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Christmas 2024

Christmas 2024

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From across the parking lot, the ringing of the handbell could be heard as they approached the grocery store.  Reluctantly, but not wanting to portray a bad example for the children, the curmudgeonish grandfather reached into his pocket. He began to peel off a one-dollar bill to put in the bucket manned by a nice young lady all dressed festively in red just like the bucket hanging on the tripod.

But before the old man could make his move with his one-dollar bill, his young grandson opened his wallet, took out a twenty and bounded toward the young lady and her bucket, rolling up the bill and stuffing it in the slot.

“Hey bud that was a twenty dollar bill you put in there,” said the grandfather queryingly.

“I know, I just wanted to…” the boy replied.

“Well, that was very nice of you.”

After picking out the groceries and making sure everything on the list was there, along with a few additional items that always seem to end up in the grocery basket when grandchildren are shopping with their grandparents, they checked out and started their trip back to car exiting the store.

The young lady in red was still ringing.

The little boy stopped, reaching again for his wallet with his eyes getting big.

“Wait,” said the grandfather seeing what was again about to happen, “you already gave twenty bucks.”

But the little boy was determined and dashed down the sidewalk, once again to the red bucket, this time putting in a ten-dollar bill.

“Why did you do that” the old man inquired a second time.

“I just wanted to,” said the boy.

“Well, that was really very nice of you.”

 

On Christmas Eve the boys made sugar cookies with their grandmother, in shapes of Christmas trees, and snowmen, and gingerbread houses; they decorated the cookies in their own way with red and green sprinkles and icing.

Then they packed up their cookies in Christmas tins and containers and headed over to the local fire station.  Once there, they rang the doorbell as the instructions advised and waited.  A fireman appeared from the back and opened the door.  The cookies, it was explained, were made for the fireman who had to work on Christmas.  And because they were made with some almond flour, the cookies came with a warning in case there was a fireman allergic to nuts. The fireman invited the boys, their mom and grandparents into the firehouse and asked the boys if they would like to see the fire engines.

Of course!  And two nice firemen gave the boys the tour of the fire engine and thanked the boys for bringing them cookies.

 

Gee.

A couple of nice and unexpected Christmas stories.

Kim and I were determined to minimize the stress of Christmas this year.

The Christmas decorations remained in their boxes and storage bins.

The plans for a Christmas card and Christmas letter for 2024 were abandoned.

Instructions were given to the kids that we were going to keep things simple this year, keeping gifts to $25 gift cards for the adults and focusing only on Ethan, Christian, and Cameron.

And to top that off, we were going on a road trip and wouldn’t be home for Christmas in Herndon. Kim and I were going to take our time and drive to Florida to spend Christmas with the Florida family.

No decorating, no cooking, no entertaining, no major gift giving and unwrapping, no trash…

No stress.

So, after having an early Christmas dinner with the Northern Virginia crew and exchanging our gift cards, Kim and I packed up and left for Florida on Saturday the 21st.   I made sure that before I left the house, I hung some greenery on the front door so we wouldn’t look too much like those people.

You know…scrooges.

Those people.

 

We took our time, stopping in Santee, South Carolina in time to watch the Steeler’s game in a local establishment called The Oasis where everyone was nice to us.

The next day, we finished our trip to Oviedo in time to celebrate Namaan’s birthday on Sunday.

We had a great week, took the kids to one of those bouncy places, saw an awesome movie called Sonic the Hedgehog 3, went to Cracker Barrel; wandered the neighborhood capturing Pokémon; played games, watched more Steeler’s and bowl games; ate, drank, and was merry…

But not at our house.

It was awesome.

Then with Christmas over, on Friday morning we took off to take even more time getting home.

We spent some time in Savannah, Georgia walking up and down River Street, taking a dinner cruise on an old river boat, doing some shopping and more merriment.

And, everyone we encountered, and we talked to many, were exceptionally nice.

The next morning, we stopped in Hardeeville, South Carolina and visited with our sister-in-law Teesha.

Then it was up the road to Fayetteville where we spent our last night, having dinner, watching old movies and yup, everyone was nice.

Sunday, we arrived home, ordered some Chinese food, watched football and went to bed.

We didn’t have to clean up or put away any decorations.

No stress.

 

On Christmas Eve, the kids put out eighteen carrots for the reindeer, some of those Christmas sugar cookies they baked and decorated, and some milk and candy canes.

Along with a letter that went like this:

Dear Santa Claus

I’m sorry I didn’t give you a candy cane last year so here’s 2.  I also am giving each reindeer 2 carrots.  I’m sorry for the bad things I’ve done this year.  I tried to make up for it by giving $30 to the Salvation Army and giving cookies to firefighters.  Thank you for being so nice and generous to people all over the world.

From, Christian Salem 12/24/2024

(address)

Oviedo, FL 32766

Warning!  These cookies have almond flour, do not eat if you have nut allergies

 

Yeesh.

Kim, get me a tissue again.

Nice…somehow, I don’t think he learned that from the guy reluctant to give up a buck.

I need redemption.

Dear Santa,

I too am sorry for all the bad things I have done this year.

I’m sorry I didn’t decorate the Christmas tree and only hung the green thing on the front door.

I’m sorry I had such a hard time squeezing that one dollar bill out of my pocket to give to the Salvation Army.

I’m sorry I was so cheap, only giving out $25 gift cards and didn’t send any Christmas cards.

And I don’t have any carrots or homemade cookies, but I do have some homemade wine for next year.

But I too also thank you for being so nice to people all over the world.

And I would like to thank all those people and family who were so nice to Kim and I this Christmas.

I will try to do better next year.

From, Curt   12/31/2024

Herndon, VA 20170

And Warning, watch the wine, it contains Sulfites!

 

I think the best gift I got from this Christmas was experiencing how nice people can be.

And that I don’t want to be one of those people.

You know…those people.

That’s right, and next year, I might even up those gift cards to $50.

 

Merry Christmas everybody!

And we hope your 2025 and ours turn out to be a happy ones.

Kim, Curt, Cameron, Ethan, Christian, Savannah, Leon, Hayley, Malcolm, Alexa, Namaan, and Donny too.

 

Postscript:

The photo on the card was taken after Hayley and Malcolm’s wedding last May when the whole crew was in Northern Virginia.

Kim and I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas and thank you for all the cards and letters we received. And a special shout out to my cousin Judy, my sister, and my wife for some nudges in the Christmas spirit direction.

 

Ghosts of Christmases Past 2

Ghosts of Christmases Past 2

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“On Christmas Eve many years ago I laid quietly in my bed.  I did not rustle the sheets, I breathed slowly and silently.  I was listening for a sound I was afraid I would never hear: the sound of Santa’s sleigh bells.”  (from The Polar Express)

 

We moved into the split-level house my dad built in late 1960 from the bungalow next door.

My brother Gary was born in May 1961, ending my nearly five-year reign as the youngest child and immediately thrusting me into the abyss of middle-child status. Not that I was bitter; who wanted all that attention anyway?

My sister Patty had her own room. Carl and I shared a bedroom that my dad designed for all three boys once Gary graduated from the crib in my parent’s bedroom. My bed was on the end, Carl in the middle, and Gary would be in the first bed.

Since my parents were the “early adopters” so to speak of having children amongst their friends, Christmas Eves at our house always included our extended family of my parent’s adult friends, mostly firemen and their wives,  since they had to be home to prepare Christmas for us.

And then came the hour on Christmas Eve when we were all three ushered up to bed, while the adults continued the festivities below.  Once in bed we busted out the Dan Electro transistor radios and followed Santa’s travels on WMCA or WABC radio out of New York City.

Sleep didn’t come easy but eventually, it would.  In the morning whoever woke up first would wake up the others and we would all huddle at the top of the steps because we couldn’t go down the stairs until my mother and father got up.

One of us got picked to sneak down the stairs and do some scouting to see if Santa had really come.  That changed as we all got older, depending on “your persuasion on the Big Man,” and was typically the younger believer, which like I said earlier and in case you forgot, was me for nearly five years.

We had a similar routine every year, captured in photos first by black and whites, then eventually in color, some of which I have already shared. My dad also had one of those early 60s eight mm movie cameras with the infamous light bar with the four flood lights.  We opened gifts in an organized way making sure we each saw what the other one got.

Then my father would leave to join the other Oceanport Hook and Ladder firemen who every year would purchase gifts for all the kids in town under a certain age and with a Santa Claus on the back of the fire truck, would go street by street, house by house, delivering gifts to the kids they had on their list.

This was a tradition that went way back with the fire company in Oceanport and even my dad would tell stories of waiting for the fire truck when he was a kid in the 1930s when he would leap the hedge to get to greet the firemen and Santa.

While my dad was gone, we also would wait for the fire truck to come to our house, then revisit our gifts until my dad got home, which wasn’t always as predictable as you might think since there was always a little bit of Christmas cheer involved in that tradition as well.

Once my dad returned, we would walk across the street and down the rear driveway of my grandmother’s house and have Christmas and lunch with my mother’s family and my cousins.

Then we were off to Hillcrest and my other grandparents’ house and finally to my Uncle Teddy’s.  Teddy always had the funniest-looking Christmas trees and those oversized Christmas light bulbs.

It was nice having not all but a good portion of our family living in the same town or very close by.

Over the years as we got older and we became volunteer fireman, both my brothers and I got to share that Christmas experience of riding the fire truck with my dad.  And even after I moved away and would return home for the holiday, I would share that Christmas morning experience with my father.  And we even developed some new traditions like on Christmas Eve, driving to Point Pleasant Beach to the Norwegian store to buy Norwegian cheese, fiskebollers (Codfish balls), and only once Lutefisk (because with Lutefisk only once was enough), and cod fish to make sandwiches.

And that Christmas Eve open house for whoever wanted to visit just got bigger and bigger, and even now my sister still tries to keep that tradition going in Oceanport.

I am too old now to lie in bed listening for sleigh bells or Santa’s location on the radio,  or waiting for my brothers and sister to wake me up.  But I have lots of nice memories of Christmases growing up. I guess when they say “the true spirit of Christmas lies in your heart,” that’s where the memories live for as long as we are able to  remember them, which gets more challenging the older we get. Of course there have been Christmases since with sad memories, but even the sad ones remind us there is comfort and hope on the other side of those in time.

And writing about them and looking at old photos, reminds me of how much I miss my father and my brother.  Maybe I will have a codfish sandwich and some Norwegian cheese, an Akvavit on the rocks, and turn on Glen Campbell’s That Christmas Feeling album on Christmas Eve this year.

“At one time most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed it fell silent for all of them. Though I’ve grown old the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe” (from The Polar Express)

And who knows, maybe after a couple of those Akvavits, I will hear some bells too.

 

The time stamp on this featured photo says Jan 1963 so probably Christmas 1962. Gary would be about a year a half old, me about 6 1/2, Carl 8 almost 9, and Patty about 10 1/2.

 

Gary, Christmas 1965?
Early one, Patty at my Grandmother’s. Look at those legs!
Not sure, 1966 or 67?
Gar got a bike
I don’t know
Patty Christmas 1965
Early one, Carl and Patty, bungalow Christmas, I was a baby…youngest child
The Ghosts of Christmases Past

The Ghosts of Christmases Past

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I remember my dad standing in the hallway near the front door while my mother would roll up the sleeves of his Banlon shirt to show more of his muscles, I guess. Or maybe that was just the style around 1960. My father worked the second shift as a drill press operator at Bendix in Eatontown, New Jersey, on Route 35, and he was getting ready to go to work. This was the ritual.

Bendix sponsored an art contest every year for their employees at Christmas.  I was young then, so I really didn’t know much other than I remember my dad creating beautiful drawings using pastels, and entering the contests during those years.  I think one of his drawings won a ribbon one Christmas.  This was the only time I can think of where he exhibited his artistic talent with something other than wood.

The Count Basie Center for the Arts is now a happening place on Monmouth Street in Red Bank New Jersey.  It’s owned by the Monmouth County Arts Council and reopened as the Count Basie Theatre in the early 1980s.  It’s a venue where you may have been entertained by Bruce Springsteen or Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes over the years.

But when I was four or five years old it was known as the Carlton theater, Reade’s Carlton to be exact, a beautiful old theater built in the 1920s first for Vaudeville shows, then transformed into a movie theater.

Every Christmas season, Bendix would host a Christmas program for the children of Bendix employees.  I have memories of standing in a very long line of families that wrapped around the corner and down a long Red Bank block in the cold patiently waiting for my turn to enter the lobby and get a bag of snacks, and I think, a small gift.  Then we watched a movie, the only one I remember was Walt Disney’s Pinocchio.

My dad would give up his drill press and Bendix and go on to work as a union carpenter in those early years of the 1960s, so I only remember a couple of those Bendix Carlton Christmases.  I seem to recall three of the drawings he submitted to the Bendix contests. I was able to salvage one of them,  though he had cut part way through it with one of his saws.  Saws and woodworking tools were much more associated with my dad than colored pastel pencils, so having at least a cut-down version of one of his Christmas drawings is pretty special.

The ghosts, the memories of this Christmas past writing, were 1960ish.   My brother Gary was born in May 1961 so, at this point, he is a ghost of a Christmas future I suppose.  The photo below was date stamped Jan 1960 so I think it was from Christmas 1959 when I was three and half.  I must have asked Santa for a gun that year.

The photo below is from an even earlier Christmas, 1957 maybe?  I am the little pudgy kid in the middle. I must have asked Santa for a car that year.  Maybe I will ask Santa for a car again this year.

November Twenty Two

November Twenty Two

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I remember the adults, the teachers, they were visibly upset.

We were being let out of school early for some reason.

As I exited the rear school doorway onto the pavement that surrounded the back side of Wolf Hill School, before the school fields and playground, an older boy yelled out, “the President’s been shot.”  I crossed the school playground to the old railroad track that used to bring the coal into Fort Monmouth, then down the tracks to Pemberton Avenue, and the three small town blocks that took me to the path through the neighbor’s yard and into our backyard.

I was seven years old and in the second grade.  I don’t remember who I walked home with, I just remember sitting in front of the small black and white TV in the living room and watching events relived and unfolding for the rest of that day.

I remember my mother was upset.

President Kennedy was dead.

Assassinated.

November 22, 1963.

 

 

It was just going to be a small wedding in a friend’s backyard,  there was no need for you to come, I was told.

Well okay then, I won’t worry about it.

Besides, I am just the father, and there will be pictures, I am sure.

But I did worry about it.

So, the Friday before the wedding in the friend’s backyard, I flew into Palm Beach Airport and headed towards Fort Lauderdale in my rented Camaro.  Not knowing much about this backyard wedding, I stopped at a mall in Boca Raton to buy a new hat.  I picked up a new pair of jeans to wear to the wedding as well.  Then I headed down to Fort Lauderdale and got a hotel room near where the cruise ships docked.

The next day I put on my new jeans and hat, got in my rented Camaro, and surprised Alexa at her wedding.

I even got to dance the father-daughter dance.

And it turns out I was right for a change; I did need to be there.

November 22, 2014.

 

 

Alexa and Namaan have been married now for ten years.

It’s been 61 years since JFK’s assassination.

I am tired because I stayed up late last night to watch the Steelers get beat by the Browns, in a snowstorm.

I am monitoring the western Pennsylvania weather and that snowstorm and stressing a little because we are considering making a pre-Thanksgiving visit with Kim’s mom.

Snow in western PA before Thanksgiving?  Who would have thought?

But this morning in my History Channel email I was reminded of the events of 61 years ago; and in my Facebook memories, the events of ten years ago.

I still have those jeans, in fact, I wore them at Savannah and Leon’s wedding and Hayley and Malcolm’s as well.  They needed to be there.

And like me, they are a little worn out, a little frayed and faded, yet they remain ready for the next event.

As long as it’s not another wedding.

 

And through all this reflection, I am being reminded of “the great significance of the passage of time.”

Only this time it is making sense.

 

November 22, 2024.

More Mookie Please

More Mookie Please

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Mookie.

Is there a better name for a baseball player?

I don’t think so.

If you are even a casual Mets fan like me, you remember the 1980s and Mookie Wilson, and of course the 1986 Mets World Series. Mookie Wilson is said to have gotten his nickname by the way he pronounced milk as a young child. Come to think of it, I may have also had a kid who asked for “more mook please.”

Kim and I arrived at my mother’s around 7 pm last Friday evening, and my mom was all excited to watch the Dodgers in the first game of the World Series.

I thought this was odd behavior for my mother, but then, thinking maybe there was a Manhattan involved, I just rolled with it.

“My grandmother was a huge Dodger fan, the Brooklyn Dodgers, and I want to watch the game,” she explained.

Great, I thought, this was kind of a welcome diversion, a break from Fox News and the Hallmark Channel.  A break from the stress of the upcoming election, with all the fascist talk, the threats to democracy, swing states, blue walls, and fake news.

Yeah, it turns out Great Grandma Flora was a big Brooklyn Dodgers fan.  I had never met Flora.  My mother, however, was very close to her grandmother.

And, I wasn’t too familiar with the Brooklyn Dodgers either because not too long after I was born, in 1957, both the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Giants decided “California’s the place you otta be,” so they loaded up and moved west to Los Angeles and San Fransisco respectively.

This left the New York Yankees as the only team in New York until 1962 when Mookie Wilson’s Mets were established as one of baseball’s first expansion teams.

 

Now sitting and watching the game with my mother, I was happy to find out the Dodgers had a “Mookie” too!

Mookie Betts.

We watched all the way to 10th inning when the Dodgers’ Freddie Freeman made history by hitting the first game ending grand slam in World Series history.

Game One…Dodgers 6, Yankees 3.

 

Baseball used to be America’s sport.

As a kid I would walk down my street Willow Court in Oceanport, NJ, past the house my family called “the big house” then owned by my grandmother but also the house where Flora once lived; making my way down to Park’s Drugstore to buy the bubble gum pack with the baseball cards inside.  It never occurred to me that the Roger Maris or Mickey Mantle card I had attached to my bike with a clothespin might be worth some big money someday.  Nope, for me, it had much more immediate value clicking between the spokes of my rear bicycle wheel.

 

 Saturday evening we were invited to a neighbor’s for a Halloween dinner party, so we got back to the TV and the game a little late.  Kim went to bed, but my mother and I watched the second game till the end.

Game two…Dodgers 4, Yankees 2.

 

I never played baseball growing up, though we had Little League and Babe Ruth teams in Oceanport, I wasn’t very athletic.  I played catch in the yard with my brother and friends and street baseball on summer evenings with the neighborhood kids.  Since we lived on a dead end, we didn’t have to vacate the “field” too often by neighbors coming home from work.

The best baseball experience I can boast of is playing Cub Scout softball.

I wasn’t very good at softball either, but, I did manage some brief notoriety when I was playing catch on the sideline behind the bench one game with another teammate and managed to knock out another one of my Cub Scout teammates when the ball I threw didn’t quite reach the intended but instead found its way to another kids head.  I remember he was talking to someone and went down, came right back up resumed the conversation, and then went down again.

Monday night, I am back home but even without my mother, feeling like I had to watch the Dodgers.  The problem was the Steelers were playing on Monday night football, so up and down the stairs I went, as I  tried to watch both games.  After the Steelers’ 26-18 win over the New York football Giants, I watched the rest of the Dodgers game three, now playing in New York.  And though I didn’t see the whole game I did see Mookie Betts hit a base hit that allowed for the third run of the third game.

Game Three…Dodgers 4, Yankees 2, again.

 

I remember the time I watched my friend Bob Woolley who unlike me was a very good athlete, on one of those Little League or Babe Ruth teams, throw a very exaggerated “change-up” pitch that effectively struck the batter out but also engrained in me an understanding of what a “change up” pitch was forever.

I remember the mid-sixties, and especially the 1968 World Series St. Louis Cardinals with my two favorite players of that series Lou Brock and Curt Flood stealing bases.  They were fun to watch and along with pitcher Bob Gibson, they won the series.

And who could forget the ’69 Miracle Mets and the ‘73 Mets who weren’t as lucky.

 

Tuesday Kim and I had something scheduled, and by the time we got home and I turned the game on, it was clear the Yankees offense had awoken.  They added five runs in the eighth inning to the six they had already, and as a result, I got to bed a little earlier.

Game four…Yankees 11, Dodgers only 4.

 

My last experience that involved a bat, ball, and glove was a short stint on the Oceanport Hook & Ladder Fireman’s softball team.  I was the pitcher and after almost being taken out by a line drive, I walked off the mound and retired at the young age of 20 never to return to the diamond again.

 

Game five looked at first, to be a repeat of game four.  Down by five runs, the Dodgers came back to tie the score in the fifth, only to be bested by one run in the sixth. With the score now 6 to 5 Yankees, the Dodgers would add two more in the eighth inning.  Going into the ninth,  the Dodgers couldn’t add any more runs, now with the Yankees at bat, they called in Walker Buehler in relief.  Walker had started game three and would have started game seven had it gone that far, but with no more relievers left in the bullpen; he got the call.

Dodgers7, Yankees 6…the Dodgers are the World Series champs of 2024.

 

So that was that.

Great Grandma Flora’s team, once the Dodgers from Brooklyn, now LA, beat their once cross-town rivals, the New York Yankees.

My mom was happy, imagining her grandmother waving her flag (or pennant maybe) in celebration.

That’s awesome!

But now what do we do?

What are we going to do without a game six or seven?

We need a couple more days of Mookie, I don’t wanna go back to the election…

Ma, more mook, please.

More Mookie!

Because I, who had a better average at knocking out my teammates than I had knocking the ball out of the park, wanted just a couple more days of baseball.

Oh well, at least I had the experience of watching a couple of baseball games with my mother, creating a memory I never would have imagined happening in the first place, but also one that I may not have had the opportunity to repeat.

 

And besides, there are plenty of distractions I can find that will last me until Tuesday.  This weekend is the Breeder’s Cup, the World Series of horse racing, at Del Mar Racecourse in San Diego.  Though there have been Mookie horses in the past, like Bet on Mookie, Mr. Mookie, MVP Mookie, and Miracle Mookie; I couldn’t find any Mookies running this weekend.

And of course, I always have football that will take me through to Monday Night.

Then on Election Day, I can follow the play-by-play well into the wee hours of Wednesday morning if I decide to.

Or I can drink my Mookie and go to bed.

But before I go to bed I will pray for fairness and integrity in our election process, and, that the days that follow be calm, peaceful, and healing.

Amen?

Amen.

 

Postscript:  The photo above is Mookie Wilson in the 1986 World Series.  Mets baserunner Mookie Wilson slides into third base as Wade Boggs can only watch.

ID 69007491
© Gerald T. Coli
Lou Brock and Bob Gibson in this photo. Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash
Somebody To Love

Somebody To Love

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When the truth is found

To be lies,

And all the joy,

Within you dies…”

(Darby Slick)

 

I read this lyric yesterday from the song Somebody to Love on an internet post.  I had to laugh a little as it struck me as kind of funny given the rhetoric of the current campaigns and the information or the misinformation we are enduring every day.

The song Somebody to Love was written by Darby Slick for his band The Great Society and released as a single in 1966. The Great Society also included his brother Jerry Slick and his sister-in-law Grace Slick.

Grace would ultimately leave The Great Society, and join another band known as The Jefferson Airplane.  She would take the song, then titled Someone to Love, change the title to Somebody to Love, and along with her song White Rabbit, would help build the now classic album, Surrealistic Pillow.

And so it was, Somebody to Love, White Rabbit and Surrealistic Pillow would go down in rock and roll history, considered to be one of the “most influential and quintessential works of the early psychedelic rock era and 1960s counterculture.”

Ironically, in August of 2019, I was also inspired by these lyrics to write an essay titled Three Days of Peace, Love, and Wheels on the Bus. The inspiration for that essay, however, had nothing to do with lies and vanishing joy, just the opposite. The somebodies to love in that story were grandchildren as we made a long overdue visit to Florida.

I’ve heard at least some of the folks in our current contest have been promoting joy as a theme, but I am frankly just not feeling it.

Surrealistic maybe, but not joy.

Yeah, surrealistic, something that has a dreamlike atmosphere or quality. Maybe we are all tripping? Maybe we should all be sleeping on surrealistic pillows and reliving some of those “joys” associated with the sixties.

Well, then again maybe not.

But with less than thirty days left to this election season, regardless of who you are supporting, when all the truth is found to be lies, when all information is misinformation, and all the joy is confined to the ladies on The View, I don’t know about you, but I am ready to go back to listening to some music.

Because I think the truth is we should be praying for our brothers and sisters in the southeast, peace everywhere in the world where there is none, and focusing on a different truth.

 

Because the real “truth doesn’t reside in the minds of humanity, but completely outside of us, in the person of God. “

Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.”

Maybe all truth isn’t lies.

Maybe there is a way to find some joy in that.

 

I haven’t written much in the past year.

Lack of joy may have contributed to that.

I’ve always enjoyed writing because it always made me happy.

So, bear with me while I practice writing and being happy.

 

But now I think I will go to church.

And hear the truth.

And when I come home, maybe I will listen to some music.

Maybe even some Jefferson Airplane.

And begin to enjoy me some joy.

Because joy and The Truth are not dead.

 

Postscript:

The photo above is from a couple of weeks ago when me and my somebody to love, participated for the third time in the Laurel View Village Que Classic 5K and 10K.  Laurel View Village is the assisted living facility where Kim’s mom lives near Johnstown, PA.  Not to mislead anyone, but the truth here is that we walked a 5K as our running days are behind us.  It was a beautiful late September day in the Laurel View mountains.

Another fun fact, Somebody to Love, aka Someone to Love, was originally titled “Mind Full of Bread.”  Too funny, there might be some truth to that.

Christmas 2023

Christmas 2023

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A few weeks after last Christmas, Kim and I got a letter from Mrs. Taylor.  Mrs. Taylor was Donny’s fifth grade teacher who is now retired and has moved away from Herndon.  Donny loved Mrs. Taylor, and every year since Donny’s accident we have sent her our Christmas card and letter.  In her letter she told us how much she appreciated that we still send her our card and Christmas letter, and how much she looked forward to it.  That gave me great joy and for many months that letter hung on the kitchen cabinet.  Then came the day Mrs. Taylor’s letter needed to be taken down and put in that special place where we would always have it.

And you know how that goes.

Shortly after Thanksgiving when I was looking for some motivation for this year’s Christmas letter, we went to find Mrs. Taylor’s letter in that special place, and let me tell you, that place is still very special.

Mrs. Taylor, I want you to know that I appreciated your letter very much, and I also want you to know that I will keep that letter safe as long as I live and I am sure that when I do discover it the next time, I will appreciate it even more.

 

It was December 14th, and as I was walking through the area in the church near the office where we display posters and announcements of what is going on in the life of the church, I noticed that we had an Advent Calendar on the wall “With daily prompts for practicing joy in a weary world.” I could use a little of that I thought, so I read the message for that day, and it said “Write a letter to a loved one who has passed on.  Tell them what you love and miss about them.”

Yeesh, I thought.  Six months ago, on June 14th my dad was preparing to meet Jesus in few hours, I suppose I could write my dad a letter, but I don’t think he would read it.  And besides, that would probably just make me sad, and I am already sad.

When I got home, I went through the Christmas cards we had received in the mail.  One was from my cousin Judy.  Judy is now the matriarch of my father’s side of the family. She included a nice note written in the card that closed with “I wish you a wonderful Christmas with your family and look forward to your letter at my new address.”

Oh yeah, there’s that letter again. The Christmas Letter.

Suddenly writing my dad a letter started to sound like an easier option.

 

Now it’s December 15th, a Friday, and the end of a long week, while I waited for Kim to come home, I sat on the deck enjoying all the blow-up decorations and lights in my backyard that I had put up this year since the kids were all going to be here for Christmas.  While I enjoyed the view, I listened to Glen Campbell’s That Christmas Feeling album on iTunes and my new waterproof Bluetooth speaker. That Christmas Feeling is one of my favorite albums, certainly my favorite Christmas album, one that my dad had from the late 60’s.

I was having a moment.

On the church Facebook page, I read the message of the day from that same Advent Calendar was “Write, text, or call someone who brings you joy. Tell them, ‘I appreciate you.’”

Coincidentally, I had spoken on the phone with all three of my daughters that day and that doesn’t happen very often and they always bring me joy. I am sure I told all three that I loved them, but I didn’t say “I appreciate you,” hopefully they know that.

But okay, with three writing prompts in two days, I decided to move into the house to try to write.

When Kim came home, she looked at me and said “It’s December 15th” … and waited for me to finish the sentence.

“Six months since my dad died?” I replied weakly as she continued to wait patiently.

“…the day we got engaged,” she finished her sentence.

Oops, I had forgotten it was twenty-five years ago on December 15th that we got engaged just before Christmas in 1998 while spending the evening at the Red Fox Inn in Middleburg, Virginia.  That was certainly a joyous day. And for many years after that we would return to The Red Fox Inn on December 15th.  That tradition, like some others unfortunately, got lost as our lives got more complicated.

But I suppose I should have remembered.

 

The daily prompt for December 18th for practicing Joy in a weary world was “Read about and reflect on the word, “Attunement.” What does it look like for you to practice attunement this season?”

Attunement, I had to look that one up.

“Attunement is the reactiveness we have to another person. It is the process by which we form relationships.”  “A person who is well attuned will respond with appropriate language and behaviors based on another person’s emotional state.”

I thought about December 15 and how much I had already failed attuning this season, but I could try to do better.

 

Now it’s December 24th and Christmas Eve.  The daily prompt for this day is “Reflect on 3 things you are deeply grateful for. Offer a prayer of gratitude to God.”

I can do better than that, I thought.  There are at least ten “things” in my Christmas photo on my Christmas card that I am deeply grateful for.  I will reflect on them later.

 

I suppose you could say, particularly this Christmas season, our world may be a bit weary and the effort to find joy for some may be tough.

And sometimes writing, writing letters, calling those you love, reflecting, and prayers of gratitude help more than you know.

Kim and I would like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  We do appreciate you,  and we hope you find Joy in this Christmas season and in the coming New Year.

And I guess since the theme of this letter seems to be about letters and appreciation, maybe I will go back to that December 14th encouragement and write that letter to a loved one who has passed before me, but not to my Pop, to someone else who has passed on:

Dear Jesus,

Thanks.

Please take care of all those who surround us this season as well as those we can’t spend Christmas with this year.

And tell my Pop “Merry Christmas.”  By the way he likes ice cream, Manhattans, and Fiskoboller (cod fish balls) if you are celebrating.

Oh, and happy birthday.

And we do appreciate you too.

 

Merry Christmas, pray for peace.

Kim and Curt

 

Postscript:

In keeping with Alexa’s request last year that I write more about the family, allow me to reflect on them a little.  It’s been a year of lots of change for all of us.

Of course, you know my dad passed away on June 15th.  My mom is doing well but as you would expect she misses him as we all do.

Alexa got a promotion at GEICO which required the family to relocate.  So, they packed up and moved from south Florida to central Florida and a town named Oviedo which is near Orlando and Walt Disney World, their Happy Place.  The house is nice and is keeping Namaan busy; the neighbors are nice, the schools are good, and Christian and Ethan are happy playing baseball and going to Disney. They are currently in the third and first grades. Kim and I went down there for a few days in October.

Savannah and Leon both got new jobs.  Leon transitioned from teaching private school to working for Loudoun County Public Schools as a physical education teacher on the Elementary level.  Savannah transitioned into a Sales role at Poet’s Walk, a memory care facility and is following in Kim’s footsteps in healthcare sales and marketing.

Cameron has grown about a foot since last Christmas and is playing basketball and doing well in his eighth-grade year. He is a teenager now but still likes to hang with his Mimi and Pop Pop.

Over the summer we were lucky to have all three of the kids together for a little vacation and spent some time on the eastern shore fishing and crabbing and kayaking with great grandma Flo.

Hayley and Malcolm got engaged finally.  Malcolm also got a new job with T. Rowe Price and Hayley is in her 16th year teaching social sciences at Broad Run High School.  Sadley Malcolm also lost his dad this year right after Thanksgiving.

Kim and I are busy traveling the world, dining out a lot, basically living the dream. Well, none of that is true but we are still working towards being busy traveling, dining out a lot, and we do a lot of dreaming.   Kim is in her 30th year at Lincare, and I am still working at the church.  We continue to try to spend as much time as we can with our moms.  We had an early Christmas with my mom on a recent weekend and Kim went up and attended the Laurel View Village Christmas bash with her mom on the 12th.  So all is good and I suppose if hanging around with your best friend is part of that dream then we are in fact living it.

Merry Christmas,

Kim, Curt, Savannah, Leon, Cameron, Hayley, Malcolm, Alexa, Namaan, Christian, and Ethan

 

Therefore, as we face this season,

we ask that you would continue to walk with us. 

Stay by our side as we climb our way out. 

Just stay close.

For we cannot move from the weariness to joy without you.

Amen

(Rev. Sarah Speed)

 

That’s What You Get

That’s What You Get

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That’s what you get for lovin’ me
That’s what you get for lovin’ me
Everything you had is gone, as you can see
That’s what you get for lovin’ me

(from For Lovin’ Me written by Gordon Lightfoot)

 

My grandmother Eleanora worked at the Dan Electro factory in Neptune, New Jersey when I was young.  As a result, at very young ages, my brother Carl, my sister Pat, and I all received transistor radios for Christmas.  And maybe Gary did too and I just wasn’t paying attention by that time.   I think I got my first radio when I was five or six so maybe 1961 or 1962.

My wife hates music from the 1960s.  She says it causes her great anxiety.  Sometimes I will turn on the Sirius XM 60’s station in the car, it makes her crazy.

Me, on the other hand, I love it, it puts me in my happy place.

If I ever wanted to make my wife crazier than I have already made her, I could lock her in a room and play Surfin’ Bird by the Trashmen over and over.

That would surely trigger some anxiety.

But I wouldn’t do that.

That would be mean.

That would be abusive.

 

The lyrics from the song above are from the 60’s.  They are from the 1965 song “For Lovin’ Me” sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary and written by Gordon Lightfoot.

I heard this song a couple of weeks ago while listening to the 60’s channel on Sirius XM.

It has been haunting me ever since, causing me anxiety, causing me to lose sleep even.

I listened to it a few more times, then I read the lyrics.

I interpreted it as narcissistic.

I researched the meaning of the lyrics, toxic masculinity was proposed.

I researched toxic masculinity.

It brought me back to narcissism.

 

I know of a father who once had to endure listening to an audio recording of his daughter being beaten by her husband:

“Don’t hit me in the face,” he heard his daughter pleading desperately.

She was not pleading to not be beaten, she knew that was going to happen, that wasn’t an option.

She, having no doubt been through this before, was specifically pleading not to be hit in the face.

And this was real stuff, not television, not Law and Order,  not Chicago PD.

 

If you are a father of daughters like I am, can you imagine?

Can you imagine hearing your daughter getting beat up by some jerk?

Probably not, and we definitely couldn’t imagine what this young woman had to endure.

But as a father what would you do?

Would you cry?

Would you want to treat violence with violence?

Would you want to put your Christian values to the test?

Would you feel helpless?

 

I have read that it is hard to intervene in these situations, intervening can often make things worse.

You just have to love them, and be there when the time comes, to be ready to help when the decision to escape is finally made.

And be supportive.

I guess sometimes, what you get for loving someone,  is not always what you expect to get.

Sometimes relationships come with mental abuse, and sometimes physical abuse, sometimes worse.

And sometimes even though everything you had was gone; money, credit, self-esteem, confidence, and dreams maybe,  you were lucky enough to still have your life.

Lucky enough to escape.

Lucky enough to be able to build a new life once again.

Make some new dreams.

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

A good reminder for us dads and moms too, to pay attention to our daughters, and our sons, because sons can be victims too.

 

I guess I am learning that not all songs from the 60’s put me in my happy place.

Now if you want to experience some of Kim’s anxiety, watch this video of Surfin’ Bird.  And you have to watch it until the end.

So don’t you shed a tear for me
I ain’t the love you thought I’d be
I’ve got a hundred more like you…
I’ll have a thousand ‘fore I’m through

(from For Lovin’ Me by Gordon Lightfoot)

And that, is a scary reality.

Ophelia Anxiety

Ophelia Anxiety

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Boards on the window, mail by the door
What would anybody leave so quickly for?
Ophelia
Where have you gone?

(from “Ophelia”)

 

“Ophelia” is a song written by Robbie Robertson, a member of The Band.  “Ophelia” was first released by the band called The Band on their 1975 album Northern Lights-Southern Cross.

If you are a fan of The Band, you know that Robbie Robertson passed away this past August 9, another sad loss.    If you grew into your teens in the late sixties and early 70’s, then music performed by The Band no doubt made up a part of the musical score of your growing up.  Whether it was the iconic Music From Big Pink in 1968 or the self-titled brown album, Stage Fright, or Cahoots or whichever, music by The Band was no doubt playing somewhere in your background.

 

But of course, this week we weren’t focused on an old tune by The Band named “Ophelia,” it was tropical storm Ophelia that got our attention in the Delmarva area, though the verse above seemed somewhat fitting for an impending storm.

 

I was still in bed Friday morning when Kim and I got the message via Messenger, a warning from my grandson Christian.

Christian is our family Hurricane Tracker.

I hadn’t planned on going anywhere this past weekend, and I hadn’t heard of any impending weather event.

But thanks to Christian I was made aware of a tropical storm named Ophelia heading towards the Chesapeake Bay.

I immediately went to the Woolford, Maryland weather forecast on the internet and read Woolford was smack in the middle of the Tropical Storm Warning.

Kim and I began to discuss our options as I pondered what to do.

Was there some unwritten rule that said you couldn’t let your almost 90-year-old mother fend for herself in a Tropical Storm?

I thought about the time I helped my dad put plywood over the windows on the river side of the house before a threatening hurricane came up the bay some years ago.

Then I remembered my dad paddling around the neighborhood when the water came up after Hurricane Isabel.

I envisioned the tide up over the bulkhead, the aluminum rowboat floating and banging up against the tree in the 70 mile an hour winds, and my 89-year-old mother out in knee deep water, her ninety-five-pound body getting knocked around in the white caps as she tried to secure the boat before it floated away…

Yeah, okay, so needless to say,  I got to packing.

 

So, after dinner on Friday evening after traffic died down but before the worst of storm arrived in our area, I headed out to the eastern shore to batten down the hatches and erase the image from my mind of my mother fending for herself in the floods, the wind, and the rain.

 

I have been in kind of a funk lately.

Summer is winding down, impending darkness in the coming weeks.

I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but it is not uncommon for me as the summer ends to get like this.  But then I heard of a theory worth serious consideration.

The Vice President of the United States introduced the threat of Climate Anxiety.

Yes, Climate Anxiety.

And according to the VP, it’s causing people to not want to have children and not want to buy houses.

Oh, my goodness, I thought.

That’s me!

That must be what I am suffering from.

I too don’t want to have any more children, but I actually attributed that to Daughter Anxiety but, maybe that is not so.

And I don’t want to buy any new houses either.

Yes, Climate Anxiety, I am sure that is the cause of my recent funk.

 

But, I digress.

So early Saturday morning I secured the four kayaks, the deck furniture, and the aluminum boat.  I took down the Steelers flag flying on the flagpole on the dock because the rope was fraying, and it was taking a serious beating. I didn’t want to lose it.

 

And then my mother and I settled in for whatever Ophelia was to deliver.

We watched the river.

We watched the wind intensity and direction in the trees and the flag.

We watched the weather on CNN.

We watched the Hallmark Channel.

We watched Fox News.

(That’s how I learned I had climate anxiety.)

And in the end, compared to other storms that visited in the past,

Ophelia was a yawner.

 

Ashes of laughter, the ghost is clear
Why do the best things always disappear
Like Ophelia
Please darken my door

(from “Ophelia”)

 

And I should say thankfully Ophelia was a yawner, because no one wants what could have been.

So, Sunday morning, three hours before high tide, with the water already over the dock, but comfortable that it wouldn’t get much worse, I dipped out and went back home.

I got to spend some time with my mother and was now able to substitute my daughter anxiety with the real culprit, climate anxiety.

Life was good again.

 

And speaking of daughter anxiety, I read this morning that yesterday was National Daughters Day.

Sorry guys, I missed another one.

But you know, I love you more than meatballs.

 

Postscript:

The happy photo of me and my little chickens above was taken many years ago, before they got together and traumatized me.

 

This is Christian’s Atlantic Ocean Hurricane tracking map (he has the Pacific too)
Sunday morning, three hours until high tide
Daughter anxiety

 

Ethan’s Guernica

Ethan’s Guernica

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On this day in 1981 Picasso’s Guernica, his anti-war mural, was returned to Spain after forty years of hanging in New York’s Museum of Modern Art.  Picasso had requested the painting not be returned to Spain until Spain restored democratic liberties in the country.

The subject of the mural was the brutal bombing of the town of Guernica in 1937, by the Nazi Luftwaffe, who were allies of Fransisco Franco’s right-wing Nationalist forces during the Spanish Civil War. Picasso was commissioned to paint the mural showing the horrors of war to be exhibited in the Spanish Pavilion at the Paris International Exposition in 1939.

 

Today is also Grandparent’s Day.

We didn’t have a Grandparent’s Day when I was a kid.  According to the internet, Grandparent’s Day was made official in 1978 as the first Sunday after Labor Day by then President Jimmy Carter.

I think relationships with my grandparents when I was young were a bit more formal than today. In fact, in my family, when we referred to them we always used their last name as in Grandma Rosch or Grandpa Christiansen.

All of my four grandparents lived in Oceanport, the town I grew up in.

I have written about my father’s parents, my Norwegian grandparents Sophie and Carl before.

My grandparents on my mother’s side (Rosch) lived right across the street.  Technically their address was Main Street but the back lots of their property were on Willow Court, the street I grew up on, and right across from my house.  My grandfather William H. Rosch however died in August of 1960 at the age of 75 when I was just four years old.

But I have nice memories growing up to adulthood with my three grandparents.

 

Kim and I are grandparents too now.

We have three grandsons, Cameron, Christian, and Ethan.  I have written about them many times as well. But maybe not so much about Ethan.

 

Ethan is six.

He is very headstrong and determined but gets a little frustrated at times.

Recently at school, he and his classmates were assigned the task of drawing a self-portrait.

Ethan also happens to be very good at drawing, a talent that seems to run in my family, my grandfather Carl was an oil painter, my father worked with pastels, and my siblings are talented artistically as well.

However, Ethan apparently didn’t approve of being assigned the task of drawing a self-portrait.

As a result, he took on the brutality and the horror of being asked to do such a thing in a very Picassoesque way.

So, as all the other kids in the class drew their images as you might expect them to, Ethan created his Guernica, expressing his raw feelings on the matter.

And as his proud grandfather, I thought it was brilliant.

Happy Grandparents Day!

The class self portraits, Ethan’s is top right
Isn’t he cute? He had his first baseball game this weekend.
Ethan’s Guernica
Picasso’s Guernica
Ethan, Cameron, and Christian