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?
Showing posts with label nativity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nativity. Show all posts
Thursday, December 10, 2009
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.
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