My Christmas Greeting

When the lyrics of O Holy Night implore: fall on your knees—my knees actually buckle just a tiny bit.  I am filled with humility over the greatness of God.

But the song I’ll Be Home for Christmas also plays with my emotions. It is mostly because my Uncle John, a medaled war hero, once told me how he listened to it endlessly during World War II. The melody and words connected him and his fellow soldiers to their loved ones in a way their letters from home could not. The soldiers could feel the snow, presents and mistletoe—if only for a few moments in their imagination. Through music and voice, solace and Christmas grace was received amid the butchery of war.

And I am always moved by another song: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. The line through the years we all will be together if the fates allow mandates that I concede the delicacy of life—and the always uncertain future. It makes me recall all the family members who are now but a memory--people I loved who are relegated to Christmas past. I am reminded that there is value in living in the now—moment to moment.

And what I know for sure is that every Christmas is holy and divine. And if you listen carefully, you will no doubt hear the angels’ voices. Christmas heals and transcends what we think our hearts can hold.  And despite the fates, on Christmas, we are always all home together with everyone we love and have loved—if only in our sweetest of dreams.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas--now

A "Real"-ity Check

Artificial Christmas trees aspire to appear real.

Real Christmas trees aspire to appear artificial.

So even evergreens are not immune to self-esteem issues.

They wish for that which they can never be.

Christmas Thoughts from Brianaland

When my girls were little, cars did not come equipped with DVD players as they do now. In fact, DVDs were not quite invented yet—my children watched movies on VHS tape. And so keeping three little girls entertained while they were in the car required a bit of inventiveness.

And I had a brilliant idea—to record the soundtrack of their favorite VHS tapes on cassette tape to keep them engaged as time passed in transit. I recorded things like Beauty and the Beast and 101 Dalmations and The Lion King. But beginning November first up until New Year’s Day, we listened non-stop to Christmas Eve on Sesame Street, A Muppet Christmas Carol, The Grinch, Rudolph and A Charlie Brown Christmas.

My girls memorized every single word.

And today’s blog post is not as much Thoughts from Karenland as much as it is Thoughts from Brianaland—thoughts from my middle daughter. Briana, age 23, downloaded the soundtrack from Christmas Eve on Sesame Street and The Grinch on to her iphone. And she wrote to tell me that yesterday, in listening to the recording of The Grinch, she became emotionally overwhelmed when the Grinch realized that despite his grandiose attempts to halt Christmas, it came—it came just the same. She thought of the family and friends of the deceased in Newton—and how evil can never stop Christmas from coming. No matter what another takes from you, they can never take what is in your heart.

And I am not embarrassed to say that much of what my children learned about the true meaning of Christmas was learned not in CCD class, or Sunday mass but was instead learned from quality children’s programming. Charlie Brown, Oscar, Big Bird, Rudolph, Scrooge and the Grinch, despite inner conflict, all eventually got the message right—as did my sweet daughter Briana: the love we find does not end at Christmas—it is for us to keep all through the year:

Please watch:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sd5PEVKuAro

Playing Santa

My grandfather Vespo smoked unfiltered Chesterfield cigarettes. And every Christmas Eve when my mother and her sisters were little and gathered with their Aunts, Uncles, and cousins, my grandfather would leave the gathering to walk down to the corner store to restock his nicotine supply.

Amazingly, year after year, when my grandfather was AWOL from the celebration, Santa would show up and hand out gifts. My grandfather without fail missed the entire event.  Santa’s arrival and my grandfather’s absence was never considered suspicious to any of his children or nieces or nephews. At no point did any child ever wonder what corner store might be open on Christmas eve for the expressed purpose of purchasing cigarettes. Nor did the children ever notice the uncanny resemblance in physicality or voice to Papa—or their Uncle Joe.

My brother Mark might be described as the “fun Dad” or the “fun Uncle”. He has always engaged his children and his nieces. He planned silly excursions with them and bought them wonderful gifts. And to that end he got it in his head that it would be his greatest pleasure to play Santa—like our grandfather had done.

And so he purchased a high quality Santa suit---deep red  velvet with a leather, not plastic belt. Santa’s beard was a realistic facsimile to white facial hair. Not even the man sitting in the chair at Macy’s on 34^th street could feign more realism.

And on a particular Christmas celebration, my brother transformed himself into Saint Nickolas himself. The children gathered unknowingly when a jolly old man with a sack full of presents bounded through the front door.

The children—aged 7, 4,3, and 1 at the time were cautious in his presence. And then Samantha, aged 3, said Where is Uncle Mark? And my nephew Andrew, aged 7, in his sweet soprano voice said Dad why are you dressed up like Santa?

It took a nanosecond for these four little kids to figure out what was going on.

And my mother and her sisters to this day claim they were too frightened of Santa to question his identity. They defend their lacking critical thinking skills as innocent belief--they believe that their  blind acceptance was a  better alternative to today’s generation of inquiring minds.

I disagree.

When Samantha and Andrew’s mind deduced and summarized all the Santa facts I giggled. It meant they were paying attention—even at the expensive of my brother’s disappointment. Because it didn’t mean they didn’t believe in Santa, it just meant they didn’t believe that Mark was Santa. 

And Grandpa Vespo smoked his Chesterfields until he was in his late seventies and the ophthalmologist urged him to quit. He had smoked for 60 some-odd years before giving up the habit cold turkey.

And I am sure somewhere in my brother’s attic is a well-preserved Santa suit along  with his dream of Christmas past--- a dream which surely will be transformed  the day his first grandchild is born---the day Christmas future becomes Christmas  present--- and the spirit of giving and belief renews itself for the next generation.

The Newtown Tragedy

My father was teacher as was my Uncle, several of my cousins, and my niece. It was a culture I grew up with. Teachers were a part of my world at home as much as they were in school.

Teachers are more often than not, parents-on-loan for their students.

They protect and nurture.

I think it is difficult for anyone to not to feel saddened by the slaughter of little children and the teachers who bravely sought in vain to save them in Newton Connecticut.

It is difficult not be touched by the surviving teachers who blockaded themselves and their students in their classrooms and made sure to tell their frightened students how much they were loved.

It is difficult not to l think that it is only by the grace of God that the angel of death did not chose our town—our children, aunts, nieces, cousins and friends.

And so we pray for the deceased as well as all those mourning in death’s wake. 

And we hug our loved ones a little bit more tightly.

We are safe—this time.

Is It Still Re-gifting If....?

I am opposed to re-gifting. I believe it undermines what giving is all about.

But what if at Christmas time you purchase an item for person A and then decide to give it to person B instead.  Is it still re-gifting? Especially when person B believes that the gift was intended for them all along? Is re-gifting a sin just for a receiver to re-give or is it a sin for both the receiver and the giver to re-give?

These are the things that keep me up at night.

Especially when I know Santa is watching.    

Cheating at Golf

One September afternoon my husband journeyed to the club to see the final round of the Club Championship. He also planned to watch the award ceremony for the winners—both male and female in all the various flights.

He came home with a trophy. But it was not his—it was mine. I told him there had to have been a mistake. I knew my final score was not very stellar at all and I also knew that there were several people whose score fell well below mine.

I believe golf is just about the only sport where its players feel freely  inclined from time to time to self-interpret the rules---and by the word self- interpret I actually mean cheat.

I played racquet sports for years and other than playing “first in”—the equivalent in tennis or platform tennis to the golf term “mulligan” or “breakfast ball,” people respected the rules. The lines on the court defined the space that was safe for the ball to land—people did not ignore them when ta ball went “long.” No one says I am not playing the service line today.  No one playing tennis would ever not count a whiffed ball or a double hit.

But golf is very different. Not everyone “holes out.” For them, as long as a ball sits “within the leather” it is a “gimme”—which means a player assumes that they would have gotten the ball in the hole with one stroke had they played it. And I have personally watched people “find” a lost ball so they did not have to take a penalty stroke or use their “foot wedge” to give their ball a better lie. I have seen branches “accidentally” snapped to improve a stance or a ball “dropped” farther than arm’s length.

And I can say for sure, that anytime you ask someone in your foursome at the finish of a hole What did you get? And they answer with the words “Give me” a 6. The actual score is probably an 8. The follow up response with them should be I’ll give you a 6, but what did you really get?

And I received that trophy that year because three people with lower scores were disqualified for failing to record penalty shots—either with or without intention.

And I myself have been disqualified from a tournament that I should have won—not because I “forgot” to count errant shots but because I could not add. I had reported a score 2 strokes higher than it should have been—in my mind, an honorable, if not stupid mistake. And while it was my partner’s job to check my addition and sign the card to prevent such a disqualification, she apparently couldn’t add either. That silver plated tray in turn went to someone else.

And so it was less silverware in my stockpile---and less tarnish to worry about—either on a tray, or thankfully on my reputation.   

Environmental Consciousness

One might think that because I worked as an environmental chemist that I was a diehard proponent of natural substrates and recycling and energy conservation.

But the truth of the matter is that I buy big black garbage bags to hide miscellaneous bottles, cans, and newspapers from time to time in my refuge. I also tip the sanitation workers handsomely at holiday time with the hope that my secret will not be divulged.

I am just not that fastidious about being green.

Last December, in doing an inventory of the outdoor lights I realized that we needed a new supply. So my husband kindly volunteered to purchase new white mini lights at Home Depot. And when he came home he promptly hung them around my round top front door along with some  pine rope—a look I relish every year.

But when he called me outside to view the traditional outdoor décor I was speechless. The lights were blue—they were hideous. So I inquired why did you buy blue lights? And he told me that he did not. I snapped Let me see the box.

The box said Martha Stewart clear LED lights. They were energy efficient.

I did not care. They were ugly.

So I made him pull them down.

And while there is a part of my brain that understands that being environmentally conscious is the right thing to do, in this life there is always something about ourselves that we prefer to be bad-ass about. My vice is not being all that ecologically conscious.

But it could be worse. If I kept those LED lights it would be visual pollution. And maintaining my neighborly environment is my way of being green.

(Not) A Norman Rockwell Experience

Patience was not my father’s middle name. He was easily frustrated when anything did not progress forward in a straight line. He expected brevity, clarity and flawlessness in all things.

And so Christmastime was particularly challenging for him. There were toys to assemble from poorly written directions. Batteries were not included. Inclement weather slowed the outdoor decorating process from efficiency. And then there was the artificial tree, which required him climbing a too small pull down staircase to then navigate a too large box to squeeze through a barely wide enough opening.

Erecting the Christmas tree in my house was hardly a Norman Rockwell experience.

Putting up the tree was the chore that eroded my father’s spirit. He grumbled how the color coded branches had a micron of paint on them such that only those with 20/10 vision could discern between them. The stem of the tree was structured from pine which loosed with age. It caused the tree to list. And the piece de resistance were the lights—which no matter how meticulously were put away the year before required precision-like fine motor skills to disentangle and which never blinked to 100% capacity as they had 12 months earlier.

My father ranted why couldn’t a Christmas tree be structured like an umbrella? He pondered out loud  why couldn’t the branches be pre-wired with lights that did not fail? And then, shaking his head in disgust, he would conclude with these immortal and rhetorical  words: Who was the God damned genius engineer who designed this debacle?

And four Christmases ago I felt melancholy as I assembled my first 2 piece pre-lit tree that opened like an umbrella. I was sad that my father had not lived long enough to see Christmas design at its best.

And last Friday evening as I sat on my living room couch, admiring the fire in the fireplace, the glowing candles on the mantle, and the glory of my pre-lit wonder, I noticed that the lights at the apex of my tree--a tree that had already experienced a blip in the lighting a week before—was shining more brightly than it should have been. And then all the lights at the top went poof—and then black.

I could not believe my eyes.

And then I heard my father’s words with clarity, brevity and flawlessness: Who was the God damned genius engineer who designed this tree?

And while I am sad my father is not still with us, I am happy that he did not live long enough to see that a 2 piece umbrella-like pre-lit tree would not have been a  panacea to his Christmas woes. Nothing in this life is guaranteed to proceed forward  in a  straight line. Nothing is perfect. And patience is a virtue—a God damned poorly designed virtue.

Christmas Colors

Colors govern some holidays. Saint Patrick’s Day is green. Valentines’ Day is red or pink. The fourth of July and Memorial day is red white and blue. Halloween is orange and black.

And when I was a little girl, in observing the décor of my friend Jesse Weiner’s house in the month December, it was clear to me that Hanukkah was colored blue, white and silver.

I also observed that Christmas was colored red and green—with metallics of either gold or silver.

There was a holiday decorating segment on Good Morning America the other day. Jonathan Adler was the interior designer charged with giving tips and creative ideas. He showcased trees and mantle centerpieces of purple, royal blue and aquamarine. He espoused the beauty of these colors at Christmastime. 

And what I buy into is this—not everyone’s home design and palate coordinates well with red or green. But there are options other than using completely non-traditional Christmas hues in one’s holiday décor.   There is the winter wonderland look—off white ribbon with branches—natural or sprayed, metallics of pewter, brass or bronze and clear crystals. I am not even opposed to hues within the red and green spectrum—like cranberry or brick or lime or avocado. But I just can’t wrap my brain around anything colored blue for holiday decorating.

Blue is just not a Christmas color---no matter what Jonathan Adler says.

And what I know for sure is I have never seen a red or green dreidel. I have never seen a Halloween witch in pink or a green valentine. No one wear turquoise on Saint Patrick’s Day. And Santa does not wear a purple velvet suit nor is Rudolph’s nose teal.  Frasier firs are green as are pines and holly leaves.

And the only appropriate place at Christmastime for  anything colored blue, purple or aqua is as a gemstone—sapphire, amethyst or topaz, set in silver or gold, and wrapped as a present under my tree.

Everyone is a Foodie

My grandmother Vespo prepared things like snails, cuttlefish, fresh sardines, eel and skate. She also stewed veal shank, tripe and rabbit. Nonny made soups with beans and escarole. She fried sweetbreads.

It was food I learned very early on not to discuss eating with my non-Italian friends.

This was peasant food. It reflected back on my grandparent’s income---which was modest. Such meals also fell outside the mainstream of roast beef, Idaho potatoes and iceberg lettuce—things that most Americans ate.

But the advent of the Food Channel and television shows like Top Chef has shifted American menus.

We considers ourselves as foodies. We use language formerly unfamilar. We speak of the layering of flavors, balance and texture. We notice how well a dish is plated. We critique pairings. We describe seasonings as briny or acidic or smokey.

We embrace all proteins and vegetables outside of the mainstream and wear our willingness to try new things as a badge of courage. We have James Beard award winning palates. All that peasant food I told no one I consumed on a regular basis when I was young is now the signature dish on the menus of the very best restaurants in Manhattan.

 And it is expensive—way too expensive for peasants.

Which gives me pause to think—what do  immigrant  Americans with a limited income eat? Because it certainly isn’t ossobucco or escargot. It isn’t arugula or radicchio either. People of modest means can’t afford olive oil or fresh basil or balsamic vinegar---things my grandparents ate with regularity. Maybe there is no such thing as peasant food anymore. Perhaps the new peasant food is  pot roast with Franco American brown gravy and iceburg lettuce with Wishbone dressing or Swanson’s chicken pot pies—the stuff my American friends thought was gourmet.

Dumping Christmas Decor

I enjoy Joan Rivers—especially on her show The Fashion Police. Joan’s opinion on what to, and what not to wear is completely unbridled. And she, along with her co-hosts, often play a game of “gotta have it” or “make it stop” whereby they look at current fashion trends and judge which direction it ought to go—in or out.

Yesterday my husband pulled two large containers filled with Christmas decorations from the third floor closet. The contents were destined for my living room and parlor. But as I opened each container and pulled out each item all I could only think was—ahh I still love this or Oh my God I am so over that.

The result was I halved my inventory.

And just like my wardrobe receives a bi-seasonal edit, I was long overdue for a Christmas décor redo and dump. With fashion—including that which for the home, one day you are in, and the next day you are out.

Because all things get tired after a while—including me.

Forgetting to Leave Work Behind

My brother—who I love dearly---spends most of his work week in court empowering the powerless.

He is a lawyer.

He is skilled in seeing flaws in other people’s arguments and uses their own words to support his claims.

My brother is quite successful at his profession.

But sometimes it is difficult to leave the world of work behind. So last week when my brother called an 800 number to make a purchase and the sales representative asked him if he wanted to donate $1.00 for the victims of Hurricane Sandy, my brother responded I AM a victim of Hurricane Sandy. You might have surmised that had you noted my address when I gave it to you. I have incurred thousands of dollars in property damage much of which is not recoverable. So, with all due respect, I would not like to donate the requested dollar to Sandy relief, but please feel free to take one dollar off of my bill.

   

The sales representative had no response. But I am sure she never asked another person residing in New York or New Jersey for a Sandy donation again---or at least, without trepidation and forethought.

Pulled Muscles

The comedian Dana Garvey, as part of his stand-up routine, does a bit about turning 50 and how the littlest thing leads to physical injury. One discovers aches in parts of the body that have no business calling themselves to attention.

And on Friday morning while I was in bed and chose to simply roll over from my right side to my left, I pulled the muscle that begins just under the arm pit and swings down diagonally to the spine. It is a muscle that has remained silent for 52 years.

I believe it is called my Latissimus dorsi but I am not sure--it’s been too many years since I studied anatomy. All I know is it hurts to breathe—and turn—and do anything with the left side of my body. And had someone been standing outside my bedroom door they might have mistaken the sounds that emanated from my larynx as sounds of passion—but I assure you they were not. They were sounds of pain and downright annoyance.

And so I self-medicated. Because I am of an age where anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxants are within arm’s reach at all times---the heating pad too.

And Dana Garvey ripped the tendon in his arm simply by reaching over and answering the phone. He got tennis elbow by sitting on his couch. That answered phone call warranted him wearing an air cast with weeks of physical therapy.

 So I can only imagine what life will be like after age 60 or 70 or 80.

 I will probably pull the muscles in my eyelids waking up from a midday nap by then.

A Parents Weekend Dinner

When my husband and I went to our first Parents’ weekend at Lehigh we went to dinner with her roommate, one of her new friends, and that friend’s parents. My daughter’s roommate as well as the other friend grew up in very affluent towns in Westchester--- towns known for their highly rated school systems and liberal political views.

But when we met the  parents of the friend for the first time, they were a bit too excited to meet our acquaintance.

It seemed that these parents had just returned from visiting their older daughter for her Parent’s Weekend. That daughter attended the University of Michigan where the student body was and is much more diverse than that of Lehigh.

And the parents told us the following story:Their U of M daughter had arranged for a dinner with her two roommates and their parents. And the daughter felt obliged to give them a little inside information before arriving at the restaurant. The daughter feared some awkwardness and sought to diffuse it. It seemed that one of the roommates’ parents was divorced and the two parents did not get along well as the Dad remarried a much younger woman who was nearly the same age of the daughter. Another of the roommates was bi-racial: the Mom was Japanese and the Dad was African-American. And the third set of parents was gay—two Dads and no Mom.

So while the two parents from the liberal town in Westchester had prided themselves on being liberal minded—this was a bit too much diversity sitting all at one dinner table --even for them. Making certain that every word uttered was politically correct was positively exhausting.

And I laughed and said No wonder you exhaled upon our introduction.

I grew up in a world where people were put into boxes based on their race, religion, gender, and sexual orientation. There was little integration.

But the world has changed.

And while I think this change has been for the better and I applaud the way my children and their generation see the world as a blend and not a box, there was comfort in the boxes. You always knew which end was up. And the box was clearly marked: fragile or open with care.