2001-12-27 - 2:42 p.m.

I will be in New York beginning Friday at 3:30 pm, going to David's studio then; Jason, if you are around, give David a call, or listen for my call. Or will see all comers at new year's.

Christmas story (to accompany candles):

I stood at the train station, waiting. You could tell the sun was down but there was still a little light. It was kinda cool, the wind kinda snapping at your face, just enough to let you know that mother nature�s still there. Not a bad evening, considering.

I was alone, though I was surrounded by people. All standing like I was, tensing up to the cold, staring down the track and watching for the two yellow headlights of the train. Some were headed back from the office, perhaps, ready to settle into their warm homes for dinner. Not me, though. I was going to Evanston.

I�m becoming one of these people, I thought. The train rolled up and I stepped inside. I�m one of these people who minds his own business, who rides to work in the morning and returns at night, daydreaming or reading a book as the friendly recorded voice announces each stop. One of those people who works diligently, then goes home and tries not to think about it too much. I was still getting used to it. I felt like I was trying to squish into a mold without being molded.

Something about it felt nice, though. Maybe it was the comfort of certainty. The comfort of having a specific structure to each day, a well-defined schedule and borders. Within those borders, a group of friendly folks, working, satisfied, believing they are doing good in the world. A quieter kind of satisfaction than, say, a journalist. The quiet satisfaction of a job well done.

Day by day, the future was being defined in my head. Last week, for what seemed like the first time in ages, I had a routine again. I woke up at seven, straightened my shirt, filled my briefcase, and rode off to work like everybody else. A flurry of new faces, smiling and joking at me, saying, don�t worry, you�ll like it here.

When I arrived last week, my office was under construction � workers with screwdrivers and rulers threw up movable walls and desktops, redefining space. Now, it was an office, a clean, quiet, simple place of work. A strong computer. A sleek new telephone. My own shelves to store books and knicknacks. A swath of corkboard on which to post calendars, posters, reminders for life. A whole new routine to be learned, a new life to begin.

Always with these new lives to begin, I thought. I can�t seem to grab onto one and stick with it. So much running through life without ever seeming to get anywhere. But maybe I am going somewhere, maybe I am.

I was, too � I was almost at my stop. I�d been half paying attention, gazing lazily at the faces on the train, or staring out the window as the train snaked over streets and past apartment windows, the final rays of light disappearing. And almost before I�d noticed it, I was out of the train and on the street, walking to Tom Thumb craft store.

Once I started walking the aisles, I thought this whole plan could be a bust. When the idea first comes into your head, you think, that�ll be great, and imagine the hard part over. It�s only when it comes time to do it that you realize making candles � nice ones anyway � might be complicated. But it was too late to turn back now; I�d figure something out. Maybe it�d be haphazard, thrown together, but it�d be something. My family�s very forgiving.

The candle section was way in the back. There were bags of parrafin, molds, thermometers, books on candles. One book outlined the candle-making process � melt the wax in a double boiler, at just the right temperature, using the special thermometer. My chances of success seemed low. Then I saw the book on beeswax candles � no melting, no double boilers, not even a mold was necessary. Just squish the wax together with a wick. I flipped through the book, hoping to commit any crucial information to memory here in the aisle. It sounded easy.

When nobody appeared at the counter, I went off in search of an employee who could help. One woman was sorting fabrics behind a counter.

�Excuse me. I was trying to get some wax for making candles,� I told her.

She led me back to the counter where I had begun and handed me the list of colors. I selected five colors at random and asked for two sheets of each. I told her I�d be needing some wicks, too.

As she searched for the wax out back, I decided I�d get a couple more. Might as well make a few extras, in case anyone else needs a gift.

�Okay. I actually want to get three more,� I told her when she�d returned with ten sheets of wax. �Only this time, I don�t care what colors you get. Could you just� surprise me?�

She gave me kind of a funny look, like she was trying to figure me out. I just figured she could choose the colors just as well as I could. I�m not much of a color expert.

She came back with three feminine-looking colors, which was fine with me.

�Maybe these would be nice, for any of your lady friends,� she said. She obviously hadn�t figured me out, but I was glad she�d made the mistake. I thanked her for her choices and went to the front to pay.

The man at the counter was a friendly guy, the type who smiles a lot and makes the same jokes year after year. With each customer, he made a little joke or quip. He took my credit card and put it through the machine.

�This time of year, it can take a long time to go through,� he told me. �Sometimes, you have to dial it up again if it takes too long.�

�Oh, yeah?� I said. I couldn�t think of much else to say.

I wondered as I waited how he was getting along, if a place like this would have trouble in a recession. I was glad to see it was busy today, glad to see there was still room in the world for a homegrown craft store where the employees joke with the customers.

Behind me, a man and a woman were going over their purchases.

�These are two ninety-nine each. That�s thirty dollars,� the woman said, looking at the collection of beads she had gathered.

�You�re expensive,� the man told her.

The cashier looked knowingly up at me over his glasses as the couple spoke, as if we were sharing a joke. I smiled back. Then he gave me back my credit card and wrapped a piece of stiff cardboard around my beeswax sheets.

�This�ll make sure they don�t get damaged on the way home,� he said.

�Great. Thanks,� I said, and headed for the door.

Back home, a train ride later, I rolled back the rug and laid a swath of newspapers on the hardwood floor. I pressed a length of wick into a blue sheet of beeswax. At first, it was tough to roll; the wax would break up, but you�d just have to squish it together and press on. Toward the end, the rolling was easy. You just had to make sure you�d wrapped it tight, or it could come apart on you. I melted the ends together with a lighter. I didn�t remember that from the book, but I could improvise.

Nate came out to make one � I had more wax than I needed. We had a good time of it. Nate wrapped a white sheet around a wick, then broke off a few white chunks and squished them on. He called his candle �Wrapnsquish.� For my next creation, I would roll a white and purple sheet together.

By the time I was on my fourth candle, I was in a zone. I don�t know if they were coming out any good, but I was lost in the act of creation. I�d abandoned worrying too much about quality; I figured making a good effort was all that mattered. As I worked, my mind wandered � I fancied myself an ancient monk, editing religious texts by day, rolling candles by night. The job isn�t bad, I thought.

It was still eight o�clock. I could handle a routine like this, where I put in a full day at work, ride to Evanston and back, and make four candles by eight. Three for Janice, three for Mom, that should do the trick. All that remained was to come up with something homemade for Dad. A story, I supposed, about what I didn�t know.

For so long I�d been afraid of routine, afraid that having my days planned out would dull my senses or make me boring. But this week, I felt productive. You just have to be vigilant in making the time count. It�s not bad to let your future be defined a little bit, as long as you leave some time open for random projects and adventures.

I pulled out another sheet of wax. This one I�d make crazier than all the ones before it. Maybe it wouldn�t turn out prettier than the ones before; maybe it would be gloriously ugly. I don�t really know how to make candles. But I couldn�t help that, and I didn�t really care. You just gotta do it, and hope it comes out okay.

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