The year is almost over and radio stations are playing the top 2,009 songs. We get an opportunity to fool ourselves for a few weeks – a few months for the really committed ones. We do this by making public proclamations regarding matters normally discussed only with family and friends. Most everyone feels it would be easier to change someone else other than themselves, but that’s what marriage is for.
New Year’s resolutions know no limits, only that you promise to do more of what is good and less of what is bad. No one resolves to become obese, start smoking, or to give into violent mood swings. I suspect that most people are sincere in their belief that they can change for the better – it certainly beats admitting they are doomed to hanging on to habits that have taken years to develop.
In the past I made resolutions for the New Year under duress. I had not thought of any thing ahead of time and didn’t want to appear smug when quizzed about empty promises. This was more to do with my unwillingness to set goals than my candidacy for sainthood – which, according to good authority, is not forthcoming.
Now instead of telling people I plan on living as a monk for the next year, I explain that because I am unsure where to begin I do nothing. I then ask for their suggestions as to what they would like to see changed in me for the New Year. Then I return the favor. This exchange can turn rather heated even among the closest friends.
But, for most people January 1 allows them to improve their life, or at least themselves. People resolve to do this, and not do that. This time of year is a warm-up for the Lenten season. Lots of people “give up,” some trait, habit or vice for Lent. I want to believe that the success rate is higher during Lent as God has been made a party to the contract.
Resolutions are considered to be more serious if they are made public. Supposedly if more people are made aware of your promises you are more likely to keep them. I think if more people are nosing their way into your life you are more likely to get crabby.
To test that theory I am willing to go public with my resolutions for the new year. Some of these I have no intention of keeping and I only include them as a way to honor the tradition of trying to improve myself, at least for a few weeks.
I resolve to:
• Lose more hair
• Improve my memory.
• Lose weight and not find it again – my friend Chuck says that is the problem with most diets. I say the problem with most diets is that you can’t eat as much as you want of the things you like.
• Watch better quality TV. This of course means I will watch less TV.
• Read more (especially The Bible).
• Restore my brother’s VW Bug (which I’m sure will cause me to swear more).
• Swear less (the Bug restoration may take longer this way).
• Improve my memory. I know – that was poor.
• Write my columns any other time than right before the deadline.
• Pray more – other than in church and at meal time.
The new year gives us a chance to make a choice: improve or implode. If you don’t change anything – the record skips and replays your mistakes. But if things couldn’t possibly get any better, dance the night away.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Letter to Santa
Dear Santa,
How have you been? I’m sorry it’s been such a long time (like maybe three or four decades) since I wrote you. I feel like we’ve lost touch. It’s my fault.
I bought into the “it’s your parents,” myth a long time ago. Both my parents are gone now, and yet I still get stuff in my stocking (which is hung by the chimney with care). I’m sorry I ever stopped believing in you. Please forgive me.
By turning our backs on you, we lose more than just childhood innocence; we also lose a part of ourselves – the part that wants to believe in the unseen, the magic of life. Thomas Nast, Francis P. Church, Clement Clark Moore (although some say Henry Livingston), Arthur Rankin and Jules Bass were men who still believed in you. So you see I am in good company.
I’m not even sure what name you prefer anymore. Do I still call you Santa Claus, or something more reverent like St. Nicholas, or St. Nick to be more familiar? Should I refer to you as Kris Kringle? It’s the same feeling I get when addressing former teachers or parents of my childhood friends – when is it permissible to just call you Kris? Every year you and I grow closer in age, because although you are ageless, I am not.
Do you still make a list? I know for awhile my name was inked on the “naughty” side of the ledger. Hopefully I’m on the “nice” side now – check it twice please. I’ve tried really hard to be a good man, but maybe I’m fooling myself. Santa, you see the real person behind our public portrait; you know when we’ve been bad or good.
I’ve seen you around town these past few weeks, particularly at the malls. The lines of people waiting to see you were too long, and I didn’t have that much time. A middle-aged man waiting by himself to see Santa would attract too much attention anyway.
I’m sure you aware of the push by some people with too much time on their hands. They are demanding that you lose some weight, throw away your pipe, and eat a more balanced diet (fewer cookies and more vegetables). Don’t let them get to you; be yourself. Nobody likes a skinny Santa.
I don’t even have a “wish list.” I can’t think of anything I need so you don’t have to bring me anything, but if you insist – surprise me. But, as I think about it I guess there is one thing I would really like. Please bring me a clock that keeps time. I don’t mean keeping the correct time, I want a clock that stores time, tucking it away where a special moment can be relived. With such a clock time would neither be wasted nor lost. It’s not as lofty a desire as shoelaces that stay tied – which I’m not sure even your talented elves could create. All I want is my fair share.
There are so many questions I have for you. Do you need snow to get the job done? If a little is good, is a lot better? What’s your favorite Christmas movie? Do you use a Star to guide you?
Write when you can, and please stop in and see me if you get a chance. On Christmas Eve I may step out for a few minutes with my kids to look at the Christmas lights. If I should be gone when you visit, help yourself to the cookies and milk. Happy Christmas, Santa wherever you are.
How have you been? I’m sorry it’s been such a long time (like maybe three or four decades) since I wrote you. I feel like we’ve lost touch. It’s my fault.
I bought into the “it’s your parents,” myth a long time ago. Both my parents are gone now, and yet I still get stuff in my stocking (which is hung by the chimney with care). I’m sorry I ever stopped believing in you. Please forgive me.
By turning our backs on you, we lose more than just childhood innocence; we also lose a part of ourselves – the part that wants to believe in the unseen, the magic of life. Thomas Nast, Francis P. Church, Clement Clark Moore (although some say Henry Livingston), Arthur Rankin and Jules Bass were men who still believed in you. So you see I am in good company.
I’m not even sure what name you prefer anymore. Do I still call you Santa Claus, or something more reverent like St. Nicholas, or St. Nick to be more familiar? Should I refer to you as Kris Kringle? It’s the same feeling I get when addressing former teachers or parents of my childhood friends – when is it permissible to just call you Kris? Every year you and I grow closer in age, because although you are ageless, I am not.
Do you still make a list? I know for awhile my name was inked on the “naughty” side of the ledger. Hopefully I’m on the “nice” side now – check it twice please. I’ve tried really hard to be a good man, but maybe I’m fooling myself. Santa, you see the real person behind our public portrait; you know when we’ve been bad or good.
I’ve seen you around town these past few weeks, particularly at the malls. The lines of people waiting to see you were too long, and I didn’t have that much time. A middle-aged man waiting by himself to see Santa would attract too much attention anyway.
I’m sure you aware of the push by some people with too much time on their hands. They are demanding that you lose some weight, throw away your pipe, and eat a more balanced diet (fewer cookies and more vegetables). Don’t let them get to you; be yourself. Nobody likes a skinny Santa.
I don’t even have a “wish list.” I can’t think of anything I need so you don’t have to bring me anything, but if you insist – surprise me. But, as I think about it I guess there is one thing I would really like. Please bring me a clock that keeps time. I don’t mean keeping the correct time, I want a clock that stores time, tucking it away where a special moment can be relived. With such a clock time would neither be wasted nor lost. It’s not as lofty a desire as shoelaces that stay tied – which I’m not sure even your talented elves could create. All I want is my fair share.
There are so many questions I have for you. Do you need snow to get the job done? If a little is good, is a lot better? What’s your favorite Christmas movie? Do you use a Star to guide you?
Write when you can, and please stop in and see me if you get a chance. On Christmas Eve I may step out for a few minutes with my kids to look at the Christmas lights. If I should be gone when you visit, help yourself to the cookies and milk. Happy Christmas, Santa wherever you are.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Grandma's House
The other day my wife, Rhonda, and I invited some friends to our house. Some of them brought their kids with them, which was fine – I told them they could. I just wasn’t prepared for the all of the “touching my stuff,” that little kids do.
They were quite cute and reasonably well-behaved, but I became ruffled and restless as the evening wore on. I closed cabinet doors after they opened them, put things down when they had picked them up, asked them not to do this and please don’t do that. I just couldn’t enjoy myself, and I couldn’t help myself.
After they finally got tired and went back home to trash their own house, one of my friends told me I had been acting like “an old lady.” In my experience old men are generally pricklier than old women, so perhaps he was being kind in his criticism.
The two old ladies I knew best were my grandmothers. They wore glasses and had gray hair. Both of them sported the layered look in their kitchen – aprons over dresses. When they went out they usually wore hats decorated with netting, ribbons and jewelry. At the time it was considered fashionable.
Grandma O’Meara had a coat with two dead animals on the collar. They may have been foxes, or they could have been weasels, but whatever they were they always gave me quite a start when I bumped into them while playing in her large hall closet. I imagine C.S. Lewis might have had a grandmother who allowed him to play in her wardrobe.
Grandma O’Meara was a sturdy woman who had taught children their lessons in a one-room school house. Katie, as she was known to her friends, laughed, played games, enjoyed baseball, and always had time for her grandchildren.
Her home was like a giant playhouse. There I was free to use my imagination. Sometimes the second floor would become a ship, with the ground floor playing the part of the ocean; other times the upper floor was used along with the rest of the house in a game of hide and seek. The only rooms that were off limits were Grandma’s bedroom and her sewing room. But you were welcome to walk in if she was there.
Grandma Kucera’s home was not a playhouse, it was more like a rest home. Children were not allowed to roam freely. They were to sit quietly on the plastic covered couch and listen to the adult conversation.
After an eternity of sitting still a choice of activities was offered – escape to play in the yard, or entertain yourself with the box of worn-out, lifeless toys stored upstairs. But children weren’t allowed upstairs; not even just to get the box. That wasn’t permitted; the box would be brought down for them.
Grandma Kucera was known as the best cook in Le Sueur County. Emma, a name I learned after her death, was much more at home in her kitchen than playing house with her grandchildren.
My own children may, Lord willing, have children of their own someday, and I hope they bring them over to play house with me. I could read to them, maybe play a game of hide and seek.
Everyone’s got a favorite grandmother or grandfather, whether they are on your aunt or uncle’s side. Grandma O’Meara got older, but she never acted like an old lady. I have a lot to learn – I’m aging everyday, I just don’t want to become a crabby old man, and certainly not a cranky old lady. That would be weird.
They were quite cute and reasonably well-behaved, but I became ruffled and restless as the evening wore on. I closed cabinet doors after they opened them, put things down when they had picked them up, asked them not to do this and please don’t do that. I just couldn’t enjoy myself, and I couldn’t help myself.
After they finally got tired and went back home to trash their own house, one of my friends told me I had been acting like “an old lady.” In my experience old men are generally pricklier than old women, so perhaps he was being kind in his criticism.
The two old ladies I knew best were my grandmothers. They wore glasses and had gray hair. Both of them sported the layered look in their kitchen – aprons over dresses. When they went out they usually wore hats decorated with netting, ribbons and jewelry. At the time it was considered fashionable.
Grandma O’Meara had a coat with two dead animals on the collar. They may have been foxes, or they could have been weasels, but whatever they were they always gave me quite a start when I bumped into them while playing in her large hall closet. I imagine C.S. Lewis might have had a grandmother who allowed him to play in her wardrobe.
Grandma O’Meara was a sturdy woman who had taught children their lessons in a one-room school house. Katie, as she was known to her friends, laughed, played games, enjoyed baseball, and always had time for her grandchildren.
Her home was like a giant playhouse. There I was free to use my imagination. Sometimes the second floor would become a ship, with the ground floor playing the part of the ocean; other times the upper floor was used along with the rest of the house in a game of hide and seek. The only rooms that were off limits were Grandma’s bedroom and her sewing room. But you were welcome to walk in if she was there.
Grandma Kucera’s home was not a playhouse, it was more like a rest home. Children were not allowed to roam freely. They were to sit quietly on the plastic covered couch and listen to the adult conversation.
After an eternity of sitting still a choice of activities was offered – escape to play in the yard, or entertain yourself with the box of worn-out, lifeless toys stored upstairs. But children weren’t allowed upstairs; not even just to get the box. That wasn’t permitted; the box would be brought down for them.
Grandma Kucera was known as the best cook in Le Sueur County. Emma, a name I learned after her death, was much more at home in her kitchen than playing house with her grandchildren.
My own children may, Lord willing, have children of their own someday, and I hope they bring them over to play house with me. I could read to them, maybe play a game of hide and seek.
Everyone’s got a favorite grandmother or grandfather, whether they are on your aunt or uncle’s side. Grandma O’Meara got older, but she never acted like an old lady. I have a lot to learn – I’m aging everyday, I just don’t want to become a crabby old man, and certainly not a cranky old lady. That would be weird.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Christmas Gifts
Do kids still ask Santa to bring them a puppy or kitten for Christmas? Or has the age of electronics replaced that Christmas wish?
One year my older brother, Dan, got a puppy as either a Christmas gift or an Easter present. It must have been Easter because Santa wears glasses to correct short-sightedness.
Soon the puppy grew into a large collie. Apparently this eventuality was not considered prior to the presentation of the Easter gift basket. Before the dog was one year old it was decided that a big dog didn’t belong in town. What a surprise - who saw that coming? Stupid Easter Bunny - what was he (or she) thinking? The dog was given to a family that lived on a farm. Perhaps the dog was presented as a gift.
Return lines that stretch from December 26th into the next year provide plenty of proof that many gifts are neither perfect nor loved. I once received a gift of food that was so ancient the expiration date was printed on papyrus. As I carefully handled the thoughtful and expensive gift the giver explained her reasoning. “I was going to throw it out and then I thought why not give it to you.” Without a gift receipt I could only share my good fortune with my two chickens, Sam and Ella.
However, this was not the first time that I was given food as a gift. I have happily received cashews, peanuts (both blanched and unblanched), and fruit. I also got a potato for Christmas one year.
The uncooked potato was placed under the tree for me by Santa when I was about eight years old. I have not trusted that corpulent Kris Kringle since then.
The year leading up to that Christmas had been a difficult one for me and my parents. I, being the middle child, took the brunt of their wrath. I am more than willing to shoulder my share of that burden – but let’s look at the facts.
Elevators have buttons to push when you want to summon one. Why shouldn’t the same logic apply to escalators? Mom and Dad, along with my two brothers and two sisters were Christmas shopping at Southdale. Having lost interest in hiding under the dress racks, and no longer able to find cigarette butts to drop on the heads of unsuspecting shoppers, I did a little exploring.
Just slightly underneath the curve of the railing at the base of an escalator (1967 model year) was a button that if pressed would stop the machine. On some of the later models it is labeled EMERGENCY STOP BUTTON.
I pushed it and the escalator stopped moving. A second panicked push did not restart it. Immediately my father was at my side.
“What happened?” he growled.
“I don’t know, I just pushed this button,” I explained as I crouched down to show him. My crouching had a two-fold purpose. I could more comfortably point to the button, and from this position it was impossible to spank me.
Now that the escalator had been magically transformed into stairs the stranded shoppers looked to my father for guidance.
“Now what are we supposed to do?” whined one lady.
“Walk,” Dad replied.
Now that I’m 50 I take the stairs whenever I can. I will also go on walks with Buddy, our Black Lab/Great Dane mix. When we got him a year ago he was already full-grown at over one-hundred pounds with his head at kitchen table height. We live in the country, where there is plenty of room for a dog of any size.
One year my older brother, Dan, got a puppy as either a Christmas gift or an Easter present. It must have been Easter because Santa wears glasses to correct short-sightedness.
Soon the puppy grew into a large collie. Apparently this eventuality was not considered prior to the presentation of the Easter gift basket. Before the dog was one year old it was decided that a big dog didn’t belong in town. What a surprise - who saw that coming? Stupid Easter Bunny - what was he (or she) thinking? The dog was given to a family that lived on a farm. Perhaps the dog was presented as a gift.
Return lines that stretch from December 26th into the next year provide plenty of proof that many gifts are neither perfect nor loved. I once received a gift of food that was so ancient the expiration date was printed on papyrus. As I carefully handled the thoughtful and expensive gift the giver explained her reasoning. “I was going to throw it out and then I thought why not give it to you.” Without a gift receipt I could only share my good fortune with my two chickens, Sam and Ella.
However, this was not the first time that I was given food as a gift. I have happily received cashews, peanuts (both blanched and unblanched), and fruit. I also got a potato for Christmas one year.
The uncooked potato was placed under the tree for me by Santa when I was about eight years old. I have not trusted that corpulent Kris Kringle since then.
The year leading up to that Christmas had been a difficult one for me and my parents. I, being the middle child, took the brunt of their wrath. I am more than willing to shoulder my share of that burden – but let’s look at the facts.
Elevators have buttons to push when you want to summon one. Why shouldn’t the same logic apply to escalators? Mom and Dad, along with my two brothers and two sisters were Christmas shopping at Southdale. Having lost interest in hiding under the dress racks, and no longer able to find cigarette butts to drop on the heads of unsuspecting shoppers, I did a little exploring.
Just slightly underneath the curve of the railing at the base of an escalator (1967 model year) was a button that if pressed would stop the machine. On some of the later models it is labeled EMERGENCY STOP BUTTON.
I pushed it and the escalator stopped moving. A second panicked push did not restart it. Immediately my father was at my side.
“What happened?” he growled.
“I don’t know, I just pushed this button,” I explained as I crouched down to show him. My crouching had a two-fold purpose. I could more comfortably point to the button, and from this position it was impossible to spank me.
Now that the escalator had been magically transformed into stairs the stranded shoppers looked to my father for guidance.
“Now what are we supposed to do?” whined one lady.
“Walk,” Dad replied.
Now that I’m 50 I take the stairs whenever I can. I will also go on walks with Buddy, our Black Lab/Great Dane mix. When we got him a year ago he was already full-grown at over one-hundred pounds with his head at kitchen table height. We live in the country, where there is plenty of room for a dog of any size.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Christmas Trees
I was doing some shopping the other day when a Christmas tree grabbed my attention. It wasn’t particularly large, but it was quite striking in its radiance. It was blue – not a blue spruce – but a blue aluminum tree.
There is nothing like an aluminum tree to brighten up a room. With the advent of ... well, Advent, people are rearranging their homes to accommodate a tree in the corner. This time of year you see mini-vans driving home from a successful hunt with a tree tied to their roof.
Forty years ago phony Christmas trees looked phony – there was no pretense. Some people even “flocked” their trees (which doesn’t sound very religious at all) to make them look like they just dragged them through a blizzard. I could be talked out of this, but I think we had a real Christmas tree when I was a kid.
Every year Dad would get into the spirit of the season by wrestling with a tree. He would lug the tree through the rarely used front door, knocking over lamps and spreading needles as he went. I have warm memories of him throwing his glasses across the room after they had been bent by a contrary conifer.
For the first few years of our marriage my wife and I had joined the artificial tree class. I think it was because we were given someone’s rejected artificial tree. Charlie Brown would have taken it because he felt it needed him. We took it because it was free. But all the while we tried to convince ourselves that “it looks real doesn’t it?” We eventually decided the tree was too ugly and gave it to the Browns.
We usually buy a tree from the Boy Scouts here in town; I then lay it in the back of the truck. I try to avoid tying things down because my knot tying skills are not what they should be. But some years we have cut down our own – not at a tree farm – but on our own place. Unless you live on a tree farm, this practice doesn’t last very long.
I will drag the real tree through the house and purposely bump into a lamp to honor an old family tradition. My kids usually wait for the ceremonial throwing of the glasses before they retreat upstairs. A good year is measured by the amount of cuss words (or magic words as my father-in-law, Wayne, called them) I use in my fight with the tree.
My Christmas tree cage match costume is a hooded sweatshirt to protect against needles jumping down my back, gloves to ward off the stickiness of the sap, and lopping shears to attack the tree.
Over the years I have put up many Christmas trees. It’s easier to put them up before they are decorated with heirloom ornaments, garland and light – but I’ve done that as well, sometimes two or three times with the same tree.
Some people find aluminum loathsome, but I think it can be quite handsome. Mixed in with a drum and a dancing sugarplum, aluminum in the atrium can give a warm welcome.
Occasionally I like to mix things up, and I think something new, something blue might do the trick. You know what I’m talking about - even Elvis promoted a “Blue Christmas.” I realize a blue tree might be closer to creating an image found in a Warhol pop print than an American classic Christmas found in a Rockwell painting, but just once I would like to put up a tree that shines like a star.
There is nothing like an aluminum tree to brighten up a room. With the advent of ... well, Advent, people are rearranging their homes to accommodate a tree in the corner. This time of year you see mini-vans driving home from a successful hunt with a tree tied to their roof.
Forty years ago phony Christmas trees looked phony – there was no pretense. Some people even “flocked” their trees (which doesn’t sound very religious at all) to make them look like they just dragged them through a blizzard. I could be talked out of this, but I think we had a real Christmas tree when I was a kid.
Every year Dad would get into the spirit of the season by wrestling with a tree. He would lug the tree through the rarely used front door, knocking over lamps and spreading needles as he went. I have warm memories of him throwing his glasses across the room after they had been bent by a contrary conifer.
For the first few years of our marriage my wife and I had joined the artificial tree class. I think it was because we were given someone’s rejected artificial tree. Charlie Brown would have taken it because he felt it needed him. We took it because it was free. But all the while we tried to convince ourselves that “it looks real doesn’t it?” We eventually decided the tree was too ugly and gave it to the Browns.
We usually buy a tree from the Boy Scouts here in town; I then lay it in the back of the truck. I try to avoid tying things down because my knot tying skills are not what they should be. But some years we have cut down our own – not at a tree farm – but on our own place. Unless you live on a tree farm, this practice doesn’t last very long.
I will drag the real tree through the house and purposely bump into a lamp to honor an old family tradition. My kids usually wait for the ceremonial throwing of the glasses before they retreat upstairs. A good year is measured by the amount of cuss words (or magic words as my father-in-law, Wayne, called them) I use in my fight with the tree.
My Christmas tree cage match costume is a hooded sweatshirt to protect against needles jumping down my back, gloves to ward off the stickiness of the sap, and lopping shears to attack the tree.
Over the years I have put up many Christmas trees. It’s easier to put them up before they are decorated with heirloom ornaments, garland and light – but I’ve done that as well, sometimes two or three times with the same tree.
Some people find aluminum loathsome, but I think it can be quite handsome. Mixed in with a drum and a dancing sugarplum, aluminum in the atrium can give a warm welcome.
Occasionally I like to mix things up, and I think something new, something blue might do the trick. You know what I’m talking about - even Elvis promoted a “Blue Christmas.” I realize a blue tree might be closer to creating an image found in a Warhol pop print than an American classic Christmas found in a Rockwell painting, but just once I would like to put up a tree that shines like a star.
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