Opposing Views

The little redhead in Dallas has issued a type of moratorium.

Now, in my day – meaning when I was younger – three-year olds had limited opinions and generally those were dealt with by “why not?” and “but Katy has one!” The Little One in Dallas is more defiant and has obviously watched the smileless Mitch enough to understand the power of the ultimatum.

Her “dander” has been piqued by the big round guy in the red suit. You know, the jolly one! The purveyor of “Ho, Ho, Ho!”

She has announced that Santa Claus cannot bring her gifts on Christmas Eve.

She has further insisted that he never be allowed into her house. Before you think that she is “looking a gift horse in the mouth,” we need a clarification. She wants gifts – every three-year old does – but they may only be delivered by Mrs. Claus. No strange man in the company of reindeer is welcome! She is not interested in discussing any compromise.

When she accompanied her mom to the grocery store, she insisted on a promise that the chocolate milk in the cart would not be for the bearded guy with the twinkle in his eye. Yes, it is alright for Mrs. Claus to have any amount she wants.

It sounds a bit like Washington, D. C., don’t you think?

Today’s news indicates that the Senate – despite Mr. Kyl – is close to ratifying the START treaty with Russia. I am amazed that it may happen. I am really amazed that DADT was approved. I am also amazed that Mitch has tear ducts, but that is another story for another day.

So, is there a new spirit around the district? Or is it the calm before the storm that is looming when the newly elected team arrives to bring “sanity” to our “liberal bent?”

I was stopped at an intersection on a major street in Skokie, a suburb north of Chicago, yesterday afternoon. I noticed there was a gentleman moving from car to car with what I thought to be a container to receive donations for some worthy cause. However, when he turned towards me, I realized that emblazoned across his front was a large, “IMPEACH OBAMA!”

Needless to say, I was taken aback.

So I began to watch the dynamic. He went up to several cars that had their windows lowered. I assumed they were friendly to his protest and that I had found myself in very unfriendly territory. But, to my relief, not one person accepted the printed material that the man offered. One driver shook his finger with obvious vehemence. (It was like sign language since I could not hear the exchange.)

I was waiting for the man to come my way. I wanted to engage in some form of reasoning. However, the turn light flashed a green arrow and I was forced to move along.

It got me to thinking about all the disgruntled people who have issues with an obviously well-educated, articulate, and compassionate leader. I got to thinking about the number of times the Grizzly Mama has derided him for being a “Community Organizer.” This coming from someone who didn’t even complete a commitment she made to her electorate once she discovered “Paree!” And there are the “Birthers” who cannot get beyond the legitimacy of his origins. There are Glenn and Rush who believe him to be the most ultra-liberal soul to ever walk the planet.

That line of thought, of course, leads to the extreme lack of cooperation between the political factions – old and new - of our country. Is there a way to find reason in such opposites?

I really think someone should organize a Flash Mob for the next big Tea Party rally. Maybe stage a dance routine using the “Rabbit Song” from “Alice in Wonderland.” You know:

“I’m late, I’m late for a very important date. No time to say, “hello; goodbye” I lose the time, I say. I run and then I hop, hop, hop! I wish that I could fly. There’s danger if I dare to stop and here’s the reason why: you see, I’m overdue, I’m in a rabbit stew…………

Now you must imagine 3,000 flash mobbers doing a slick routine – or maybe the Macarena, which isn’t. It would throw those angry “partiers” into riotous confusion. The flashmob of “Do, Re, Mi” in the Antwerp train station certainly got smiles out of the sedate onlookers.

Or maybe all the Democrats in Congress should stage a flashmob and just disappear for 24 hours. The conservatives would believe it was the “second coming” and they were left behind and not those “godless, socialist, blue-state liberals” they had expected would be.

Can you imagine the chaos and confusion at the Prayer House on C-Street?

While the Democrats are missing, we should get someone with a booming voice like a James Earl Jones and hide them somewhere on the mall with a bullhorn turned to max output.

“I AM NOT HAPPY!”

The fear of God has been known to wreak major changes! This would certainly be more environmentally friendly than a locust plague. Less messy than a flood.

A compassionate caring legislative branch would be such a great concept. Imagine a group of people who are not interested in being re-elected, but instead desire to make a positive change in the well-being of the citizens they have been honored to serve.

Yes, the old coot is a dreamer.

So here we are, headed into our most beautiful holiday of the year. There are twinkling lights everywhere and you hear a lot of warm wishes being expressed between people who rarely speak. Some of this warmth is, of course, aided by the fuzziness from a bottle of vermouth or brandy. Some is genuinely heartfelt.

But the former is ok. There is nothing wrong with civility for even a couple of hours. There is always the hope that when the buzz wears away, the civility can stay and become the genuine variety.

Since we are on the subject of Christmas “spirits,” the two little ones in Dallas have been in a rather heated exchange about holiday drinks.

The oldest insists that Santa Claus does not drink eggnog but drinks chocolate milk. The redhead – the younger one – insists he does not drink chocolate milk, even when relegated outside her home. He drinks eggnog!

Santa may wind up with water. Afterall, it is zero calories and non-allergenic.

An Elusive Spirit

Scenes from "A Christmas Memory" starring Geraldine Page and Donnie Melvin.
Based upon the short story by Truman Capote

I am beginning to feel the spirit.

I finished a presentation of “Messiah” of Handel last week and now I am enjoying the smell of scented candles and debating the pros and cons of “real vs. fake” holiday trees. The Senate has even given the country some good legislation with the help of some Republicans who have the spirit. John Boehner keeps crying and now it seems that Mitch is joining in as well. Is this a new tradition?

We don’t need Tevye to convince us of the value of tradition.

In my “elder” state, I find myself more and more passionate about making certain that traditions are remembered, maintained, and in some instances reborn. Especially those family customs around the warm and fuzzy celebrations like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

So, I am doing a lot of remembering.

My father was a shaker. No, not of the religious sect. I think he loved his Browning “Sweet 16” with the gold trigger too much for that. No, he was a package shaker. Each day, from the first appearance of brightly-wrapped, ribboned gifts under our Christmas tree, he would investigate each package. He would pick them up, examine the name tag, pausing at each and then shake them – his ear close to the side of the parcel to see if he could elicit information from the resulting sounds. It didn’t matter that he had done this same act the day before and no new parcels had been added. He was hopeful that perhaps a better clue would emerge if he shook it again. Sometimes he imagined he heard something informative, because you would see a wry smile appear.

Around December 20^th, a new tactic surfaced.

As our family sat around the breakfast table – by this time, school was on Christmas break, so there was no early morning rush to hamper the gathering of us all – he would get a gleam in his eye and say, “Don’t you think it would be ok if we opened just one present today?”

Mom would resist.

“Just one, maybe a small one?”

Of course, my sister and I would agree with him. We were also shakers.

After serious cajoling, Mom would reluctantly agree with the provision that she would select which package it was to be. Her choices would usually produce socks and underwear. The exciting stuff!

I don’t have any memories of particular treasures from these pre-emptive strikes. I do remember that by Christmas Eve, when we traditionally opened the gifts, there were sparse offerings since there had been a five-day assault on the booty.

Once this seemed to be an ongoing problem, gifts would appear under the tree without any name tags. This was a disaster since people forgot which belonged to whom and Dad wound up with a new cap pistol and I got a pipe. In later years, presents seemed to appear later and later in the season. It was the “out of sight, out of mind” defense.

I remember the tradition of my mother’s baking holiday treats.

There was always hot chocolate each morning during Christmas vacation. We had it in January and February too, but I remember it most at Christmas. It may have to do with the fact that there was a ritual of leaving a cup of hot chocolate and a specially selected Christmas cookie for Santa Claus. My sister would also leave a note for Santa which, in the years after I was a “non-believer” I had the job of answering.

She would dictate the note to one of the parents, later on she would write it herself. Those she produced alone contained endless questions which a large man in a red suit had scant time to deal with. “How do you keep from tracking soot in our living room?” “Where do you use the bathroom?”

On Christmas Day, she seemed more interested in his answers than in what he brought. So answers had to be provided.

It seemed that my penmanship was closer akin to a tired old man who had struggled down the chimney. Seeking authenticity, I even would rub lead from the pencil on my hands so that my fingertips appeared to leave soot on the hastily composed reply. I think that I told her that I always used the bathroom before I left the North Pole. The bonus for all this intrigue was I also got the cup of chocolate milk and the cookie.

Now, a word of warning.

If you have a tradition of opening your gifts on Christmas Eve – which we did, and Santa no longer calls on the household because there are no “believers” left to anticipate rooftop reindeer in the middle of the night – which happened around the time my sister was eleven, then Christmas Day can be a real let down.

My three-year old in Texas - the redhead - has let it be known that Santa Claus is not welcome inside her house. Mrs. Claus, yes, but the old guy - a very explicit, emphatic "NO!" She offers no reason behind her banishment. But, keep in mind, she rarely offers reasons for most things she decides - including her preference for "raw" oatmeal rather than cooked. Her current disfavor of Mr. Claus means there will be no photo sitting on his lap.

I wonder if this means I may have to shave my beard?

My favorite aunt, the wife of my father's oldest brother, had the tradition of always sending cards belatedly. She did this on purpose and the card always attested to the fact that it was late. We grew to expect it. She never forgot a birthday or Christmas, but she always came in after the fact.

My paternal grandfather was also a "traditionalist."

This was a man who was fairly well-off. He owned major farmland, had a logging business, owned vast amounts of cattle, and produced large quantities of cotton each year. Yet, each Christmas I received the same gift. He would send $2.00 to be distributed between my father, my mother, my sister and me. I will say that when I married, he upped the ante to $3.00 to be shared by the happy couple. It amounted to a 300% escalation.

My sister, the “note writer,” would always send our grandfather a thank you letter. The last line of which usually said, “I put my money into my savings, Joe spent his.”

Sometimes, you just can’t win.

Alabama was a difficult state for those who enjoyed the tradition of finding their joy in a bottle of Christmas cheer. Remember, there are a lot of Baptists in Alabama. In order to have beer, wine, or the stronger stuff, it had to be purchased at the “State Store” in Birmingham. Now, my father was not a connoisseur of fine wine. On the contrary, he preferred his on the kosher side. So each Christmas, a bottle of Manischewitz or Mogan David would appear in the back of the pantry. Along with that purchase, my mom would order a bottle of stronger spirits to be used to “season” her annual batch of fruitcakes. Sometimes there was more “seasoning” than others which mean a second trip to the State Store.

There is a wonderful little folk-song, I think called “The Song of The Salvation Army.” I know of only two verses:

We never eat cookies because they have yeast
And one little bite turns a man to a beast.
Oh, can you imagine a sadder disgrace,
Than a man in the gutter with crumbs on his face?

We never eat fruitcake because it has rum,
And one little bite turns a man to a bum!
Oh, can you imagine a sorrier sight
Than a man eating fruitcake until he gets tight?

The Missionary Circle at the Baptist Church had to lay down some strict
bylaws around the holidays because Mabel Walker’s famous “Lane Cake”
seemed to have a bit too much “lane.”  Seasoned with brandy, Mabel was
generous to a fault with her portions.  It was becoming difficult to
concentrate on the children in China!

Christmas cakes always remind me of the wonderful film based upon “A
Christmas Memory” by Truman Capote.  

Narrated by Capote, himself, it was made by Frank Perry and starred
Geraldine Page.  The story is autobiographical and looks at a time in
Capote’s childhood when he lived with relatives in Monroeville, Alabama.  
This, of course, is also the same timeline found in Harper Lee's "To Kill A
Mockingbird." Geraldine Page plays his cousin, his best friend and the
buffer between him and stern aunts.  

One crisp Alabama morning, the cousin awakens “Buddy” to announce
excitedly, “It’s fruitcake weather.”  It is time to prepare their annual
batch of cakes to be mailed to people they know or have merely heard
of.  President Roosevelt will be sent one. Pennies that they have saved
must be counted so that ingredients may be purchased. This means
they must gather pecans in a neighboring grove and face the fearsome
“Mr. Ha Ha Jones” to purchase the whiskey to cure the cakes.  Beyond
the kitchen door, the others are unsympathetic to their excitement.  

The film is a beautiful look at friendship and care.  There is a newer
version which stars Patty Duke.  Sorry, she cannot hold a candle to
Geraldine Page who cornered the market on askew southern women.

I saw Page in a Broadway revival of Noel Coward’s Blithe Spirit just
weeks before her death. She played the physic medium Madame Arcati.
Richard Chamberlain, Blythe Danner, and Judith Ivey rounded out the
cast. 

For me, a tradition is to watch “A Christmas Memory” at some point
during the holidays.  For others, there is the Frank Capra route.

When I married, I encountered a new set of traditions.  These had to be
considered and carefully merged into those of my past.  Now, my children,
both married with kids – “The Little People” – are beginning their own.

I have given Advent Calendars to both families – those in Texas and
those in Florida.  It is a wish on my part to make the road to Christmas
about the important values rather than those touted by Neiman’s and
Nordstrom. The calendar has 24 numbered books of about 4 pages. 
Starting the first day of December, a book is read each day until the
Eve when the Christchild arrives.  

The calendar seems to be a hit.  My grandson has been telling me about
the “Land of Judy.”  (Judea?)  However, he insists that the angels are
“tooth fairies.”

I journey down to Alabama and onto Florida next week.  I will spend
some time at my home and then go on to visit with my son and his family
in Florida. I am taking with me a DVD of Capote’s “A Christmas Memory”
in the hope that I can pass along a tradition.

Maybe I should order a Claxton.

Letting The Cat Out Of The Bag

Chicago is cold. Rip-roaring cold and it is very early in the season of frigid air, so this doesn’t bode well at all for January or February. Even Alabama and Florida, where I associate adjectives like mild and sultry to the temperature, is experiencing a strong northern draft.

I find myself thinking of Erika’s aria, “Must the winter come so soon?” from the Barber-Menotti opera, “Vanessa.” I am just not ready for this cold, this early.

Driving down Lake Shore Drive into the city, I looked out onto Lake Michigan and there was a cold mist rising from the waters. I remembered this drive only days ago, it seems, when I was in shirt-sleeves and shorts headed down to the harbor to take the sailboat out for a day of warm, even hot, relaxation.

“Must the winter come so soon?”

Years ago, in the days before air-conditioned environments – commercial and residential – fans, both electrical and human-powered, were important fixtures everywhere in the hot summers of Alabama where I grew up. Funeral “homes” even capitalized on the heat by giving away cardboard squares with a wooden handle attached to provide some movement of air when sitting in the stuffy confines of the Baptist church in late July. Generally these “fans” had an image of “Christ knocking at the door” on one side and a description of the services offered by the local mortician on the other.

I don’t recall ceiling fans outside commercial situations. Now, of course, every room you enter in a residence has a “decorator” fan whirling away. Most seem to have been designed by Miss Ruby, the madam at a “Nevada Social Club.” (Yes, you should read between the lines since I am not going any further down that road.)

Before we had a fan that was permanently fixed in a window to pull the cooler summer evening air into our home along with the thickly sweet, wonderful smell of gardenias planted around the yard, we had a small, table-top, oscillating fan – maybe an Emerson if my memory serves me correctly.

At some point, the fan had been loaned to a neighbor who had an ill family member and thus needed the limited comfort of the Emerson while they convalesced. The individual survived their malady and soon appeared in public. They even turned up at the Ice Cream Social sponsored by the Missionary Women at the church.

But the fan did not reappear to stir the air at our home.

It was a particularly hot summer and my parents commented about this more than once – the errant Emerson as well as the incessant heat. The two subjects were bonded with perspiration.

One day, out of the blue, the fan was returned.

I was the one who answered the door and received the valued prize.

“My parents were wondering if you were ever going to bring this back.” Of course, I spoke the truth. They had said that many times during the lingering summer heat. The cat was out of the bag!

Being new to diplomacy – I was only seven – I didn’t know the difference between private and public information. It was probably around the same time when I answered the door by saying, “Mom said to tell you she wasn’t at home.”

I was forbidden to answer the door after that. They said something about safety and strangers, but I think that it was for a different reason.

Sixty years later, my purple-haired mother had an adverse reaction to the anesthesia administered for a knee replacement surgery and became very unwieldy during her hospitalization. Her “rantings” were totally candid and lacked any editorial consideration of the persons subjected to hearing them.

On one afternoon when she was particularly talkative, it happened that a relative was paying a visit to her bedside. My sister was there as well.

Much to my sister’s horror, mother launched into a long discussion about the visitor sitting opposite. For the entire visit, the relative was forced to listen to an ongoing account of why she was unappreciated, unwanted, and disliked by my mother. It was obvious that mom had no idea to whom she was speaking. It was if she had been injected with a truth serum. She was on a roll.

It is important that you know something about my mom. She was the sole of discretion.

Late one night, suffering from a bout with a serious chest cold, she phoned my daughter hundreds of miles away. "Honey, you must promise me something and you can never let anyone know this. If I die, you must promise me to get here as quickly as possible and remove the empty bottle of scotch in the bottom of my trash bin in the kitchen. I have been sipping liquor to help my cold and I don't want that to be discovered by anyone." A very private woman with a strict sense of what is proper. And a concern for image!

But back to the incident at the hospital.

I had visited mom a couple of weeks earlier and she spoke of me, thankfully in gracious terms, without ever being aware that she was speaking to me.

But now she was smoking with diatribes.

Fortunately, our relative had the good grace to take the medication into consideration. She could have been totally incensed, but she was forgiving. Mother’s tactless railings were never mentioned. Diplomacy reigned.

But diplomacy is a very difficult thing to manage. It must be carefully pursued. It is an art which requires delft strokes. Nuance!

Richard Holbrooke was a master. He traveled those avenues with ease.

He was also the epitome of one dedicated to a cause far beyond himself. He set a benchmark for public service. He died this week and we are worse for it.

I have not read all the accounts of the Wikileaks release of private correspondence of our State Department. I feel certain the some probably bore the thoughts of Holbrooke – especially his assessments of Hamid Karzai.

He might even have mused, as I have, about whether the sleeves of the coat that Karzai always drapes on his shoulder might be sewn closed. Did someone forget to snip the basting by the tailor? Such strange posturing by Hamid.

Curiously, it is reported that one of the most explosive encounters between the Holbrooke and Karzai occurred following the recent elections in Afghanistan.

It brought to mind another election in this country. Think Florida and hanging chads.

It was probably the Supreme Court that kept Holbrooke from the big desk in the corner office and the chosen seat in the Cabinet Room. For had the votes in Florida been recounted, President Gore would have most certainly named him as Secretary of State.

This, of course, was not to happen. Holbrooke has been gracious with his “under-Secretary” role and performed tirelessly up to the end. It is reported that his final words spoken to a physician of Pakistani decent had to do with ending the elusive situation in Afghanistan.

Recently, the Little People were with their mother on a shopping trip. The older of the two – my grandson – spied a man in the shop who wore an eye patch.

Failing in his understanding of private and public thoughts – of diplomacy, he shouted and pointed, “Look, there’s a pirate!”

I wonder if Holbrooke ever pointed and shouted that at Karzai.