All I Want For Christmas

I seem to be getting my Christmas early!  All I want is my daughter home safely (which, Universe willing, happens tonight) and to see my kid sister for the first time in entirely too long (which, Universe willing, happens tomorrow.)

Everything else is just icing on the cake.

We are traveling this Christmas, which is not my favorite thing to do.  I like Christmas best when it's just the three of us, at home, opening our presents and eating bagels in our pajamas until it's time for lunch.  I like when we are completely relaxed and not worrying about the comforts of guests, even when those guests are close family.  I like having Thanksgiving dinner all over again for Christmas, instead of a ham or a roast.  I just like the way the house feels and smells when it's warm inside and cold outside; how we all try not to draw the short straw which means getting dressed early and walking the dog; how my wife makes the coffee with cinnamon and cloves to go with our bagels and salmon and cream cheese.

No fussing, no trying too hard to show the company a good time, just coming downstairs on Christmas to a lit tree and full stockings.

Heaven.

Oh Holy What??

I live in Pennsylvania.  Pennsylvania is ostensibly a Blue State, but this is a trick.  PA goes Blue largely because of the large, liberal, Democratic populations of the cities of Philadelphia and Pittsburgh.  But in between, where I live, the people vote Red, Red, Red.  Central Pennsylvania is, in many ways, an extension of the Bible Belt.  People are conservative, Republican and Christian.  Churches are mostly Protestant, and old school, including large Mennonite and Amish communities.  Needless to say, Christmas is huge and very in-your-face.  Every neighborhood has at least one church with a creche or Nativity Scene, many of them populated at times not by statuary or painted figures, but by human beings posing in costume.

Home decorating is de rigeur.


We have families here who begin decorating right after Labor Day.  There is a family in my neighborhood that has lights of some sort on every square foot of their home and yard, including giant electric wreaths and bows on their roofs.  I presume this is to let passing aircraft -- or UFOs -- know that they are celebrating the spirit of the season.

But one thing my wife and I agree on is that it isn't really Christmas for us until we see a house that has a light-up Nativity scene in their front yard which has the Three Kings beaming (literally!) down at the baby Jesus along with Frosty the Snowman who is apparently serving as their squire or guide.  Santa is there as well, keeping watch over the flocks by night along with the shepherds and camels.  It's a hoot.

Don't get me wrong.  Yes, I am an atheist, but I am not disparaging Christmas.  I believe that human beings have a need hard-wired into our DNA to celebrate this time of year, when the day has reached its shortest in terms of daylight and begins to grow longer again.  Whether it's Saturnalia, or Christmas, or Solstice, or Yule, I believe that we have to acknowledge the turning of the year and recognize that we all have hope for the return of sun and warmth.  If we can do so and also celebrate the birth of a hero in the bargain, so much the better.  So I have wreaths on the windows and a tree in the living room.  There are stockings hung over the fireplace, and I will even sing in my Unitarian Church on Christmas Eve.

No matter what you may believe, I hope you find something to enjoy this winter holiday season.  Enjoy the lights -- they're pretty!  And if something as silly as Frosty the Snowman keeping watch with Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar makes you smile, go with it.  Let your heart melt a little and remind yourself that when all is said and done, this time of year isn't about arguing over whether or not to say, "Happy Holidays" instead of the less-PC "Merry Christmas."  It's about reconnecting with family and with the values that makes us human.  It's about remembering that we are supposed to treat others the way we ourselves want to be treated, not just now, but always.

The Christmas Witch

My mother was Italian, and I was raised in what was for all intents and purposes an Italian home.  One of the oldest ornaments on our Christmas tree was a figure of a little old witch lady riding on a broom, an ornament which my great-grandmother brought to this country.  I remember asking my mother why we were hanging a Halloween decoration on our Christmas tree.  My mother told me that in Italy there was no male figure who delivered Christmas gifts to good girls and boys.  There was no Santa Claus or Father Christmas or Grandfather Winter.  Italian children get their presents from an old woman, a grandmother witch, a strega.  Her name is La Befana.  The story goes that the three Kings stopped at La Befana’s house on their way to Bethlehem. After dining with her, they invited her to come with them in their search for the Christ child. She said no, since she needed to wash and clean her home.  After a while she changed her mind, and gathered up some items from her home to give to the Baby Jesus. Sadly she was never able to find the three Kings, or the baby Christ child. She’s been searching ever since, flying on her broom. So every Epiphany, the Twelfth Night of Christmas, children all over Italy find their stockings filled with sweet curly candy if they've been very good, or a dark piece of charcoal if they have been bad.  I thought of this, and the poem that follows, as I spent this afternoon setting up our own Christmas tree.  Somewhere on it will be a little Befana.

THE BALLAD OF BEFANA by Phyllis McGinley

Befana the Housewife, scrubbing her pane,

Saw three old sages ride down the lane,

Saw three gray travelers pass her door --

Gaspar, Balthazar, Melchior.

"Where journey you, sirs?" she asked of them.

Balthazar answered, "To Bethlehem,

For we have news of a marvelous thing.

Born in a stable is Christ the King."

"Give him my welcome!"

Then Gaspar smiled, 

"Come with us, mistress, to greet the Child."

"Oh, happily, happily would I fare,

Were my dusting through and I'd polished the stair."

Old Melchior leaned on his saddle horn,

"Then send but a gift to the small newborn."

"Oh, gladly, gladly I'd send him one,

Were the hearthstone swept and my weaving done.

As soon as ever I've baked my bread,

I'll fetch Him a pillow for His head,

And a coverlet, too," Befana said.

"When the rooms are aired and the linen dry,

I'll look at the Babe."

But the Three rode by.

She worked for a day and a night and a day,

Then, gifts in her hands, took up her way.

But she never could find where the Christ Child lay.

And still she wanders at Christmastide,

Houseless, whose house was all her pride.

Whose heart was tardy, whose gifts were late;

Wanders and knocks at every gate,

Crying, "Good people, the bells begin!

Put off your toiling and let love in!"

Happy Thanksgiving!

All I know is, he'd damned well better be getting some turkey after this.

Kermit the Frog

This is one of those stories that I have told to almost nobody.  And yet it's something that I would hate to leave untold.  I really like the idea that it will float around as long as there's an Internet.

In the summer of 1969, when I was 14 years old, I lived in central New Jersey, in Somerset County.  My summer job was always with the county parks commission.  It mostly consisted of cutting grass and picking up trash, usually at one big park near Doris Duke's family estate called (conveniently enough) Duke Island Park.  It was pretty unexciting.  But every summer the county hosted one of the biggest and most spectacular county fairs in the state, rivaling, in fact, the actual state fair held later in the season near Trenton.  It was on a par with the York Fair in York, Pennsylvania, today, with nationally known singing stars, stock car races, and equestrian events along with the usual cakes, pies, quilts and 4-H animals.  It was, in short, a big deal.  Part of my job was to work at the fair directing cars to an appropriate parking spot in the middle of a big (unmarked!) grassy field.  Once my shift was over, I was free to wander the fair all I wanted.

Later that year, PBS and the Children's Television Workshop would debut a new children's show.  You may have heard of it.  It's called Sesame Street.

WNET-TV in New York City -- Channel 13 (which will always be synonymous with public television to anybody of my generation who grew up in New Jersey) -- came to the Somerset County Fair and sponsored a showcase show with some of the cast of Sesame Street.  Gordon was there, along with David and Bob and Maria.  And so were the Muppets.

Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch were there as was their puppeteer, Carroll Spinney.  Frank Oz was there to do Bert and Grover.  Elmo did not as yet exist.  But Ernie did.  And so did Kermit the Frog.

The Sesame Street show ran a couple of times each evening.  The rest of the time, the raised platform just sat there idle.  One evening after I was finished parking cars I found myself leaning against the base of the platform.  It was a convenient place to set my drink down so I could eat my funnel cake or corn dog or whatever it was I was munching.

I heard a voice say, "Kind of a long day today, huh?" and I looked around to see who was talking to me.  It was Kermit the Frog.

Of course, I didn't know who or what Kermit was.  I hadn't seen the show and had no interest in anything public television was doing for preschoolers.  Hell, most of the time we teenagers thought having to watch public television was punishment.  And nobody outside of local Detroit TV knew who Kermit the Frog was.

I'm sure I just stood there open-mouthed for a ridiculously long time.  Finally, Kermit said, "I said, 'Kind of a long day today, huh?'" and I said something dopey like, "Yeah, it sure was."

Part of Jim Henson's brilliance, in my opinion, was in how quickly he was able to get you to accept his little felt creations as real people.  Within a few minutes, I was chatting away with Kermit.  He made me laugh, I made him laugh; we had a fine old time.  I wish I could remember every word we said to each other, because it was truly one of the best conversations I've ever had in my life.  Finally Kermit said, "Well, this is great but I need to go get ready for the next show," and I reluctantly said good-bye.

I never saw Jim Henson.  I never had occasion to meet him ever again.  That fall, Sesame Street hit the airwaves and children's television has never been the same since.  Years later I saw the original Kermit puppet in Detroit, the one Jim Henson had made from the green lining of a raincoat and a couple of ping-pong balls.  And I couldn't help myself, I teared up.  Because once, when I was very young, I became friends with Kermit the Frog, and it was something I hope I never, ever forget.

1,000 Cuts

Sorry for the cryptic post last time.  As my long-time readers know, I have a particularly nasty form of something called peripheral neuropathy.  Something is causing the myelin sheaths of my sensory nerves to deteriorate, similar to the way the motor nerves degenerate in ALS.  So far, for the most part, only my sensory nerves are affected.  As they provide less and less information to my brain, it makes up for the absence by manufacturing its own information.  This usually takes the form of cold, but is very variable.  There are days of intense heat, pure pain (for lack of a better description), the feeling that you get when you stand barefoot on gravel (only all over my arms and legs), crawling bugs, electricity, and lately something new:  I feel like I am standing in a wind of tiny pieces of broken glass.  Like the proverbial death of a thousand cuts, only without the death.

I have had a tremendously difficult time coping with this latest.  I used to think the obstructive pain of an attack of Crohn's Disease was the greatest pain I could imagine.  Then I got shingles.  I thought that was the worst thing my body could throw at me.  Then this started.

I don't really have much of an opportunity to vent in other ways, gang, so you're stuck with me writing this.  I did not know I could tolerate this level of pain, for this long.  My doctors are at a loss for much help, even the brilliant docs at the ALS clinic at the Penn State Hershey Medical Center.  (And they really are brilliant.  Bless them all, Universe; bless them all each and every day.)  Distraction is the best course of action during the day.  If I can fill my mind with other things, I can actually almost forget about the pain as it becomes part of the background noise of my body.  Nights are bad.  When you're lying alone in the dark, and the only distractions are the sounds of my wife and dog breathing quietly, it can be quite debilitating.  I take pain medication, but it's starting to bump my blood pressure up to unpleasantly high levels, so that "out" may not be a consideration for too much longer.

I wish I could give you some answers.  I wish I had something to share that would give a smile or wipe a tear for all the others who suffer similar afflictions.  I don't.  There are no answers for me, not yet, at least. My rheumatologist is ever optimistic and is always sharing his hopes for the Next Big Thing that's in the pipeline that might help with autoimmune nerve degeneration, and I appreciate that from him.  He also feels that I am not enough of an addictive personality and so can be trusted with painkillers.  I can't wait to hear what he offers next now that this door may be closing.

All I can do is carry on.  It's precious little.  It's hard not to feel sorry for myself, hard not to want it to be over, hard not to resent the simplest things like walking the dog when walking means feeling like walking on razor blades instead of concrete.  But so far any other, more extreme alternative is out of the question.  If there should come a time when my motor nerves are also affected by the same degeneration, that question may have to be revisited.  But for now, I'll burn that bridge when I come to it.

Sometimes

Sometimes there's just nothing you can say.