Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 17

A Transport to the Past

How convenient it would be to have a transporter. I could pop in to have coffee with Anne, visit libraries with my Brother Dave, walk in Michigan woods on a fine day, admire Cranbrook Hall and Gardens.

There is another kind and it’s real.

I was reminded of this spacetime travel tool when Debussy’s “Prelude to an Afternoon of a Faun” played from my computer.

Now, I have 66 iTunes playlists (and counting), everything from afternoon thunderstorms and bird songs to classical or the Beatles or oldies or Celtic music or the starry realms…well, it goes on. Currently, my favorite discovery is Thomas Bergersen and Nick Phoenix and their incredible music from Two Steps from Hell. (Better named, One Step from Heaven.)

Anyway, back to my time travel. As soon as the first strains of the Faun’s music rippled through my writing room, I was transported to the Detroit Institute of Arts, especially the entrance room with Diego Rivara’s murals of the history of Detroit.

Why? I don’t know. Was there ever a time when the music played as we made our occasional, thrilling visits to the art museum? The entire museum is filled with memories, sensations, history, and adventure for me. (I miss seeing it. Maybe on my next visit.)

Happens to me every time I hear that piece, with the anticipation of the waiting museum.
For me, music is a transport back in time (or in the case of ethereal, starry compositions by Jonn Serrie, into the future).

Eugene Ormandy’s “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” is Christmas morning, and our cue to rush downstairs to waiting presents, Dad’s lights and movie camera, excitement.

I already told you about Rachmaninoff bringing back Dad, or the Carousel Waltz, Mom.

“There’s a Kind of Hush” takes me on first dates with Dave, including that first McDonald’s in Pontiac.

At a younger age, the song “Follow Me” from Lerner and Lowe’s Camelot meant the sound of spring peepers and the water forest of the Second Woods, mystery and swamps and a narrow path to a low-hanging tree branch. Still does.

Easter Vigil with incense and candles and the Litany of the Saints is my childhood again. That chant made such an impression, our entire family used it to sing “Christmas shopping, mmm, mmm.” Just ask my niece Jenny.

When I worked at GM Truck & Bus as a Kelly employee, I listened to WQRS on the way to work. Heard once the loveliest piece of music ever composed, “The Lark Ascending” by Ralph Vaughan-Williams. The haunting violin, as the lark, rises over English folk melodies and meadows. I happened to be driving on the overpass for I-75 on South Boulevard, and you guessed it. I can find myself back there in a flash, with English water meadows around me instead of traffic.

One afternoon, on my drive home, expecting Beethoven or Bach, I heard the memorable “Gotta keep ‘em separated,” the Offspring’s “Come Out and Play.” Stunned, yes, to learn that my station had changed formats, but I do love that song, and my first introduction brings back working in GM offices and dinner waiting to be made at home.

My Dad loved Laurel and Hardy movies, and I watched Stan Laurel dance while Oliver Hardy sang, “Shine On, Harvest Moon.” Thank you, Dad. (Check it out for yourself, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ANVup...)

Oh, and the surprise of Herman Munster (Fred Gwynne) singing in Car 54 Where Are You, and especially their captain (Paul Reed) with his magnificent voice. I’m 11 years old and black-and-white TV a staple in my life.

Music still carries me across space, time, memories, and landscapes.

What are your favorite or most moving tunes?

Oh, and let’s not forget our piano favorite as kids, sure to get a rise out of Mom or Dad with their shouts and pleas to stop.

Chopsticks!

Do you think if I borrow a piano and bang it out now, I’ll hear them again?

Ovaltine and Mitten Clips

Whenever I think about my childhood in the Heights, one or more memories will pop up, crisp and vivid and brief. I try to grab any that catch my attention to share with you.

Last week, the ice cream truck surfaced in my mind. I meant to share Good Humor bars and the “Turkey in the Straw” tune that warned children of approaching delights, but took a look at your current temperatures and changed my mind.

The joy of ice cream didn’t seem to sound as appealing as it would in, say, July.

I always miss the trill of the robin song, but again, spring seems eternally far away, so the first robin songs can wait, too.

Winter. We couldn’t always be sledding down the School Hills. What else did we do in the cold weather, with or without snow?

Whatever we did outside, it required suiting up like an astronaut to face the elements.

Anyone my age or older will recall snow suits, or heavy jackets and leggings, with enough weight to prevent quick movement, or sometimes, standing back up from making snow angels. We learned to roll back and forth for momentum. Remember winter hats with flaps over the ears, and mitten clips to keep either mitten from disappearing? (Not always effective.)

Freezing temperatures, snow, or the beginning of sleet was no joke, but we were embarrassed to be found wearing yarn pinned to the inside of our coats with mittens at the other end, pulled through sleeves.

Funny what children consider mortifying.

“Mom, we want to go outside,” was the beginning of a process that took time and physical effort. I remember Mom grumbling about the epoch it took to prepare and pull on boots for the amount of time spent outside. Somebody’s boot was always missing, or on the wrong foot, or on the wrong child.

And you can all recall hopping around trying to pull on boots over your shoes, or sitting and tugging.

I’ve seen pictures of children frolicking in the snow. Frolic? We stomped like the Buck Rogers robot Twiki in our weighted outerwear.

Still, we built snowmen, complete with rock eyes and carrot nose. My brothers worked on snow forts until they once created a masterpiece. We all made snow angels or played with footprints, tried to lick icicles like cones, and, of course, pelted each other with snowballs. At least, when there was snow.

Looking at the last batch of winters, there couldn’t always have been snow in our childhood, right? Sure seemed like it.

The best part of winter play was the first entry into crisp, cold air. It smelled clean.

The best part of being cold and shivery and ready to return home was Ovaltine.

Mom made us hot cocoa with marshmallows or hot Ovaltine. I think we all preferred Nestles’ cocoa, but I remember best the smell and taste of hot Ovaltine. Triggered a love for malt throughout my life.

A brief history—developed in Bern, Swizterland in 1904. Exported to Britain in 1909, and in 1915, manufactured in Illinois for the rest of us. Did you ever drink Ovaltine? I suspect it was offered cold or hot, but we sipped ours steaming, after playing outside or dragging sleds back from the School Hills.

Who knew that sugar, whey, corn, malted barley, nonfat milk, and molasses could be so delicious, and linger in my memory?

Snow and winter weather is so much more congenial from the mild seasons of Florida.

Yes, we do get cold weather, but it’s brief, even when temperatures drop below freezing, as they have the last two nights. (Dragged my pot garden into my room and have a temporary jungle atmosphere. Still hoping that no lizards were hibernating in any of them. Sudden scurrying thrills my cats, but trying to rescue one without smooshing it is difficult. Then, what to do with it?)

Native Floridians shiver in chilly weather, and you can recognize them by parkas and flip-flops.

No Michigander would venture outdoors in flip-flops during January.

Children don’t drive in slush or on icy roads, don’t scrape car windows, or warm up the car before everybody piles in. Yes, we walked the two blocks to school, but I don’t recall it being four miles uphill both ways in the sleet. My brother would beg to differ regarding his long paper route on winter evenings.

Ovaltine.

Mitten clips.

Mom.

I’d love to have a few of those moments back, and burst into the back porch, shivering and dropping boots and coats and mittens to get to that hot cup of Ovaltine, to see Mom’s face again. Hear her voice admonishing us to pick up our coats, stand up our boots, hang up wet mittens.

Just heard a touching song by Chris Janson called, “Bye Mom.” Cried all the way through it.

Thought about Mom.

And Ovaltine.

Wot Cher!

It’s summer. The windows are open. Kids outside are playing since it’s either Saturday afternoon or Sunday. (Except for Christmas, Halloween, the school fall festival, or sledding, it always seems to be summer in my memories of the Heights.) Dad’s at his grand piano playing.

He and Mom were excited when they bought this used grand piano, and often propped open the back for the concert sound. Beethoven’s bust frowned on the keys, waiting to hear his favorite pieces. Wagner’s bust stood on the left. (We all liked Beethoven, and celebrated his birthday December 16th with a cake and candles.)

Mom played most often, between chores and meals and the usual hectic activities of a young woman with six children. If she dared to sit at the piano, I begged for “The Carousel Waltz” by Richard Rodgers, still a favorite, and a composition I associate with Mom. She told me once that, in her mind, she could dance to it.

Dad studied classical piano as a boy and tried to keep his practice sharp, but a large family and working second shift at Pontiac Motors didn’t give him enough time. Occasionally, he’d pull out his favorite pieces. I was like a bee to pollen at the sound of his fingers on the keys.

(And, on a side note, my parents tried to interest us in piano lessons, but I didn’t take advantage of them. Later taught myself guitar; Janet played flute, piano, and guitar; JoAnn played cornet and guitar, and Steve was the finest natural piano player in the family. Like Mom, we all sang, but only Janet and Mom had those Julie Andrews, angelic voices.)

I begged Dad for my favorites. Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini (Rachmaninoff, a difficult piece, but I didn’t realize how difficult), Reverie (Debussy), and Ase’s Death or Morning (Grieg). The music carried me away. Still does, because I listen to those compositions regularly, and many more.

Mom and Dad played records, too (LP albums for those younger than us)—musicals and soundtracks, classical, jazz (Dad). He did have one jazz album we kids giggled at. A “beat” version of “Green Eggs and Ham,” narrated by Marvin Miller with bass runs between verses.

Dad fell in love with Mom on a blind date when she was 17 and he was 20. “That’s the girl I’m going to marry,” he told his friend Bob. And so, he did, and stayed in love with her his entire life.

Mom was never wrong, even when she was. He saw her through his loving eyes, and to him, she never aged or changed. They were the fairytale couple, although life wasn’t “happily ever after.” Still, that couldn’t dent their devotion. Mom missed him so much after he died of a stroke, part of her went ahead with him.

In fact, when Mom was in her last moments, Janet and I sat by her bedside, trying to grasp the reality of the end of our mother’s life, when I heard Dad’s voice say my name, as if thanking me, and sensed his hand on my shoulder. Seconds later, both of them disappeared.

Dad came and got Mom. I have no doubt about that.

My father was a man of strong opinions, otherwise known as stubborn. (“I thought I was wrong once, but I was mistaken!”). He loved his family, origin and children, our country, Mom, life, reading, music, and had an unshakable faith. Come to think of it, he really was right most of the time.

His father had deserted the family when he was in high school, leaving my grandmother with four children, one a baby, and no job skills. She taught herself clerical skills and ended up as secretary to the head psychiatrist of the old Pontiac Mental Hospital, the castle one in Pontiac.

Dad, on the other hand, was devoted to his family, and helped my grandmother support his sister and brothers. Was a friend to them all his life. My aunt still misses his conversations, letters, voice.

Occasionally, Dad would put away his classical pieces and pull out an old favorite. I sang along, and can still recall the melody and words to the first verse and refrain. You’ve probably never heard of it, but we Russells all knew this Music Hall tune:

Last week down our alley came a toff
Nice old geezer with a nasty cough
Sees my missus, takes his topper off
In a very gentlemanly way!
“Ma’am,” says ‘e, “I ‘ave some news to tell
Your rich uncle Tom of Camberwell
Popp’d off recent which it ain’t a sell
Leaving you ‘is little donkey shay.”

“Wot cher!” all the neighbours cried,
“Who yer gonna meet, Bill,
Have yer bought the street, Bill?”
Laugh! I thought I should ‘ave died,
Knock’d ‘em in the Old Kent Road!

Dad’s “knocking ‘em in the Old Kent Road” now!

Thank you, Dad, for everything.

The Voice of the Detroit Tigers

Close your eyes for a moment.

Forget about the blistering cold and scraping car windows, the seemingly endless winter.

Picture a lawn mower in the distance. Kids ride bikes past your house, a robin chortles from a nearby tree.

The baseball game’s on, and you hear, “A man from Saginaw will go home with that one.”

Summer in the Heights was baseball.

Detroit Tigers baseball.

Ernie Harwell baseball.

That smooth voice was part of my childhood and beyond, and yours. And what a gentleman.

William Earnest Harwell was born in 1918 in Washington, Georgia, delivered newspapers as a boy to Margaret Mitchell, author of Gone with the Wind, and went on to announce more than 8,500 major league baseball games over 55 years.

The sound of baseball. The sound of summer. The voice of the Tigers.

After he wrote his book, Tuned to Baseball (1985), I ordered a copy for my father-in-law and Dave for Christmas. Before I wrapped them, I mailed them to Mr. Harwell with a letter. He signed the books and thanked me for my compliments. “That was most kind,” he wrote.

He was most kind.

In my pre-teen years, I had such a crush on Rocky Colavito, I had a poster of him in my room, and when my parents took me to a home game, I took my Brownie camera (remember those?) and snapped a picture of my hero.

I enthusiastically wrote my first fan letter in my childish handwriting, and mailed the picture to him to sign. A black-and-white square with a white dot at the top. Still, he signed it. How I wish I had that snapshot now.

Ah, the days of Al Kaline (and we could do more than one post on this amazing man), Stormin’ Norman, Rocky Colavito, Hank Aguirre. Of course, there’ve been many wonderful teams and seasons with the Tigers. When I think about baseball, I think about the Detroit Tigers.

And Ernie Harwell.

The voice of the Tigers for 42 years, he never lost that smooth delivery, that passion for the sport, his memorable phrases.

“It’s looooooong gone!”

“He’s out for excessive window shopping.”

“It’s two for the price of one.”

“Striiike three. He stood there like the house by the side of the road and watched that one go by.”

Al Kaline said, “Ernie Harwell is probably the most beloved person who has ever been in Detroit with the Detroit Tigers. He is loved by everybody and rightfully so. He’s a great broadcaster but even a better person. That comes across on his broadcasts.”

You weren’t so bad yourself, Al!

Ernie Harwell called his first Tigers game in 1960 on opening day, and among other commendations, announced the 1963 World Series between the Yankees and the Dodgers, where the rest of America shared his gift.

He was a man of faith and compassion and kindness.

Every season, he started spring training with Song of Solomon 2: 11-12—“For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.”

In 1981 he was inducted into the Radio Hall of Fame with “whether talking about the pitching style of Mickey Lolich with picturesque adjectives or the majesty of an Al Kaline home run with his signature call of ‘loooong gone,’ Harwell’s vivid descriptions of games have earned him the respect of fans and his peers.”

He died at the age of 92 after fighting cancer, a loss to his family, to Detroit, to us.

But today, instead of the 12-30 degrees and cold sun, relive a summer afternoon with baseball on the radio and Ernie Harwell sharing your day. Your favorite players are in their prime, and life is to be celebrated.

“I think I owe thanks to the people who have listened to me over the years, who tuned in on the radio. They have given me a warmth and loyalty that I’ve never been able to repay. The way they have reached out to me has certainly been the highlight of my life.” - Ernie Harwell

Just maybe, he’s announcing a heavenly game now with Dick McAuliffe at shortstop, Norm Cash on first, Bill Freehan catching, Hank Aguirre or Mark “The Bird” Fidrych on the mound, Hank Aaron or Al Kaline in right field…oh, I can go on and on, and so could you.

“One more out and it’ll be a Tiger victory!”

We’ll never forget you, Ernie Harwell. You meant summer and youth and baseball, and will live forever.

Black Bart and Faygo

At my age, I have a lot in common with Herkimer the bottle blower for Uptown. Remember him? “Too pooped to participate,” until his boss filled him with Uptown pop. “Live it up, up, up with Uptown!”

Can’t say I ever recall drinking Uptown (Faygo) lemon-lime, but we all knew and drank Faygo pop. (Sorry, any non-Michiganders, soda is what we put in cookies to make them rise.) Red pop, root beer, and my favorite Faygo, Rock & Rye, over ice or with ice cream for floats.

Ice cream? Floats? One pop was as effective for colds and flu as it was delectable. None other than Vernor’s, “deliciously different.” You cough when you raise the glass to your mouth. It has a fizz and taste unlike any other. Detroit’s speciality and the oldest (continually) produced pop in America. Boston cooler? Hot Vernor’s? I still look for it when someone’s sick or when I want zip.

Local commericals in my childhood had more of an impact and were more memorable than any I can think of now, other than Publix supermarket Christmas ads.

Black Bart and his horse. “Which way did he go? Which way did he go?” “He went for FAY-GO!” I was so enamored by the talking horse, I hardly remember the Faygo Kid, and after Black Bart shot holes in him, he couldn’t enjoy his rescued Faygo root beer.

“You’ve got an uncle in the furniture business, Joshua Doore, Joshua Doore,” a clever jingle that gave no hint of mob activity. Years later, I was stunned to hear the same jingle with “Robinson Furniture” tacked on. That wasn’t right.

A better known face and voice was Mr. Belvedere (TY-8-7100), “We do good work.” Born Maurice Lezell in 1921, Mr. Belvedere sold aluminum screens and storm windows, and in 1948 started Belvedere Construction. (The name came from Clifton Webb’s Belvedere films.) He went door-to-door to radio to TV, which is what I remember.

We Russell kids ate a mountain of cereal in those years, especially during Saturday morning cartoons. TV was a big deal. Dad bought a color television in the early 60’s, although many of our favorite shows and commercials were still black-and-white.

We watched programs in the evenings, too (except for the occasional after-school appearance of my hero, Soupy Sales and his sidekick Pookie). Remember when the shows were once a week, with commercials, and if you missed it, too bad for you?

The Flintstones. Huckleberry Hound (“…and her shoes are number ni-eeeen!”). Wonderful World of Disney. Popeye. Superman. Dragnet. Twilight Zone. And commercials that can whisk me back to childhood at the first sound.

“Coco Wheats, Coco Wheats can’t be beat…”
“They’re GR-E-A-T!” Kellogg’s Tony the Tiger (with the voice of Thurl Ravenscroft, who also sang “You’re a mean one, Mister Grinch.”)

I still pull up the Detroit Zoo commercial from the 80’s on YouTube to watch the animals prepare for guests. “My lines, my lines!” “Makeup, makeup!” “I want to talk to my agent”…”Let ME talk to your agent.”

I came across a picture of the Faygo Kid and Black Bart the other day, which triggered this rush of memories that I wanted to share with you.

My brother and I could sing all the jingles, including the Little Lulu theme song and Felix the Cat. We must have depleted Mom’s cereal supply every Saturday morning, although we all ate hot cereal on cold school mornings…Coco Wheats, Cream of Wheat, Cream of Rice, Ralston Purina, and of course, oatmeal with maple syrup, brown sugar, and milk. For me, grits are a hot cereal for sugar and milk, a statement which freezes my current Florida neighbors into shocked horror.

We were excited when Pebbles Flintstone was born.

We ate Stroh’s ice cream and tasted Stroh’s beer.

We played cowboys and Indians, or king and quests, or wore blankets for a Superman cape.
“Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive. Able to leap tall buildings at a single bound. Look! Up in the sky. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s Superman!” (Superman was sponsored by Kellogg’s and I don’t remember one advertisement during the show.)

But there’s one particular commercial (sung by the Gaylords) that everybody recognized and sang, from younger than me to beyond my parents’ age. You know. You sang it, too, and probably still can:

“Stay on the right track to Nine Mile and Mack,
Roy O’Brien trucks and cars, make your money back!
Roy O’Brien’s got them buyin, buyin’,
they come from many miles away!
You’ll save yourself a lot of dollars, dollars,
by driving out his way today!
So stay on the right track to Nine Mile and Mack,
to get the best deal in town,
‘cause Roy O’Brien’s the best deal around!”

Zips me back decades in two seconds!

Bit-O-Honey from the Past

Janus, the ancient Roman spirit of beginnings and transitions, is often used to represent the Old Year passing and the New Year beginning. I thought about the past when I saw a picture of Janus on New Year’s Day.

Not the past of ancient Rome, and not the past year, but my past, a happy memory of standing in front of the glass display at Shovel’s corner store, deciding whether to use my nickel on one Hershey’s chocolate bar or a bag of penny candy.

Penny candy won most of the time. You remember those from your past, don’t you? (Some of you.) Candy necklace. Squirrels or Mary Janes. Sheets of candy buttons. Jawbreakers (not to be mistaken for bubble gum). Wax lips. Candy cigarettes. Pixy Sticks. Bazooka or Dubble Bubble gum, with their comics.

Dubble Bubble (Tootsie Roll) was the first commercial bubble gum, ($1.5 million profit in first year, before 1930), and the creator, Walter Diemer, taught his salespeople how to blow bubbles.

Who taught you?

Bazooka (Topps), 1947, named after the army’s rocket-propelled weapon, featured Bazooka Joe comics after 1953.

When I was rich enough in those days, Maple Bun for me, Chunkie for my brother. “What a chunk of chocolate.” No, I was never tempted by Good & Plenty, and if I got a box at Halloween, the only solution was to bite lightly for the sugar coating and spit out the licorice.

Then and now.

Shovel’s corner store for penny candy in the Heights. Now? Dollar General, around the corner, where candy still lines the front of the checkout area, but not the old candy display that gave such pleasure for a nickel.

My brother bought comics and we both read them, including the tantalizing offers of sea monkeys at the back, or x-ray vision glasses. Superman didn’t need those, but we were convinced we’d see like him if we could get a pair. And I wondered if the sea monkey king really wore a crown. (Brine shrimp? What a disappointment.)

Then? Shorts’ dime store downtown in the Heights. Today? Walmart.

Today? Target for the higher quality items. Then? Thomas Variety.

Looking back to those magic days in the Heights is a pleasure, and I believe made a positive difference in my life. Was life better? To an adult, looking back on the best of childhood, seems like it, but here-and-now is always better.

Still, my best friend’s no longer next door or down the street.

I can’t slide down the School Hills on my sled or walk to school/work. Any Fall Festivals are high dollar affairs, and none have the magic of the white elephant room.

May this New Year bring the best of the past, as well as pleasure in your here-and-now, whether you can still blow bubbles, or not. Whether you still believe that sea monkeys are miniature pets, or not. Whether you need x-ray glasses just to see, or not.

Janus, the ancient Roman spirit, doesn’t have to look to the past and future. He can look on a happy past in the Heights and a satisfying present.

And if you can’t or don’t eat Bit-O-Honey, Mary Janes, or Squirrels, the memory is as delicious as ever.

Happy New Year, and welcome, 2022.

A Gift for You

Christmas Day is behind us, (and Christmas Eve).

Maybe you had a sparkling day of family, feasting, children excited about gifts.

Maybe you didn’t, and had a quiet, even lonely, holiday.

Most of us have experienced loss of family members, children growing and moving away, divorce. Some of us have little family left on this side of the Holy Gates. (Barber Bob missed his daughters and granddaughters holiday reunion by having to go into the hospital, and although crushed and disappointed, still shared a positive hope that is so him.)

Still, there’s something about Christmas, bittersweet or happy or sad, that stands out in the year.

Children still believe in the magic of Santa. (Although I’m surprised any can with all the ads and movies poking fun.) My grandchildren, when they were young, believed until about second grade.

Now, I’d never heard of Elf-on-the-Shelf until I moved to Florida, but my grandson’s Pre-K teacher had one, and instilled order and holy fear in her students with the elf watching their every move. My grandson wanted one of his own for Christmas that year. He talked about the elf in the car coming home from school one day, and his sister (first grade) snorted in derision.
“He’s not real,” she said. “Oh, yes, he is. My teacher said so.” “Oh? I can prove it,” she said. “The real elves live at the North Pole!” Neither saw me laugh.

Later, I asked him why he wanted his own.
“He’ll be company. He can talk to me and help me make my bed.”

Now, that’s belief.

I still believe in the magic of Santa. No, not the St. Nicholas-turned-Santa Claus as pictured by Coca-Cola, but the spirit of giving, of wished-for gifts on the best holiday of the year, of family secrets shared over the years about the real meaning of Christmas, and faith in the Holy Infant, Who's with us today.

So, whether you had a Hallmark Christmas, or struggled with loneliness and depression, or tried to recall childhood excitement, but couldn’t, I want to give you a gift.

I wrote this song years ago for my favorite aunt, and sang it for her, with my guitar, at that Christmas Eve family get together. I came across the sheet music this week and realized that it applies to each of you. I appreciate your online friendship.

May you enjoy a wonderful New Year, no matter what events are crowding you, no matter how many difficulties life has brought. God looks out for each one of us and loves us with a greater love than any we could know.

Also, for my family, not always accessible, and those on the other side of His Holy Gates.

In this season, there’s a reason for giving
With friends and family close,
there’s joy in giving
And here you are with me
And I hope that you’ll agree
It’s the gift of love
That makes the season so bright

There are many people in my life, it’s true,
But you are something special to me
And I want to give you
A real part of me
And I hope for you it will be
A gift of love that moves from my heart
to yours

I wish you every joy
May God keep you happy
May you know that there are
many who love you
I want to say that I give myself, too,
This Christmas and the whole year through

I want you to know that you are a gift to me
You are something special that
nobody else can be
You glow with a light
Like a candle in the night
This special love I give is all for you
Merry Christmas tonight and all year through

Merry Christmas all year through and Happy New Year!

Incense Gold and Myrrh

There once was a parish so poor, the pastor feared he wouldn’t be able to make the church festive at Christmas. Times were hard, jobs were scarce, and his flock struggled to feed and clothe their children. Still, he thought, there should be cheer and beauty to celebrate such a wondrous feast.

He bowed his head in prayer as he unwrapped the cracked and familiar Nativity figures, and sent his own meager offering away for as many candles as his pennies could buy for the Christmas services.

On the last Sunday of Advent, he begged his congregation to forego the traditional straw for the Baby’s manger. Instead, he said, would they bring their needs and prayers written on strips of paper? The more needs they shared, the softer the Babe’s bed would be, and Who better to hear the prayers of His people than their Savior?

On Christmas Eve, several men in the village helped cut and carry in pine and fir branches to fill the tiny church with scent. As the evening service began, the families processed up the aisle to line the manger with their strips of paper.

Every member of every age offered a longing or necessity penned and scratched and written, sometimes with great effort. The manger bed was soft and full when the minister laid down the Infant at the close of worship.

Next morning, after a hasty slice of nut bread and tea, the pastor hurried to the church to preach his carefully-written sermon on gratitude, and to celebrate the Holy Birth with his community.

How disappointed he was to see the papers in the manger gone, replaced by the usual straw, but he hurried to light the candles and ring the bell to begin the service. After they’d sung the opening hymn and he’d given his welcome, he beseeched his listeners to recall the Christmas story and its message in their lives, for gratitude was a choice, as well as a gift. He’d pray for better times for them all, he said, and closed by reminding them to offer charity to everyone in God’s fold.

Then, as was his custom, he invited anyone in the congregation to share prayers in their hearts, and bowed his head to pray silently with them.

To his surprise, one voice after another spoke up to lead the rest. Nor did the speakers hesitate or whisper, but called out each petition in clear voices, with the entire gathering giving a resounding Amen.

And such prayers, too, for new employment for Master John to feed his growing brood, for a new walking stick or better legs for old Granny Marabelle, for a doctor’s care for the sickly newborn Abel, for dolls and sleds for the children, and white flour and tea for the parents. There were prayers for good harvests and warm fires, for groaning larders and better health. In spite of himself, the minister lifted his head and opened his eyes.

The church flickered with candlelight. He gazed at amazement as each prayer was read from a tiny strip of paper, when another candle would be lit.

His people had managed to collect the petitions and replace them with straw, and were reading each other’s. His eyes blurred until the church filled with light and joy.

For the closing hymn, he chose “Ding Dong Merrily on High,” the merriest song he could think of, to celebrate the joy of a community who understood the spirit of Christmas and the gift of sharing.

Merry Christmas, and may God bless you and send you a Happy New Year

Barber Bob

I had lunch with Barber Bob this week.

There we were, two former residents from the Heights, trading memories and childhood experiences. Around us, the clanking dishes and scrumptious aromas of my local Cracker Barrel created a movie set for our visit.

Bob wanted to thank me for writing every week about our long-ago home, but I was so enmeshed and fascinated with his life adventures, I didn’t let him stop until the waitress offered refills so many times, it was time to leave.

Once Bob discussed a friend with a non-Heights local, and was told, “You guys in the Heights are interbred.” No, but we’re all connected in some way.

I graduated with Bob’s younger brother, Mike. His youngest daughter was named for my sweet sister-in-law Debbie. A classmate I wondered about played in golf tournaments with Bob and his brother.

That’s the Heights. A daydreaming poet and a successful, popular man of sports and charities and business could spend hours with linked experiences, 1200 miles and nearly 50 years away.

Bob won a Michigan award for his work with the Jaycees, played sports for the high school and Boy’s Club, won championships. Owned a barber shop, “across from Sheila Lynn’s barber shop, now an insurance agency” before he and Mike moved to the New Center in Troy. He made friends customers, and customers friends. Visited the sick and dying in hospitals to cut hair, harvested hay, plucked chickens (and pheasants, with a clever technique to remove pin feathers easily), spent summers in Indiana on family farms. Could build, design, troubleshoot.

Never lost his fervor for celebrating life, in spite of health concerns that would quell a movie hero. Kept his interest in everyone of every age.

“Did you know Loretta Lynn?” he’d be asked, and could answer, “Well, we knew her husband,” but couldn’t introduce the eager fan since “my father didn’t like him.”

One vivid memory was when he heard a little girl with a big voice sing for the first time on stage, “and I fell in love.” Brenda Lee.

I hardly remembered to eat my chicken tenderloins.

Bob also painted a picture of the Heights we both knew. Our neighborhoods were on opposite sides of each other. He lived near the old high school around Livernois, and I grew up on Caroline, off Squirrel Road, but we recognized the same families, the same teachers, schools, downtown, although Bob was far more outgoing and active in the community.

He ran into Stewart’s Diner for a treat every time their baseball team won a game, so earned a shake every week, with the owner praising him. “I wonder what would have happened if we’d lost,” he said. He knew the details of the diner becoming the upscale restaurant, The Shalea, where I once had an anniversary dinner I’ll remember until my brain freezes.

Bob spoke with warmth and respect of Sam Sheehy, the coach at the Boys’ Club who led the sports team and made a welcome center in our neighborhood. We laughed over events in common, and pulled out favorites—parades, fireworks, fall festivals. He shared why the meaning of Christmas is real to him. He brought up names that painted pictures in my mind of friends and neighbors I knew, creating a true fountain of youth, since you never age in my memory.

I’ve rarely enjoyed a lunch more.

Thank you, Barber Bob, for taking the time to drive to my area and brighten my afternoon, for stirring memories, for making the Heights closer and more vibrant.

Next time, I want to meet your wife and hear more about your remarkable life together.

Plum Pudding Wishes and Christmas Memories

I had no idea growing up that Mom had a lonely and difficult childhood. She made sure that all six of us had love and discipline, music and homemade bread and clean clothes. She taught me how to do laundry with a wringer washer, how to hang clothes on the line with the least amount of clothespins, how to clean and bake and take care of babies.

She made certain that we had traditions throughout the year, not only birthday cakes and gifts, but Valentines and birthday cakes for Beethoven’s birthday, small gifts on St. Nicholas feast day and Epiphany, Halloween costumes.

Best of all were traditions around Christmas, from the stirring of wishes into plum pudding on the First Sunday of Advent ("Stir-up Sunday"), the Advent calendar with a tiny door for every day until Christmas, setting out Christmas decorations and bringing out familiar ornaments for our tree, starting Mary and Joseph on their journey from one side of the living room to the nativity set at the other, until Christmas Eve, when the tiny Baby Jesus was put in the manger.

We earned straw for the Baby’s bed, too, with good deeds throughout Advent, but lost straw with misdeeds. Guilt over a bare manger bed kept us in line…most of the time.

All my years growing up, I believed that Mom was passing down to us rituals she’d known as a child, but because she’d had none, she collected anything that would make holidays special and added to them over the years. For that, I’m more grateful than I can tell you.

We took our plum pudding wishes seriously, too. I was granted my wishes more years than not, so believed that God listened to Mom, too.

One year, my sister JoAnn and I decided to add a new Christmas custom by creating a Candle Ceremony with instructions, candle and cocoa, and twelve questions to share with family and friends. That first holiday questionnaire was an eye-opener.

I had no idea that my Dad’s favorite gift was a fire engine that pumped real water, or that the Betsy-Wetsy doll I inherited was Mom’s favorite Christmas present. That my sister would add St. Nicholas/Santa to the nativity set, and my son’s favorite Christmas tradition was the Dickens’ Christmas Day dinner at my brother’s. (Mine, too.)

Since Advent began and as Christmas moves closer, I think about those memories, that Candle Ceremony, our plum pudding wishes, family traditions. I thought you might enjoy reading, and maybe sharing, our original twelve questions. They seemed obvious to JoAnn and me when we came up with them, but the various answers were surprising.

Try them. Make cocoa, light a candle, and share answers.

Enjoy!

1. What is your favorite Christmas carol?
2. What was your favorite childhood Christmas gift?
3. What would you ask Santa for today?
4. Did you ever hear bells on Christmas Eve?
5. When was your last icy patch?
6. In all your Christmas trees, which ornament comes to mind first?
7. When in the season do you get your first feeling of Christmas?
8. What color and style Christmas wrapping do you choose and what setting do you prefer when you wrap?
9. It’s snowing outside your window Christmas Eve. How old are you, and what scene are you looking at, inside or out?
10. Who or what would you add to the Nativity scene?
11. Of all the gifts you’ve received, name one whose memory gives you pleasure now.
12. Describe two of your favorite Christmas traditions.