Aw, Ma, do I got to?
Looking back, I'd say that
the Christmas holiday at
home which found me hos-
pitalised for dental sur-
gery, bent over convul-
sively in recovery from
its anaesthetic, had a-
bout it a comparative
modesty of invasion one
could undergo again for
its unconsciousness, had
the impactions not been
extracted. Yet such com-
ings-out are possible but
once, it seems, and the
work had been so thorough,
and its fallout so famous-
ly picturesque, one could
never again avail oneself
of refuge in that parting.
Mind you, my aversions to
the season could not then
have been articulated on
the scruples now known to
me, silently subcutaneous
in rebellion at the time. To
furnish the offices of the
escort has, indeed, not ev-
er been less than agreable,
given a mutual liberty to
structure the occasion.
It's as the costumed prop in
an entertainment for other
parties, even more than for
a sodden inhalation of par-
fum, that the obduracy of
that servitude manifests it-
self, even today, in memory
of those holiday evenings.
My sedation now exhausted
as the excuse that it was,
I welcome a marginalising
autonomy as I enter these
terminating days of the cal-
endar, chuckling with de-
light over cards announcing
at-homes for which an Eng-
lish dog affords the fair-
est of regrets. Whit must
always claim his share of
one's time; and we negoti-
ate these escortships rec-
iprocally, he in charge of
evening, I of day.
And every time these lic-
ences converge, when the
light lowers just right on
his coat on a stroll be-
fore dinner, as again now,
one can hear a kindly mov-
ie mother say,
John Ford, director
Frank Nugent, screenplay
Winston C. Hoch, cinematography
The Searchers
Warner Brothers, 1956©
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