As a kid, our Memorial Day weekends started in Grand Island, Nebraska, on Saturday evenings, after Dad got done at work. We were already at Grandma’s up on Koenig Street, there to help her clip dozens and dozens of flowers from her vast, well-tended flower beds, arrange them in coffee cans saved for just this purpose through the year, and placed in water in huge, old copper boilers. She always seemed to know just which arrangements should be put together and exactly how. Dozens of big, beautiful and fragrant peonies, rose, iris, and mums, interspersed with long ferns. The very smell of peonies today will take me back into those days more surely than any time machine could ever do. We did the work in the backyard, carefully clipping the flowers at her direction, or that of our Aunt Violet, returning them to Grandma, who directed the arranging under the porch light. Then we loaded up two cars for transport to Atkinson, Nebraska, the ancestral Fleming home, to decorate the graves of family members going back to the times of the Civil War. We would make the drive early the next day, stopping at the cafe in O'Neill for breakfast, and then staying with old family friends in the Atkinson area Sunday night. The Millers, Roots, the Arnholts from Bassett, Nebraska, and others. On Memorial Day, we arrived at the cemetery early and Grandma would arm each of us with a long bladed knife for use to attack the dandelions and cactus that would proliferate in the sandy soils of North-Central Nebraska. Fleming kids learned not to run with sharp objects from about age 3, and you had to do your part in the family tradition. Each grave would be carefully tended, the flowers arranged, and as other families did similar work, the cemetery soon became a joyful riot of color, and rich floral displays. People would come by for hugs, handshakes, and to exclaim about how big the children had grown, to ruffle our hair and plant kisses on our bashful cheeks. I remember how proud I was when the men started shaking hands with me, and I remember how big, firm, and powerful those men's hands were, and how the ladies all smelled of scented powders and perfumes.
Then, at Noon, the Color Guard marched solemnly in, formed up, presented the colors, and fired a thunderous salute with their '03 Springfields and then retired from the field. I counted my emergence into manhood from the day when the penetrating crack of those seven heavy caliber rifles no longer made me jump involuntarily. My Dad would then be gone for a while, always coming back very quiet and somber, his eyes wet with tears. It was well for you as a small child not to misbehave during those times. It was only years later that I began to understand. WWII had not been gentle with Atkinson. A lot of her sons and fathers had died in combat with the 134th Infantry in Europe, and my father had grown up with, played ball with, or worked with them all. For many, he had been there when they died, not gloriously or poetically, but violently, covered in blood, and screaming in fear and pain. Men would come by to pay their respects to my father. He was a local hero, having earned two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star for gallantry in action. But, perhaps in their eyes more importantly, he was one of the few that returned to Atkinson, alive. Shot up though he was, badly wounded in action some two weeks after surviving the living hell that was the Battle for St. Lo in France, July 14-18, 1944. In the two days of bloody fighting for the little town of Emilie, and to take Hill 122, the 134th Nebraska Infantry suffered 35% casualties with 102 men killed, 589 men wounded, and 102 men missing, either captured by the Germans, or their bodies simply obliterated by powerful blasts from tank and artillery shells, with nothing left to recover. It was while he was gone from our family plot that he went to visit the graves of friends, lost during that battle and others.
All combat veterans silently suffer from tremendous guilt for having lived while so many others have died. In the abstract, to those of us who have not suffered through the brutal hell of armed combat, it may seem unnecessary. But when the dead are those you knew, that you grew up with, trained with, got drunk with, told outrageous storeis and lies with, and fought beside, sometimes with guns and grenades, and sometimes with knives and fists, and even teeth, it is a far different experience. It haunted my father the rest of his life, as it haunts other, younger veterans today. The grand tools of war become more sophisticated. The reality of war, the very personal, awful sounds and sights, when armies close upon one another, and the ammunition runs dry, and men are left with the pure animal instinct to kill, simply to survive, that reality has not changed in thousands of years.
Memorial Day is a great day for parades, a great day for music and barbeques and family. It is also a great day to say Thank You to veterans for their service, and their sacrifice. It is also, perhaps, a very good day to hold them gently, and say earnestly, "I know that I cannot know it, or feel it as you do, but I am sorry for your pain."
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Things to think about on a Summer day
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Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Thoughts on the Fourth of July
On Saturday, I attended a small informal gun show. A few collectors got together to show their collections and gaze fondly at other people's acquisitions.
It was all very well organized. The guns were fine, no ammunition of any kind allowed in the area where the guns were begin displayed. No one, absolutely no one was allowed to handle the firearms without the owner's permission and not a single dummy appeared trying to snap a hammer down on an empty chamber so he could hear it go "click". Beautifully engraved pieces from another time, one a presentation piece, .44 caliber Navy Colt presented to William F. Cody (you know - Buffalo Bill, yeah, he was real, not like Hopalong Cassidy - he lived near North Platte, Nebraska when not out touring with his Wild West Show- died of old age because he had the singular common sense to recognize in 1875 that George Custer was mentally disturbed and willing to go down in glorious, bloody defeat, rather than to drift off into obscurity, so when Cody was offered the chance to guide the 7th Cavalry, he found something else to be busy with). Another a beautiful Colt Revolver owned by Sammy Davis Jr. (did you know he was a fast draw competitor and in his prime, one of the fastest timed draws in the world? The Candy Man could . . .)
There were "veterans" there. To collectors of military firearms, a veteran is a firearm that was fired in anger during combat. They have a special significance because someone held them who answered the call, stood on the line, supported his or her buddies (while America and many of the other WWII allies simply could not countenance the idea of women in combat, the Russians and the French Underground had no such compunctions and their female troops had many courageous and deadly fighters among them) and didn't run away from the responsibility. The "veterans" are quiet now, but to hold them, to fire them is, to the history buff, a step into a time machine. Not to a better time, but to a time that is important to remember. A time when young kids were willing to fight and, in many cases die, for freedom and to sacrifice themselves for a greater good. So that our country could remain strong, and free and a shining beacon of liberty for the rest of the tired old world to see. Its fields and valleys trampled over the centuries by one war lord or another, leading armies seeking conquest, power and the ability to control the lives of others.
Which brings me, finally, to my point. During that show, I spent about an hour talking with a lovely woman, the wife of a friend. A woman who had left her home in England to come to the United States over thirty-five years ago. A well educated woman. A woman who has traveled widely in the world, all her life. A woman is reads avidly, is interested in the world around her and one not at all timid about voicing her opinion after considering the facts. Here is what she had to say, and the reason for this post. (and yes, I did scribble notes while she was talking and after so I would not forget what she said simply because listening to her scared the living shit out of me)
"I am very sad and angry over what I see happening in this country today. It is moving toward socialism at a pace which scares me a great deal. But the movement is insidious because all the well-meaning people who rally to this cause or another are so deep in the forest that they can no longer see the trees. I left my home in England because it had become a country of tired people, people so caught up in their traditions and pomposity that they continued to talk of England's greatness all the while allowing it to descend into economic chaos, political weakness and void of hope for its people. Now, what I see around me here, reminds me very much of the feelings that I had before I came here to get away from exactly what I now see happening here. People living with one hand stretched out to the government, with an entitlement mentality, waiting to be given direction, to be given purpose, to be given hope, when government cannot do that, has never been able to do that in any country in the history of the world. People here used to believe that no matter who you were, no matter how poor your beginnings, you could rise to success through hard work, courage and sacrifice. The majority of the people I see around me now, flock to political leaders like this Obama, who promise much in the name of change, but while he gives change, he takes away freedoms. I do not trust him and I can only pray that our people will wake up and realize that he is a socialistic dreamer with a gift of gab, before it is too late. And I realize that it may already be too late. I despise the two political party system that has degenerated into a contest, not for what is good for the people, but for what is good for the parties. We no longer have government for the people and by the people. There is not a politician on the scene today who does not toady to the parties who give them their life blood of money and power. They talk of representing their constituents, but not a single damn one of them actually does that because to fight for the people is to fight with the very parties that give them their hold on power. The whole sorry lot needs to be thrown out of office and people need to start voting with their intellects and hearts instead of voting party tickets. Americans need to recapture the thrill and satisfaction of succeeding through hard work, sacrifice and the lessons learned from personal failure. Your young people are being turned into soft, over-indulged wimps who have no idea of hard work, or the joys of winning. Your youth sports have gone to a system where nobody wins and nobody loses so that nobody feels badly about themselves. They are taught to feel good about themselves, having done nothing to earn that feeling. Obama seems to believe that he can win the hearts and minds of people around the world that are as smart as he is, but much more experienced and truly much more evil. They toy with him now like a leopard toys with its kill. But they will not toy with him for long. Many of them seek our downfall. They glory in our deaths and the destruction of our cities. Whether it be for political gain, economic power or religious zealotry, they do not wish to engage with us in dialogue, they simply want us dead. America is becoming what I left England to get away from, and I do not find one person in ten who can see it, or even gives a damn that it is happening." She said more, but this is the gist of it.
So, the Fourth of July is coming. Its a holiday, not originally about fireworks and cooking on the grill, and parades and icy lemonade. Its a holiday meant to honor sacrifice and lives lost in a quest for liberty, for freedom, fought by people who did not cling to the obscurity of the masses, who did not play games without keeping score, who were willing to sign their names to a piece of paper that was the equivalent of a death warrant for themselves and their families. But they stood up and willed that their lives be counted for something greater than themselves. They gave this nation to us. Now we have to look at what we are doing with it. I don't know about you, but at some point on the Fourth of July, I am going to be really angry and I am probably going to cry in frustration. You can agree with me, and the English lady, or you can disagree and tell me that I am crazy, or silly, or misguided, or a dinosaur. But what is happening today in this country makes me sick to my stomach. It is not the country I learned about in school and I do not have to love it or leave it. Perhaps we all need to be willing once again to sign our names to another piece of paper and should it prove in the future to be a death warrant, so be it. At least we would then be in some very good company.
Happy Fourth of July.
It was all very well organized. The guns were fine, no ammunition of any kind allowed in the area where the guns were begin displayed. No one, absolutely no one was allowed to handle the firearms without the owner's permission and not a single dummy appeared trying to snap a hammer down on an empty chamber so he could hear it go "click". Beautifully engraved pieces from another time, one a presentation piece, .44 caliber Navy Colt presented to William F. Cody (you know - Buffalo Bill, yeah, he was real, not like Hopalong Cassidy - he lived near North Platte, Nebraska when not out touring with his Wild West Show- died of old age because he had the singular common sense to recognize in 1875 that George Custer was mentally disturbed and willing to go down in glorious, bloody defeat, rather than to drift off into obscurity, so when Cody was offered the chance to guide the 7th Cavalry, he found something else to be busy with). Another a beautiful Colt Revolver owned by Sammy Davis Jr. (did you know he was a fast draw competitor and in his prime, one of the fastest timed draws in the world? The Candy Man could . . .)
There were "veterans" there. To collectors of military firearms, a veteran is a firearm that was fired in anger during combat. They have a special significance because someone held them who answered the call, stood on the line, supported his or her buddies (while America and many of the other WWII allies simply could not countenance the idea of women in combat, the Russians and the French Underground had no such compunctions and their female troops had many courageous and deadly fighters among them) and didn't run away from the responsibility. The "veterans" are quiet now, but to hold them, to fire them is, to the history buff, a step into a time machine. Not to a better time, but to a time that is important to remember. A time when young kids were willing to fight and, in many cases die, for freedom and to sacrifice themselves for a greater good. So that our country could remain strong, and free and a shining beacon of liberty for the rest of the tired old world to see. Its fields and valleys trampled over the centuries by one war lord or another, leading armies seeking conquest, power and the ability to control the lives of others.
Which brings me, finally, to my point. During that show, I spent about an hour talking with a lovely woman, the wife of a friend. A woman who had left her home in England to come to the United States over thirty-five years ago. A well educated woman. A woman who has traveled widely in the world, all her life. A woman is reads avidly, is interested in the world around her and one not at all timid about voicing her opinion after considering the facts. Here is what she had to say, and the reason for this post. (and yes, I did scribble notes while she was talking and after so I would not forget what she said simply because listening to her scared the living shit out of me)
"I am very sad and angry over what I see happening in this country today. It is moving toward socialism at a pace which scares me a great deal. But the movement is insidious because all the well-meaning people who rally to this cause or another are so deep in the forest that they can no longer see the trees. I left my home in England because it had become a country of tired people, people so caught up in their traditions and pomposity that they continued to talk of England's greatness all the while allowing it to descend into economic chaos, political weakness and void of hope for its people. Now, what I see around me here, reminds me very much of the feelings that I had before I came here to get away from exactly what I now see happening here. People living with one hand stretched out to the government, with an entitlement mentality, waiting to be given direction, to be given purpose, to be given hope, when government cannot do that, has never been able to do that in any country in the history of the world. People here used to believe that no matter who you were, no matter how poor your beginnings, you could rise to success through hard work, courage and sacrifice. The majority of the people I see around me now, flock to political leaders like this Obama, who promise much in the name of change, but while he gives change, he takes away freedoms. I do not trust him and I can only pray that our people will wake up and realize that he is a socialistic dreamer with a gift of gab, before it is too late. And I realize that it may already be too late. I despise the two political party system that has degenerated into a contest, not for what is good for the people, but for what is good for the parties. We no longer have government for the people and by the people. There is not a politician on the scene today who does not toady to the parties who give them their life blood of money and power. They talk of representing their constituents, but not a single damn one of them actually does that because to fight for the people is to fight with the very parties that give them their hold on power. The whole sorry lot needs to be thrown out of office and people need to start voting with their intellects and hearts instead of voting party tickets. Americans need to recapture the thrill and satisfaction of succeeding through hard work, sacrifice and the lessons learned from personal failure. Your young people are being turned into soft, over-indulged wimps who have no idea of hard work, or the joys of winning. Your youth sports have gone to a system where nobody wins and nobody loses so that nobody feels badly about themselves. They are taught to feel good about themselves, having done nothing to earn that feeling. Obama seems to believe that he can win the hearts and minds of people around the world that are as smart as he is, but much more experienced and truly much more evil. They toy with him now like a leopard toys with its kill. But they will not toy with him for long. Many of them seek our downfall. They glory in our deaths and the destruction of our cities. Whether it be for political gain, economic power or religious zealotry, they do not wish to engage with us in dialogue, they simply want us dead. America is becoming what I left England to get away from, and I do not find one person in ten who can see it, or even gives a damn that it is happening." She said more, but this is the gist of it.
So, the Fourth of July is coming. Its a holiday, not originally about fireworks and cooking on the grill, and parades and icy lemonade. Its a holiday meant to honor sacrifice and lives lost in a quest for liberty, for freedom, fought by people who did not cling to the obscurity of the masses, who did not play games without keeping score, who were willing to sign their names to a piece of paper that was the equivalent of a death warrant for themselves and their families. But they stood up and willed that their lives be counted for something greater than themselves. They gave this nation to us. Now we have to look at what we are doing with it. I don't know about you, but at some point on the Fourth of July, I am going to be really angry and I am probably going to cry in frustration. You can agree with me, and the English lady, or you can disagree and tell me that I am crazy, or silly, or misguided, or a dinosaur. But what is happening today in this country makes me sick to my stomach. It is not the country I learned about in school and I do not have to love it or leave it. Perhaps we all need to be willing once again to sign our names to another piece of paper and should it prove in the future to be a death warrant, so be it. At least we would then be in some very good company.
Happy Fourth of July.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Memories of Summer Days
Its not so important when you are younger. The world is filled with action, there are challenges to be met, worlds to conquer and lives to grow into. The tension of waiting to be picked by the older guys for a sand lot baseball game. Making the varsity football team and suiting up for your first away game. That first cruise with a new driver's license. A good night kiss from a girl you are desperately smitten with, on your first date. So many things to distract you from yesterday.
But at some point, in quiet reflection, you do the math. More years behind you than you can hope to have ahead of you. Creaky joints that scream for two cups of strong coffee and a steaming shower in the mornings to put at least a little spring in your step. Time is running out. Not gone but going and it seems faster every year. And you start to scan through your memories looking for something, unclear at first, but then with work, coming more sharply into focus each time you visit. The early things, the things that were fine and good when your world was new and mystery lay just beyond the edge of the grass in your parents' front yard.
I remember early summer mornings. Braving the front door under a mother's watchful eye, to sit in my four year old glory, on the front step and let the sun shine warm on my face. Watching and waving as the old man headed off for work at the barber shop in his brown hen's egg colored Plymouth coupe. Closing my eyes and hearing the sounds of early morning. The neighbor's barking dog in the back yard down the street. Birds chirping in the trees. And, from down the street, the rhythmic sound of the engine of a milk truck from the local dairy, moving and pausing as the deliveries were made. The slam of the cooler door and the melodic clinking of the quart sized glass bottles as the delivery man carried products from the truck to each door. Listening to the sound of milk box lids thumping shut and waiting to hear the musical evidence of empty bottles being returned to the truck. With a little practice you could tell a rack of full bottles from a rack of empties. Its a sound you never hear anymore. We live in a plastic and cardboard world today it seems.
The sounds getting closer as he moved through the neighborhood closer and closer to our curb. Then suddenly the Meadow Gold truck was there, its brakes screeching just a bit as it stopped. At first nothing to see, but then, around the street side of the truck came the deliveryman in his white dairy uniform and cap, opening the rear doors, checking his list and moving toward the house. Two quarts for the Flemings, tinkling in that metal rack, and some cottage cheese and maybe, just maybe, a carton of ice cream. The old man loved vanilla with Hershey's chocolate sauce and peanuts. He would sit and stir a bowl of that treat until it became a brown soppy mess ready to be scooped up and savored like soup. The sugar sweet ice cream. The rougher, slightly bitter bite of chocolate and all those crunchy peanuts.
And so here he came, the delivery man, and as he passed he would stop and bend down to ruffle my hair, thick and wild and wavy and bright red. "Here kid, you wanna treat?", he would ask and produce a big chunk of ice. Milky white, cold as the North Pole, so that it burned your hands while you held it. I would run inside and get a napkin to hold it in, returning as he drove away to sit on the step in the warm sunlight and lick that ice with a tongue so cold it was numb in my mouth. The neighbor girl would come to the step. "Watcha got?" "Ice" "Is it good, what's it taste like?" "I dunno, milk I guess." "Can I have a lick?" "Yeah, come on up here." So we would sit side by side on the step in the morning sunlight, with the birds chirping and the neighbor's dog barking and the milk truck slowly making its musical way down the street, sharing licks of milky ice while the napkins got soppy and our hands became numb. And in the house, I could hear my mother humming to the radio while some guys called the Four Lads sang some goofy song about standing on the corner watching all the girls go by. I heard it so many times that I can still remember all the words to that silly song. So, although I didn't know it, my first steady girl sat with me every summer day in the early morning sunlight sharing licks on a piece of ice, a gift from the milk man. Was it me she liked, or just my milky ice chunk? I never asked and she never said and then she moved away and I never knew.
But the sun sure did feel good on those mild early summer mornings. And the world was good and all I knew was peace and contentment, love and affection. And when you are younger, you don't think so much about the past. But when you are older, and you've lived more years than you're gonna, you start thinking back over time to days like that. And you wonder, what would I trade to go out and sit on that step again and see my Dad smile and wave and hop in his Plymouth to drive off to work, and have that sun shine in my face so warm and gentle and have that neighbor girl there to share licks on that stupid chunk of ice again. And to hear my Mom singing in the kitchen, and pretty soon, that stupid song starts playing over and over again in your head. And your throat gets kinda tight and a tear runs down your cheek. And if you are very very lucky, your wife comes up and wipes that tear away and says, "Whatcha thinkin' about?" And you try to clear your throat in a manly sort of way and say, "Oh just a bunch of stupid stuff." And she gives you a hug and leaves you alone. And every once in a while, off in the distance, you think you hear those milk bottles clinking together and you close your eyes and just for a second, the sun turns gentle on your face, and you don't have to trade anything for it. And that's pretty damned nice, no matter how you slice it.
But at some point, in quiet reflection, you do the math. More years behind you than you can hope to have ahead of you. Creaky joints that scream for two cups of strong coffee and a steaming shower in the mornings to put at least a little spring in your step. Time is running out. Not gone but going and it seems faster every year. And you start to scan through your memories looking for something, unclear at first, but then with work, coming more sharply into focus each time you visit. The early things, the things that were fine and good when your world was new and mystery lay just beyond the edge of the grass in your parents' front yard.
I remember early summer mornings. Braving the front door under a mother's watchful eye, to sit in my four year old glory, on the front step and let the sun shine warm on my face. Watching and waving as the old man headed off for work at the barber shop in his brown hen's egg colored Plymouth coupe. Closing my eyes and hearing the sounds of early morning. The neighbor's barking dog in the back yard down the street. Birds chirping in the trees. And, from down the street, the rhythmic sound of the engine of a milk truck from the local dairy, moving and pausing as the deliveries were made. The slam of the cooler door and the melodic clinking of the quart sized glass bottles as the delivery man carried products from the truck to each door. Listening to the sound of milk box lids thumping shut and waiting to hear the musical evidence of empty bottles being returned to the truck. With a little practice you could tell a rack of full bottles from a rack of empties. Its a sound you never hear anymore. We live in a plastic and cardboard world today it seems.
The sounds getting closer as he moved through the neighborhood closer and closer to our curb. Then suddenly the Meadow Gold truck was there, its brakes screeching just a bit as it stopped. At first nothing to see, but then, around the street side of the truck came the deliveryman in his white dairy uniform and cap, opening the rear doors, checking his list and moving toward the house. Two quarts for the Flemings, tinkling in that metal rack, and some cottage cheese and maybe, just maybe, a carton of ice cream. The old man loved vanilla with Hershey's chocolate sauce and peanuts. He would sit and stir a bowl of that treat until it became a brown soppy mess ready to be scooped up and savored like soup. The sugar sweet ice cream. The rougher, slightly bitter bite of chocolate and all those crunchy peanuts.
And so here he came, the delivery man, and as he passed he would stop and bend down to ruffle my hair, thick and wild and wavy and bright red. "Here kid, you wanna treat?", he would ask and produce a big chunk of ice. Milky white, cold as the North Pole, so that it burned your hands while you held it. I would run inside and get a napkin to hold it in, returning as he drove away to sit on the step in the warm sunlight and lick that ice with a tongue so cold it was numb in my mouth. The neighbor girl would come to the step. "Watcha got?" "Ice" "Is it good, what's it taste like?" "I dunno, milk I guess." "Can I have a lick?" "Yeah, come on up here." So we would sit side by side on the step in the morning sunlight, with the birds chirping and the neighbor's dog barking and the milk truck slowly making its musical way down the street, sharing licks of milky ice while the napkins got soppy and our hands became numb. And in the house, I could hear my mother humming to the radio while some guys called the Four Lads sang some goofy song about standing on the corner watching all the girls go by. I heard it so many times that I can still remember all the words to that silly song. So, although I didn't know it, my first steady girl sat with me every summer day in the early morning sunlight sharing licks on a piece of ice, a gift from the milk man. Was it me she liked, or just my milky ice chunk? I never asked and she never said and then she moved away and I never knew.
But the sun sure did feel good on those mild early summer mornings. And the world was good and all I knew was peace and contentment, love and affection. And when you are younger, you don't think so much about the past. But when you are older, and you've lived more years than you're gonna, you start thinking back over time to days like that. And you wonder, what would I trade to go out and sit on that step again and see my Dad smile and wave and hop in his Plymouth to drive off to work, and have that sun shine in my face so warm and gentle and have that neighbor girl there to share licks on that stupid chunk of ice again. And to hear my Mom singing in the kitchen, and pretty soon, that stupid song starts playing over and over again in your head. And your throat gets kinda tight and a tear runs down your cheek. And if you are very very lucky, your wife comes up and wipes that tear away and says, "Whatcha thinkin' about?" And you try to clear your throat in a manly sort of way and say, "Oh just a bunch of stupid stuff." And she gives you a hug and leaves you alone. And every once in a while, off in the distance, you think you hear those milk bottles clinking together and you close your eyes and just for a second, the sun turns gentle on your face, and you don't have to trade anything for it. And that's pretty damned nice, no matter how you slice it.
Rules for Living
My Dear Friends:
Having been recently advised by an extremely upset individual (I apparently have the ability to do that to some people), that I am a brutish, insensitive and politically incorrect animal, it is with a certain amount of reluctance and embarrassment that I must now admit various personal character flaws of which I am only now becoming aware, having had the opportunity to explore a wealth of material written by "experts" on these issues, who have caused me to think about long held opinions on the matters at hand.
I was, after all, raised during the 1950's and 1960's in the Mid-West, by a WWII combat veteran and his English War-Bride, surrounded by families of similar social complexion and within bike riding distance of a paternal grandmother who weathered the Great Depression after having lost her husband to disease and the family savings to a bank whose president promptly locked the door to his office and blew his brains out all over his desk in shame. Despite great adversity, to the day she died, you could run a plumb line from the back of Grandma's head to the bottom of her heels and never see daylight. By my parents and my Grandmother, I was rudely forced to dig dandylions with an old bayonet, mow lawns, do dishes, wash and iron my own clothes, cook meals, clean pheasants, take out the garbage and make my own bed. It was also this cast of characters who instilled in me the afore-mentioned list of apparently totally inappropriate values, principles and rules that have caused me to develop into the blighted, politically incorrect creature whose abject worthlessness you have been forced to suffer all these years. Such values, principlese and rules as these ten:
1. When you play a ball game (ANY BALL GAME), somebody will win and somebody will lose. The winners usually win because they played a better game than the losers. The winners should thank the losers for the game (its called sportsmanship) and the losers should go work on getting better so they can be winners next time, or the time after that. The losers are not supposed to be happy that they lost. Winning does not make you a better player. Only losing can make you a better player. The same is true in every field of endeavor you will engage in throughout your life. That's why we have competition. Losing is supposed to make you feel bad about yourself.
2. If you run from a neighborhood bully who you know can whip you, you will continue to run from adversity all your life. Better to make your stand and get the hell kicked out of you, striking one solid blow in the process and leaving the bully with the certain knowledge that he is going to have to fight you every damn time he braces you, without fail, and the more you fight, the better you will get at it until the day when you thrash him so badly that he stops being a bully. That is why God gives us bullys. So that we can savor the delicious flavor of courage until we make it a staple in our diet. Fighting for what is right does not require "Anger management counseling".
3. Opening a door for a woman, or an older man is not a sign that you think they are weak. Its an expression of respect. Doing it without fail, without thinking, without hesitation, earns you a "Thank you" from a well-mannered lady or gentleman. Failing to do it in front of Grandma is absolutely guaranteed to get the teeth slapped clear out of your head. Afterward, she will cry in disappointment, which hurts you a damn sight more than getting slapped ever could. Grandma did not require a "Domestic Abuse Assessment".
4. Lying to one's father, after pulling some head up ass stunt, will get you whipped twice with a razor strop (if you don't know what that is- Google it). Once for doing whatever it is that you did. Once for trying to lie your way out of it. And the old man, will ALWAYS know, when you are lying. Its a math problem, figure it out. In those days, fathers were not charged with assault for trying to turn a smart-assed kid into a responsible adult.
5. Doing the "best you can" is tricky. Only you will ever know, if you have done "the best you can" If you finish an endeavor and have ANYTHING left that you did not put into the effort, you have not done the best you can. So get off your ass and try again. God gives us mirrors so that we can get to know ourselves better.
6. There is only one person in the world responsible for your personal success or failure. That is you. If you work hard, refusing to stay down when you get knocked down, you will succeed. Blaming others for the decisions you make and the consequences that follow is a coward's way out. You can be your own bully. That's why its tricky.
7. "Talk is cheap. It takes money to buy whiskey." A saying which has nothing to do with whiskey and everything to do with making up your own mind about an issue without being swayed by what the masses think is "popular" of "appropriate". If we were meant by our creator to allow others to make up our minds for us, only one of us in a hundred would be given a brain of our own. Current conditions notwithstanding.
8. The men who signed the Declaration of Independence (and their women who stood beside them - Google Abigail Adams) saw their signatures on the document as a death sentence. So did King George of England. He ordered that each of them, and their families, be captured and hanged. It was not convenient, it was not popular, they did not listen to opinion polls, or run up trial balloons. They meant what they said, when they said it and each of them would very likely puke if they could see what has become of the country they forged with their "sacred honor" today. The price of freedom is eternal vigilence, not eternal comfort.
9. A firearm is a tool, like other tools. Learn when to use it, how to use it, how to clean it, how to respect what it does. It does not have a mind of its own and can only be used for good or evil based upon the intent and the purpose of the individual who picks it up. NO ONE in the entire history of mankind, has ever been shot with an unloaded firearm. Period.
10. There is "rich", and there is "wealthy". A man or woman, of little economic means, who is known for their honesty, who will stand up to a bully, whose few friends will come to their aid in the dark of the night without question or hesitation, who will stand on their hind legs and accept the consequences of their actions, whose people love them and who give love in return without reservation, that man or woman is "rich". Many a lonely, wealthy man has put a rope around his own neck, propelling himself into oblivion, without ever understanding the difference.
It is these values, and principles, among others that my family instilled in me and, in the process, turned me into the poor, politically incorrect, uncivilized ruffian that I am today. I suspect that there is little hope for me now. If knowing me, and realizing these character flaws of mine, causes you discomfort, I should be truly sorry.
But, as those of you who know me realize . . . . .
I'm not. Not even one damn little bit.
Oh, and by the way, I've pretty much had it. I'D LIKE TO HAVE MY COUNTRY BACK NOW! I suspect that if enough of us, of all races, creeds, orientations, religions and so forth, got mad enough to stop bickering amongst ourselves and started demanding this, at the top of our lungs, and fighting for it with our own "sacred honor", sooner or later the spineless, twisted bastards that currently are trying to ruin it, would have to give it back.
But that would take a rebellion . . . . . .
Its just a thought . . . . . . .
Having been recently advised by an extremely upset individual (I apparently have the ability to do that to some people), that I am a brutish, insensitive and politically incorrect animal, it is with a certain amount of reluctance and embarrassment that I must now admit various personal character flaws of which I am only now becoming aware, having had the opportunity to explore a wealth of material written by "experts" on these issues, who have caused me to think about long held opinions on the matters at hand.
I was, after all, raised during the 1950's and 1960's in the Mid-West, by a WWII combat veteran and his English War-Bride, surrounded by families of similar social complexion and within bike riding distance of a paternal grandmother who weathered the Great Depression after having lost her husband to disease and the family savings to a bank whose president promptly locked the door to his office and blew his brains out all over his desk in shame. Despite great adversity, to the day she died, you could run a plumb line from the back of Grandma's head to the bottom of her heels and never see daylight. By my parents and my Grandmother, I was rudely forced to dig dandylions with an old bayonet, mow lawns, do dishes, wash and iron my own clothes, cook meals, clean pheasants, take out the garbage and make my own bed. It was also this cast of characters who instilled in me the afore-mentioned list of apparently totally inappropriate values, principles and rules that have caused me to develop into the blighted, politically incorrect creature whose abject worthlessness you have been forced to suffer all these years. Such values, principlese and rules as these ten:
1. When you play a ball game (ANY BALL GAME), somebody will win and somebody will lose. The winners usually win because they played a better game than the losers. The winners should thank the losers for the game (its called sportsmanship) and the losers should go work on getting better so they can be winners next time, or the time after that. The losers are not supposed to be happy that they lost. Winning does not make you a better player. Only losing can make you a better player. The same is true in every field of endeavor you will engage in throughout your life. That's why we have competition. Losing is supposed to make you feel bad about yourself.
2. If you run from a neighborhood bully who you know can whip you, you will continue to run from adversity all your life. Better to make your stand and get the hell kicked out of you, striking one solid blow in the process and leaving the bully with the certain knowledge that he is going to have to fight you every damn time he braces you, without fail, and the more you fight, the better you will get at it until the day when you thrash him so badly that he stops being a bully. That is why God gives us bullys. So that we can savor the delicious flavor of courage until we make it a staple in our diet. Fighting for what is right does not require "Anger management counseling".
3. Opening a door for a woman, or an older man is not a sign that you think they are weak. Its an expression of respect. Doing it without fail, without thinking, without hesitation, earns you a "Thank you" from a well-mannered lady or gentleman. Failing to do it in front of Grandma is absolutely guaranteed to get the teeth slapped clear out of your head. Afterward, she will cry in disappointment, which hurts you a damn sight more than getting slapped ever could. Grandma did not require a "Domestic Abuse Assessment".
4. Lying to one's father, after pulling some head up ass stunt, will get you whipped twice with a razor strop (if you don't know what that is- Google it). Once for doing whatever it is that you did. Once for trying to lie your way out of it. And the old man, will ALWAYS know, when you are lying. Its a math problem, figure it out. In those days, fathers were not charged with assault for trying to turn a smart-assed kid into a responsible adult.
5. Doing the "best you can" is tricky. Only you will ever know, if you have done "the best you can" If you finish an endeavor and have ANYTHING left that you did not put into the effort, you have not done the best you can. So get off your ass and try again. God gives us mirrors so that we can get to know ourselves better.
6. There is only one person in the world responsible for your personal success or failure. That is you. If you work hard, refusing to stay down when you get knocked down, you will succeed. Blaming others for the decisions you make and the consequences that follow is a coward's way out. You can be your own bully. That's why its tricky.
7. "Talk is cheap. It takes money to buy whiskey." A saying which has nothing to do with whiskey and everything to do with making up your own mind about an issue without being swayed by what the masses think is "popular" of "appropriate". If we were meant by our creator to allow others to make up our minds for us, only one of us in a hundred would be given a brain of our own. Current conditions notwithstanding.
8. The men who signed the Declaration of Independence (and their women who stood beside them - Google Abigail Adams) saw their signatures on the document as a death sentence. So did King George of England. He ordered that each of them, and their families, be captured and hanged. It was not convenient, it was not popular, they did not listen to opinion polls, or run up trial balloons. They meant what they said, when they said it and each of them would very likely puke if they could see what has become of the country they forged with their "sacred honor" today. The price of freedom is eternal vigilence, not eternal comfort.
9. A firearm is a tool, like other tools. Learn when to use it, how to use it, how to clean it, how to respect what it does. It does not have a mind of its own and can only be used for good or evil based upon the intent and the purpose of the individual who picks it up. NO ONE in the entire history of mankind, has ever been shot with an unloaded firearm. Period.
10. There is "rich", and there is "wealthy". A man or woman, of little economic means, who is known for their honesty, who will stand up to a bully, whose few friends will come to their aid in the dark of the night without question or hesitation, who will stand on their hind legs and accept the consequences of their actions, whose people love them and who give love in return without reservation, that man or woman is "rich". Many a lonely, wealthy man has put a rope around his own neck, propelling himself into oblivion, without ever understanding the difference.
It is these values, and principles, among others that my family instilled in me and, in the process, turned me into the poor, politically incorrect, uncivilized ruffian that I am today. I suspect that there is little hope for me now. If knowing me, and realizing these character flaws of mine, causes you discomfort, I should be truly sorry.
But, as those of you who know me realize . . . . .
I'm not. Not even one damn little bit.
Oh, and by the way, I've pretty much had it. I'D LIKE TO HAVE MY COUNTRY BACK NOW! I suspect that if enough of us, of all races, creeds, orientations, religions and so forth, got mad enough to stop bickering amongst ourselves and started demanding this, at the top of our lungs, and fighting for it with our own "sacred honor", sooner or later the spineless, twisted bastards that currently are trying to ruin it, would have to give it back.
But that would take a rebellion . . . . . .
Its just a thought . . . . . . .
Letter to Garrison Keillor on Behalf of the Patriot Guard
Dear Mr. Keillor:
Your article was forwarded to me by a very large number of very angry individuals, and, just as I suspect that they will have something to say to you about this, it has also prompted me to respond. I'm angry too, but I will try very hard to choke that down so that I can provide what I hope will be seen as an thoughtful response to an extremely insensitive and not terribly well-thought out opinion piece.
Hollow patriotism you say? The connection you quite obviously miss between "these fat men with ponytails on Harleys" and "pilots revving up B-24s and infantrymen crouched behind piles of rubble steeling themselves for the next push" is that many of these Harley riders have been the pilots and the infantrymen of which you speak. If you had taken time to look around at places like Khe Sanh, or LZ XRAY in the Ia Drang Valley, or perhaps some hot, stinking nondescript rice paddy seven clicks from "who knows where in the hell we are" in the 1960's, you would have seen a lot of us. Maybe you were there and didn't look. Maybe you weren't, but like to talk about the issue as though you actually know something about it. Either way, you should know that we weren't fat in those days. We didn't have ponytails either. We were young, filthy dirty, underweight, sick and scared to a point of numbness that you can't know unless you've lived it, every damned day, with no escape. We lost friends, we lived through and saw things that can, without warning, wake some of us even today, screaming from our sleep. Like every solider who has ever fought, since the dawn of history, we did not fight for honor, for duty or for country. We fought for the guys beside us who refused to run out on us. The ones that talked us down from madness. The ones that held us when we were sick, or shared a last cigarette hiding under a poncho and a blanket of mosquitoes. And the ones that we watched bleeding to death, and crying for their mothers while we held them in our arms, trying to comfort them while we watched their eyes go dull. For us, it is not the vivid blues and greens of the art that lifts you from the mishmash of life that are important on Memorial Day. Instead, on this day, we have these images that we will never forget, as long as our hearts still beat.
You seem most upset because you were inconvenienced trying to cross a street that you admit had been blocked off for the passage of these riders, many from the Patriot Guard, or other organizations dedicated to honoring both the living and the dead who go in harms way in our Country's name. Upset because these classless oafs delayed your trip to the National Gallery where you celebrated Memorial Day by taking in a Renoir. Meanwhile many of the fat, pony-tailed oafs, tried, after several aborted attempts, and with tears streaming down their faces, to make it to the Wall without collapsing in tears in front of names engraved in stone, but with the memory of souls engraved more deeply in our hearts and minds. And we leave mementos, a flag, a patch, a ring, a medal, a can saved from a 1 in 12 . Something, anything to let a comrade know, "Brother I have not forgotten you, and I know I'll see you soon." I have names on that wall. I have started and stopped on that path a dozen times. Sometimes I make it, sometimes I don't. I believe in my heart that the brothers I go to see there know that at least I tried.
Perhaps we ride and rev our engines to celebrate the life a buddy cannot. Maybe some of us do it because it keeps them from sticking a gun in their mouth to end a pain and guilt they cannot escape. Guilt and pain caused by the knowledge that we lived while a buddy died. Maybe we do it because by banding together we can absorb the strength to go on from one another. People who have shared the horror, people who would rather work up the guts to look at their tear streaked reflections on the Wall than to study Monet or Cassat at your side. As much as many of us appreciate the art, on this day, we have other images to deal with that are much more compelling to us.
We do care very deeply about the war dead, Mr. Keillor. We need not read Halberstam or Ambrose to get a vision of what that was like. We have visions we cannot escape. Of death and destruction. Of the shredded meat left by a Claymore on a jungle trail, or the empty hole where a 19 year old buddy from clear back at Basic was trying to get small just before a mortar hit it. We ride to honor our dead, we ride to show solidarity with those in harm's way now. What have you to teach us of war and death Mr. Keillor? What have you to teach us about remembering?
You may be the boatman. For all I care, you can have the boat. But I, fat and pony tailed as I am, along with my fat and pony tailed brothers - We are our brothers' keepers. And every Memorial Day, from now till the day I go to join my friends, lost so long ago, I will have my fat ass planted out there on the Harley, flag flying, wind in my hair. Because if a certain Lance Corporal had not died while pushing my face down into one of those stinking, filthy rice paddies, this is exactly where he would be and exactly what he would be doing.
So, you celebrate this solemn holiday your way, Mr. Keillor. I and my brothers and sisters will choose to honor our dead in our way too. You can question our fat, old bodies all you wish. But don't you ever question our patriotism again.
And since I have failed miserably to keep my anger in check, despite my promise to do so, you can go to Hell, Mr. Keillor, and you can take the Renoir with you.
Your article was forwarded to me by a very large number of very angry individuals, and, just as I suspect that they will have something to say to you about this, it has also prompted me to respond. I'm angry too, but I will try very hard to choke that down so that I can provide what I hope will be seen as an thoughtful response to an extremely insensitive and not terribly well-thought out opinion piece.
Hollow patriotism you say? The connection you quite obviously miss between "these fat men with ponytails on Harleys" and "pilots revving up B-24s and infantrymen crouched behind piles of rubble steeling themselves for the next push" is that many of these Harley riders have been the pilots and the infantrymen of which you speak. If you had taken time to look around at places like Khe Sanh, or LZ XRAY in the Ia Drang Valley, or perhaps some hot, stinking nondescript rice paddy seven clicks from "who knows where in the hell we are" in the 1960's, you would have seen a lot of us. Maybe you were there and didn't look. Maybe you weren't, but like to talk about the issue as though you actually know something about it. Either way, you should know that we weren't fat in those days. We didn't have ponytails either. We were young, filthy dirty, underweight, sick and scared to a point of numbness that you can't know unless you've lived it, every damned day, with no escape. We lost friends, we lived through and saw things that can, without warning, wake some of us even today, screaming from our sleep. Like every solider who has ever fought, since the dawn of history, we did not fight for honor, for duty or for country. We fought for the guys beside us who refused to run out on us. The ones that talked us down from madness. The ones that held us when we were sick, or shared a last cigarette hiding under a poncho and a blanket of mosquitoes. And the ones that we watched bleeding to death, and crying for their mothers while we held them in our arms, trying to comfort them while we watched their eyes go dull. For us, it is not the vivid blues and greens of the art that lifts you from the mishmash of life that are important on Memorial Day. Instead, on this day, we have these images that we will never forget, as long as our hearts still beat.
You seem most upset because you were inconvenienced trying to cross a street that you admit had been blocked off for the passage of these riders, many from the Patriot Guard, or other organizations dedicated to honoring both the living and the dead who go in harms way in our Country's name. Upset because these classless oafs delayed your trip to the National Gallery where you celebrated Memorial Day by taking in a Renoir. Meanwhile many of the fat, pony-tailed oafs, tried, after several aborted attempts, and with tears streaming down their faces, to make it to the Wall without collapsing in tears in front of names engraved in stone, but with the memory of souls engraved more deeply in our hearts and minds. And we leave mementos, a flag, a patch, a ring, a medal, a can saved from a 1 in 12 . Something, anything to let a comrade know, "Brother I have not forgotten you, and I know I'll see you soon." I have names on that wall. I have started and stopped on that path a dozen times. Sometimes I make it, sometimes I don't. I believe in my heart that the brothers I go to see there know that at least I tried.
Perhaps we ride and rev our engines to celebrate the life a buddy cannot. Maybe some of us do it because it keeps them from sticking a gun in their mouth to end a pain and guilt they cannot escape. Guilt and pain caused by the knowledge that we lived while a buddy died. Maybe we do it because by banding together we can absorb the strength to go on from one another. People who have shared the horror, people who would rather work up the guts to look at their tear streaked reflections on the Wall than to study Monet or Cassat at your side. As much as many of us appreciate the art, on this day, we have other images to deal with that are much more compelling to us.
We do care very deeply about the war dead, Mr. Keillor. We need not read Halberstam or Ambrose to get a vision of what that was like. We have visions we cannot escape. Of death and destruction. Of the shredded meat left by a Claymore on a jungle trail, or the empty hole where a 19 year old buddy from clear back at Basic was trying to get small just before a mortar hit it. We ride to honor our dead, we ride to show solidarity with those in harm's way now. What have you to teach us of war and death Mr. Keillor? What have you to teach us about remembering?
You may be the boatman. For all I care, you can have the boat. But I, fat and pony tailed as I am, along with my fat and pony tailed brothers - We are our brothers' keepers. And every Memorial Day, from now till the day I go to join my friends, lost so long ago, I will have my fat ass planted out there on the Harley, flag flying, wind in my hair. Because if a certain Lance Corporal had not died while pushing my face down into one of those stinking, filthy rice paddies, this is exactly where he would be and exactly what he would be doing.
So, you celebrate this solemn holiday your way, Mr. Keillor. I and my brothers and sisters will choose to honor our dead in our way too. You can question our fat, old bodies all you wish. But don't you ever question our patriotism again.
And since I have failed miserably to keep my anger in check, despite my promise to do so, you can go to Hell, Mr. Keillor, and you can take the Renoir with you.
Christmas
I remember how magical the Christmas season was when I was a small child. Decorating the Christmas tree that mysteriously appeared in the house, with its icy cold needles and fresh, pine scent. Boxes of ornaments were brought out of hiding, bright shiny globes with white frosting, little elves, and at Grandma’s, a string of electric lights made up of metal candles filled with some sort of oil that would bubble as the tube heated up, causing the lights inside to flicker like a flame in a breeze (try to get that past the Consumer Prodiuct Safety Council today . . . .) . Metal tinsel was carefully removed from its wrappers and strategically hung gently on each bough as directed by my grandmother, who had an eye for such things. It took hours, but they passed quickly with the excitement of watching the simple evergreen grow into a spectacle of color and flashes of light reflected again and again as they made their way from the tree to our wide little eyes.
The kitchen was always busy as pies and cookies, fudge, divinity, and other candies rolled off an assembly line of female relatives who talked and laughed and sang as they worked, until called upon to chase some thieving man or boy from the kitchen, caught attempting to pilfer some goody or another. The array of cookies and candies was awe inspiring. Cookies made from recipes that had been handed down from generation to generation in my family through time clear back to the old country, round about the time that great, great grandpa’s cousin Seamus got caught with that McDonough girl in the horse barn by her father (ahh, . . . ., but I’m pretty sure that’s another story for another time.) As colorful as the wonderful tree, the cookies were filled with all sorts of cremes and nuts, fruits and with mysterious flavors that only showed up during the Christmas season.
The songs of Christmas filled each house as performed by the great crooners, Bing Crosby, Perry Como, Andy Williams, Robert Goulet. Songs about snow flakes, crackling fireplaces, silver bells, and Santa Claus. We sat about each night, working furiously over letters to Santa. Having been told (by well-meaning parents and teachers) that Santa, sadly, could not read letters from little boys and girls who mis-spelled words or did not use good penmanship, no matter how good they had been all year. Yeah, some people (mostly liberal meadow muffins who believe that children are just little adults and should be treated as such . . . . . . ain’t takin’ that one back Santa . . . .) today would be horrified by that, but you can bet your bottom dollar that in our neighborhood, those properly spelled and beautifully penned letters were read by Santa, . . . . every last damn one of them, uh, . .. . . ., darn one of them, sorry Santa. Letters that asked for presents with all the heartfelt desire of a Franciscan monk seeking spiritual grace. Letters that rivaled the most scholarly of legal briefs in their ability to explain away our transgressions from the summer before. The stolen tomatoes, watermelons, the water balloons, the firecrackers, making pretty Debbie, the neighbor girl, cry when we pulled up her dress and ran away laughing. The stuff of boyhood, growing to the seriousness and scale of high grade felonies as we contemplated our many sins right before the big night.
We made snowmen, and snow forts and had snow ball fights till our hands and faces were frozen. We screamed in delight as the old man pulled us on a sled behind his ‘53 Plymouth through the snow-packed streets. (No, we weren’t wearing helmets, kids were tougher in those days and none of us wound up with psychological scars from it either . . .) We carefully piled cookies and cocoa on a table by the tree on Christmas eve, a sacrifice for a fat magical elf who was going to slide down a chimney so small the cat got stuck in it, with a bag containing, a 24" Schwinn bike, a basketball, my brother’s BB gun, an electric train, a Brownie Instamatic camera, assorted socks, shirts, oranges, apples, nuts, candy and a whole bunch of chocolates that Santa had to have picked up in England, maybe from our aunts and uncles, just for us. We would go to church on Christmas Eve, dressed in scratchy wool suits, shirts that were so tight at the collar they chafed like sandpaper (they fit you last year!). We would sit as quiet as mice (Santa is watching you) and try to sing louder than anybody else (Santa is listening for you) in hopes that he might choose to forgive our various high crimes and misdemeanors (like the brick I threw through Mrs. Olson’s window - - by accident! I was trying to hit that bully Mike from down the street!! Honest!!!!!!) A bum rap, if ever there was one, but ("How do you think Santa felt about that when he saw what you did?" - my mother could lay a guilt trip on you like no one on earth . . .) I was pretty sure I was screwed forever, Santa hated my guts.
But then, two days before Christmas, in the depth of my gloom, a chance at salvation arose. David, an even bigger bully from down the street, sent my little brother home wailing in anguish, tears flowing like gushers. Why? Pure spiteful meanness. How? Simple, he told him that Santa Claus did not exist. All the presents came from our parents. Rudolph and Dasher and Dancer and Prancer, Vixen and Donder and Blitzen weren’t real. Comet and Cupid were just lies told to small children. My brother flung himself on the floor and kicked his feet and wailed like his poor little soul had been ripped from his body. Well, I had suspected for some time that there might be some exaggeration going on. I did, after all, catch Mommy and Daddy under the Christmas tree, late the Christmas Eve before, (but that, . . . . . ahh, that’s another story too.) Got beat like a red-headed step-child, and all I did was ask, "Whatcha doin?"
Anyway, I stood there feeling helpless, my mother stood with tears in her eyes, the old man was still at work and suddenly I knew what I had to do. Right then, I was the man of the house, I was the guy in charge. I stormed out the door and down the street like a Tasmanian Devil, a missile of violence seeking only one target. I found him bragging about his accomplishment at the doorstep of my first true love, Nancy Knowles, the little girl who shared my porch and the ice chunks from the dairy deliveryman on warm, soft, summer mornings. I caught him from behind, going full speed and rammed headlong into the small of his back so hard it almost knocked me out. It really ruined David’s day too ‘cuz he lay there on the ground making sort of weird wet animal like sucking noises while he tried to get his lungs to reinflate. I jumped on top of him and waled away, punching and clawing and kicking with reckless abandon. Not very scientifically by the later standards of my adult instructors in such things, but enough to get the job done. (We were allowed to occasionally beat each other up in those days without criminal charges, hosts of counselors and a platoon of probation officers to reform our fragile little psyches . . . . if you got your ass kicked back then, you usually deserved it)
Afterward, I marched home in triumph. I had been blessed with a hole card. How could Santa refuse me now? I had faced the bully who had denied his very existence and had triumphed over the evil Goliath (I was six, he was eight, okay?) Surely Santa in his mercy could see that my heart was in the right place. The nasty David would live, but never again would he blaspheme and slander Santa’s name. And my little brother, convinced now that I was somehow a god among mortals, listened intently while I told him that David was full of sh . . . . ah, full of stuff, wrong, dumb, misguided. Santa not only was real but he would be there at our house that very night, and would take extra time to eat the wonderful cookies my grandmother and mother made . . . because he wouldn’t be stopping by David Hungerford’s house that Christmas. . . . . . And my little brother believed - because I said it, so it must be so. And true enough, the old man did not turn me over his knee that Christmas for walloping the nasty David Hungerford (that was the first time he ever shook my hand, like I was a grown up and everything . . .). Santa came on schedule, ate the cookies, drank the cocoa and left the 24" Schwinn bike, the basket ball, the BB gun, the electric train (it smoked and smelled like 3 in 1 oil, it was cool as hell . . . . . ahh, heck, cool as heck, sorry Santa), the Brownie Instamatic and all the candies and fruit and shirts and socks. And the world was good and the new fallen snow lay all about, with the moon shining down upon it, giving a luster of midday to objects below (yeah, I stole that, so sue me . . . .).
And since then, there have been other Christmases. Some good, some not so good, some really, really bad. Christmases where I came to doubt whether Santa was real. Christmases when I was alone, away from home, in places where I saw so much hatred and violence, death and destruction that I wondered if the world had somehow gone mad. But I did, somehow throughout it all, cling to the belief that Santa, after all, is simply a reflection of the true spirit of giving that pervades the Christmas season. Just as God has given us the special gift of life, we give gifts to one another as a means of sharing that gifting spirit. A spirit that makes the heart feel light and the eyes twinkle. One that makes us dig deeper at the Salvation Army kettle, one that helps us understand that giving is so much better than receiving. That stepping forward to help those in need gives us a new lease on life that removes the sludge of the workaday world from our hearts and makes them light as a feather, like Scrooge’s on Christmas Morning.
So, if I may, at this most special time of year, give to each of you, my friends and the people who are special to me (and even the three or four of you who are a giant pain in the . . . rear), a gift. It is a gift of belief, a gift of wonder, and of magic. Believe in Santa for all you’re worth. Let his spirit fill your hearts with joy and the pleasure and purpose of giving. We are truly our brothers’ keepers and Santa is watching and listening each and every day. As the ghost of Christmas Present thundered at Scrooge, "Mankind is our business."
So, Merry Christmas to each of you. Nancy Knowles, where ever you are, I still love you. And David, you rotten little bas, . . . ahh, damn it, . . . ., uh darn it, okay, okay. Merry Christmas, David, I really mean it, no King’s X.
The kitchen was always busy as pies and cookies, fudge, divinity, and other candies rolled off an assembly line of female relatives who talked and laughed and sang as they worked, until called upon to chase some thieving man or boy from the kitchen, caught attempting to pilfer some goody or another. The array of cookies and candies was awe inspiring. Cookies made from recipes that had been handed down from generation to generation in my family through time clear back to the old country, round about the time that great, great grandpa’s cousin Seamus got caught with that McDonough girl in the horse barn by her father (ahh, . . . ., but I’m pretty sure that’s another story for another time.) As colorful as the wonderful tree, the cookies were filled with all sorts of cremes and nuts, fruits and with mysterious flavors that only showed up during the Christmas season.
The songs of Christmas filled each house as performed by the great crooners, Bing Crosby, Perry Como, Andy Williams, Robert Goulet. Songs about snow flakes, crackling fireplaces, silver bells, and Santa Claus. We sat about each night, working furiously over letters to Santa. Having been told (by well-meaning parents and teachers) that Santa, sadly, could not read letters from little boys and girls who mis-spelled words or did not use good penmanship, no matter how good they had been all year. Yeah, some people (mostly liberal meadow muffins who believe that children are just little adults and should be treated as such . . . . . . ain’t takin’ that one back Santa . . . .) today would be horrified by that, but you can bet your bottom dollar that in our neighborhood, those properly spelled and beautifully penned letters were read by Santa, . . . . every last damn one of them, uh, . .. . . ., darn one of them, sorry Santa. Letters that asked for presents with all the heartfelt desire of a Franciscan monk seeking spiritual grace. Letters that rivaled the most scholarly of legal briefs in their ability to explain away our transgressions from the summer before. The stolen tomatoes, watermelons, the water balloons, the firecrackers, making pretty Debbie, the neighbor girl, cry when we pulled up her dress and ran away laughing. The stuff of boyhood, growing to the seriousness and scale of high grade felonies as we contemplated our many sins right before the big night.
We made snowmen, and snow forts and had snow ball fights till our hands and faces were frozen. We screamed in delight as the old man pulled us on a sled behind his ‘53 Plymouth through the snow-packed streets. (No, we weren’t wearing helmets, kids were tougher in those days and none of us wound up with psychological scars from it either . . .) We carefully piled cookies and cocoa on a table by the tree on Christmas eve, a sacrifice for a fat magical elf who was going to slide down a chimney so small the cat got stuck in it, with a bag containing, a 24" Schwinn bike, a basketball, my brother’s BB gun, an electric train, a Brownie Instamatic camera, assorted socks, shirts, oranges, apples, nuts, candy and a whole bunch of chocolates that Santa had to have picked up in England, maybe from our aunts and uncles, just for us. We would go to church on Christmas Eve, dressed in scratchy wool suits, shirts that were so tight at the collar they chafed like sandpaper (they fit you last year!). We would sit as quiet as mice (Santa is watching you) and try to sing louder than anybody else (Santa is listening for you) in hopes that he might choose to forgive our various high crimes and misdemeanors (like the brick I threw through Mrs. Olson’s window - - by accident! I was trying to hit that bully Mike from down the street!! Honest!!!!!!) A bum rap, if ever there was one, but ("How do you think Santa felt about that when he saw what you did?" - my mother could lay a guilt trip on you like no one on earth . . .) I was pretty sure I was screwed forever, Santa hated my guts.
But then, two days before Christmas, in the depth of my gloom, a chance at salvation arose. David, an even bigger bully from down the street, sent my little brother home wailing in anguish, tears flowing like gushers. Why? Pure spiteful meanness. How? Simple, he told him that Santa Claus did not exist. All the presents came from our parents. Rudolph and Dasher and Dancer and Prancer, Vixen and Donder and Blitzen weren’t real. Comet and Cupid were just lies told to small children. My brother flung himself on the floor and kicked his feet and wailed like his poor little soul had been ripped from his body. Well, I had suspected for some time that there might be some exaggeration going on. I did, after all, catch Mommy and Daddy under the Christmas tree, late the Christmas Eve before, (but that, . . . . . ahh, that’s another story too.) Got beat like a red-headed step-child, and all I did was ask, "Whatcha doin?"
Anyway, I stood there feeling helpless, my mother stood with tears in her eyes, the old man was still at work and suddenly I knew what I had to do. Right then, I was the man of the house, I was the guy in charge. I stormed out the door and down the street like a Tasmanian Devil, a missile of violence seeking only one target. I found him bragging about his accomplishment at the doorstep of my first true love, Nancy Knowles, the little girl who shared my porch and the ice chunks from the dairy deliveryman on warm, soft, summer mornings. I caught him from behind, going full speed and rammed headlong into the small of his back so hard it almost knocked me out. It really ruined David’s day too ‘cuz he lay there on the ground making sort of weird wet animal like sucking noises while he tried to get his lungs to reinflate. I jumped on top of him and waled away, punching and clawing and kicking with reckless abandon. Not very scientifically by the later standards of my adult instructors in such things, but enough to get the job done. (We were allowed to occasionally beat each other up in those days without criminal charges, hosts of counselors and a platoon of probation officers to reform our fragile little psyches . . . . if you got your ass kicked back then, you usually deserved it)
Afterward, I marched home in triumph. I had been blessed with a hole card. How could Santa refuse me now? I had faced the bully who had denied his very existence and had triumphed over the evil Goliath (I was six, he was eight, okay?) Surely Santa in his mercy could see that my heart was in the right place. The nasty David would live, but never again would he blaspheme and slander Santa’s name. And my little brother, convinced now that I was somehow a god among mortals, listened intently while I told him that David was full of sh . . . . ah, full of stuff, wrong, dumb, misguided. Santa not only was real but he would be there at our house that very night, and would take extra time to eat the wonderful cookies my grandmother and mother made . . . because he wouldn’t be stopping by David Hungerford’s house that Christmas. . . . . . And my little brother believed - because I said it, so it must be so. And true enough, the old man did not turn me over his knee that Christmas for walloping the nasty David Hungerford (that was the first time he ever shook my hand, like I was a grown up and everything . . .). Santa came on schedule, ate the cookies, drank the cocoa and left the 24" Schwinn bike, the basket ball, the BB gun, the electric train (it smoked and smelled like 3 in 1 oil, it was cool as hell . . . . . ahh, heck, cool as heck, sorry Santa), the Brownie Instamatic and all the candies and fruit and shirts and socks. And the world was good and the new fallen snow lay all about, with the moon shining down upon it, giving a luster of midday to objects below (yeah, I stole that, so sue me . . . .).
And since then, there have been other Christmases. Some good, some not so good, some really, really bad. Christmases where I came to doubt whether Santa was real. Christmases when I was alone, away from home, in places where I saw so much hatred and violence, death and destruction that I wondered if the world had somehow gone mad. But I did, somehow throughout it all, cling to the belief that Santa, after all, is simply a reflection of the true spirit of giving that pervades the Christmas season. Just as God has given us the special gift of life, we give gifts to one another as a means of sharing that gifting spirit. A spirit that makes the heart feel light and the eyes twinkle. One that makes us dig deeper at the Salvation Army kettle, one that helps us understand that giving is so much better than receiving. That stepping forward to help those in need gives us a new lease on life that removes the sludge of the workaday world from our hearts and makes them light as a feather, like Scrooge’s on Christmas Morning.
So, if I may, at this most special time of year, give to each of you, my friends and the people who are special to me (and even the three or four of you who are a giant pain in the . . . rear), a gift. It is a gift of belief, a gift of wonder, and of magic. Believe in Santa for all you’re worth. Let his spirit fill your hearts with joy and the pleasure and purpose of giving. We are truly our brothers’ keepers and Santa is watching and listening each and every day. As the ghost of Christmas Present thundered at Scrooge, "Mankind is our business."
So, Merry Christmas to each of you. Nancy Knowles, where ever you are, I still love you. And David, you rotten little bas, . . . ahh, damn it, . . . ., uh darn it, okay, okay. Merry Christmas, David, I really mean it, no King’s X.
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