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I’ll Have a Zoom Christmas, Without You

I’ll Have a Zoom Christmas, Without You

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The 2020 Christmas Letter

 

Have yourself a merry Covid Christmas
May your masks be bright…
From now on your smiles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry Covid Christmas

Begin the Yuletide fray
Because now on your family will be miles away

 Just last year in our olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who were dear to us
Gather near to us no more

Come next year we all will be together
If the States allow
Hang my Christmas card it’s all I’ve got for now
So have yourself a merry Covid Christmas

How?

 

How?

You may be asking yourself that same question.

I actually considered skipping this letter again this year.

I had already written so much about this year in the life of my family I thought how much more sad news can you folks take?

How do you be “merry” in 2020?

 

I tried some of the usual things to generate “merry.”

I went out and bought a new Christmas tree.

“And don’t be cheap” was my only instruction.

So I got one with lights already on it and a remote control!

And though it wasn’t cheap, I did get a discount because it was the floor model.

Then I got a “smart plug” and now all I need to do to turn the Christmas tree lights on is say,

“Alexa…turn on the Christmas Tree.”

 

But none of that seemed to do it.

 

So then I thought I would go back and read the last fifteen years’ worth of Christmas letters including the 2018 non letter year blog post, hoping to find some inspiration and “merry” in those.  But I came away from that even more depressed and convinced that every year was a struggle with the hope that the New Year would bring something different, only to repeat the cycle the next year.

 

Then I listened a second time to an online Sermon from the first Sunday in Advent and that was a little more promising so I decided to “Google” Advent to learn more and I found this from a Western Kentucky University website:

While it is difficult to keep in mind in the midst of holiday celebrations, shopping, lights and decorations, and joyful carols, Advent is intended to be a season of fasting, much like Lent, and there are a variety of ways that this time of mourning works itself out in the season. Reflection on the violence and evil in the world causes us to cry out to God to make things right—to put death’s dark shadows to flight. Our exile in the present makes us look forward to our future Exodus. And our own sinfulness and need for grace lead us to pray for the Holy Spirit to renew his work in conforming us into the image of Christ.

Hmmm, I thought…

“Violence and evil?”

“Death’s dark shadow?”

“Our exile in the present?”

That was just what I didn’t need to be reminded of and certainly didn’t evoke any “merry.”

 

So I thought about music.  Music always makes me feel better. So I put on my Lowen and Navarro Christmas CD. That was good.  But then I found my favorite Christmas album of all time, That Christmas Feeling by Glen Campbell released in 1968.  My dad had this album when I was a kid.

Now I was getting warm.

 

Even though the Supreme Court ruled against prayer in public schools in 1962, when I was in “grammar school” growing up in New Jersey we were still allowed to perform a Christmas pageant each year acting out the story from the Bible of the birth of Jesus.  The pageant was narrated by two readers, typically a boy and girl.

In 1969 when I was in the eighth grade I stepped out of my comfort zone and volunteered to be one of the narrators.  To my disappointment however another guy had already asked to be the narrator.

My “shop” teacher was one of the teachers in charge of the pageant and he was my favorite teacher.   After some consideration it was decided that the contrast in our voices (mine was much lower) would work and so I was able to be one of the narrators and read the story of the birth of Jesus.  The story from Luke Chapter 2:

“And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.”

And, in true “Life in the Wobbly Cart” fashion, I caught a bad cold that week and so the narration included me coughing and sniffing into the microphone as I read my part. It wasn’t pretty.

“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.”

And even now as sit on my couch writing, I look out my window to see my second Christmas tree, the one I set up outside on my deck in another attempt to find “merry,” bent and broken, the star hanging limply upside down, most of the lights not working but there is one random bulb flickering incessantly; damaged from being blown over by the wind.  Another reminder of just how “normal” my life still is.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.

But then it occurred to me.

In this year of everyone’s world being turned upside down due to a virus; a year that started off with the loss of our pastor, Steve; a year that I lost my old friend Frank to the virus; a year when my brother Carl lost his battle with cancer and we lost Kim’s dad; heck we even lost our cat… I was still looking for “merry.”

And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

When all along, maybe I should have been looking for “Mary.”

“So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger.”

And…Jesus.

 

“Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.”

 

And in recognizing a brighter meaning of Advent, one of expectation and what was and is to come, maybe I had found my “merry.”

I hope you do too.

 

Kim and I hope you and your families have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

 

Kim and Curt

 

Postscript:

Our prayers go out to all those who continue to struggle in health or well-being due to Covid 19, as well as those battling other conditions; and also to those of you, who like us, lost family members and friends.

Kim and I would like to thank everyone for all the thoughts and prayers, and cards, and the general thoughtfulness provided to us and both our families this year.

Finally, from that Lowen and Navarro CD and the Meaning of Christmas:

So open your heart and let us give cheer, and try to remember the meaning of Christmas each day of the year.

PPS:

On December 9 after finishing and publishing this year’s letter I learned of the loss of another old friend, Joe Centanni, resulting from complications of the virus.  I have many happy memories of good times with a guy who, like my brother, would have given you the proverbial shirt.  Our prayers go out to Linda and the kids and the rest of the family.

Dear Mr. Fantasy…

Dear Mr. Fantasy…

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Dear Mister Fantasy play us a tune
Something to make us all happy
Do anything take us out of this gloom
Sing a song, play guitar
Make it snappy

This week’s nagging song in my head has been Dear Mr. Fantasy, a song from their 1967 album “Mr. Fantasy” by the band Traffic.

I read that Jim Capaldi, the drummer in the band wrote the lyrics to the song one early morning while he was coming down off of LSD.

It seems appropriate in this year of uncertainty to lean on this season of fantasy, with our Mr. Fantasy being Santa Claus with his reindeer and such, to look for something to make us all happy.

Something, anything to take us out of this gloom.

 

Kim and I spent Thanksgiving with my parents.

I recently found the Word file that was our 2012 Christmas letter.  I remember I called my mother and father from a landline I had in my office and recorded these conversations on my cell phone while I talked to them over the speakerphone.

This was my dad speaking:

We were poor then. Times were hard. My father and I used to pick up coal from the railroad bed near our house; we had a coal stove then.  Sometimes we would go down to the beach in Sea Bright or Monmouth Beach and wait for the pound fisherman to come in to the beach.  The pound fishermen would pull in their nets and fill their boats with fish, then ride the surf in to the beach where a team of horses would pull the boats up.  The fishermen would throw us fish they didn’t want and we would bring them home in buckets.  And in the winter the ice fish, the cod fish, would freeze in the waves and land on the where we would pick them up.

We had a Christmas tree…..dinner would be lutefisk (dried cod fish), fiskebollers (Norwegian fish balls) and pickled herring.  My mother would make pies and root beer, and I would put the caps on. 

We would go down to the church in North Long Branch where my mother and father would go every Sunday. My father helped build that church.  It was mostly Scandinavian fishermen from Monmouth Beach and Sea Bright.  They didn’t have Sunday school and they only spoke Norwegian so as kids we didn’t go much at other times of the year.  But on Christmas, there would be chairs lined up on each side of the room.  They had a coal stove and a Christmas tree was in the center of the room and we would march around the Christmas tree and sing songs, which was the Norwegian tradition.  The whole family would get an orange and a box of hard Christmas candy to take home, that was great……

I remember one Christmas I wanted and got a wagon, the kind of wagon that had sides on it that I could take off like a farmer’s truck.  But I guess I did something bad and my father took it away from me.

A big thing for us on Christmas morning was the fire truck; we would all go outside and wait for the fire truck to come. When I saw it   I would leap the hedge.  We would get a box of hard candy and an apple and see Santa Claus…. this was in the thirties, I was born in 1929. (Carl E. Christiansen)

And this was a paragraph from the letter with a story my mom told:

When my mother was a child, her bed was actually in the dining room of their house separated from the living room only by a curtain.  One of the most important parts of Christmas for my mother has always been the Christmas tree.  You see when my grandparents put her to bed in the dining room every Christmas Eve there was no tree up in the living room.  But when she awoke on Christmas morning there was always a beautiful Christmas tree decorated in the living room, put up while she slept soundly in the next room behind the curtain.  One year when times were tough, my grandfather tried to slip in an Arborvitae tree instead (more like a cypress tree than a Christmas tree) that he had cut down on the property.  When my mother woke up she freaked out.  Now, I have seen my mother freak out a couple of times in my life and I can assure you my grandfather never tried to pull that one again.  When I spoke with my dad the other evening he said my mother had five Christmas trees set up in the house and outside.  I apologized to him because I think my wife gave her three of them.  But it’s nice to know my mom still likes her Christmas trees.

 

This Thanksgiving weekend we revisited some of those stories from Christmases past as we sat around the table.  The memories and the words to describe them don’t come as easy as they did in 2012 which is sad because months after I recorded that conversation, I upgraded my cell phone.  The T-Mobile guy did the transfer of my data to my new phone, looked at me and asked “you want to check it before I delete everything?”

“No, I’m good, I trust you,” I told him.

The day I went back to find that audio file and realized it was gone, I was really sad.

Though my mom still loves her Christmas trees, she is keeping them all in the attic this year, with fewer things for my dad to have to navigate around.

But Kim and I plan to put up our tree today, decorate, and take advantage of a little of the fantasy of season in a year that might seem like Mr. Capaldi’s bad acid trip.

And of course, remember the real meaning of the season.

And I wouldn’t suggest you “prosclaiming the Palmist” to find the prophecy of the coming of Jesus, though you will find references in Psalms, better to look to Isaiah:

Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son and will call him Immanuel. (Isaiah 7:14)

 

And now I am off to find a Christmas tree!

We Belong Together

We Belong Together

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I mailed a package through the USPS on Monday morning November 9.  It was going to an address in Somerset County Pennsylvania.  Nothing unusual, just a small box I mailed Priority Mail.

According to the tracking provided by the USPS, my package departed the Herndon Post Office at 1:56 PM on the day I mailed it.  At 8:54 PM on November 10 it arrived at the USPS Regional Facility called the Memphis TN Network Distribution Center, a distance of about 875 miles from Herndon.

At 9:17 PM on that same day, it departed the Memphis TN Network Distribution Center on its way to the Memphis TN Distribution Center Annex, which from what I could determine from the internet, is a building next to the Memphis TN Network Distribution Center.

At 5:23 PM on November 16 it arrived.

It took six days for my package to go from one building to the other on the same property.

On November 17 my tracking information informed me that my package would be arriving later than expected. No kidding, that was comforting.

On November 18 my tracking information indicated it was “In Transit to the next Facility.”

At this point, I printed all this out and made a visit to the Herndon Post Office to see what they had to say about the whereabouts of my package.  The nice lady at the post office confirmed it was somewhere but gave me a phone number of the facility in Memphis to see if they had any idea where my package was.

I called and was told the lady who does their tracking had gone home for the day, (she leaves at 12:30 PM) and could I call back tomorrow?

Before calling in the morning I checked my tracking again and was informed my package was finally out on delivery.

At 10:27 PM on the evening of November 18, it had arrived at the facility in Warrendale, Pennsylvania just outside of Pittsburgh, 780 miles from Memphis and the next day, arrived at the post office in Rockwood PA for delivery.

Ten days after I mailed it.

I haven’t paid too much attention to the status of the election but I understand there are accusations of voter fraud and such and so it is still getting sorted out.  I might suggest to President Trump he go look for some votes at that Memphis Network Distribution Center.

But though I think arguing that there was no voter fraud in this election would be like arguing the fact that there isn’t any organized crime in Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Detroit, and Nevada; maybe the Pennsylvania folks in charge of creating their election rules knew something about how long it takes for mail to get to Pennsylvania.

 

I have said before, I write when I cry and I cry when I write.

Today is one of those days.

This week has been one of those weeks.

And I always feel sorry for my wife because I am not one who sheds tears gracefully.

No, it’s ugly.

I snort and jerk and make funny noises and my face gets all contorted.

And for some reason, this morning was my time to snort and contort.

 

Fear.

Once again this year we are living in fearful times and it’s sad.

And this sadness seemed to grip me starting on Friday.

Dan Navarro had a post on Facebook about his song “We Belong,” so of course, I had to relive those words.

Then Saturday a trip to Sam’s Club finding the toilet paper and paper towel aisle bare, proof that fear was taking hold once again.

And due to our need to be concerned about visiting our aging parents, especially now that Kim’s mom is in Northern Virginia, we had to disappoint Cameron by not attending church with him and passing on a trip to Top Golf which I thought was too risky.

But this morning the image of dancing with Alexa at her wedding, the wedding I hadn’t planned to attend, but I surprised her by hopping on a plane the evening before and hunkered down in a hotel while I waited to surprise her in Fort Lauderdale, really was the spike in the heart.

I couldn’t make that spontaneous trip now.

Because of fear.

And that image brought back the reminder that Kim and I haven’t seen those kids in eleven months, not since last Christmas, and that they were scheduled to come up to Virginia for Thanksgiving but had to cancel.

Because of fear.

Then while I had myself really down for the count I saw my sister-in-law, Carl’s wife’s post about how she couldn’t sleep last night, which I could only imagine would be every night for me.

And seeing my neighbors putting up Christmas lights and wondering why?  Why this year?

 

Sorry, you are probably right now saying “Gee whiz Curt…Just shoot me…”

 

Last week I listened again to an awesome sermon from our friends at Christ Church in Easton, Maryland.

On Friday, I listened to it a second time.

It was titled Perfect Love Casts Out Fear.

It comes from 1 John 4:18:

There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves punishment, and the one who fears is not perfected in love.

 

And then from another sermon this morning I heard these words from a song:

“I’m no longer a slave of fear, oh I am a child of God.”

 

All reminding me I just need to quit my blithering, recognize there are those we won’t share holidays with…Donny, Carl, my father in law Royal; but there are others that we will at some point.  Love survives weeks, months, even years; it is unconditional and faith, even the size of the mustard seed I am exhibiting this morning, will get us there eventually.

 

So Happy Anniversary to Alexa and Namaan and Happy Thanksgiving to all those I won’t be sharing with this year.

I might just put up some Christmas decorations today.

Or maybe mail another package to Pennsylvania for some entertainment this week.

 

And for my sister in law Teesha, I will share these words from Dan Navarro and Eric Lowen:

Close your eyes and try to sleep now
Close your eyes and try to dream
Clear your mind and do your best to try and wash the palette clean
We can’t begin to know it, how much we really care
I hear your voice inside me, I see your face everywhere
Still you say

We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder
We belong to the sound of the words we’ve both fallen under
Whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better
We belong, we belong, we belong together

 

We do.

And someday soon I hope, we will.

Friday the 13th, 2020 Style

Friday the 13th, 2020 Style

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Hard to believe that it’s Friday, November 13th  in this year of 2020.

Thanksgiving is in less than two weeks and it appears that our end of year holidays, so heavily invested in family, are in jeopardy.

Covid concerns are ramping up again.

 

Thankfully, the election has come and gone.

And lucky for us, all those celebrities we couldn’t have lived without got to stay in America.

I don’t know about you, but I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall in Bruce Springsteen’s house about 12 midnight on November 3 when Trump was posting a comeback.

But seriously, when it got right down to it, I had to remind myself…”Curt… John Legend and Chrissy Teigen are threatening to leave the country if Trump is re-elected…”

I just couldn’t imagine.

The Voice without John Legend?

That did it for me!

 

My Friday the 13th started a little early on the evening of Thursday the 12th.  My wife had got a new gadget to cut up all those ingredients for making her potions, tinctures, and syrups.

In addition to using it for the above, I quickly determined I could use it to cut my cucumbers for my salad.

But it didn’t take me too long to learn that it works really well on fingers too.

Not wanting to waste the cucumbers I had already sliced I tried to find the lost portion of my finger amongst the cucumber slices.

“What are you doing?” my wife asked sternly as she watched me putting pressure on my bleeding finger while using my other hand to go through the cucumbers.

“Looking for my finger, I don’t want to waste my cucumbers,” I responded.

“Throw them out you are not eating them that’s disgusting!” she said loudly.

Disappointed, I threw out my cut cucumbers and the piece of my finger and focused more on controlling the bleeding.

Then I cut up another cucumber.

 

One day many years ago when Kim and I first moved into our house in Herndon, Donny brought home a baby wild rabbit.  We had lots of rabbits in the yard back then.  We don’t see too many anymore, maybe because of the foxes.

But Donny was really happy about his little rabbit and wanted to keep it as a pet.  I, however, in my sometimes to a fault need to do what I think is the right thing, told him he couldn’t.  It wasn’t right to keep an animal from the wild and it should be returned to its habitat I explained so very parentally.

Needless to say Donny was very disappointed and not at all happy with me.

After Donny’s accident whenever I thought about this incident with the rabbit,  I always felt really bad about how I made him feel by not allowing him to keep it. Even now as I reflect back on this memory I think to myself, what a jerk, you could have loosened up a little.

A year and a half or so later, I think it was Martin Luther King’s birthday weekend 2004 when we had no kids because they had extra time off from school and they were off with their friends, I had this great idea that I thought would show I could be spontaneous and selfishly, would make up for some of the guilt I felt over denying Donny that rabbit, even though I couldn’t share it with him.

I marched Kim into a PetSmart that weekend in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia on a mission to adopt a cat.

When it was all said and done we not only adopted one cat, we adopted two.

They were sisters.

Molly and Mona.

We agreed to all the rules and requirements, not to declaw them, and to keep them as house cats.  The house cat thing didn’t last long though because Mona it turned out, was like Mufasa when it came to the kingdom of our backyard.  She would roam the yard and protect us from critters.  Molly on the other hand enjoyed just hanging out on the deck more like her humans.

After about seven years Molly would succumb to cancer and be put down.

That left Mona alone who now could claim the inside of the house has her domain as well.

And she lived a good life.

Until today.

On this Friday the 13th Mona made her last ride to the vet after 17 years.

 

This year continues to be one of challenges and changes, some foreseen some unforeseen.

Like the year Donny died, for Kim and I, we just have to realize that God’s got this.

And though my little guys from Florida won’t be visiting me for Thanksgiving as planned because of the increase in virus cases, I will get through my disappointment.

And I will admit it’s a little weird without the cat meowing at us this evening, it’s nice to know Mona is interred in one of the gardens in the backyard which was her kingdom that she liked to roam so much.

And thinking and writing about elections and celebrities brings back with a smile another memory of the profound and grounding wisdom of a young boy who once reminded his Pop Pop that “Everybody in Hollywood Farts” and who also this very evening demonstrated to me very graphically through video the devastating aftermath that the different categories of hurricanes can have on the toys in his bedroom.

 

But let’s face it, like it or not, this is the year where you won’t find the finger in the cucumbers.

Might as well toss it out and get a new one ready to slice.

But God’s got this.

And we will continue to be held.

We will continue to find reasons to laugh in the face of sadness and turmoil, loss and distancing.

We will continue to adapt.

Because God’s got this.

And we have God.

Singing a Nickel Song

Singing a Nickel Song

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I am back from western Pennsylvania and I am home alone again.

My wife stayed to help her mom.

Sunday afternoon I was sitting alone on the couch in my basement watching the Steeler’s play the Titans when a bug literally flew up my nose.

“Seriously?” I said out loud as I snorted and shivered.

“A bug just flew up my nose?”

Ironically with everything that has not gone well this crazy year of 2020, the Steelers began this game 5 and 0 for the season.  Though they were winning early in the fourth quarter, they did their best to set up the typical Steelers nail biter finish by pretty much letting the Titans catch up.

But it’s just football in a year when everything that has happened or equally as important, isn’t happening makes it just trivial.

On the way up to Pennsylvania last week I took a break at my usual stopping place, a McDonalds in Clear Springs, Maryland.  Returning to my truck I found a nickel on the pavement.

I had to think but don’t remember the last time I saw a nickel.

 

When I was a kid growing up in Oceanport, New Jersey I lived on a dead-end street. Once my dad finished building our house on property he bought from my mother’s parents, there were seven houses on the street.  According to my mother, my great grandparents owned all the property on the street at one time.  What was not sold off was left to my grandmother. The street was called Willow Court because of the numerous willow trees that grew on the end closer to the river.   Access to my street was via my little town’s bustling business district that we referred to as “downtown” and off one of the main roads called Oceanport Avenue.  As you made the turn it did a dog leg right up to where it ended with an apple tree.

Oceanport had a variety of commercial establishments “downtown” and how you remembered them depended on what era you identified with.  Art’s liquor store was one, Art was the grandfather of my first friend John who lived in a house on the river behind the liquor store.   Our friendship was arranged between our moms since we would soon need each other to walk to school because we were starting kindergarten that year.  We remained friends a long time.

There were also three gas stations or service stations as they were known back then;  a drug store called Park’s Drug store, and a couple of luncheonettes.  Bob and Norma’s was on the river side, and also sold convenience items like cards and razor blades, and deodorant.

I once bought my grandfather some Old Spice deodorant from Bob and Norma’s for his birthday.  I am pretty sure that was his best gift ever.  My mother even worked there as a “soda jerk” when she was in high school.

Next to Bob and Norma’s was the Village Market run by a guy named Frank Callahan.  His son Kenny would join my friend John and I and become good friends from kindergarten.

Being just over the bridge from the Army base at Fort Monmouth, we had three barbershops and three bars that kept busy.  In the middle of all these businesses was a large, very old house which was owned and occupied by my great grandparents when they were alive.  When I was a kid however, it was then left to my grandmother and had four apartments which she rented out.  In my family we referred to it as “The Big House.”

I was very familiar with nickels growing up as a kid in the early 60’s because our kid currency mainly consisted of nickels and pennies.  We worked for those nickels and pennies by scouring the properties around those businesses for deposit bottles.  You could get two cents for a small size bottle like an eight ounce Coke bottle or a nickel for a larger twenty eight ounce bottle.  With those three bars, the liquor store, the three service stations with soda machines, those luncheonettes, and the market, we had the deposit bottle business locked up in that neighborhood.

Throw in a whole lot of GI’s in town with the Vietnam conflict ramping up, and the Monmouth Park Racetrack less than a mile up the road when horse racing was in its heyday in the 60’s and yup, the bottle deposit business could be lucrative.

And this was before there were litter laws.

Bottles were everywhere.

 

As a result, an enterprising six or seven year old could do pretty well.

We would just go find our days’ work of bottles, take them over to Callahan’s market, plop them on the counter, and wait for our payout.

Then we would take our earnings and head down the street to Park’s Drug store to do our part in helping the local economy.  Mr. Park the pharmacist was kind of grouchy and scary but the guy that worked for him, Rios was always happy.  We could get our Bazooka Bubble gum for a penny, or maybe some baseball cards and gum, or Beatles cards and gum, or on a good bottle day maybe even an ice cream sandwich.

As I got just a little bit older the bigger money could be made raking leaves.  I could actually get a quarter or two out of my grandmother for raking leaves.

I hated raking leaves for my grandmother.

But work was work.

You had to take it when you could get it.

And in the winter, my brother Carl and I would team up and shovel snow.

We would walk the neighborhoods and knock on doors and shovel snowy sidewalks.  That was really the big time because a sidewalk in the snow could be worth a buck or two.  We split it 50/50, but most times we just ended up in the luncheonette eating our profits.

 

Life was very different.

A nickel like I found and tossed into the console of my truck maybe never to be seen again, had some value then.

On Sundays we went to church and Sunday School in the morning but because businesses were closed due to Blue Laws we couldn’t do much else on Sunday afternoons.

We had Sunday football on TV but it was in black and white, and baseball was still the big attraction back then so not too many paid attention.

And since blue laws meant the bottle deposit business was shut down too, maybe I raked my grandmother’s leaves, or helped my dad the basement as he built something (I hated that even more).

Now we don’t go to church on Sunday mornings because of COVID, but we can go shopping till we turn blue.

Go figure.

Well that’s my two cents worth or five cents worth, but luckily you don’t have to take it when you can get it.

 

As expected with 14 seconds left the Titans just needed to make a 46 yard field goal to tie the game and send it in to overtime.

Then the snap… the hold…Gostkowski’s kick was up…

And it passed just right of the uprights.

He missed, and the Steelers went to 6 and 0.

Maybe a bug flew up his nose?

 

The moral of the story?

 

Hard work pays off?

We need to return to a life that was simpler?

or

It’s best to be alone when a bug flies up your nose.

 

Post Script:

Make sure you get out and vote!

The Steinster

The Steinster

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Yesterday morning, home alone again, I got another song stuck in my head and I started singing.

“Oh Girl, I’m just a Jeepster for your love”

The song was “Jeepster” by T-Rex from the 70’s.

I always thought it was a stupid song.

Now it was stuck in my head.

 

I mean what the heck is a “Jeepster” anyway.

I used to think it was “creepster.”

You know like in the same way I conveniently made up the lyrics “me and you and a dog named Sue.”

“Oh girl I’m just a creepster for your love.”

That made more sense to me, still does.

So I had to look it up.

Using cars, it’s a metaphor for the male character being a person of average status (a Jeep, thus Jeepster) and persuing a girl of a higher status that is characterized as a Jaguar.

 

It still sounds stupid to me.

 

I think if Kim was car she would be like a classic Corvette or something, maybe ’68 GTO.

Me, I would probably be Ford Focus.

Yeah I think that would be about right.

“Oh girl I’m just a Ford Focuster for your love.”

I might try that.

 

I was home alone yesterday morning because Kim was back up in western Pennsylvania.

Kim and I have always felt privileged because we still could enjoy all four of our parents.

That changed on Monday morning.

Kim was in Pennsylvania because her dad passed away Monday.

 

Royal Willis Knepper.

He had one of the coolest names in the world.

He had the same name as his dad and was often known as “Junior.”

Dairy farmer, farm insurance salesman, deacon of his church, father of five, dedicated husband, awesome father in law,  and the supreme master of corny jokes.

He could weave a joke into a conversation so skillfully you didn’t know you were into a joke until he hit you with the punch line.

Then his eyebrows would go high up on his forehead and his eyes open wide as he laughed out loud at what he just said.

He also was known for telling the same joke over and over.

And he always laughed.

I always laughed too.

 

If Royal was some kind of vehicle he would be tractor.

But not just any tractor, it would have to be a Steiner.

He loved his Steiners.

He had two of them and couldn’t wait for any excuse to get on one.

Whether it was getting the mail, plowing the snow from the driveway, taking the trash out to the burn pile, or just going from here to there, he was on one of his Steiners.

I guess that made him a Steinster.

 

We will miss him.

But he is home now.

“His lord said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant!  Because you were faithful over a few things, I will set you over many things. Enter into the joy of your lord. ‘ “

Now he really knows joy, in the company of Jesus.

Just watch out for the jokes.

 

“I Held My Nose, I Closed My Eyes…I Took A Drink”

“I Held My Nose, I Closed My Eyes…I Took A Drink”

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“Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.”

 (Witch’s Brew recipe written in Shakespeare’s Macbeth)

 

It’s almost Halloween.

I read once that Halloween was second only to Christmas in retail sales.  I have since read that is a myth.

But still, it’s a big deal to some, especially kids, and like everything else this year it won’t be the same.

That’s too bad.

 

Our typical day starts out with Kim and I having our first cup of coffee in bed as we check our email, check the weather, maybe our banking, and of course some social media.

This morning as I opened my Facebook I was greeted with a post reminding me that today is World Mental Health Day.

I might argue that a reminder of World Mental Health on Facebook could be perceived as an oxymoron but I was happy for the heads up.

In a great many cases and to varying degrees,  the results of the conditions we currently are living and working and schooling under have taken its toll on our mental health.

Many sought new ways of staying active physically and mentally while social distancing.  There was a time earlier in the year when you couldn’t buy a bicycle or a kayak as everyone tried to take on activities that lent themselves more to distancing from others.

If you want to social distance you can’t do that much better than being on a kayak.

 

Strangely, Kim and I, though we already had kayaks and bicycles, spent only a small amount of time riding our bikes this year and in fact never used our kayaks even once.

For physical activity, we walked a lot.

For fun, we spent a lot of time in our back yard.

And in our back yard, we worked our gardens.

Kim’s garden this year featured lemon balm, elderberries, horseradish, peppers, tomatoes, and herbs.

She even grew a pepper known as the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion!

According to PEPPERHEAD.com the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion will wreak your stomach, burn your intestines and still be smoking on the way out and is considered to be the second hottest pepper in the world.

We found that even just handling them was dangerous.

 

And as the pandemic focused our attention on building our immunity and trying to keep from getting the virus, Kim developed a new hobby, herbal concoctions that boost immunity, depress symptoms, help you relax and sleep.

I have mentioned our regular consumption of elderberry syrup in a previous post as a good source of boosting our immunity.

Normally we would go out and buy our syrup made locally by the Village Winery in Waterford, Virginia.

This year however my wife decided to fire up the cauldron and make it herself.

And in addition to elderberry syrup to boost our immunity she made elderberry tincture.

And in addition to the elderberry tincture, she made lemon balm tincture.  Lemon balm tincture is supposed to reduce our stress and help with our sleep.

 

Today however was the day she was to prepare the mother of all home remedies.

FIRE CIDER!

Just the sound of it gave me chills.

“For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.”

I don’t know if it includes any of those ingredients mentioned by Mr. Shakespeare in Macbeth but I do know it has garlic, turmeric root, ginger root, horseradish root, onions, lemons, apple cider vinegar (with the “mother” in it, you will have to look that one up), peppercorns, and I don’t know that I care to know what else.

And in at least one of those batches she added the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion!

Once you have all this stuff mixed together you keep it in a cool place for six weeks while it does whatever it does until I have to drink it.

One thing is for sure, in addition to my lemon balm tincture and my elderberry tincture before bed, and my elderberry syrup in the morning; once that Fire Cider is ready in six weeks I surely won’t need to worry about social distancing because that should pretty much take care of itself.

Masks will be required.

 

Last year near this same time I wrote a post titled “Oh Well” that discussed mental illness and former Fleetwood Mac founding member Peter Green’s life of dealing with mental illness.  Again this year on my 2020 Guitar Calendar hanging on the wall of my office I am reminded of Peter Green’s October 29th birthday along with other famous guitarists.

However Peter Green died this past July peacefully in his sleep at the age of 73.  The cause of death has never been released by the family though some have speculated his mental health problems may have contributed to his death.

 

So on this World Mental Health Day, I am reminded about how important it is to keep busy, keep physically active, and find a hobby.

Go buy a kayak or a bicycle if you can find one, or get yourself a dehydrator and a large pot.

Find some wacky folks on YouTube living off the grid in the upper Northwest and learn how to start brewing concoctions in your kitchen.

But find something.

 

And now as we approach the bewitching hour, my beautiful little witch-doctor wife is fast asleep with dreams of other potions dancing in her head, and I am still waiting for my lemon balm tincture to kick in.

It was a good day and I am looking forward to six weeks from now when I might get a chance to say:

“Honey, this Fire Cider is awesome but I think it might need a little more fillet of fenny snake”

“Just sayin'”

 

She bent down and turned around and gave me a wink
She said “I’m gonna make it up right here in the sink”
It smelled like turpentine, it looked like Indian ink
I held my nose, I closed my eyes… I took a drink*

 

One of the three brewed batches of FIRE CIDER from today. It doesn’t look so bad today, let’s see how it looks and tastes after six weeks in the cold and dark. Pray for me. And my co-workers.

 

Post Script:

*“I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink” is from Love Potion Number Nine a song written by Jed Leiber and recorded by The Searchers back in the 60’s.

Shakespeare Macbeth witch’s brew recipe is courtesy of University of Minnesota

The feature photo is courtesy of Unsplash and photographer Tikkho Maciel.

Happy Halloween.

Life in the Wobbly Cart

Life in the Wobbly Cart

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On a trip earlier in the week to the grocery store I got to the checkout and transferred my cart to the checker.  It was in one of those stores where the checker pulls your cart on his/her side.  When all was done I inserted my debit card and paid the bill as he pushed the cart around for me, handed me the receipt, and said:

“Hey, it looks like you got the wobbly cart.”

The “wobbly cart.”

You know, the one where at least one wheel wants to do everything but what you want it to do.

The one that makes the “rrraaattt tat ta tat’ sound all around the store as you push it with one arm or the other acting in overtime to compensate for the pull as you try to act all casual while you know everyone you pass in the store is thinking:

“Look at that poor guy, he got the wobbly cart.”

 

So on this day when the guy says “Hey, it looks like you got the wobbly cart,” I just laughed and said back,

“Yeah the wobbly cart, that’s the story of my life.”

So then he says “that sounds like a good title for a book, “Life in the Wobbly Cart.”

I thought to myself, man if he only knew the half of it.

 

I understand, in my family, we call it the Christiansen Curse.

Kim reminded me this morning that tomorrow starts Yom Kippur.

My Jewish friends and family might relate with the expression,

“Ma nishtana!”

This Hebrew saying according to the Urban Dictionary is used to express utter lack of surprise at a supposed piece of news. It’s a way of saying “Tell me something I don’t know” or “What else is new?” with a snarky urban Jewish twist.

 

 

Friday was a bad day for me.

I went in early on Friday to get a head start on cutting church grass which is pretty much an all day job.

Immediately I ran into an IT problem that is normally not a big deal but on this day it took extra time to resolve.

 

Once I got that issue squared away, now having lost an hour, I went out to start working on the property only to find my left rear tire on my lawn mower was flat.

So I went for my air pump but couldn’t find a charged battery or the charger to charge the battery.

After some more lost time I got the flat tire squared away and got to work.

 

But before I did I texted my wife “Christiansen curse day.”

 

Then to top it all off while I was mowing, I stepped in dog shhhh…..poo.

Dog Poo.

And I didn’t only just step in it I literally slid through it for about a foot.

“That’s just perfect,” I thought to myself.

 

Next, I get a text message from Alexa that said “Christian says he is sad because he misses you.”

Christian, the kid who once, while visiting him in Hollywood, Florida said, “Pop Pop I haven’t seen you in years and years,” can really put the screws to you.

Another sad reminder of the times.

 

Finally, as my day was winding down, my wife texted me to ask if I wanted to go to Carrabba’s for dinner.

I was tired and I had such a crummy day the thought of going out and relaxing with my wife sounded awesome.

I wasn’t hungry since I had eaten twice that day and of course, it had to have been leftover spaghetti and meatballs,  but hey I thought,  I will just have a bowl of soup.  And since Carrabba’s gives you that awesome bread and olive oil with spices to dip it in, I would be good.

Yeah okay, I admit it, I am one of those guys who will order a bowl of soup, get the bread, and be happy.

Because I am cheap.

Ry Cooder sings a song written a long time ago by Josh White called One Meatball.

It’s a song about a guy who only has fifteen cents to eat with so he searches restaurants and menus until he finds a place where he can purchase something to eat for fifteen cents, one meatball.

Everyone in the restaurant is aghast as the waiter calls out the order for one meatball and then proceeds to remind him:

“You gets no bread with one meatball.”

With the day I was having as I sheepishly ordered my one bowl of soup, I was half expecting the server to call out loudly:

“You gets no bread with one bowl of soup.”

 

Finally now relaxing and enjoying my bowl of soup and my bread, I open up my Facebook to find my three daughters, my three little chickens, putting me out on social media for not remembering them on “National Daughters Day.”

My final kick for the day.

Oh well.

“Ma nishtana.”

“You gets no bread with one meatball.”

That’s life in the wobbly cart.

 

 

Okay, now maybe I can get back to that book now.

“Life in the Wobbly Cart.”

Chapter One.

Let’s see, how should I start…?

 

 

Post Script:

After having basically finished this I dipped out to Lowe’s to pick up a couple of things.  I entered the store then realized I might need a cart.  I went back out and there, right next to the sterilizing station, was one cart.

I wiped it down and started my shopping.

And guess what kind of cart it was.

Yup.

“That’s just perfect,” I thought.

 

Happy National Daughters Day to Savannah, Hayley, and Alexa.

I still love you more than meatballs.

 

Yom Tov.

See You in September

See You in September

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An elderly couple decided to go out for breakfast recently at their local diner in Cambridge Maryland.

Though disease had infiltrated his body and mind limiting the activities that energized him and that he once enjoyed in life, going out to eat was still a treat thankfully now that the covid restrictions had been eased.  But even the once easy decision to drop into a restaurant, though still enjoyable and special, was now complicated and not just on account of the virus.

Slowly and unsteadily, relying on the aluminum frame and wheels of the walker he has to use now, he navigated his way to the table and backed into the chair to sit.

As is the routine she, his wife, body bent and looking frail but still strong in mind and determination, gets him situated in his chair and inched up to the table.

This is the ritual, whether it’s in a public restaurant or at home, that goes on day after day, multiple times a day.  Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and coffee breaks all take on significant importance, but all require a similar concern, attention, and patience.

 

On this day the breakfast itself went uneventful.

But when she went to pay the bill something very unexpected and never-before experienced happened.

She wasn’t able to pay the bill.

Not because she couldn’t afford it.

But because there was no bill for her to pay.

Someone had paid their bill already.

 

 

In these days of virtual church, Kim and I have discovered another Eastern Shore connection in Father Bill Ortt, the Rector of Christ Church in Easton, Maryland.

In a recent awesome sermon, he referred to these verses in Chapter 12 of Romans.

9 Love must be sincere.  Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.  10 Be devoted to one another in brotherly love.  Honor one another above yourselves… 12 Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. 13 Share with God’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.

 

Not a bad reminder for us these days.

In his message, Father Ortt presented a good illustration of how the daily stresses we face as individuals   can affect us.  His sermon included a personal story of how he witnessed a young mother having a bad start to her day in a Starbucks in Ocean City and sharing her unhappiness quite vocally with all of those around her.

Though it sounded like this person’s behavior was inappropriate for that venue or any venue, I am sure we have all been close to losing it lately.

 

It’s tough to be a parent right now.

It’s tough to be a kid.

It’s tough to be a grandparent.

And it’s tough to be a great grandparent.

 

Labor Day Kim and I were driving home.  The next day was the first day of school for our area which meant Cameron would be starting the fifth grade and Hayley her thirteenth year of teaching at Broad Run High School.  Christian, one of my little guys in Florida had already started his first year of school by starting Kindergarten virtually, a couple of weeks earlier.

On that ride home I thought about my first days of school and particularly my grammar (elementary school) years and me in my fifth grade.  Fifth grade was one of my favorite years in school.

And so, as is often the case with me, I started singing a song.

“See You in September” was released by the Happenings in 1966, the year I started the fifth grade.

And while I drove and relived in my mind the memories of my childhood, I sang it over and over again.

At some point on the road trip my wife who had been quietly working on her iPad, looked at me and asked, “are you seriously going to sing that song all day?”

“Sorry” I said.

But I never really answered the question because unfortunately for Kim the answer was…

“Yes!”

But to the best of my ability, at least for the rest of that car ride I tried to sing just to myself as I reminisced about the excitement and that feeling of being reunited with  friends and classmates for another school year in 1966.

This year Cameron and Christian and a lot of other kids are not getting to experience the excitement that I remembered about returning to school in September.

And Hayley as a teacher can’t foster mentoring relationships that are so important to the student and the teacher.

And the parents of these students are juggling jobs from offices and homes as they also assume the role of teaching assistant.

And sometimes…they kirk out at Starbucks.

 

And Kim and I have to weigh the risks against the needs as we struggle to make our decisions to social distance with some of the younger members of the family yet continue to work out ways to provide support to our aging parents.

 

But thankfully our parents, limited now not just from the virus but by their own physical abilities, can still enjoy a time out having a meal while respecting the necessary social distancing requirements.

 

And at least on one occasion anyway, experiencing that love still exists in some hearts.  Even in the hearts of strangers.

 

 

My mother literally sobbed on the phone as she told us the story of her and my father having breakfast at the Cambridge Diner one morning this past week when someone paid their breakfast bill.

 

Maybe he or she good Samaritan saw that even after all those years, love can still be sincere and patient.

Maybe he or she was sick of the hate that we have to experience on our televisions and social media and wanted to reach back to a better time when we treated others with brotherly love and honored others above ourselves.  And through an act of hospitality, spread joy to those who may be afflicted and in need.  Even if that need might just be to have a little hope and share in a little joy while having breakfast.

Maybe this person heard Pastor Ortt’s message.

 

It was a nice gesture.

One that my mom and my dad will never forget.

And me too.

 

And so whoever you are out there who treated my parents to breakfast recently, I thank you.

And may God bless you.

 

Bye-bye, so long, farewell…

Have a good time but remember
There is danger in the summer moon above

See you in September
See you when the summer’s through*

 

Our summer is through.

Hate what is evil.

Cling to what is good.

Be devoted to one another in brotherly love.

 

And hang in there.

 

 

Post Script:

The photos above are of Christian on his first day of school, Cameron on his first day of school, Hayley on her first day of school, and me in the fifth grade.

*Lyrics from See You in September written by Sid Wayne and Sherman Edwards.

Reminders (Revisited)

Reminders (Revisited)

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“IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL SEPTEMBER MORNING WITH A BLUE SKY…JUST A NORMAL DAY.”

Joy Knepp, Teacher, Shanksville –Stoneycreek School from the display at the Flight 93 Memorial Visitor Center

On an early New England morning in 1775, on the common green in Lexington Massachusetts, a small group of patriots prepared to square off against a large invading British force of about 700 troops. Moments later a shot was fired, and the first battle of the war to establish our nation’s freedom had begun.

Two hundred and twenty-six years later, on “a beautiful September morning with a blue sky…just a normal day” over the green mountains and hills of western Pennsylvania, another small group of brave patriots waged the first battle of a new war to protect those freedoms fought so hard for many years ago.

“…a beautiful September morning with a blue sky…”

Much like today I thought,  as I left the Flight 93 Visitor Center and began the walk down the tree lined path to the impact site below.   Though the morning was cool, the now mid to late afternoon sun caused me to remove my Harley Davidson of Somerset PA sweatshirt and tie it around my waist.  Kim did the same with her Steelers sweatshirt.  The occasional large dark cloud loomed almost symbolically right over the Flight 93 Memorial Visitor Center, so low it looked like you could almost reach up and touch it.  I guess something in the sky had to be there to remind us of the darkness of that day, joining the reminders on the grounds around me.  Though it was a beautiful day, this day, September 11th would never again be just a normal one.

 

Needing to decompress a little, Kim and I decided to make a trip up to see the family on the farm in Markleton, Pennsylvania in Somerset County. It was a weekend of reminders.

By early Saturday morning we were in Western Pennsylvania. I have been to Somerset County many times over the last almost 20 years and thought I was fairly well versed in the farm community life and history.  I got my eyes opened on Saturday by attending the New Centerville Volunteer Fire Company Farmer’s and Threshermens Jubilee.  Another reminder for me, this time of the hard work and sacrifice it took our forefathers to build and feed this great country of ours.

Sunday was church at the Geiger Church of the Brethren. The Sunday school message that morning was about death; how do we prepare? Are we ready?  What in our lives can complicate that preparation? And another reminder…we don’t always get the opportunity to prepare.

After church we had lunch with Kim’s parents at the Eat’n Park Restaurant in Somerset and decided we would just jump on the Pennsylvania Turnpike to go home. As I was waiting to leave, the manager at the Eat’n Park asked if I had come from the Flight 93 Memorial.  I explained we were here visiting family. The restaurant is next to the Harley-Davidson of Somerset motorcycle shop.  I told her about the photo my sister had sent me a few weeks earlier of that same spot as she and my brother-in-law participated in the 2016 America’s 9/11 Motorcycle Ride.

“Oh yeah” she said, “the motorcycles.”

She then expressed her disappointment that this year’s ride was to be the last.

“They donated an ambulance you know.”

Now in the truck ready to go home, the idea of visiting the Flight 93 Memorial on this day in particular seemed like the appropriate thing to do. I had never been there.  We were directed to park in an overflow parking lot since the visitors were many and walked the paths up to the Memorial Visitor Center.  All around the grounds, you could see what remained of the ceremonies that took place that morning or the evening before; the wreaths, the tents, the temporary bleachers, and stacks of chairs.

We waited in line for almost an hour to enter the Visitor Center. Once inside it didn’t take long to be transported back to that day with a rush of emotion.  I lifted the “phone” receiver and listened to their voices, those final calls and goodbyes; I viewed their names and faces on the wall and read the stories as the video of the World Trade Center attacks played over and over.  Everyone was quiet and solemn.

We walked down to the site of the impact. The large hemlock gate to the path where the boulder marks the impact site was open today. Only open once a year on this day according to the Park Ranger stationed at the gate.

We stood at The Wall of Names where fresh wreaths, flowers, and notes lay at the base of each stone panel honoring those who perished.

“Thank you for your sacrifice, God Bless You” read one note.

“Your sacrifice saved hundreds, Thank You!” read another.

I read the names again. The names of those patriots, who maybe with make-shift weapons of boiling water, a fire extinguisher, and who knows what else; made the ultimate sacrifice in what was the first battle of the new war threatening our freedoms.

They left their homes and their loved ones and boarded a jet not knowing how complicated their lives would be in a short while. How complicated their deaths would be.  They soon knew they were going to die; they had no time to prepare.

But they acted.

And they acted on our behalf.

And I was reminded once more.

And I will remember.

We should all remember.

 

“Are you guys ready? Let’s roll.” (Flight 93 passenger and patriot Todd Beamer)

Items left for flight attendant Sandy Bradshaw at the Wall of Names