Christmas Lore and a Christmas Quiz

It was believed that good spirits lived in the branches of holly. Christians believed that the berries had been white before they were turned red by Christ's blood when he was made to wear the crown of thorns.

Ivy was associated with the Roman god Bacchus and was not allowed by the Church as decoration until later in the middle ages, when a superstition arose that it could help recognize witches and protect against plague.

Mistletoe was used as a sign of love and friendship in Norse mythology. The tradition of kissing under the mistletoe started during the festival of Saturnalia and later in marriage ceremonies because of the plant's association with fertility. During the Roman era, enemies at war would reconcile their differences under the mistletoe, which represented peace.

Boxing Day is so named because it is linked to an older English tradition: since servants would have to wait on their employers on Christmas Day, the servants were allowed to take the next day to visit their families. The employers would give each servant a box to take home containing gifts, bonuses and sometimes leftover food.

Yule Log: The Druids would bless a log and keep it burning for 12 days during the winter solstice. Part of the log was kept for the following year, when it would be used to light the new yule log. For the Vikings, the yule log was an integral part of their celebration of the solstice, the julfest; on the log they would carve runes representing unwanted traits (such as ill fortune or poor honor) that they wanted the gods to take from them.

1)  What year did the Germans and Allies declare a truce on Christmas eve:  singing carols, exchanging souvenirs, trading their war dead, and playing soccer together.              (a) 1914           (b) 1915         (c) 1918

2)  What were the names of the three wise men:           (a) Melchior,  Balthazar,  Gaspar      (b) Apellus,  Amerus,  Damasius             (c) Hialeah,   Ascot,   Belmont

3)   “twas the night before christmas. . . . “  - who wrote the poem ? Clement Clark Moore   (b) Tim Burton  (c) Samuel Clemens

4)   When did the Christmas tree tradition come to England.  1948        (b)   1848     (c)  1776

5)  What gifts did the three wise men bring?   (a) frankincense, myrrh, gold    (b) marijuana, incense, patchouli               (c) casserole, blankets, diapers

6)  When is the Epiphany celebrated:         (a) 12 days after Christmas      (b) the day after Christmas              (c) the night before Christmas

7)   What was the name of George Bailey’s angel in It’s A Wonderful Life?           (a)  Lawrence             (b)  Clarence              (c)  Prudence

8)  In which country did St. Nicholas originate?           (a)   Germany         (b)      Denmark          (c)  Turkey

9)  What was Ebenezer Scrooge’s profession?          (a)  lawyer         (b) politician        (c) creditor

10)  Which was the first country to issue a Christmas postage stamp.          (a)  England        (b)  Germany       (c)  Canada

11) Who created Rudolph, Santa’s most popular reindeer?  (a)  Robert L. May      (b) George C. Scott     (c) Thomas Aquinas

12)  How many reindeer drove Santa’s sleigh.         (a)  nine               (b)  seven             (c) eight

13)  What is the name of the most popular Christmas carol?         (a) Silent Night    (b) White Christmas       (c)  Santa Baby

14)  White Christmas remains the best selling Christmas carol, with sales of 100 million copies worldwide and was first broadcast 18 days after Pearl Harbor. Who wrote it.      (a) George Gershwin    (b)   Irving Berlin   (c)  Jerome Kern

15)  In A Charlie Brown Christmas, what traditional Christmas carol does the entire Peanuts gang hum and then sing at the end of the show?         (a)  Jingle Bells        (b) Hark the Herald Angels Sing                  (c)  O Holy Night

Answers:

1)  (a)

2)  (a) and  (b)  The three wise men also are referred to as the three kings, the magi and, in the Historia Scholastica, as Apellus, Amerus and Damasius. The Historica was written by Petrus Comestor, a French theologian. The book was completed in 1173, drawing material from the bible, classical scholars and the Fathers of the Church; was oftentimes referred to as the Medieval Popular Bible. It was a required part of the core curriculum at the University of Paris, Oxford and other universities, and a significant secondary source of popular biblical knowledge from its completion through the 15th century. 

3) (a)   In 1881, political cartoonist Thomas Nast drew on Moore's poem to create the first likeness that matches our modern image of Santa Claus. His cartoon, which appeared in Harper's Weekly, depicted Santa as a rotund, cheerful man with a full, white beard, holding a sack laden with toys for lucky children. Present day Santa owes his red robe not to an ancient legend or to an early myth but to the Coca Cola Company. A long time ago Father Christmas was shown in clothes of different colors.

4) (b)   When Queen Victoria's German husband, Prince Albert, put up a Christmas tree at Windsor Castle in 1848, the tannenbaum became a tradition throughout England, the United States, and Canada.  Glass baubles were first made in Lauscha, Germany by Hans Greiner, who produced garlands of glass beads and tin figures that could be hung on trees. The glass ornaments were originally hand blown and were imported in the USA in 1880s by the Woolworth stores.  

5) (a) but really, three wise women would have brought (c)

6) (a)   The Epiphany is celebrated 12 days after Christmas, on January 6; it celebrates two events: the arrival of the three kings, and the baptism of the baby Jesus by John the Baptist. And refers not only to the day itself but as the beginning of the Carnival season that ends at Mardi Gras and the beginning of Lent.

7) (b) 

8)   St. Nicholas was born circa 280 in Patara, Lycia, which is part of present-day Turkey. He lost both of his parents as a young man and reportedly used his large inheritance to help the poor and sick. A devout Christian, he later served as bishop of Myra, a city that is now called Demre.

9) (c)

10) (c) The stamp is the 1898 Canada two-cent with the Mercator map. (Gerhardus Mercator was the most notable geographer of his time, and his world map of 1569 won lasting fame.) Most often called the 'Map' stamp or the Imperial Penny Postage issue, the stamp also gets credit for being the first ever Christmas stamp.

11) (a)   Robert L. May, an ad writer, created Rudolph in 1939, when his company, the Montgomery Ward department stores, asked him to write a Christmas story that they could give away to customers. Over the next few years, the company distributed millions of copies of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The book’s copyright was transferred to Mr. May in 1947, and under his ownership, Rudolph’s popularity soared. Commercial printings and cartoons quickly followed, and then, of course, came the song, which secured Rudolph’s place in Christmas history forever. Ironically, RLM was Jewish. 

12) (a) and/or (c)   In traditional lore, Santa Claus' sleigh was led by eight reindeer: Blitzen, Comet, Cupid, Dasher, Dancer, Donner, Prancer, Vixen, with Rudolph being a 20th-century inclusion.

13) (a)   According to Time magazine, Silent Night is not only the most popular carol, but it is twice as dominant as the second most popular carol, which is Joy to the World.

14) (b)  Bing Crosby first recorded the song for distribution in 1942. When he traveled overseas to entertain the troops, he always hesitated to perform it because it caused such a nostalgic feeling among the men, but the men always requested it so he always sang it. After 72 years, it’s still the bestselling Christmas song of all time, which is ironic, given that Irving Berlin was Jewish.  Sadly, every year while others opened gifts around the tree, he visited the grave of his son who died on Christmas Day, 1928, at only three weeks old.

15) (b)  Hark the Herald Angels Sing

The Fourth Estate

Each morning my inbox contains the summaries of news events from the LA Times, the Boston Globe and the Washington Post. So each morning, I wait until I have had at least two cups of coffee to settle me for the dreaded onslaught that is described as news. As the old Kingston Trio song goes “there’s rioting in Africa; they’re starving in Spain. There’s hurricanes in Florida, and Texas needs rain. . . .There’s strife in Iran. What nature doesn’t do to us will be done by our fellow man.” Although this song was released in 1959, the lyrics still ring true today. Nothing has changed since then, other than the names of the guilty, but nonetheless the papers bode that only a dystopic future awaits us. And if I read only those major newspapers I would believe that to be true.

However, I now also wake up to the local Star Democrat and, while I am ashamed to say that I  laughed at its small town contents when we first arrived from the oh-so-sophisticated big city, now I have come to appreciate the beauty in the local news and am grateful for the real life perspective. Peace on earth and good will abounds amongst us mortals, regardless of what is going on across the bay.

This morning’s headlines told the story of a local family that has adopted five siblings. The children were to be split up in separate foster homes. The new parents had already raised their own five children so they were prepared for the tumult that ensues when five children arrive, greeting them with open arms. Various agencies were involved and now these children have a glimmer of hope for a bright future and they will all grow up together.

Next was a full page ad about Midnight Madness in St. Michaels. During the first Saturday night in December all the little shops in St. Michaels stay open until midnight. The shop keepers have cookies, savory munchies and wine on hand to keep the shoppers warm, while carolers sing in the streets, giant silvery lighted snowflakes hang on each street lamp and the windows are all brightly lit and filled with irresistible confections. The red cheeked locals all know each other, so they stop and chat and revel in the shared joy of the holiday.

The Choral Arts Society is performing Handel’s Messiah at the community church and certain roads will be closed on Sunday morning for the Santa Claus parade.  The Mid-Shore Community Band is holding a Christmas concert sing-along. Evergreen is hosting a craft show. Lots to do around here.

Another article tells us the model railroad show is set for this weekend, while submissions and voting for the Best Beard contest will take place next weekend.

Preparations for the oyster harvest have begun. The cages are delivered and dropped by volunteers into the local waters and baby oysters are placed in protective custody until they are viable. Likewise, a training program to help restore the bay will begin in February.

The “Today in History” section noted that on this date in 1942 gasoline rationing went into effect; in 1955 Rosa Parks refused to give up her bus seat; in 1992 a judge sentenced Amy Fisher to 5-15 years for shooting her husband Joey Buttafuoco’s girlfriend.

The Art Academy is featuring drawings by Goya and Lombardo and a group of travelers has just returned from seeing the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall in NYC.

There was a half page photo and a story about a local group of men and women who had been working on a Habitat for Humanity project. A nearby real estate agency contributed a nice chunk of change to help make it happen; the current project will be completed just before Christmas for new home owners.

And of course at the back of the paper we have the funny papers, a sudoku puzzle, a crossword puzzle, and a crypto-quip.

The Eastern shore may lack many worldly sophistications that can be found across the Chesapeake bay but peace, harmony and neighbors who are always ready to help reside here.

August Into October

Throughout August I would stand in the alcove of the front doorstep with my friend Gregory, watching the warm summer rain land on the giant red oak leaves of the tree that is situated at the left side of our circular driveway. Smelling the heavy fresh air, and watching the trees’ branches swaying in the light breeze, I was glad for the reprieve from the hot sun.  Summer came late this year, which made me hope that it would stay longer.

Gregory, by the way, is the little fluorescent green gecko lizard that inhabits our front portico. He too was watching warily, sometimes me, sometimes the outdoors, but generally keeping an eye all round his ‘hood.  He’s a nervous little thing, sometimes frightening himself to the point of losing his tail. He oftentimes held himself high on the back wall, clear of the rain. I wondered, did he not like to get wet? Would his colors change? I questioned him, but he had no answer.  An errant fly had caught his interest instead; another reason I considered him a good friend. He regularly rid the entry way of bugs.

The moment took me back to my childhood summers, with grandparents at their country homes. There is something magical about a country summer for a city child. Standing there watching the rain, I remembered the long ago summer days, miles of forests to explore, blueberries to pick, fat white clouds to watch, pink flowers and black ants, bugs and frogs, rivers and dales, all waiting for our exploration and inspection. Inevitably, rain kept us indoors on occasion. We would watch at the window as the sky transformed its blue to silver grey to wild. Flashes of blinding lightening followed by violent thunder would hold us rapt, unmoving, unblinking, while a nearby grandparent chided us for standing at the window. “It’s dangerous”, “you could be hit by lightening”. That wasn’t true; at ages seven and eight, we knew that we were invincible. Death only happened to very small animals. Our interest level in the dead things rose or fell on the uniqueness of the sighting and the length of the stick that we were carrying at the time of discovery.  Right now I was happy to share the portico with Gregory and kept the memory of small dead animals to myself.

I turned around and August had melded into October. While most months appear to seamlessly flow from one into another, October arrives and stands noticeably between the tail end of summer and the beginning of winter; between just cool and cold! During October I watch the red oak’s leaves curl, turn brown and fall. It’s time to welcome winter, or at least prepare for it. The pool has been closed. The summer furniture has been brought into the garage or covered with heavy casings.  In the coming weeks, the gardeners will clip back the roses and sedums, take the sea grass that circles the pool down to ground level. The same will be true of the St. Johns Wort, and the day lilies. The rabbits and squirrels watch warily from a safe height and distance. They too have been busy foraging for winter supplies. So they watch, concerned that we do not imperil their winter habitats.  Indoors we have had the chimneys swept and the heavier blankets brought down from storage. Like our outdoor four legged friends, including Gregoy, we too are hunkering down for the winter.

Let 'Em Eat Cake - questionnaire

“When you rise in the morning, give thanks for the light, for your life, for your strength.  Give thanks for your food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason to give thanks, the fault lies in yourself. “            —Tecumseh


[1] Julia Child said “everything is better with butter”. How much butter did the average American eat last year? 

      (1)  5.6 lbs       (2) 10.5 lbs       (3)  7.2 lbs



[2] “He looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake.” —Raymond Chandler   A “clutch” of eggs is used in each angel food cake.  How many eggs constitute a “clutch”.

       (1)  six             (2) twelve           (3) four

   Q. What do Indians call a vegetarian.    A.  A bad hunter.

[3] How many flowers are in the design stamped on each side of the oreo cookie:

       (1) four            (2) eight             (3) twelve 


[4] Which nation produces two thirds of the world’s vanilla:

       (1) Madagascar       (2) Mozambique        (3) Macau


[5] What flavor of ice cream did Baskin-Robbins introduce to commemorate the lunar landing on July 20, 1969:

Lunar Cheesecake      (2) Strawberry Moon Pie     (3) Berry Blue Moon



[6] Grape growing is the largest food industry in the world; there are more than 60 species and 8000 varieties of grapes. How many pounds of grapes does the average person eat per year (NOT including the grapes in wine):

       (1)   five            (2) eight           (3) ten


[7] “Everything you see I owe to spaghetti” - Sophia Loren. Mama mia!  The average person in Italy eats 51 pounds of pasta each year. How much pasta does the average American eat each year:   

       (1) 15.5 lbs         (2) 30.6 lbs           (3) 20.2 lbs

Fettucini Alfredo is macaroni and cheese for adults” - Mitch Hedberg

[8] What did our own Mary Jane Fairbanks spill down the back of President Truman’s neck: 

       (1) peas          (2) beans         (3) broccoli


[9] What was the first of H.J.Heinz’ ’57 varieties:   

       (1) ketchup         (2) mustard            (3) horseradish


[10] What is the only essential vitamin not found in the white potato?

       (1) vitamin A         (2) vitamin B          (3) vitamin C


[11] What was the first commercially manufactured breakfast cereal:

       (1) Cheerios         (2) Shredded Wheat       (3) Grape Nuts


[12] Choline is an essential nutrient that helps fetal brain development. Pregnant women can find this essential nutrient in which food: 

         (1) broccoli         (2)    bacon         (3)  banana


________________________________________________

Answers:
[1] 5.6    [2] 12     [3]12     [4] Madagascar     [5] Lunar Cheesecake     [6] 8     [7] 15.5    [8] peas    [9] horseradish    [10] vitamin A    [11]  shredded wheat      [12]  bacon

New York, New York

You have to love a city whose denizens consider traffic lights suggestions.

Immediately upon arrival our redcap, even though he saw my friend and I walking and talking together, decided that we had arrived separately.  As I watched her being encased in a separate cab and about to drive away, I informed the redcap that we were traveling together. A Laurel and Hardy moment ensued as we jumped out of one cab, collected luggage from another cab and then fled together through the rush hour traffic to our cozy boutique hotel.

Since the UN assembly was gathering this week and our hotel was down the road from Trump Tower, police were everywhere. They stood, in groups of three and four, on each street corner, having been pulled into the city from all the boroughs: Staten Island, Bronx, Brooklyn; we could tell from whence they came by their accents. To add to their NYPD Blue glamor, they were all wearing kevlar jackets. We felt very safe, chatting with them while waiting to cross a road. For all the bad mouthing that police receive, we found them to be patient and gracious, probably because we were little old ladies who reminded them of their grandmothers and they were collecting time and a half.

We spent our first evening listening to the haunting strings of Yo Yo Ma playing Mahler and Bach at Carnegie Hall.  Shakespeare was right: music does soothe the savage breast.

The next day was spent in retail therapy, walking past luxe shops, polished buildings and worming our way into venues in which we had no business breathing the same air. When we passed a lustrous black building with the written word Baccarat over the shiny brass trimmed doors I had to ask what it was all about. Yes, Baccarat crystal had taken on an entirely new identity. No longer merely a crystal hollowware company, this was an entire building. Fifteen foot long crystal fingers lined the windows. The security guard must have been bored, or amused by the rubes who had the temerity to walk into his building, because he invited us to view the private restaurant and bar on the second floor. The chandeliers in the main lobby were exquisite. I expected the elevator to have a chandelier and was vaguely disappointed that it did not. The bar likewise was festooned with chandeliers; the entire wall was covered with Baccarat crystal bar glasses. Sardonically, I wondered if there was enough heat generated by the sun’s prisms through the crystal to start a fire on an errant napkin.

We headed to Little Italy and the Feast of San Gennaro. Mulberry Street was lined with vendors hawking every food from pizza to cannoli. We sampled the authentic NY pizza, and finished with too many glorious pastries at Ferraro Bakery.  Later, while dining at Carmine’s restaurant, I needed to find the ladies room, which was upstairs. On the stairs in front of me a guy was holding a colorful drink, and being photographed by his buddy so I snuck up behind him and planted a kiss on his cheek. I photobombed the guy. Both men laughed and the photographer said he was sending the pic to the guy’s wife.

The next day, before a visit to the theater to see Anastasia, we had lunch at the Algonquin Hotel where the famous “round table” of writers (Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker, Dash Hammett, Alexander Woollcott, etc) sat each day. Would that their ghosts would infuse me with their talents; alas, we were only infused with pretty good wine and food.  Anastasia was a delight; the sets and costumes were simply beautiful, evoking Tsarist Russia’s most glamorous era (okay, Russia wasn’t perfect, but it certainly was glamorous). Emboldened by liquor from Sardis (at which we skipped out on the tab, but that’s another story; I sent a check later), we moseyed over to the box office to see if we could get seats to Hello Dolly, which we did do. Sometimes the anticipation is greater than the participation, as it was in this case. The show was a disappointment. Nonetheless, we compared and contrasted the two shows as we walked back to our hotel, saying hello to all the police along the way.

The Morgan Library was just a couple of blocks away, so one morning we stopped in to visit the old books and the rooms. This guy had serious bucks, and spent them well, as represented by the decor and craftsmanship on the floors, walls and ceilings. We contrasted the Library with the natural beauty of sunny Central Park, through which we walked, sometimes leisurely around the pond, listening to a saxophonist play As Time Goes By, other times hurriedly to get past the selfie sticks and gawkers at strawberry fields.

And then it was time to go home. We hurried to Penn Station and, with the help of a redcap, found our train. We took the train home, a most elegant and peaceful way to travel. I love train travel today as much as I did when I was a young child. It still fills me with joy and happy memories, as did this last trip to the Big Apple.

The Obits

On Sundays I like to catch up with who croaked during the past week, especially when Fall is just around the corner; everything is about to die. I pore over the obits and, not finding my name or the name of any favorite friend or relative, I rejoice.  Sometimes, in a churlish mood, I look for the names of the people who have wronged me during my lifetime and secretly hope to find their names, along with a tortuous description of their worthless lives. (Don’t judge; we all have a dark side.) As Bette Davis famously said when she learned of Joan Crawford’s death: “We should say only good things about the dead. She’s dead. Good.”

Then, at a more leisurely rate, I peruse more closely the compositions for the recently deceased and marvel at how people have such a fragile grasp on reality. “. . . died suddenly at age 94.”  Suddenly? The person was 94. How could that possibly have been sudden! The old goat ought to have croaked ten years ago, instead of burning through his children’s inheritance. And what inane remarks do the relatives make at the funerals? “Oh gosh, who knew. It was so unexpected; we had no idea that would be his last meal”.  I’m astonished that the deceased could still masticate real food. 

Of course death comes to everyone, and the older the better. The pain that follows when someone leaves the planet too early is utterly devastating. No parent should ever bury a child. When that happens, they are left to deal with their grief alone, destined to walk a different path than the one in which they had set out; their lives forever changed, never to recover. I wonder, when such losses occur, about an afterlife. Was the child’s work here done so soon? I like to think that we have all been put on this earth for a reason; some to do good, some to do bad. Some quickly finish their work and check out early, like Dylan Thomas or Georges-Pierre Seurat, while others, like Mother Teresa, continue to do their work long after most of us have retired. And those who do evil stay long after the world wishes they had gone. Without the bad, though, how do we appreciate the good. The kindness and generosity of friends and family  that mean so much. 

But I digress, back to the obit. And while most obits are stock: full name of deceased, names of spouse and children, dates of birth and death, perhaps a list of accomplishments, then wrap it up with the cause of death; usually heart failure. I say usually, but I mean inevitably. Inevitably, heart failure kills everyone. Categorically, there are only four ways to die: murder, suicide, accident or illness.  No matter which of those four roads is taken, it is only when the heart stops that the person dies, so in my book, it’s always heart failure. While most obits are stock, there are some that do tickle. I read a couple that made me laugh and have given me incentive to start writing my own: 

“He escaped this mortal realm at the age of 69.  We think he did it on purpose to avoid having to make a decision in the pending presidential election. Following his wishes, there will not be a service, but well-wishers are encouraged to write a note of farewell on a Light beer can and drink it in his honor. Unlike previous times, this is not a ploy to avoid creditors or old girlfriends, he assures us that he is gone.”

“She passed away peacefully at her home.  It is believed her death was caused from carrying her oxygen tank up a flight of stairs; her heart gave out. Please note her change of address to her more permanent resting crypt. Anyone wearing black will not be admitted to the memorial.” 

Mine would read something like this: “It pains me to admit it, but apparently, I have died. I understood, academically, that it would happen one day but it was simply not something I wanted to acknowledge, much less experience.  Once again I didn’t get my way! Please don’t cry because I’m gone; instead be happy that I was here. Or maybe you can cry a little bit. After all, I have passed away. Today I am happy and dancing, probably naked.”

My Uncles Were Soliders

Memorial Day and Remembrance Day and D-Day and other such days honor our men and women who fought and lived and those who fought and died. We fly flags and wear poppies in remembrance.  We loudly celebrate our country’s victories. We quietly remember our country's losses.

WWII came along and both uncles were conscripted. Old photos showed a couple of young boys in uniform. Handsome boys, with excitement in their eyes and just a touch of nervous anticipation. Neither boy had been further than the small town that abutted their farm. They were only boys, but soon they would be trained to kill before traveling to the other side of the world and doing just that. As then General Eisenhower said “boys jumped from those planes; men landed”.

Since they were brothers, they were placed in different divisions and shipped to different parts of Europe. Letters were sparse and few between. Both boys wrote of being warm and having plenty of food, a consolation to their worried mother. Their father knew better, having lived through the first war. Nothing was further than the truth, but quietly he was proud of his sons for their white lies. Their mother and my mother knew nothing of the horrors of war.

Their soldiering years marched on, but as the war was nearing its end, they both found themselves in Paris after France had been retaken by the Allies. The French cheered and waved as they entered the city, certain that the war would shortly come to an end. Neither boy knew the other was in Paris, but coincidentally, they both had a day’s leave so, being young, happy to be alive and happy to be in Paris, they enjoyed the sights and sounds of the city, time with the pretty girls and somewhere in the evening magically found themselves in the same bar with their buddies.  And, to paraphrase the song, across the crowded room, as one brother recognized the other, unbelieving that such a joyous moment could occur, they screamed each other’s names above the din, identifying themselves to one and all as brothers. They beat their way through the crowd into each other’s arms, hugged, cried and laughed, while the horde of weary soldiers fell silent, watching this miracle: how two brothers found each other in war torn Paris. And a moment later the crowd went wild, cheering and laughing and sharing their greatest happiness. Both boys were alive and safe and well. The fraternal bond that was never to be broken.

The story was repeated for years afterwards but, as oftentimes happens with brothers, little arguments came between them. Their ensuing years were sometimes tumultuous for whatever petty reasons, but they were brothers, each other’s best friends; eventually they would make up. They always traded holiday feasts at each other’s homes, which became more and more crowded as their offspring multiplied. They taught their, and each other’s, children to swim, to ride a bicycle, to fish, to take photographs, to dance. The years passed and the daring young boys were replaced by grumpy old men who kept their spirits up by indulging in familial feuds.

My mother called one day to tell me about the latest fraternal feud. I loved hearing about the family feuds; mom and I could, and did, laugh about the boys' antics for days. This one became one of our favorite feuds. What could those uncles of mine possibly be feuding over now. They had been alive long enough to argue about everything from chicken wire fences to Himalayan salt, so what emotional turmoil could they possibly be putting themselves through now. Apparently this was not a new feud, but a revival of an old feud. The Hatfields and the McCoys had nothing on this pair. It seemed that a couple of years ago, my uncles had a very strong disagreement about something, which was undoubtedly truly irrelevant, and resolved never to speak to each other again. We all knew that was another contratemp that would amount to nothing. Eventually they would make up. Adding to the humor, as they had gotten older, there were times when their memories failed them. At this point, one uncle was angry with the other, not because of whatever the original transgression had been, but because he couldn’t remember what it was but he knew that the other uncle remembered and wouldn’t tell him. Eventually, enough time would pass that they both forgot so peace in the kingdom would be restored. Unfortunately, in time, one uncle would remember that the other uncle “always did things like this” to him. We all tried to learn exactly what it was that one did to the other, but didn’t have much information to go on because no one knew what “this” was, albeit we were all supposed to know, and if we didn't know, it was not to be discussed. And so it went.

As the years passed, they knew their days were growing shorter, their voices became softer and their smiles more winsome. Still they sat across the table from each other, gave thanks and celebrated. When the first uncle died, the remaining uncle was inconsolable, heartbreakingly lost without his brother. A short while later he too passed away. And so we remember them on Memorial Day, on Remembrance Day, on D-Day: these two young soldiers who now are gone but who will always have Paris.

Bicycling On Martha's Vineyard

The pool is open, the flowers are in bloom, the boat has been cleaned and the bicycle riders are clogging the lanes along the road. Summer is here. As I drive, I watch for the bicycle riders, sometimes riding solo, sometimes in pairs and sometimes in full tour group mode. I remember a biking trip to Martha’s Vineyard, 18 years ago, meeting up with a friend from Colorado. 

Super Shuttle picked me up. The driver’s Russian accent was charming; he was from the Ukraine. He had been working for SS for only a couple of weeks, ergo the constant reference to maps. Apparently when he first came to the USA two years prior he worked for a Russian limo service. Since he chauffeured only Russians, it didn’t matter that he spoke no English. Spoke no English? When I asked how he read the signs, he responded that he would call in to the central desk and read the letters to them. More urgent, to my mind, was the question of a drivers license. How did he get a drivers license if he couldn’t read. “Ah well” he said “a license was not important to the Russians”. He went to night school to learn English, then left the Russians. The long line of waiting passengers snaking out to the sidewalk sank my heart. Russians saw lines as an ordinary part of life. It was just a line, “no big deal” as he slapped my back. 

I met up with my Colorado friend. We had an hour to wait so we grabbed a bite to eat. We asked a young guy, who was seated at a table for four, alone, whether we could join him. He said his wife was in line for food, but grinned and said he could dump her. While eating, we discussed current events. Throughout lunch, the young man opined that it was time to take the country back from all these foreigners. Hell, in Florida everyone spoke Cuban, and California had all these Mexicans. Something had to be done about the foreigners. His wife nodded in agreement. At the end of lunch I HAD to ask: was he a member of the Apache tribe or the Ojibways; to which original tribe did he belong, precisely. 

Finally reaching Martha’s Vineyard, after planes, trains and boat rides, we met up with a few members from our group, then proceeded to drinks and dinner to get to know each other. One young man, a nice Jewish boy from Jersey, was honeymooning with his bride, a nice Catholic Italian girl from across the bridge. When my eyebrow shot up, he shrugged and said he needed some balance in his life.  Later, we wandered aimlessly around town, admiring the scenery, the cobblestones, the fresh air and stars, until someone asked “does anyone know where we are, and how to get back to the inn?”

We gathered the next morning, ready to enjoy the sun and ocean breezes. Instead we were met with cold rain and a strong nor’easter, or a sou’wester, or a nor’wester; I was never quite sure about the direction of origin but it was a very strong howling wind. However, we were tough and single minded in our pursuit of healthy bicycle riding. Off we went, pedaling against the wind, pedaling, pedaling; I was in the zone, until I looked down and realized that I wasn’t moving. The wind was keeping me in the same spot. Rocks in my pocket would not have helped so we decided to tour the shops. The next day was sunny and clear. We bicycled out to Chappaquidick “don’t worry, Mary Jo, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

There must have been a muni code that specified grey shingles with white trim because every home was painted exactly alike. The inn keeper said one of the local jokes was to direct a lost tourist to walk down the road a couple of blocks, then turn right at the grey house with the white trim.  The people all looked alike too. They were all white, longish faces, aquiline noses, the men all looked like James Taylor while the women all sported pageboys. Even the hired help was all white. It got a little creepy there in Stepfordland. I started paying attention to the names on the mailboxes: Harrison, James, Sargent, Potter, MacKenzie, and then I found one — Cohen. Yes! No pizza parlors though. 

The creepiness was offset by the fact that Bluto was buried at the local graveyard. Yes, John Belushi is buried on Martha’s Vineyard. I easily found his headstone. The grave was marked with empty beer cans. I noticed that he was buried next to Lilian Hellman. Apparently I was the only one in the group who appreciated the irony. I rambled on about her works for a bit, until I noticed that I had lost the audience. First we kill the playwrights. 

We boarded the ferry. The captain was a three generation local, so I asked why there were so many bits and pieces of sea shells on the Atlantic shore sands, but none on the Pacific shores. He was stumped too. If anyone has an answer, please advise. 

I grabbed a cab at LAX and once again found myself with a Russian driver. He remarked that he loved this country; people could do anything. He was living in a room at his uncle’s house. Apparently his parent’s pension was not enough to feed him. Gorbachov stopped further pensions so he was on his own. His problem, by his own admission, was that he was lazy. He didn’t like to work. He was perfectly content to drive a cab. Ambition was not in his DNA. We pulled up to the house, which he openly admired, and asked how many people lived there. When I told him I lived alone, he asked for my hand in marriage. Who says Russians weren’t romantic. 

Dead Husbands Bench

Spring. Time to ponder the age old question: what makes a man happy. Conversely, what makes a man unhappy. What is the most agonizing event for a man? After much contemplation, I believe I have the answer: Shopping. Shopping must be among the most horrific events for a man.

Consider that men are hunters, while women are gatherers. A man needs a pair of jeans? At 10 am, he marches into the jeans shop, tries on a pair, finds that it fits, pays, then returns home by 10:30 am. A woman will enter a jeans shop at 11 am, notice the display items on her right, feel the texture of each garment, review the price tag, talk with a salesperson about upcoming styles, mosey over to the next display, check out the clearance rack, perhaps strike up a conversation with another shopper, compare and contrast competing items and, eventually, purchase the jeans, along with other newly discovered but much needed dry goods, then arrive home by 3 pm.

Our quaint little village is a charming tourist attraction. During the summer months, the town swells and fills with vacationers frequenting the local bed and breakfasts, dining at the tiny bistros, walking by the docks, or bicycling along sun dappled paths. I too happily roam the streets with a vacationing girlfriend, merrily chatting away while we slurp ice cream, wander in and out of each shop, say hello to the proprietor, peruse the inventory, mingle with local friends, then exit the town a few hours later, happier for the experience.

But I digress, back to the man. What is even worse for a man than shopping? Can there be anything even more agonizing than shopping? Yes. Yes, Virginia, there is something worse than shopping. It is waiting, waiting, waiting, while his wife shops. This is penance for some heinous sin committed in a previous lifetime.

While sauntering around the village, I point out the scores of men sitting staring in blinding  agony while their wives shop and explain to my girlfriend that the bench outside each retail establishment is referred to as the “dead husbands bench” — by the time a woman is done shopping her husband could have died on the bench and no one would have noticed. Of course if he keeled over or if his body leaned up against another equally unhappy husband, there might be a slight uptick in a one sided conversation but otherwise no one would be the wiser. Death due to inertia. The obits are full of them: “He died while waiting. . . . “

Occasionally observing a poor man’s palpable agony; hunched over, chin on hand, leg jerking up and down, surrounded by previously purchased bags, smart phone contents sliding up and down at a perilous rate and, taking pity on the poor soul, I have pointed to the innocuous local bar and suggested to this sad sad man that he might be more comfortable in there, perched on a stool, quaffing a frosty ale. While the thought oftentimes brings a quick and wistful smile, the underlying rueful sentiment is that there would be hell to pay afterwards so back he sits, face and shoulders sagging, to wait and wait and wait.

The only men who don’t seem to mind huddling outside shop doorways are the young ones; in town for the weekend with a happy girlfriend, who is merrily shopping in each and every store, while the young swain patiently waits, holding her bags, because he knows that tonight in their little room, surrounded by her new purchases, there will be a happy ending.

Children In Winter

Although the tedium of January is behind us, we still have the equally tiring months of February and March ahead of us, with a few light snow flurries, before spring comes along to refresh our mentally dehydrated brains. 

The only relief from winter’s ennui is volunteering to work with the first and second grade children by helping the school with extra reading classes. They are at a wonderful life stage: no filters, no hormones, no agendas. A thought just pops into their brains and the words pop out their mouths. “Are you real old?” was just such an out loud thought put to me recently. No political correctness here. When I, in turn, asked her age, she replied “I’m six and a half, mostly”. Mostly? Another six year old was listing his recent birthday party gifts but averred that his 5th birthday party last year “was the best birthday party EVER!” Which made me wonder, the kid was six, how many birthdays could he remember? 

Occasionally a child will throw a tantrum for no apparent reason. I find myself torn between feeling terribly sorry for the tragically misunderstood youngster, sobbing in agony, or holding the child upside down by the ankles until he pukes. We all cope in our own ways; mine has to do with a rich fantasy life. 

Thankfully, the various physical stages of their growth seem to occur in the same relatively short time frames. Recently, a few kidlets were huddled in a corner  comparing and contrasting their gummy mouths while excitedly discussing the diverse manner of their extractions, which included everything from a sister’s errant elbow to an altercation with a crusty rye bread sandwich. Judging by the jingle in their pockets, the tooth fairy has been putting in a lot of overtime at this particular school district. I find myself listening to an abundance of lisps and air whistles which adds to the discordant harmony of a sentence that begins with “There once was. . . . .” 

Personalities too have begun to gel. One cute pigtailed girl, whose cheeks and nose are sprinkled with freckles, finds the entire reading process especially boring, so she grabs two pages at a time in the hope that I will not notice that she is skipping ahead. In addition to my wizard like ability to read the very big three syllable words, my mental acuity is such that I can discern the logical sequence of even  numbers, ergo when we begin at page two but suddenly find ourselves at page six, the skipped page is readily apparent.  As I quietly turn back to page four, she looks at me with practiced innocent disdain.  Even now, I can tell that this young lady will go far in life. She has a brilliant future as a soulless Hollywood agent, or as a double agent for the government of her choice, not necessarily ours. 

Another pretty child, with golden curls and porcelain skin, likes to smell me. I noticed that she would lean in as she sat down, inhale, and then plop into her seat. Once seated, she would then lean closer, surreptitiously to look at the page, sniff, then lean back in her seat. At completion of our exercise, she would lean toward me, then inhale while rising. I can only surmise that scented soap is not ordinarily found in her household. 

A little boy excitedly explained that he and his dad had camped outdoors over the unusually warm weekend. I responded positively, wide eyed, and eagerly asked where they went. “The backyard; mom wouldn’t let us go any further”. 

And my favorite: the kid who says he reads only non-fiction. So goes the winter.