Today, an email went out to the newsroom seeking Santas for an elementary school we have a partnership with during the year. Every Christmas, volunteers in the newsroom take wish lists that the students create for Santa. The children, many of whom English is their second language, live in situations that are not the best. This year, I decided to add my name to the list of Santas in addition to the other acts of giving I try to do every year.

It was gut-wrenching. With pencil, the students fill out a worksheet. It begins with the name of their teacher. There’s a salutation — “Hi Santa!” — and the the children takes a Number 2 pencil and fills in their name with their best second-grade penmanship. They write their gender and age. They explain why they like Christmas. Those are cute comments ranging from “liking to build a snowman in the ice” (hey, it is Central Texas afterall and snow is a rarity) to being able to give something to a sibling or parent. In some cases, I realize my Spanish is not up to a second-grade level.

Then the children write three things that they wish Santa would give them.

Shoes, or zapatos, or high on the list. A few go all out with the concept of Santa and ask for high-end items. Many though are writing for shoes. Or a coat. Or something that is obviously for a family member.

I remember filling out that form. There were times, even though my mother was working two jobs and my father was working two jobs, that a visit from Santa was going to be a shaky proposition. Never mind how well-behaved we had been, Santa’s sleigh was going to miss our house by a few weeks.

It wasn’t often, but it happened. We weren’t poor by any stretch. At least we never saw ourselves that way. Sure, we were on reduced or free lunches during the school year, but poor was someone who didn’t have a house. We had our mobile home. My parents worked. We went to school. We couldn’t be poor.

But looking back, we sure as hell weren’t wealthy. It didn’t matter to us.

But still, to our young minds, Santa existed. And even though Santa might not have a big of gifts for us, there was always going to be something under the tree the next morning. There was a stocking with candy and small trinkets. Santa somehow managed to come to our home.

As I read through the lists, preparing to select my second-grader, I looked through the ones who wanted shoes. I defused my thoughts with comments about how their Spanish was so much better than mine. However, I wanted to grab all of the forms. I wanted to buy them all shoes. I wanted them to not think Santa had skipped them.

This Christmas, I’m dressing up as Santa. I volunteered to be Santa at a holiday party my mother-in-law is putting on for the family. I leaped at the opportunity. I wasn’t sure at the time, but I know deep down it is because I want children to smile. It is the holidays after all.

There’s a part of me that wants to keep wearing that Santa outfit. I want a big bag of gifts. I want to be able to give something to every kid. Shoes, toys, coats.

A smile.

I realize now that there were Santas who did the same for me. I’m thankful for them amongst all the other people who have shaped my life.

I’m not one to get political. I have a tendency to silently give to charities. I observe and work behind the scenes.

That’s part of a job of a journalist. It’s something I believe in. Journalists are those who witness, who comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.

For the past couple of decades that’s my role and I have beyond accepted it.

That doesn’t mean Scott, the average Gen X citizen with a wealth of experiences and years of observations, doesn’t have opinions. But as a journalist, we are told to keep those to ourselves. We don’t endorse causes. We don’t endorse candidates. We don’t endorse movements.

In Marvel Comics, there’s a race of beings like that. They are called the Watchers (and yes, they predate the ones you might have seen on Fringe). They swear an oath of non-interference. They merely record what happens. Solemn witnesses to history as it unfolds.

In the real world, we are called journalists.

In the past decade, that institution has withered away as readership and advertising have declined. Every week, you can’t help but hear of another group of journalists — sometimes your friends — either being cut from their careers, their passions or choosing it is time to move on.

In the coming week, while I’m involved in project at the Paragraph Factory, two of the people I’ve come to respect a lot will be the latest to move on. I will not be at their going away parties. I will not be present for the standing ovation as they leave the office for the last time. I was fortunate that one of them asked me to read her final column (which by the way weaves her departure, her raising of two beautiful daughters and the promise of a different future so well it brought tears to my eyes).

This is going to be my future for the foreseeable time. Saying farewell to friends. Wishing them well in their new endeavors. Trying to maintain contact with them via Facebook and hopefully having drinks with them from time to time.

All the while, it is imperative that I stay the course. It is my job to keep the ship moving forward. To try to find those things I can change along the way to make things better. That’s part of who I am. To do leave something better than when I got it.

And that’s why there’s a growing level of frustration as I look around and read things like this. When I realize that not everyone has been playing by the same rules I’ve been playing with.

But yet, I remain a journalist. Observing.

But a growing part of me wonders if that is enough.

It wasn’t that long ago that time seemed to drag at certain points of the year. In Paragraph Factory parlance, those are the slow news days. For example, June and August always seem to drag out where it seems like each day is pulling teeth.

Here it is November and I can’t help feel that the year is speeding by. I’m sure that has something to do with age and going from eager anticipation of birthdays and holidays and other benchmarks of our youth. As we get older, it seems our days get more full. Every day is an adventure of some sort. Work dramas, larger pools of friends, larger commitments. Being in a relationship, that time becomes exponentially more committed. You have your events and your significant other’s events. I can’t imagine how quickly time rolls for my friends who also have kids. Each person that enters your life, there are more things to keep track of.

I feel greedy. I’ve started taking time for myself. With the significant other now working from an office, my mornings before heading into the Paragraph Factory are mine alone to do what I will with. Whether it’s to stand out in the yard in the cool autumn mornings where the light plays off the remaining leaves, to listen to the reissue of U2′s Achtung Baby and the latest Florence + The Machine at full blast in the home office, to write again (which feels a lot like an old friend mixed with working muscles that had fallen dormant), my mornings are mine. There’s also something about this time of year that encourages me to wake up just a little earlier and be productive. That’s a good thing, especially when it comes to writing.

I used to do all my writing late at night, usually after a Bass or two following a night at the Paragraph Factory. Now it’s a glass of orange juice, part of a bagel and the morning sunlight wrapping around the house. It’s different, yet familiar. It’s also fun rediscovering the people I write about. It’s their stories that I’m telling.

You can find the beginning of the latest clumsy attempt at that over at Zero Point and the 1130 Project.

This weekend, I’ll be giving myself a little more time. I’ll be somewhat disconnected while attending a campout with some of my closest friends — the Bear Jamboree a friend of my calls it. Still not sure if the significant other will make it or not, but the time away from the Paragraph Factory and the trappings of everyday life will have an effect on me. Last year, I came back re-energized.

While I’m away, I’ll probably fire up the iPad and doing some writing. The 1130 Project will have a few entries auto posting while I’m away. But ultimately, it is about drinking some beer, sharing some laughs and getting away from it all.

When I come back, my daily schedule will shift. I’m playing around with a schedule that puts me on a Monday through Friday rotation. It will mean more weekends to spend with the Significant Other and friends. It will feel normal, although it will be the first time I haven’t worked weekends in nearly 20 years. I’ll still be a night guy, but the ability to hang out with other Monday-Friday folks might be refreshing.

Also when I come back, I’ll have sold more of my Danger Room graphic novel stock on eBay. It’s an end of an era with each of those boxes of books shipping out. But at the same time, it’s been a new adventure for me. I’ve long been an eBay buyer, never a seller. Being a seller is a lot more interesting. I’m still getting used to it. The idea of packing up boxes to ship still makes me a bit nervous. And then there’s the whole “new seller” thing that is freaking PayPal out. That site still likes to hold funds because I’m an untried seller. Hopefully the next round of auctions removes that limitation. Hell, I’ve had stellar feedback so far.

November and autumn is usually a time of winding down and endings. I’m sure there will be a few of those. However, I’m enjoying the new things and new adventures I’m having.

I guess that’s part of being an adult — finding the time to take new adventures.

It’s easy for me to get lost in the all bad stuff goes on. There used to be a time when from Halloween until the middle of December I’d settle into a low-key funk. That funk was covered by all the people I had lost in my life, all the bad news, the missed opportunities and the things that life has a way of tossing one’s way.

It wasn’t a time of regret or self-pity. It was more a time of remembrance, a time to reflect and a time to worry about what would happen next.

Like I said, it used to be a time of that.

Eight years ago, I moved to Austin. It was yet another fresh start for me in a long string of fresh starts. A new gig and a new place to explore.

Seven years ago, somewhere in the early part of November, I met a guy. Of course, it was online and of course he would be living just north of Houston. Grazing over the details, we met in person after talking for a few months. We had similar interests. I was a journalist. He was a journalism teacher. We went out for dinner at Whataburger before going out to the bars. Not much of a first date on first blush, but it really describes us in some sort of way.

We actually liked hanging around each other. We hit it off with conversation that was more than standard fare for those in the community. He went back home at the end of the weekend. We kept in touch through chat and phone calls. I made visits down there. He made visits up here.

Neither of us were really looking for a whole lot. But through a variety of life experiences, he ended up moving in with me, leaving behind everything that was familiar to him.

We continued down the path of a relationship, sharing adventures and misadventures along the way. There were rough patches. There were moments where it looked bleak.

But also along the way, we showed each other sides of ourselves not many people get to see. We loved each other like no other.

And then one day, we realized we were one of the longest lasting relationships of people we know. Sure, it’s seven years, but there’s been a lifetime in those seven years. We’re still discovering things about each other every other day. But at the root of it all, we’re still together. I’ve met his family (who have no end of love for both of us and I am grateful for that). He’s met my family during my mom’s final year. We’ve lived in three different locations (four for him). We’ve been through the rough spots and the bright spots.

We’re still together. We’re happier than we’ve ever been. We know there’s more rough spots along the way. But, and this important, we know we’re going to be there for one another and go through those obstacles together.

And while we never nailed down the exact date of our first date, we’ve settled on Nov. 1 as our anniversary.

Seven years and a bright spot for me to look forward to even in the darker months I’d grown accustomed to.

Thanks, B, for being by my side of this adventure.

I can’t wait to see where our adventure takes us to next.

___

Photo taken in Barcelona this year. Our first trip abroad, but definitely not our last.