Check your manger scene. There seems to be a trend afoot. In Florida, in Texas, and now at my church here in Chicago. Baby Jesus didn’t make it to the manger tonight and no one seemed to mind.
In an effort to put some new life into the Children’s Service – you know, the one at 5:00 with all the noise – we had a presentation using “Shadow Puppets.” It was fairly effective except that Joseph, being held by a tired young puppeteer, kept wandering off towards Buffalo and once or twice Mary turned her back on the entire tableau. All in all it was effective. Sort of “nativity noir.”
Even with the puppets, we lacked the drama of St. Peters. No one jumped the pews to knock over the minister. Pope Benedict had that singular honor it seems. But wait, this was her second appearance attempting the same intervention. What’s with those Swiss guards?
It is a rainy Christmas in Chicago; cold and wet. The freezing temperature will come later in the afternoon and perhaps with it, the white stuff that we believe to be so necessary for the perfect Christmas. There is a very bad group of choristers on the early morning news; all wearing varying shades of red. There is a bass in black. This must be his attempt at “jumping the rail” like the poor soul in Rome.
I am concerned about the missing baby in the manger. This, of course, is an over powering symbol of the age, but I wont go there – just now. The nativity at Epiphany is one of our nicest holdings. It is Italianate in design and quite valuable. But where is the Baby Jesus? And why did no one notice? Or care?
As the case of many congregations across the world, Epiphany is held hostage by the Chreastors. You know, those people you see only on Christmas and Easter. They are the ones who demand that we uphold a tradition that no longer seems to be workable for our congregation: a Christmas eve service that starts at 11:00 p.m. For them it makes the "perfect Christmas." There were so few people present last night that I could not use the foundation stops on the organ lest I “blow them away with sound.”
If church is not important enough to attend regularly, then why would a particular congregation be so important to someone on Christmas or Easter? Perhaps some regional edifice should be designated as the official site for 11:00 worship for those who need it. A type of Christmas Central. The rest of us could be home earlier in the evening giving us time for reflection and a quiet moment with family.
As my mom would say, “Read your Bible and write the missionaries.”
The phone rang at the church last night around 9:30. I answered. The lady on the other end inquired, rather excitedly, “Is there an 11:00 worship service tonight?” I replied in the affirmative. “I just love Epiphany. Is it still located on the corner of Bradley and Damon?”
Another Chreaster!!!
Where, oh where, is the Baby Jesus in this bleak midwinter?
Friday, December 25, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Gail Collins, I love you!
Now, let me hasten to add – “at a distance.” She has no need to worry about a stalker or a restraining order. But, I must admit, if given a choice, I would love to sit next to her at a dinner party. She is just a lot of fun.
Thinking about girls like that took me down memory lane; back to my college days.
I dated three girls in college; concurrently. Back then, there was not the “hurry towards an exclusive arrangement” type of thing. I dated each one with sincerity, but with a different perspective.
Miss Sarah Hightower was a southerner; a transplant like me. She had been steeped in the manners that so bind the south to the past. Miss Sarah was all about formality. When I needed to make a perfect impression at some seemingly perfect gathering, Miss Sarah was my date. She was always dressed to the nines and very comfortable with the small talk that occurs at such events.
She would always say, in reference to her family, “my daddy is a farmer.” Truth was, “daddy” had over 20,000 acres of land and was a United States Senator. (Now don’t go looking up names of Senators – some things have to be changed to protect some other things!)
The problem with doing anything spontaneous with Miss Sarah was that you couldn’t. She had to be asked out at least a month before you intended going out. Usually, by that time, you were “out of the mood.” She, of course, would never initiate a telephone call. “Ladies, do not phone gentlemen.” (You see how old I am, this was way before texting “I am hot for you honey!” It was a lot easier to have clandestine affairs before the worries of leaving a cellular trail. Got that, Tiger?)
Once, when Miss Sarah’s grandfather died, she was forced to phone to ask for a drive to O’Hare. (Riding alone in a taxicab would not be proper.) She spent the first fifteen minutes of the call, apologizing for having made it. Only after we got through that, was I apprised of the passing of the old guy. But, all said, Miss Sarah did make a good impression.
When I was hungry, I dated Adriana. She loved to cook and had a rather svelte look for someone whose roots were Eastern European. Once, while I was concentrating on her stuffed peppers, she announced that when she married, she would receive a large sum of money from the treasury of her country since she was a Princess. Truth be told, the stuffed peppers were not that great!
Adriana was purpose driven, and that is always an admirable characteristic. However, she had a penchant for throwing parties at which I was seemingly the only person who remembered the date and time. (Hmmmm.)
Then, there was Nancy Dunham. Nancy was pure fun. She was obviously not “well heeled” since she worked at a downtown restaurant as a waitress. I never heard her mention what her father did. When off-duty she was often in jeans and a well-worn sweater. I am not certain she cooked or merely did “take home” from the restaurant. She had the clipped accent of someone raised near Boston. She was comfortable with a last minute call to grab a movie or a burger. She was great on a Saturday outing into the Loop. And, she was brilliant! Good fun; good conversation.
We both graduated and went our separate ways. I think she was always a bit suspicious of my accent. She was like Gail Collins, I believe, but without a column in the New York Times.
Hats off to you Ms. Collins, you made me laugh again today! (And remember.)
Thinking about girls like that took me down memory lane; back to my college days.
I dated three girls in college; concurrently. Back then, there was not the “hurry towards an exclusive arrangement” type of thing. I dated each one with sincerity, but with a different perspective.
Miss Sarah Hightower was a southerner; a transplant like me. She had been steeped in the manners that so bind the south to the past. Miss Sarah was all about formality. When I needed to make a perfect impression at some seemingly perfect gathering, Miss Sarah was my date. She was always dressed to the nines and very comfortable with the small talk that occurs at such events.
She would always say, in reference to her family, “my daddy is a farmer.” Truth was, “daddy” had over 20,000 acres of land and was a United States Senator. (Now don’t go looking up names of Senators – some things have to be changed to protect some other things!)
The problem with doing anything spontaneous with Miss Sarah was that you couldn’t. She had to be asked out at least a month before you intended going out. Usually, by that time, you were “out of the mood.” She, of course, would never initiate a telephone call. “Ladies, do not phone gentlemen.” (You see how old I am, this was way before texting “I am hot for you honey!” It was a lot easier to have clandestine affairs before the worries of leaving a cellular trail. Got that, Tiger?)
Once, when Miss Sarah’s grandfather died, she was forced to phone to ask for a drive to O’Hare. (Riding alone in a taxicab would not be proper.) She spent the first fifteen minutes of the call, apologizing for having made it. Only after we got through that, was I apprised of the passing of the old guy. But, all said, Miss Sarah did make a good impression.
When I was hungry, I dated Adriana. She loved to cook and had a rather svelte look for someone whose roots were Eastern European. Once, while I was concentrating on her stuffed peppers, she announced that when she married, she would receive a large sum of money from the treasury of her country since she was a Princess. Truth be told, the stuffed peppers were not that great!
Adriana was purpose driven, and that is always an admirable characteristic. However, she had a penchant for throwing parties at which I was seemingly the only person who remembered the date and time. (Hmmmm.)
Then, there was Nancy Dunham. Nancy was pure fun. She was obviously not “well heeled” since she worked at a downtown restaurant as a waitress. I never heard her mention what her father did. When off-duty she was often in jeans and a well-worn sweater. I am not certain she cooked or merely did “take home” from the restaurant. She had the clipped accent of someone raised near Boston. She was comfortable with a last minute call to grab a movie or a burger. She was great on a Saturday outing into the Loop. And, she was brilliant! Good fun; good conversation.
We both graduated and went our separate ways. I think she was always a bit suspicious of my accent. She was like Gail Collins, I believe, but without a column in the New York Times.
Hats off to you Ms. Collins, you made me laugh again today! (And remember.)
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wisemen From The Midwest
No, the blog title is not a typo.
Several years ago, when my son and daughter-in-law were making their annual Thanksgiving visit to Chicago; we were out shopping for the upcoming Christmas season. Now, I am going to stop this narrative to admit that I am a difficult guy to buy for. No, not that I am overly picky or put too much emphasis on a gift, it is because of my excessive Ebay obsession, I need little, if anything. (Yes, I could be called an Ebay slut.)
So we were browsing through the shops looking at the goods when my son said, “Dad, how would you like these?”
He guided me towards a table upon which sat three large, ornate figures: The Three Wisemen. One was on a black horse, one on an elephant, and one on a camel. They were magnificent; truly impressive. I was immediately taken with them and expressed my admiration to my son.
Not wanting to hover about while “my Christmas gift” was being purchased, I headed outside the store and window-shopped at nearby establishments. After a considerable delay, the kids came outside. But, there was no large package. Ah, they must have elected to have them shipped to me. That is so nice. I will receive the Wisemen closer to Christmas.
Christmas came at its regular time that year. But no wisemen!
As with most weeks following Christmas, we were meeting at the family home in Alabama. I was certain the wisemen would appear then; even closer to Epiphany!
We all arrived in Alabama. Gathered around the fireplace, I presented them with their gifts. It had all the warm and fuzzy you would hope for. Still, the elusive seers did not appear. Maybe they had lost their star, or maybe it was not to be.
“Where are my wisemen?” Of course, you cannot ask – that would be too self-serving. The true spirit of Christmas is in the giving, not the receiving. But, where are they really? I kept quiet.
That year, the media was full of advertisements that featured a former Tarzan as a spokesperson for Werther’s Originals. He was now speaking as a Grandfather, no longer King of the Jungle. The gist of his spiel was that “every good grandfather has Werther’s Originals in his pocket.” With this in mind, my son had always said that I would know when they were “expecting” when I received a package of Werther’s in the mail.
The calendar progressed into April, then May.
One morning in mid-May, I got a call at my office. It was my son. “Dad, what is your office address, I cannot seem to locate where I have written it down and I need to send you something.”
Yes!!! I am going to be a grandfather. I phoned a couple of friends. I called my sister down south. “I am about to be a grandfather.”
When questioned by those I called, I was sorely short on details. I could only relate the bit about the Werther’s and the phone call from my son. I would wait for the mail for the details of when.
All the following week, I looked for the elusive bag of Werther’s. Nothing! The week after? Nothing!
Finally I phoned my son, “Am I going to be a grandfather?”
He was puzzled with the question coming out of the blue. “Why would you ask that?” I then related the bit about the Werther’s and the phone request for my office address. He laughed.
“No, we are trying to send your Christmas present!” (Ah, the ones from Orient are!)
The three wisemen - one on a black horse, one on an elephant, and one on a camel - traveled from the Midwest to the Deep South and finally arrived back in Chicago in October – 10 months following their anticipated appearance. (Is this my Christmas gift from last year or for the one coming up? Remember, it is about giving, not getting!)
The Werther’s Originals finally arrived and so did Miss Grace. However, I am now told by their parents that the grandchildren are not allowed to have sugar treats!
Carrots anyone?
Several years ago, when my son and daughter-in-law were making their annual Thanksgiving visit to Chicago; we were out shopping for the upcoming Christmas season. Now, I am going to stop this narrative to admit that I am a difficult guy to buy for. No, not that I am overly picky or put too much emphasis on a gift, it is because of my excessive Ebay obsession, I need little, if anything. (Yes, I could be called an Ebay slut.)
So we were browsing through the shops looking at the goods when my son said, “Dad, how would you like these?”
He guided me towards a table upon which sat three large, ornate figures: The Three Wisemen. One was on a black horse, one on an elephant, and one on a camel. They were magnificent; truly impressive. I was immediately taken with them and expressed my admiration to my son.
Not wanting to hover about while “my Christmas gift” was being purchased, I headed outside the store and window-shopped at nearby establishments. After a considerable delay, the kids came outside. But, there was no large package. Ah, they must have elected to have them shipped to me. That is so nice. I will receive the Wisemen closer to Christmas.
Christmas came at its regular time that year. But no wisemen!
As with most weeks following Christmas, we were meeting at the family home in Alabama. I was certain the wisemen would appear then; even closer to Epiphany!
We all arrived in Alabama. Gathered around the fireplace, I presented them with their gifts. It had all the warm and fuzzy you would hope for. Still, the elusive seers did not appear. Maybe they had lost their star, or maybe it was not to be.
“Where are my wisemen?” Of course, you cannot ask – that would be too self-serving. The true spirit of Christmas is in the giving, not the receiving. But, where are they really? I kept quiet.
That year, the media was full of advertisements that featured a former Tarzan as a spokesperson for Werther’s Originals. He was now speaking as a Grandfather, no longer King of the Jungle. The gist of his spiel was that “every good grandfather has Werther’s Originals in his pocket.” With this in mind, my son had always said that I would know when they were “expecting” when I received a package of Werther’s in the mail.
The calendar progressed into April, then May.
One morning in mid-May, I got a call at my office. It was my son. “Dad, what is your office address, I cannot seem to locate where I have written it down and I need to send you something.”
Yes!!! I am going to be a grandfather. I phoned a couple of friends. I called my sister down south. “I am about to be a grandfather.”
When questioned by those I called, I was sorely short on details. I could only relate the bit about the Werther’s and the phone call from my son. I would wait for the mail for the details of when.
All the following week, I looked for the elusive bag of Werther’s. Nothing! The week after? Nothing!
Finally I phoned my son, “Am I going to be a grandfather?”
He was puzzled with the question coming out of the blue. “Why would you ask that?” I then related the bit about the Werther’s and the phone request for my office address. He laughed.
“No, we are trying to send your Christmas present!” (Ah, the ones from Orient are!)
The three wisemen - one on a black horse, one on an elephant, and one on a camel - traveled from the Midwest to the Deep South and finally arrived back in Chicago in October – 10 months following their anticipated appearance. (Is this my Christmas gift from last year or for the one coming up? Remember, it is about giving, not getting!)
The Werther’s Originals finally arrived and so did Miss Grace. However, I am now told by their parents that the grandchildren are not allowed to have sugar treats!
Carrots anyone?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Baby Jesus in a Texas Humvee
As you may recall, my fiery redhead granddaughter had refused to identify the baby in their Nativity Scene as the Baby Jesus. (See the post, “No Room In The Inn”) Well, she has had some type of “Isle of Patmos” experience and is now certain the figure is indeed, “Baby Jesus.” Being told of his association with the upcoming Christmas, she is even walking about singing, “Happy Birthday.”
However, Baby Jesus is missing. This was revealed our most recent conversation by telephone.
“Grandmon, whatcha doing?” I began a reply and she interrupted with some urgency in her voice, “Baby Jesus is gone and I can’t find him.” As with her younger cousin in Florida, Baby Jesus was AWOL.
I wanted to say that the Baptists had been singing, “Come Home” for years. But instead I said, “where could he be?”
“In the Humvee!” Then she immediately left the phone to pursue something infinitely more exciting than talking to the old man in “Cahgo.”
“In the Humvee.” The meaning was lost on me until I remembered my grandson’s predilection for placing all sorts of “passengers” into his toy car. However, I was struck by the number of images that "Baby Jesus is in the Humvee" evoked in me.
I began to remember all the ridiculous holiday songs from over the years beginning with “I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus” and moving onto “Grandma got run over by a reindeer.” There was even one about a camel, but, come to think of it, that might not have involved Christmas at all. I also remember the fear that “Up on the housetop” caused me as a child.
No, it was not some sense of foreboding about a fat guy on the roof falling off and breaking a limb. It was the “click, click, click.” I couldn’t snap my fingers as we sang the “click, click, click” part! This was a major source of trauma for a kid in elementary school. So in order to stay ahead in the “peer pressure” department, I was sick a lot on days we had music. Healing came when school was dismissed around December 20th.
I just had to hope Mrs. Heacock didn’t plan on our doing “The Bridge over the River Kwai.” (Whistling was as challenging as snapping my fingers.)
Christmas songs have either been the source of great joy or great consternation. Miss Cleedy Martin came in late on her much rehearsed solo at the Baptist church. She was singing something about the animals in the manger. Knowning the Baptists, I am certain it was not related to the "O Magnum Mysterium." She explained later that she was distracted trying to decide whether to sing ass with the “a” as in attic or the “ah” as in car. (Think about it and you will understand her dilemma.)
“I saw three ships” has always caused a problem if sung too fast. (You will need to think about that one too, maybe even sing it “vivace.”) "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" has always sounded like it was a bit "pouty." (I'm gonna take my Ferrero Rocher's and go home.)
Christmas is upon us and we suffer daily through “Jingle Bell Rock.” But this too shall pass.
Out in Texas, Baby Jesus has been extracted from the Humvee and when last spotted, he was being twirled around while the redhead sang, “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel.”
However, Baby Jesus is missing. This was revealed our most recent conversation by telephone.
“Grandmon, whatcha doing?” I began a reply and she interrupted with some urgency in her voice, “Baby Jesus is gone and I can’t find him.” As with her younger cousin in Florida, Baby Jesus was AWOL.
I wanted to say that the Baptists had been singing, “Come Home” for years. But instead I said, “where could he be?”
“In the Humvee!” Then she immediately left the phone to pursue something infinitely more exciting than talking to the old man in “Cahgo.”
“In the Humvee.” The meaning was lost on me until I remembered my grandson’s predilection for placing all sorts of “passengers” into his toy car. However, I was struck by the number of images that "Baby Jesus is in the Humvee" evoked in me.
I began to remember all the ridiculous holiday songs from over the years beginning with “I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus” and moving onto “Grandma got run over by a reindeer.” There was even one about a camel, but, come to think of it, that might not have involved Christmas at all. I also remember the fear that “Up on the housetop” caused me as a child.
No, it was not some sense of foreboding about a fat guy on the roof falling off and breaking a limb. It was the “click, click, click.” I couldn’t snap my fingers as we sang the “click, click, click” part! This was a major source of trauma for a kid in elementary school. So in order to stay ahead in the “peer pressure” department, I was sick a lot on days we had music. Healing came when school was dismissed around December 20th.
I just had to hope Mrs. Heacock didn’t plan on our doing “The Bridge over the River Kwai.” (Whistling was as challenging as snapping my fingers.)
Christmas songs have either been the source of great joy or great consternation. Miss Cleedy Martin came in late on her much rehearsed solo at the Baptist church. She was singing something about the animals in the manger. Knowning the Baptists, I am certain it was not related to the "O Magnum Mysterium." She explained later that she was distracted trying to decide whether to sing ass with the “a” as in attic or the “ah” as in car. (Think about it and you will understand her dilemma.)
“I saw three ships” has always caused a problem if sung too fast. (You will need to think about that one too, maybe even sing it “vivace.”) "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" has always sounded like it was a bit "pouty." (I'm gonna take my Ferrero Rocher's and go home.)
Christmas is upon us and we suffer daily through “Jingle Bell Rock.” But this too shall pass.
Out in Texas, Baby Jesus has been extracted from the Humvee and when last spotted, he was being twirled around while the redhead sang, “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel.”
Friday, December 4, 2009
No Room In The Inn
My granddaughter Grace, the youngest of my three grandkids, has a nativity scene with which she is fascinated. She is constantly rearranging the figures. There is only one of which she identifies with any regularity: “Baby Jesu.” (She is either having trouble with the “s” or speaking in classic Latin.)
Her two-year old cousin in Texas refuses to admit to the divinity at all. When told it is the baby Jesus, she adamantly corrects her mother, “No! It is just a baby.” (She would be termed a “maverick” had that designation not been opted by a ditsy individual who can see Russia from her front porch.)
“Baby Jesu” keeps coming up missing. I have explained to her father that she is merely being liturgical. The baby isn’t due until Christmas Eve. Of late, the only one in the stable is the shepherd boy. Even Mary has been relegated to a spot among the cows.
All this reminds me of the locally famous “Living Nativity” staged in my boyhood hometown; a village of about 15,000 souls with a Creek Indian name which means "Buzzard's Roost." (It was aptly designated.)
The nativity was situated in the public park on Broadway since it got the most automobile traffic. Various townspeople volunteered to be shepherds and wisemen. Mary and Joseph were generally chosen by the local pediatrician since he knew whose baby could handle the situation with the quietest demeanor and didn't require a pacifier. (Despite the occasional appearance of a pair of canvas Keds, the look was relatively gratifying.)
The animals were the most difficult to cast. Cows were ok, sheep a bit of a challenge, but camels are not native to Alabama. Otis Sprayberry, who furnished the livestock and insisted a sign be erected near the stable to attest of his altruism, offered three mules to be the transport of the seers of the East.
“Hold on!” This was the cry of Mrs. Augusta Lawson, the art teacher, who was the artistic consultant of the project. In her vision, there were camels. A mule is not a camel.
Mrs. Lawson was an enterprising woman. (Not only an artist, she was also the author of a very popular book, “What To Do With The Preacher On A Hot Day.” Relax, it was a book of cool drink recipes for entertaining and was very popular among the Presbyterians.)
Not content that three mules would spoil her Living Nativity, she fashioned papier-mâché “humps” which were attached to the sagging topsides of the aging equines. She also improvised a large headdress to further camouflage the fact that they were not camels. She insisted they be placed as far from the street as practical – off in the shadows to achieve as much illusion as possible. The placement really bothered the wisemen who were responsible for keeping the “camels” from straying away. Who could see them in the dark?
Maylene Moore made all the costumes. It was a real improvement over the “terrycloth bathrobe” look most associated with local Christmas pageants. Mrs. Lawson had sketched patterns adapted from famous paintings. Since most of the fabric was donated by the local cotton mill, something was lost with the preponderance of blue cotton ticking. (The blue did look good on the Virgin Mary.)
Things went well for the most part. That is until the handbell choir from the Methodist Church at Renfro made a guest appearance to play “carols and hymns of the season.” Rather than Christmas charm, the enthusiastic clanging had an alarming effect on the “camels.”
Despite the fact that Junior Sprayberry, the oldest boy of Otis, was Melchoir and familiar with his beast, he was unable to hold on. The frightened creature bolted, plowed right through the bell-ringers and headed down Broadway. The two others followed close behind. These followed by three wisemen. It was a cloudy night, so there was no star to guide them. By the time the “camels” reached Fourth Street, the humps had shifted position to become udders. It really frightened Birtie Parker who was out walking her dog, Mitzi. She did so each night to avoid the buzzards.
The parents of Baby Jesus assessed the trauma of the evening. He came up missing too.
Her two-year old cousin in Texas refuses to admit to the divinity at all. When told it is the baby Jesus, she adamantly corrects her mother, “No! It is just a baby.” (She would be termed a “maverick” had that designation not been opted by a ditsy individual who can see Russia from her front porch.)
“Baby Jesu” keeps coming up missing. I have explained to her father that she is merely being liturgical. The baby isn’t due until Christmas Eve. Of late, the only one in the stable is the shepherd boy. Even Mary has been relegated to a spot among the cows.
All this reminds me of the locally famous “Living Nativity” staged in my boyhood hometown; a village of about 15,000 souls with a Creek Indian name which means "Buzzard's Roost." (It was aptly designated.)
The nativity was situated in the public park on Broadway since it got the most automobile traffic. Various townspeople volunteered to be shepherds and wisemen. Mary and Joseph were generally chosen by the local pediatrician since he knew whose baby could handle the situation with the quietest demeanor and didn't require a pacifier. (Despite the occasional appearance of a pair of canvas Keds, the look was relatively gratifying.)
The animals were the most difficult to cast. Cows were ok, sheep a bit of a challenge, but camels are not native to Alabama. Otis Sprayberry, who furnished the livestock and insisted a sign be erected near the stable to attest of his altruism, offered three mules to be the transport of the seers of the East.
“Hold on!” This was the cry of Mrs. Augusta Lawson, the art teacher, who was the artistic consultant of the project. In her vision, there were camels. A mule is not a camel.
Mrs. Lawson was an enterprising woman. (Not only an artist, she was also the author of a very popular book, “What To Do With The Preacher On A Hot Day.” Relax, it was a book of cool drink recipes for entertaining and was very popular among the Presbyterians.)
Not content that three mules would spoil her Living Nativity, she fashioned papier-mâché “humps” which were attached to the sagging topsides of the aging equines. She also improvised a large headdress to further camouflage the fact that they were not camels. She insisted they be placed as far from the street as practical – off in the shadows to achieve as much illusion as possible. The placement really bothered the wisemen who were responsible for keeping the “camels” from straying away. Who could see them in the dark?
Maylene Moore made all the costumes. It was a real improvement over the “terrycloth bathrobe” look most associated with local Christmas pageants. Mrs. Lawson had sketched patterns adapted from famous paintings. Since most of the fabric was donated by the local cotton mill, something was lost with the preponderance of blue cotton ticking. (The blue did look good on the Virgin Mary.)
Things went well for the most part. That is until the handbell choir from the Methodist Church at Renfro made a guest appearance to play “carols and hymns of the season.” Rather than Christmas charm, the enthusiastic clanging had an alarming effect on the “camels.”
Despite the fact that Junior Sprayberry, the oldest boy of Otis, was Melchoir and familiar with his beast, he was unable to hold on. The frightened creature bolted, plowed right through the bell-ringers and headed down Broadway. The two others followed close behind. These followed by three wisemen. It was a cloudy night, so there was no star to guide them. By the time the “camels” reached Fourth Street, the humps had shifted position to become udders. It really frightened Birtie Parker who was out walking her dog, Mitzi. She did so each night to avoid the buzzards.
The parents of Baby Jesus assessed the trauma of the evening. He came up missing too.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Distracted by all the glamour
I really don’t understand why anyone would want to “crash” a party. Why go somewhere you are not wanted? This crash is not to be confused with the one in Florida that involved getting away from somewhere you did not want to be.
Is it reasonable to assume that you were indeed invited but it just slipped someone’s mind? Or, “once I am there they will be so happy that I arrived.” That logic is overly self-serving and borders on egomania. But, you have to have a major ego to push your way into a closed event.
Shades of Hyacinth Bucket. (That is pronounced Boo-kay, as in the collection of periwinkles.)
The news is full of the couple who crashed the Obama’s State Dinner for the Prime Minister of India. People are pointing fingers and I hear that there is even a congressional investigation to probe into how this happened. We could save some time and concentrate on more important things by just admitting: “Somebody got distracted!” Actually, it appears several somebodies! And for congress, the distraction continues.
I am reminded of Mother’s First Rule of Etiquette: Never arrive uninvited to someone’s home at the dinner hour! Did they expect their place card to magically appear just because you are wearing “off the rack” from Saris R Us and a “too-tight” tux?
A descendant of Henry Morgenthau Jr. (FDR era), wrote a great piece in the NY Times about some gate-crashing teenagers who were able to get into the White House on New Year’s Eve back in 1938. They did this on a bet and hoped to get the autographs for Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt. Their escapade was able to be played out because they were mistaken for guests who had been invited. The doorkeepers had been told to expect a group of young people. It was a coincidence that another group of teenagers opted to “crash” on the same evening.
The gatekeepers of 2009 were told to expect 300 or so people, some of them blond, I suppose.
The article in the Times sums up the events of 1938 by quoting from Eleanor Roosevelt who mentioned the incident in her column, “My Day.” According to this source, Mrs. Roosevelt couched the “crash” in descriptive terms such as “intrusive, unmannerly, rude, thoughtless and unmindful of others.” I was particularly taken by one comment that was quoted from her column. “Behavior of this kind will make the young people seem heroic.”
People have been pushing their way into private spaces for generations. Some are so intent on going where they are not wanted that courts must issue a restraining order to keep them away. But isn’t a printed “guest list” a type of “restraining order?”
Many years ago, my purple-haired mother down in Alabama phoned, quite upset with the fact that some people had arrived at her home, “totally unannounced.” I asked who these people were. “Some people we met at church,” my mother replied.
“I bet when you met them you said, ‘Come to see us some time.’”
“Of course I did, but you know, we don’t mean that!”
Is it reasonable to assume that you were indeed invited but it just slipped someone’s mind? Or, “once I am there they will be so happy that I arrived.” That logic is overly self-serving and borders on egomania. But, you have to have a major ego to push your way into a closed event.
Shades of Hyacinth Bucket. (That is pronounced Boo-kay, as in the collection of periwinkles.)
The news is full of the couple who crashed the Obama’s State Dinner for the Prime Minister of India. People are pointing fingers and I hear that there is even a congressional investigation to probe into how this happened. We could save some time and concentrate on more important things by just admitting: “Somebody got distracted!” Actually, it appears several somebodies! And for congress, the distraction continues.
I am reminded of Mother’s First Rule of Etiquette: Never arrive uninvited to someone’s home at the dinner hour! Did they expect their place card to magically appear just because you are wearing “off the rack” from Saris R Us and a “too-tight” tux?
A descendant of Henry Morgenthau Jr. (FDR era), wrote a great piece in the NY Times about some gate-crashing teenagers who were able to get into the White House on New Year’s Eve back in 1938. They did this on a bet and hoped to get the autographs for Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt. Their escapade was able to be played out because they were mistaken for guests who had been invited. The doorkeepers had been told to expect a group of young people. It was a coincidence that another group of teenagers opted to “crash” on the same evening.
The gatekeepers of 2009 were told to expect 300 or so people, some of them blond, I suppose.
The article in the Times sums up the events of 1938 by quoting from Eleanor Roosevelt who mentioned the incident in her column, “My Day.” According to this source, Mrs. Roosevelt couched the “crash” in descriptive terms such as “intrusive, unmannerly, rude, thoughtless and unmindful of others.” I was particularly taken by one comment that was quoted from her column. “Behavior of this kind will make the young people seem heroic.”
People have been pushing their way into private spaces for generations. Some are so intent on going where they are not wanted that courts must issue a restraining order to keep them away. But isn’t a printed “guest list” a type of “restraining order?”
Many years ago, my purple-haired mother down in Alabama phoned, quite upset with the fact that some people had arrived at her home, “totally unannounced.” I asked who these people were. “Some people we met at church,” my mother replied.
“I bet when you met them you said, ‘Come to see us some time.’”
“Of course I did, but you know, we don’t mean that!”
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