I grew up a firm believer... in Santa. When other friends had cast him aside or backslide into a lazy agnosticism, I still believed. Even when the evidence began to pile up against his existence, I felt that the evidence for was just too strong. Every time I aired my doubts to my parents, they had a scientific explanation. For example, after seeing Santa in two different malls, I asked, "How can Santa be in so many malls at the same time?" The answer was quick and decisive, "Santa is a very busy man so he hires helpers who report their findings back to him." I was fully satisfied in this answer. Here are a couple of incidents that re-affirmed my faith:
The first proof: One year, I don't remember which one, we were going to go to Missouri for Christmas to be with my mom's family. I was excited about that, but concerned about our own traditional family Christmas. We had no tree so we put red balls on a two foot tall evergreen houseplant. I have a vivid memory of sitting at the couch and looking wistfully at the only reminder of Christmas in our home. Even that small thing was enough to bring me joy. I wondered though, how would Santa know where to find us? Looking back, I am sure my parents were wondering how they would haul all of our presents all the way to Missouri and then all of the way back home.
The solution came on a Sunday. My dad did not come to mass with us that day. When we returned, we entered the house to a terrible racket. There was a loud banging and yelling coming from the basement. My dad was locked in the basement! He said that he had been waylaid by Santa, forced into the basement at gift point and locked in! We entered the living room, and there was the full spread of Christmas. According to my dad, Santa knew that we were going to Missouri and had come early to drop off our gifts. Truly, proof that Santa is omniscient. Some in my family have wondered why dad didn't just go out of the basement by the exterior door and use the key hidden in the garage and have brought up the fact that it is a simple matter to lock one's self in the basement. They are unreasonable skeptics. Clearly, Santa intended dad to stay in basement until the family returned and honored Santa's wishes by remaining obediently in the basement. I admire his sacrifice.
The second proof: We always left Santa a drink and some sugar cookies. He always consumed the offering and left a thank you note. I always thought that it was really cool that Santa's handwriting looked a lot like my mom's. Why was this sugar sacrifice such a strong proof? Well, my parents were and continue to be obsessive about cleaning. When we go over to their house for dinner, you have to watch your drink glass. If you leave it unattended for more than 120 seconds, it will be confiscated, washed, dried, and returned to cabinet, where you will have to retrieve it and refill it. Santa was a messy eater and always left a scattering of crumbs and a few leftovers. I reasoned that if my parents were Santa, then they would have wiped up the crumbs, put the dish in the dishwasher, and put the leftovers in a Ziploc. My parents could have never slept in a house with dirty dishes in it. The skeptics again answer this incontrovertible proof with the postulation that my dad, who always had to go downstairs before anyone else on Christmas morning to "check on things", could have easily made a quick mess and scribbled a quick note. A silly argument considering the basic fact that my father never ate anything in the morning before his bowl of Post Raisin Bran.
I must go and make arrangements for our broken car(s).
Peace
15 December 2005
14 December 2005
Encounters with Santa, Part One
Popular wisdom suggests that couples should discuss their expectations of family size before considering marriage. It is good advice. The popular wisdom, as usual, does not go quite far enough. Couples should also discuss approaches to child-rearing in as much detail as possible. Granted, pre-child wisdom about child-rearing goes right out the window as soon as your son bites your daughter hard enough to make a impression deep enough for the creation of a legally admissible plaster cast. Everything changes when you actually have children. If you have children then you know what I am talking about. If you don't have children then you think you know what I am talking about.
In particular, a couple should discuss Santa. My wife and I knew from before marriage that we disagreed on the subject but avoided examining the subject like one avoids looking at the crumb on the cheek of one's boss at a formal affair. My wife was raised to believe that belief in Santa was akin to Satan worship. I mean, one only has to move a few letters... Like a wolf in a fat man's clothing. I might be exaggerating a bit. Meanwhile, I was raised to believe that he was a supernaturally gifted man who delivered wonderful things to all the children of the world on Christmas day.
We were forced to address the issue when our boy was born almost five years ago. So we talked of other things, his eyes, his hands, his poop, and moved on. We have talked of other things in the almost five years since. In unspoken agreement, we have left the issue in a kind of salutary neglect. We have actively taught our children neither one thing nor the other. Family, friends, movies, TV, and school have done the rest. The result is that my boy is a believer, though not a devout one.
Yesterday, he came home late from a long day out. We never know what he will say when he is in an over tired state (last year he seemed to hearing voices in the wall). He told me that last year he had met Santa Claus. I, surprised at the revelation, asked him when and where such an event had occurred. He lacked details and ended with "Is that funny?" My wife and I did not discuss the conversation. I doubt that we will.
Peace
In particular, a couple should discuss Santa. My wife and I knew from before marriage that we disagreed on the subject but avoided examining the subject like one avoids looking at the crumb on the cheek of one's boss at a formal affair. My wife was raised to believe that belief in Santa was akin to Satan worship. I mean, one only has to move a few letters... Like a wolf in a fat man's clothing. I might be exaggerating a bit. Meanwhile, I was raised to believe that he was a supernaturally gifted man who delivered wonderful things to all the children of the world on Christmas day.
We were forced to address the issue when our boy was born almost five years ago. So we talked of other things, his eyes, his hands, his poop, and moved on. We have talked of other things in the almost five years since. In unspoken agreement, we have left the issue in a kind of salutary neglect. We have actively taught our children neither one thing nor the other. Family, friends, movies, TV, and school have done the rest. The result is that my boy is a believer, though not a devout one.
Yesterday, he came home late from a long day out. We never know what he will say when he is in an over tired state (last year he seemed to hearing voices in the wall). He told me that last year he had met Santa Claus. I, surprised at the revelation, asked him when and where such an event had occurred. He lacked details and ended with "Is that funny?" My wife and I did not discuss the conversation. I doubt that we will.
Peace
05 December 2005
Monday Miscellany: Bleeding Noses
On Saturday morning, my son woke us up crying from the hallway. He had awoken with a nose bleed, a common occurance for him in the winter. Later, I tried to teach him (again) how to blow his nose. He tried it and inhaled for so long that I thought he was going to pass out. He claimed that he was doing it. Then he went on to explain to me that one nostril is for breathing in and one is for breathing out. That is why we have two.
Tonight, just after his great aunt, Grandma J, and Grandad P left, he walked into a doorknob and began profusely bleeding from his right nostril. We don't think that it is broken. He always bleeds from his right nostril. I don't know if that is significant or not. I only cry from my right eye. Can you be right-eyed or right-nostriled like being right-handed?
My wife of ten years has cleaned up a lot of blood lately.
My wife informs me that my son asked her if Star Wars was real. Later, when she offered to let him watch Star Wars IV, he refused and said that he had to watch it with his daddy.
I previously commented on the use of "previously owned", "pre-owned", and "previously new" to describe used cars. I heard a new one on the radio the other day: "previously enjoyed". Brilliant!
The AJC (Atlanta Journal Constitution) is our one major newspaper. In general it is a generally poor affair (last month I read an article reporting on the large number of metro Atlanta students choosing to attend Georgia Southern University that claimed that GSU sits among rolling green hills!). That being said, they have done an above average job at integrating blogs into their online news. One that is particularly interesting (at least some times) is their education blog. Go here. It might require registration (I did say that the paper is generally poor).
Good news from Afghanistan! Al-Qaida #3 killed. From the article it is not clear how he was killed. That being said, I think we did it.
Peace
Tonight, just after his great aunt, Grandma J, and Grandad P left, he walked into a doorknob and began profusely bleeding from his right nostril. We don't think that it is broken. He always bleeds from his right nostril. I don't know if that is significant or not. I only cry from my right eye. Can you be right-eyed or right-nostriled like being right-handed?
My wife of ten years has cleaned up a lot of blood lately.
My wife informs me that my son asked her if Star Wars was real. Later, when she offered to let him watch Star Wars IV, he refused and said that he had to watch it with his daddy.
I previously commented on the use of "previously owned", "pre-owned", and "previously new" to describe used cars. I heard a new one on the radio the other day: "previously enjoyed". Brilliant!
The AJC (Atlanta Journal Constitution) is our one major newspaper. In general it is a generally poor affair (last month I read an article reporting on the large number of metro Atlanta students choosing to attend Georgia Southern University that claimed that GSU sits among rolling green hills!). That being said, they have done an above average job at integrating blogs into their online news. One that is particularly interesting (at least some times) is their education blog. Go here. It might require registration (I did say that the paper is generally poor).
Good news from Afghanistan! Al-Qaida #3 killed. From the article it is not clear how he was killed. That being said, I think we did it.
Peace
04 December 2005
X-Mas Boxes
Christmas has always been a special time of the year for my family. Strike that. Too cliche'. Christmas has always been the most wonderful time of the year for my family. Strike that. Too trite. Forget the introductory sentence. Let me get to it.
Yesterday, my little brood, led by my wife, put up a tree, and the four-year old boy and the two-year old girl decorated it with a minimum of fighting and a surplus of good cheer. Yes, only the lower half of the tree is decorated. Yes, several branches are about to snap from the weight of the four or five ornaments hanging from them. This despite the fact that the branches are metallic, an event that I never thought would take place in my home (years of " 'tis the seasonal" allergies and the introduction of children to the home has made me more realistic). Yes, my son tried to group the ornaments by theme only to be stymied by his sister.
I digress. My children are having a joyous Christmas season. They enjoy the daily Advent readings and prayer, if only in anticipation of blowing out the candle. My son's theological worldview continues to develop in its own unique way. Last night he explained that we celebrate Christmas as the birth of Jesus who came to save us from a meteor. I am sure this ties into theories of dinosaur extinction but am not quite sure how. They enjoy the daily opening of another day of the Lego Advent calendar (note to self: next year buy one for each child; I just went to the Lego website to get the link only to find that now they have Viking sets). They had a wonderful time with Grandma J. making sugar cookies and eating copious amounts of sugar. The boy has been making cards for all friends and family. It has been good.
I always remember my family Christmas seasons as a time of family, warmth, and the celebration of the birth of Christ. I hope that my children will have the same memories of Christmas when they grow up. One of the things that I have tried to become cautious of as my children have matured is my tendency to try to recreate my happy memories for my children. As a teacher I have frequently noticed this tendency in other parents . Parents tend to try to recreate their own childhood (or what they wished their childhood had been like) by pushing an agenda on their kids. Often, this explains the parents who spends $2,000 on their kid's prom or buys them a $50,000 car, or pushes them into a sport or other activity. It explains why Christian schools that stress modesty, humility, and stewardship maintain cheerleading programs and sponsor proms, programs and events that all too often contradict the principles of the school.
I have wandered far off trail. In setting up our tree, the duty of fetching the boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic over the garage fell to me. It is a dark, cold, and forbidding place. It reminded me of many past Christmas times. My parents kept (and may still keep) their Christmas decorations in "the hole". The hole is a pseudo-attic that can only be reached through the bonus room. A board a little over two feet by three feet can be removed from the wall, revealing a space that stretches the length of the bonus room. In the summer it is quite hot. In the winter it is quite cold. Opening the hole to retrieve the Christmas decorations always signaled to me the official beginning of the Christmas season. My dad would get a flashlight, and we would go up to the bonus room to bring down the Christmas decorations. Upon opening the hole, a blast of cold air that smelled, to me anyway, like Christmas would flow out. My dad's torso would disappear into the darkness of the hole and would return with various boxes filled with Christmas wonders marked, variously as "X-Mas", "Tree", "Christmas". At least one of the boxes was, for a while, a liquor box, not because my parents were big liquor drinkers but because my mom was an expert box scrounger. I would carry the boxes before me like holy relics to my mom who would decorate the house.
All of this came back to me as I was pulling the Christmas boxes out of the cold, dark attic. I tend to read deep symbolism into too many things, usually trivial. This year I moved into a new classroom. The previous teacher, who had left the school, had left nothing behind, or so I thought. In preparing for classes, I cleaned the white board. Shadows of the teacher's handwriting were all that remained. As I wiped the faded marks and the last physical reminder of the teacher's sojourn at the school from the board, I thought that there was something deeply sad about it.
The spirit of symbolism came over me while carrying the boxes into the house. There is something deeply important and beautiful about reaching into a dark, cold, dead place and pulling out a thing of abiding joy. Why else do we celebrate Christmas in the depths of winter? What greater thing does a dark, cold, dead world need than Light and Life? Why not, in the deadest part of the year, put an evergreen tree in our home but to remind us of life and ever-life?
My wife deserves hearty thanks for her work in preparing the house for our Christmas decor and for assembling the tree despite the help of the little ones.
Peace
Yesterday, my little brood, led by my wife, put up a tree, and the four-year old boy and the two-year old girl decorated it with a minimum of fighting and a surplus of good cheer. Yes, only the lower half of the tree is decorated. Yes, several branches are about to snap from the weight of the four or five ornaments hanging from them. This despite the fact that the branches are metallic, an event that I never thought would take place in my home (years of " 'tis the seasonal" allergies and the introduction of children to the home has made me more realistic). Yes, my son tried to group the ornaments by theme only to be stymied by his sister.
I digress. My children are having a joyous Christmas season. They enjoy the daily Advent readings and prayer, if only in anticipation of blowing out the candle. My son's theological worldview continues to develop in its own unique way. Last night he explained that we celebrate Christmas as the birth of Jesus who came to save us from a meteor. I am sure this ties into theories of dinosaur extinction but am not quite sure how. They enjoy the daily opening of another day of the Lego Advent calendar (note to self: next year buy one for each child; I just went to the Lego website to get the link only to find that now they have Viking sets). They had a wonderful time with Grandma J. making sugar cookies and eating copious amounts of sugar. The boy has been making cards for all friends and family. It has been good.
I always remember my family Christmas seasons as a time of family, warmth, and the celebration of the birth of Christ. I hope that my children will have the same memories of Christmas when they grow up. One of the things that I have tried to become cautious of as my children have matured is my tendency to try to recreate my happy memories for my children. As a teacher I have frequently noticed this tendency in other parents . Parents tend to try to recreate their own childhood (or what they wished their childhood had been like) by pushing an agenda on their kids. Often, this explains the parents who spends $2,000 on their kid's prom or buys them a $50,000 car, or pushes them into a sport or other activity. It explains why Christian schools that stress modesty, humility, and stewardship maintain cheerleading programs and sponsor proms, programs and events that all too often contradict the principles of the school.
I have wandered far off trail. In setting up our tree, the duty of fetching the boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic over the garage fell to me. It is a dark, cold, and forbidding place. It reminded me of many past Christmas times. My parents kept (and may still keep) their Christmas decorations in "the hole". The hole is a pseudo-attic that can only be reached through the bonus room. A board a little over two feet by three feet can be removed from the wall, revealing a space that stretches the length of the bonus room. In the summer it is quite hot. In the winter it is quite cold. Opening the hole to retrieve the Christmas decorations always signaled to me the official beginning of the Christmas season. My dad would get a flashlight, and we would go up to the bonus room to bring down the Christmas decorations. Upon opening the hole, a blast of cold air that smelled, to me anyway, like Christmas would flow out. My dad's torso would disappear into the darkness of the hole and would return with various boxes filled with Christmas wonders marked, variously as "X-Mas", "Tree", "Christmas". At least one of the boxes was, for a while, a liquor box, not because my parents were big liquor drinkers but because my mom was an expert box scrounger. I would carry the boxes before me like holy relics to my mom who would decorate the house.
All of this came back to me as I was pulling the Christmas boxes out of the cold, dark attic. I tend to read deep symbolism into too many things, usually trivial. This year I moved into a new classroom. The previous teacher, who had left the school, had left nothing behind, or so I thought. In preparing for classes, I cleaned the white board. Shadows of the teacher's handwriting were all that remained. As I wiped the faded marks and the last physical reminder of the teacher's sojourn at the school from the board, I thought that there was something deeply sad about it.
The spirit of symbolism came over me while carrying the boxes into the house. There is something deeply important and beautiful about reaching into a dark, cold, dead place and pulling out a thing of abiding joy. Why else do we celebrate Christmas in the depths of winter? What greater thing does a dark, cold, dead world need than Light and Life? Why not, in the deadest part of the year, put an evergreen tree in our home but to remind us of life and ever-life?
My wife deserves hearty thanks for her work in preparing the house for our Christmas decor and for assembling the tree despite the help of the little ones.
Peace
02 December 2005
Coke: $4,000 a Bottle!
The following comes from Ernie Pyle's Brave Men (pages 110-111). He humorously describes the World War II Italian campaign and the ways in which the troops tried to dispose of their extra cash.
My regiment ran a lottery, and the grand prize was a bottle of Coca-Cola.
It all started when a former member, then back in the States—Pfc. Frederick Williams of Daytona Beach, Florida—sent two bottles of coke to two of his old buddies—Corporal Victor Glover of Daytona Beach and Master Sergeant Woodrow Daniels of Jacksonville, Florida. Nobody in the outfit had seen Coca-Cola in more than a year. The recipients drank one of the bottles and then began having ideas about the other. At last they decided to put it up in a raffle, and use the proceeds to care for children whose fathers had been killed serving in the regiment. The boys hoped the Coca-Cola company would match whatever amount they raised.
The lottery was announced in the little mimeographed newspaper, and chances on the coke were put on sale at twenty-five cents apiece. Before the end of the first week the cash box had more than $1,000 in it. The money came in quarters, dollars, shillings, pounds, francs and lire. They had to appoint a committee to administer the affair. At the end of the third week the fund exceeded $3,000.
Then Private Lamyl Yancey, of Harlan, Kentucky, got a miniature bottle of Coca-Cola and he put it up as second prize. Just before the grand drawing the fund reached $4,000. All the slips were put in a German shell case, and the brigade commander drew out two numbers.
The winner and new champion was Sergeant William de Schneider of Hackensack, New Jersey. The miniature bottle went to Sergeant Lawrence Presnell of Fayetteville, North Carolina. Sergeant de Schneider was appalled by what had happened to him. That one coke was equal in value to eighty thousand bottles back home. “I don’t think I care to drink a $4,000 bottle,” he said. “I think I’ll send it home and keep it a few years.”
The Rome radio picked up the item, completely distorted it, and used it for home-front propaganda. The way it came out was that our soldiers were so short of supplies they were paying as high as $10,000 for just one bottle of Coca-Cola. Not only did they give the story completely false meaning, but they deftly added $6,000 to the kitty. Well, that’s one way to fight a war.
The "spin" of war news has not changed. The only difference is that during World War II it was the enemy press "spinning" the news to make it look like we are losing. Today, it is our own.
As for me, I wonder what happened to the $4,000 coke.
Peace
My regiment ran a lottery, and the grand prize was a bottle of Coca-Cola.
It all started when a former member, then back in the States—Pfc. Frederick Williams of Daytona Beach, Florida—sent two bottles of coke to two of his old buddies—Corporal Victor Glover of Daytona Beach and Master Sergeant Woodrow Daniels of Jacksonville, Florida. Nobody in the outfit had seen Coca-Cola in more than a year. The recipients drank one of the bottles and then began having ideas about the other. At last they decided to put it up in a raffle, and use the proceeds to care for children whose fathers had been killed serving in the regiment. The boys hoped the Coca-Cola company would match whatever amount they raised.
The lottery was announced in the little mimeographed newspaper, and chances on the coke were put on sale at twenty-five cents apiece. Before the end of the first week the cash box had more than $1,000 in it. The money came in quarters, dollars, shillings, pounds, francs and lire. They had to appoint a committee to administer the affair. At the end of the third week the fund exceeded $3,000.
Then Private Lamyl Yancey, of Harlan, Kentucky, got a miniature bottle of Coca-Cola and he put it up as second prize. Just before the grand drawing the fund reached $4,000. All the slips were put in a German shell case, and the brigade commander drew out two numbers.
The winner and new champion was Sergeant William de Schneider of Hackensack, New Jersey. The miniature bottle went to Sergeant Lawrence Presnell of Fayetteville, North Carolina. Sergeant de Schneider was appalled by what had happened to him. That one coke was equal in value to eighty thousand bottles back home. “I don’t think I care to drink a $4,000 bottle,” he said. “I think I’ll send it home and keep it a few years.”
The Rome radio picked up the item, completely distorted it, and used it for home-front propaganda. The way it came out was that our soldiers were so short of supplies they were paying as high as $10,000 for just one bottle of Coca-Cola. Not only did they give the story completely false meaning, but they deftly added $6,000 to the kitty. Well, that’s one way to fight a war.
The "spin" of war news has not changed. The only difference is that during World War II it was the enemy press "spinning" the news to make it look like we are losing. Today, it is our own.
As for me, I wonder what happened to the $4,000 coke.
Peace
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