The high school I occupied during my pre-adult period was nearly ninety percent Jewish. When many of the more important Hebrew holidays were celebrated, like in September and October, they actually consolidated as many as three or four classes for any given subject into a single room. Even with that arrangement, I was one of only a tiny hand-full of students in there. We had a lot of fall study halls back then.

Chanukah was different because it usually seemed to coincide pretty closely with Christmas and everybody was off from school … even the kids that celebrated holidays with names most of us never heard of, until ‘political correctness’ came to town a few years later. In those days you were either a Christian or a Jew and nobody was offended by wishes of “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Chanukah,” even if you got it wrong. In my neighborhood, the Christmas tree and the Menorah lived side by side. Read the rest of this entry

As we prepare for Christmas, each in his own way, let us take just a moment to reflect upon all that we have … and why we get to keep it. This is from a Christmas card, from a friend.

by Lance Corporal James M. Schmidt

T’was the night before Christmas, he lived all alone
In a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney with presents to give
And to see just who in this home did live.
I looked all about, a strange sight I did see –
No Tinsel, no presents, not even a tree. Read the rest of this entry

Part of almost every guy’s wiring leads to the bone in his head that generates perpetual kidhood. A few somehow received only bone fragments and are old men by thirty, but I’m not interested in exceptions, only the rule. Most women’s wiring is more complex than ours and frequently shorts out at this level of operation, so I’ll leave them off the circuit board for a while, too … do not pass ‘go’, do not collect $200.  What I’m referring to are basic guy things like a fascination with flashing lights, digital readouts, switches that go click and cars that go fast!

Some guys can sit for hours, staring at row of colored lights with the same fascination a child has for the shiny new quarter his Read the rest of this entry

The high school I occupied during my pre-adult period was nearly ninety percent Jewish. When many of the more important Hebrew holidays were celebrated, like in September and October, they actually consolidated as many as three or four classes for any given subject into a single room. Even with that arrangement, I was one of only a tiny hand-full of students in there. We had a lot of fall study halls back then.

Chanukah was different because it usually seemed to coincide pretty closely with Christmas and everybody was off from school … even the kids that celebrated holidays with names most of us never heard of, until ‘political correctness’ came to town a few years later. In those days you were either a Christian Read the rest of this entry

This is as good as it gets — lying under the tree gazing up through the branches, soaking in rainbows of color that lead all the way back to my infinite kidhood. It has been my favorite way to look at a Christmas tree for as long as I can remember. Just because I’ve swapped the illusion of perpetual youth for a few wrinkles and a healthy dose of reality, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the same things that made my pulse pound before I started taking pills to slow it down.

Christmas is a magical time that transforms grownups into kids, kids into Martians and splashes a sometimes lackluster world with its own unique palette of color.  It’s a smudge of brown gravy on Mom’s ruffled apron, as she toils for hours preparing a sumptuous feast that’ll be gone in a twinkling — or old Uncle Albert poking a crooked finger at the golden crust of a fresh pumpkin pie, only to get it slapped by the baker. Color him curious!  It’s bright ribbons and pretty paper, the tree’s warm glow, the white of the snow and the candles in the window that look like little stars if you sort of squint your eyes.

Christmas is Dad’s orange necktie with the undulating hula dancer, that he accepts with a smile on his face but knows in his heart it will never again see the light of day.  It’s the blush of cold cheeks outside, a warm crackling fire inside. It’s a row of Santa stockings and striped candy canes hanging from an antique mantle — red and green sleepers on heavy-eyed children peering through gray frosted windows with anticipation. It’s also the blue of a heart that’s too far from home and the purple of loneliness when distance from loved ones is measured in more than just miles.

It’s an inky black sky, a brilliant star, the yellow straw of a stable, the weathered boards of a makeshift manger and the foggy breath of a donkey warming a small child.  It’s the silvery shimmer of angels, the colorful robes of three wise men and the dusty clothes of two worried young parents. It’s the white of the sheep and the blood of the shepherd shed for all mankind. These are the colors of Christmas.

While Christmas is for sharing with others, it’s also an intensely personal time — a time to turn inward and reflect upon our own lives.  It’s a time to take stock of where we’ve been and try to understand where we’re going.  We are naturally drawn together by the common bonds of love, peace and fellowship; bonds which were tied for us more than two thousand years ago.  Christmas is a starlit eve and a festive day — and it’s that eve and that day which historically renew man’s responses to truths which are eternal.

On this most remarkable of days there’s a universal feeling that transcends the problems of nations or stacks of unpaid bills, even personal differences.  For one day a year we’re at peace.  More than one person, more than one country, we’re one world.

As I behold this spectacle of tinsel and glass from the viewpoint of a package under the tree, I am reminded of the birthday we celebrate, the traditions that bring family and friends together, and the jolly old elf who keeps little boys on their best behavior at least a few weeks out of the year for fear they’ll get coal instead of candy in their carefully hung stockings.

When Vigi and I experienced a log home for the first time, I described it as feeling like a vacation and Christmas rolled into one. We needed to live in such a home. The desire to perpetuate that feeling throughout the year is noble — the reality of carrying it past the front door can be a bit loftier.

It is with these thoughts, both noble and lofty, that I wish you and those you love the colors of Christmas everyday. I wish you Christmas Rainbows!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

That year, I wanted a Lionel Santa Fe diesel for Christmas more than anything else in the world. Johnny Schumann and his dad had a train layout in their basement that was so big, they needed pop-up doors in the middle of it in case the train jumped the tracks … and right next to their three black steam locomotives and gray Erie switcher, ran a yellow Union Pacific diesel. They had some pretty cool stuff, but nowhere in sight was the silver and red of a Santa Fe!

It was a time when steam and electric engines were giving way to diesel power on the railroads. It was a time when trains meant as much to little kids as cars meant to big ones … and fast freights circling the tree meant Christmas to all kids. It was a time when I had reached that age of wondering if there really was a Santa Claus. Most of my friends thought it was silly to believe in some jolly fat man who flew through the air with a bunch of reindeer, but I was afraid not to. I mean, we all believed in Superman, right? What if Santa really did exist and I doubted him? I’d never get my Santa Fe diesel then! Geez, even the names were alike …

Besides, believing felt good. The anticipation of his arrival added a special tingle to the Christmas butterflies that already danced in every kid’s stomach. My friends and I had any number of intense, philosophical discussions on the subject, always with the same result. They stood against the red-suited elf and I was his staunch defender. I even talked it over with my parents but the evidence on both sides of the question was inconclusive. I had to know for sure, so I cunningly devised a test.

Mom and Dad went shopping frequently around Christmas but I knew they always stayed out longest when they went shopping for the tree. There was a time Dad used to wait until Christmas Eve “when the price was right,” as he used to say … but since it was now against the law for vendors to simply abandon their unsold inventory, we started getting our tree a little earlier and Dad became a little fussier. That would be the perfect time to really scour every nook and cranny of the house without fear of getting caught. A friend of mine said it was snooping. I preferred to think of it as conducting a sort of scientific experiment. After all, I wasn’t really hurting anything and it had become a matter of honor.

My criteria were simple: It was pretty close to Christmas and a Santa Fe diesel was a pretty big present, so they would have to buy the engine early enough to make sure they found exactly what I wanted. If I discovered it hidden somewhere, then I’d know for sure that my friends were right and Santa Claus was a fake. If I didn’t find it, and it showed up Christmas morning, chances are only the jolly old elf himself could have delivered it and I would have proof positive for all those nonbelievers at the playground.

The big day came when Mom and Dad went out to buy the tree. I really had to be thorough … after all, a lot was riding on my research. I started in the attic, working my way down through the coat closet and guest room all the way to the basement. No luck. I really had mixed feelings about what I was doing because, as determined as I was to find my present, that’s how much I hoped that I wouldn’t! I had looked everywhere. Almost.

I hadn’t looked in my parents’ room. That was off-limits … a mysterious place that I had mostly seen only from the doorway. It’s not like they ever told me not to go in there but I always kind of felt it was almost holy, for adults only. Maybe I got that impression because they usually closed the door when they went in there. Anyway, I was getting desperate and this was important. I ventured into the room and tip-toed silently around, peeking under this and inside that. I don’t know why I was being so quiet … it’s not like I was going to wake anyone up!

At last, there was only one place left, only one place in the whole house … their closet. A quick once-over revealed there was no engine at kid level so that just left the top shelf. I carefully positioned a chair, took off my shoes so as not to leave any evidence, peered over the shelf and poked around a little. There, half-hidden under a quilt was an oblong box that read “Lionel Lines” on the side. I had to be sure. The end was only folded shut. No tape. My heart was nearly pounding out of my chest as one-by-one I opened each flap … and revealed the shiny silver and red nose of a Santa Fe diesel! My momentary delight suddenly gave way to a dizzying sadness and I felt empty, like someone had let all the air out of me. The butterflies in my stomach formed a knot the size of a real locomotive … and I took one giant step out of kidhood. Simon Sez, “Grow up.”

Christmases were never quite the same after that for a very long time. Then one day, I found myself staring into a pair of teddy bear brown eyes and heard a small voice excitedly talking all about what Santa Claus was going to bring that night. We hung a fuzzy red stocking from the fireplace mantle and set out the obligatory glass of milk, plate of cookies and a couple of carrots for the reindeer. Then I tried to sleep.

In the morning, for the first time since I stood on that chair in my Mom and Dad’s closet, I felt the special tingle of Christmas butterflies dancing in my stomach … as the keeper of those eyes gleefully rushed a mountain of presents under the tree, and I realized that there is a Santa Claus after all. You just have to know where to find him.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

Hundreds of American flags surrounded the old brick town hall … to the right, to the left and all the way up the block as far as the eye could see. As I turned to lock my car, I realized the park across the street was filled with fluttering flags, too. Affixed to each flag’s standard was the name and picture of an American military hero from Monroe County who was either currently serving our country, or had made the supreme sacrifice in defense of freedom.

As I mounted the first step to the hall where the reception was being held, I was drawn to look one more time at the sea of red, white and blue behind me. Two thoughts elbowed their way past the vision of my friend and his new bride greeting me with broad smiles at the top of the stairs.

To begin with, a patriotic display like this wouldn’t be possible back home. Some malcontent who finds the symbol of our great nation offensive would show up with his fat wallet and fancy lawyer to rip it down, instead of simply averting his allegedly offended eyes. And speaking of things that offend, I couldn’t help but think how it sandpapers my skin to see occasions like the Fourth of July so heavily commercialized for profit or, even worse, re-defined to fit some political agenda … as are so many celebrations of American exceptionalism. The people in this area actually get it! No wonder the last time I returned from Tennessee I told my friends, “I just spent a week in America.”

Only a few days ago, a national figure seized upon the occasion of our nation’s birth to misrepresent The Statue of Liberty, herself, as a statue of immigration! Perhaps he was confused by Emma Lazarus’ poem which was added to the pedestal many years after Miss Liberty was erected.

In fact, The Statue stands for the freedom and democracy won during our revolutionary war … so much admired by the French that they gifted us with the great lady of the harbor as a sign of friendship in 1886. Like our flag, which has carried freedom forward to so many darkened corners of the world, her torch illuminates those corners and brings the light of hope to the oppressed. While she may often have been the first glorious sight for those seeking America’s opportunity, it is Ellis Island that was immigration’s front door until 1954.

As my long sleeved jacket and tight white collar generated more than a bead of perspiration in the summer sun, I imagined how stifling the room must have been in Philadelphia as John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, Robert R. Livingston and Roger Sherman hammered out the details of The Declaration of Independence in 1776. Parades, speeches, bedding sales and barbecues notwithstanding, think of the verbal fireworks at the Continental Congress, as our founding fathers lit the fuse for that first Fourth of July!

As I watched the field of flags waving in the summer sun, I reflected upon the sacrifices by all those who made it possible for me to be there that afternoon, without fear of reprisal for what I might say or do … made it possible to pass safely and unimpeded from state to state and shake the hand of a good friend beginning a new life.

We ate, drank and danced as a caring couple swore their devotion to each other before God, no matter what the future might bring. It reminded me of a group of caring patriots who pledged their lives, fortunes and sacred honor to a new nation a few hundred years ago. As I thought about the optimism of that couple and the dedication of those founders, I prayed that we would always have this great freedom to celebrate and a field of flags to tell the story of our resolve, no matter what the future might bring.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.