Just a few days after I crafted the final phrase of last week's column, the first snowfall of the season blanketed Easton, significantly altering the landscape of New Pond. Today, unlike the scene I related to you last week; there's nary a soul gracing its frozen banks; no one scrutinizing the condition of the ice, nor anyone from which to draw my inspiration.

The pond's appearance has transformed considerably. The last leaves of fall, once huddled safely beneath the trees, have succumbed to the onslaught of winter; the fury of the sullen winds; a stark reminder of the inevitability of change; the inescapable paradigm shifts of life.

I spent 13 years living in California and Arizona before returning to my New England roots in 1981. I was amazed, and a bit saddened, by the changes that had taken place since I had last been home in 1973.

Narrow, meandering country roads, once swarming with hoards of bike-riding children, had been replaced by modern thoroughfares teeming with commuter traffic. Woodlands where the dreams of little boys and 'secret forts' were born in the underbrush; where my friends and I had excavated the forest floor, thick with pine needles, for the remnants of ancient Native-American civilizations; artifacts, arrowheads, shards of pottery and the like, now boasted row upon row of newly built homes; intruders upon the memories of a previous generation.  

But in life, as in nature, change is inevitable; a part of the eternal cycle of time. The autumn leaves need not ask permission to tumble to the ground; nor do the snows of winter acquiesce to the blossoms of springtime before the allotted time; a time not of our choosing; a time set forth by the unrelenting forces of nature.

I typically pen this diatribe early on Sunday morning, starting around five-thirty or six o'clock; I'm not quite sure why. Perhaps I need the pressure; the fear of not making the dreaded deadline hanging over my head as motivation.

It has been said that fear is a great motivator. Comedian Mike Birbiglia may have said it best:

I was living with a girl for a while. We worried about different things. One day, I was like, 'What do you fear the most?' And she was like, 'I fear you'll meet someone else, and you'll leave me, and I'll be all alone.' And she was like, 'What do you fear the most?' And I was like, 'Bears.'

Hmmm! Maybe he didn't actually say it best, but I thought what he said was hilarious and I desperately needed a comedic interlude today, even if I did have to provide it myself.

It's now Sunday morning, around 6:15, and I'm back in my office, pounding my keyboard. My Muse is an early riser. I began this piece on Thursday, wrote a bit more on Friday, even added a few lines on Christmas evening before collapsing into bed after a busy, but wonderful Christmas with my family; knowing all the while that this early morning Sunday tryst was inevitable; it's my way. As coach Bill Parcells says, "We are what we are."

I was a bit down for a couple of days prior to Christmas; nothing serious, just a little blue. I have every reason to be thankful, if not joyous. I have a wonderful, loving family; I'm blessed to be working in a profession that is my passion; I have good friends, good health.

It's just that holidays and perhaps Christmas and New Year's Day in particular, can be a catalyst; a triggering mechanism for whatever stressors we may have in our lives; whatever demons we are battling, and we all have them.

I know my issues. I acknowledge them; recognize them for what they are and deal with them as best I can. That's the healthy thing to do. It's not always easy and never pleasant, but it has to be done.

Don't get me wrong; I get no awards from the American Psychiatric Association for excellence in mental health. We all have our blind spots, those character flaws that are so deeply engrained in us that we just can't see them, or don't want to; because acknowledging them would conjure-up painful emotions; areas where we dare not travel; the dark recesses of our psyches.

The really funny thing, or perhaps the really sad thing depending on our perspective, is that there will be some who read this and will think I'm talking about someone else; that this doesn't apply to them. If that's you, you have now uncovered a blind spot. I'll let you chew on that for a while.

One part of my personal, self-imposed treatment for beating the blues involves escapism; a few cheap laughs, so small but integral component of my column this week is a desperate, self-indulgent attempt to do just that. Hopefully, you'll recognize the humor!

As Isabelle Cook, my eighth-grade homeroom teacher used to say, "Let's get started, shall we?"

I was sitting in Starbucks at the Target store in Highlands Plaza last Thursday morning, people-watching, enjoying my Quad- Cappuccino. I go to Starbucks at least once daily; sometimes more, depending on the disposition of the rabid caffeine-monkey who attached himself to my back many years ago while I was pulling my second, consecutive all-nighter, studying for college finals. Because of this dreadful simian creature, my Starbucks' budget is currently under substantial strain - and considerable scrutiny by my wife.

This morning I observed a young mom, probably in her early thirties, passing through the check-out with two little boys - cute little guys. I'm guessing they were probably four and six years old respectively. One of the boys, the younger of the two, was grabbing every candy bar he could get his grubby little hands on and throwing them to the floor, while the other opened the refrigerator case, which we all know is put in that exact location to entice young children to commit felonies, and began loading assorted 20-ounce bottles of soda into his mother's basket.

The far-too-relaxed mom (my mother would have throttled me) grabbed the rambunctious little soda thief around the waist, tucked him under her arm and proceeded to pay for her purchases while the little cherub flailed around, screaming like a Banshee.

My caffeine-monkey, not a big fan of boisterous, repugnant children, screeched, jumped off my back and scampered across the floor, taking refuge behind the Slurpee machine.

Divine intervention, I thought. This is my chance! I bolted out of the store, raced across the parking lot, jumped into my car and drove as fast as I could until I was safely in my driveway; no monkey is sight.

"I'm free! I'm free! The monkey's gone! The monkey's gone!" I screamed euphorically, jumping up and down and waving my arms wildly in the air. A neighbor, who had been shoveling his driveway, dropped his shovel, made a mad dash for his front porch and squatted down behind the railing, peering out at me through the slats. I think he was trying to get warm. I waved to him, but I guess he didn't see me because he ran quickly into the house without even acknowledging me and slammed the door behind him. I heard the click-click of the double deadbolt locks he had installed shortly after I moved into the neighborhood. He told me there had been a rash of burglaries at the time, although I never heard much about them. The Easton police keep these things hushed-up so as not to alarm anyone; that's what my neighbor told me.

If you find yourself at the Target store in Easton and you're anywhere in the vicinity of the Slurpee machine; beware the caffeine-monkey. He may take up residence on your back and, over time, he'll cost you a fortune. Just ask my wife!

I have to go now. There are a couple of burly young men in white coats knocking at my door and, strangely; my neighbor is hunkered down on his porch again, gazing through the slats. He's really a strange one!

This is my last contribution for 2010. I hope you've enjoyed reading my columns as much as I did writing them for you.

I hope I've made you laugh.

I hope I've made you cry.

Long May You Run!