and honored the significance of our gathering with a grand feast.

As an adult, I’ve discussed the tradition with friends from the same generation, discovering that it does not resonate, a confirmation of its uniqueness. My parents didn’t leave the house to attend dinners and dances with friends, which would have been an acceptable custom of the day. Instead, our entire family ate together, a pre-planned expensive meal with crab’s legs, a lobster tail each or some other delicacy, as well as delicious appetizers, sides and a mouth-watering dessert. Sharing a meal as a family was commonplace, especially on Sundays, except the entire affair held a grandeur incomparable to the other 364 days of the year. And yes, even for me, the grade schooler, a thimble full of champagne was provided to clink together with my siblings after the ball dropped in Times Square.

When I reminisce, the imagery feels apocalyptic, with all of us huddled around the soft glow of the TV after watching a movie or special, ready to countdown to oblivion. The world outside of our living room continued in revelry, and in the quiet comfort of our home we treasured every passing moment. Even my grandparents, in their retirement, hosted a party with friends on New Year’s Eve, an antiquated practice that involved noise makers, party horns, poppers, glittery hats and feather boas. It stands to reason my grandpa, the jokester, would be wearing the lampshade on his head after consuming too many highballs. The contrast upheld the view we were participating in an exceptional occurrence. That’s what made it special.

While certainly an evening that could be repeated with more frequency, it became an extravagance we enjoyed only on New Year’s Eve. But it didn’t speak to my parent’s unfulfilled dreams, the constant nagging financial discontent associated with poor choices or a poor environment. They never said, “Work harder than us. Make better choices than us. Do bigger and better things, and this is what’s waiting as your reward all year long.” They were merely stating a fact with their actions. You’re worth it. This is worth it. Nothing is more important than a celebration of what we do have, a celebration with the finer things, not of the finer things.

There may have been a year or two where my mother understood the gravity of the celebration. I’m sure she questioned, while battling cancer, if a particular New Year’s Eve meal shared around the dinner table would be our last. It’s possible we had actually been swallowing a medicine all along, given as a memory to heal the wounds of her future absence. Even if she didn’t intend it to be prescriptive, it’s the only medicine that didn’t have a bitter aftertaste, helping to alleviate grief indefinitely.

I’m certain the pain of our loss would have been magnitudes greater without the tradition. Now that I’m older, with a wife and kids of my own, I’m reminded of how intentionally creating those kinds of experiences can be impactful. I’ve tried to replicate a similar sense of gratitude with special meals. We don’t sit around the dinner table on New Year’s Eve, but we do mark celebrations with food we wouldn’t normally consume. My children aren’t fond of seafood, but my daughter has an affinity for Chinese food, and my son loves a good rack of ribs. As for me, I’m prone to pan fry a juicy steak.

None of this is out of our budget. It’s not a normal habit either. It’s a marker in time to signify an occasion worthy of notice, the space in between the chaos to rest and count our blessings. We’re learning to appreciate the finer things as a family, an experience to say we’re loved and we love, and more than anything we could own, that’s what’s most important.

The Lewis Town Chronicles

If you’re also subscribed to receive my fiction, you may want to check your spam or promotions folder. I created a new section for an anthology I’ll be writing throughout 2024 and the email will arrive to you from a separate email address. That often means designating the sender as trusted in Gmail and other email clients. If you received the first short story, “Lights Over Libations”, then you needn’t do anything. Unless of course you’re compelled to comment and like, which is greatly appreciated.

Lights Over Libations

The anthology is called The Lewis Town Chronicles.

“Lewis Town is a mysterious, unincorporated community in northern Michigan, full of supernatural occurrences, paranormal incidents and secrets untold. Until now.”

The stories are already telling themselves, bouncing around in my imagination, where the characters are evolving and I can see my next published book coming to life. While I intend to make it available through Amazon, my previous experience tells me that IngramSpark is the publisher I need to use if I want the book to be available in libraries and bookstores. Getting it into our local library is my next gold star milestone, requiring a more calculated and costly approach to marketing.

I hope you’ll join me on this next journey, and I’m thankful you’ve let me invade your inbox, to read and relax and escape for a few moments into worlds of science fiction and fantasy.