Christmas Past

            We can all remember how Christmas was celebrated when we were kids. For most of us it probably revolved around family.

            I remember my father’s family coming from Lowell to spend Christmas Day with us. I still can’t imagine how Grandpa and Grandma Milot, Uncle Nap, Uncle Emile, Uncle George, and Aunt Laura all fit into one car for the 56-mile trip to Manville, our Rhode Island home. But they came, bringing presents for my brothers, my sister, and me.

            One year, Uncle Nap brought a box with a dozen chicks in it, all of them peeping away at the prospect, I suppose, of finding a new home. We kept those little yellow balls of fluff warm in their box between the legs of Mom’s kitchen stove until they began sprouting brown feathers. We knew then it was time to move them to a corner room upstairs in the barn, a rather fancy home with windows on two sides and shelves for them to roost. And later to lay eggs for us kids to fetch every morning.

            Uncle George, rotund but not very tall, was a perfect Santa. When no one was looking, he’d change into his costume and make a boisterous entrance, to the delight of us kids. Until the day we began to wonder why Uncle George was never present when Santa appeared.

            Then it was time to open our presents. Mom always had me give Dad a new container of shaving soap for him to brush on his face every morning while we watched. Some of those years after the war were rather lean, but finances got better after Dad found a new job in Providence. I can remember three special Christmas presents: a little red wagon, an erector set, and an American Flyer model train set. I wasn’t allowed to touch the train set until Dad and Uncle George had laid out the tracks, hooked up the transformer, and tested the cars to make sure everything was working right.

            The main course for Christmas dinner was always a turkey big enough to feed the whole gang. And there was always leftover “tourtière,” traditional Canadian-style pork pie consumed after midnight mass. I don’t remember anyone returning to Lowell on an empty stomach.

            The little red wagon is long gone, the erector set sold before a move, and the train set bequeathed to my baby brother André. But they remain fixed in my memory as icons of Christmas past, symbols of joyous days that brought family together to give, to receive, and to share.

            The relatives in that carful from Lowell are all ghosts now. I’m sure they are smiling at us as we cherish the traditions and values they once passed on to us.

            Merry Christmas to families everywhere.

Random Thoughts

            

             Imagine going to your family physician for your annual physical only to find out that you have cancer and need to see a specialist right away. Imagine further that neither you nor your doctor can find an oncologist who will see you in less than two weeks. With your life hanging in the balance, how would that make you feel? You would probably scream that this is unacceptable. Well, if you lived in Great Britain you would be among the many of patients who fall into this category. Why? Because there aren’t enough oncologists to meet the demand. This is only one example of what happens when medical services are controlled by the government. In Britain it’s called National Health Service. In the United States it would be called Medicare for All—if Democrats like Elizabeth Warren and Bernie Sanders have their way.

            An old Belgian Philosophy professor of mine threw out a statement and challenged his students to prove him wrong. The statement was “Pas de pensées sans paroles.” Literally, it means no thoughts without words. Specifically, a language with words is necessary for thinking. Hmm. Are animals capable of thinking? They certainly have feelings: a dog wags his tail when he’s happy, he growls when he’s angry, he tucks his tail between his legs when he’s afraid. But do feelings qualify as thoughts? Animals are capable of communicating with each other; they have their own languages. They are capable of teaching and learning, too. And some animals seem to be able to plan in concert with each other and form societies governed by rules. But the languages animals use to communicate with each other do not have words, because words are abstract, representative. Even the large vocabulary of signs learned by some chimpanzees are not words: they are linked to actions, but not to thoughts. Only humans can formulate thoughts; only humans can reason in the abstract. And words are necessary for that. Come to think of it, my old professor was right.

            What good is having the perfect Constitution if no one follows it? Good laws don’t matter if the persons enforcing them are corrupt. What is the meaning of the right of free speech when conservatives are shouted down and prevented from speaking at our universities? How is the right to bear arms not abridged by a governor who is so intent on seizing the guns of his state’s citizens that they have no other recourse than to declare their towns Second Amendment Sanctuaries?

           

The Giving Season

            We all have our faults. Goodness knows I have my share. Even my lovely wife has some. Well, at least one: she’s a hoarder. She just finds it near impossible to get rid of stuff. Our attic, closets, storage cabinets, and our spare room are full of old, obsolete, and useless things. So, it has become a sort of ritual when my daughter Danielle visits from Tucson that something is going to get cleaned out.

            This year Danielle attacked her mother’s closet, which was bulging with clothes that had not been worn since we moved to North Carolina 16 years ago. “Mom, you don’t need all the winter clothing you wore in Michigan. And you can’t possibly wear clothes you wore when you were a size 6.” Ignoring the loud and painful protests from her mother, Danielle created a four-foot pile of blouses, slacks, sweaters, and coats on the bed. The culling complete, I was ordered to take the huge inventory to the Salvation Army in Elizabeth City.

            Over the years we have rung the bell at the Salvation Army’s back door to drop off things we didn’t need anymore: tools, small appliances, household items, books, even a couple of bicycles, knowing somebody would make good use of them. To our minds, the Salvation Army is one of the finest charitable organizations on the planet.

            The Salvation Army accepts donations of all kinds, and that includes money. Hertford’s Albemarle Plantation has a fine Christmas tradition in which residents do not send Christmas cards to each other, but instead place a single card on the Clubhouse Christmas tree with a donation to the Salvation Army.

            And then we have the Salvation Army’s volunteer bell ringers and their Christmas Kettle Drive. But spare change is not enough. The organization relies on corporate donors a well. It came as a surprise, then, to learn that Chick-fil-A has decided to discontinue donations to the Salvation Army in response to pressure from LGBTQ activists who claim that the organization discriminates against them. This is a baseless and vile calumny that masks the LGBTQ community’s antipathy for Christian charities, because Christian tradition opposes same sex marriage. The fact is that the Salvation Army serves the poor, irrespective of their sexual orientation.

            To add insult to injury, Chick-fil-A has made a donation to the Southern Poverty Law Center, an extreme leftist organization that consistently spews hatred for conservatives and Christians. The reaction has been swift: Chick-fil-A is getting an earful from its customers, especially Evangelicals who were the first to show support for the popular restaurant when the left called for a boycott. These same customers now feel betrayed.

            Christians may oppose same sex marriage, but they do not hate gay people. The problem is with anti-religious activists who cannot tolerate religious believers and seek to destroy them because they don’t agree with their agenda.

            I think it’s time for Danielle to come visit us again.

           

           

           

Chicago Blues

            Back in the days when I worked for a living I often went to Chicago on business. To relax after a long day, I loved going to a piano bar on Division Street to enjoy the jazz piano of a black artist–let’s call him Johnny–who wore a derby and a perpetual smile as he entertained appreciative listeners like me.

            One evening an elegantly dressed black woman came in and drew up a chair next to the piano so she could look directly at Johnny while he played. That’s when I noticed a change in Johnny. Instead of his customary bouncy, rapid style, his play had become more lilting and lyrical. And the smile was gone. I got off my bar stool and pulled up a chair next to the lady and said, “He’s making love to you, isn’t he?” She turned to me and replied, “Yes, he is.”

            That got us off to a discussion about jazz, long my favorite kind of music. After a while, the lady said, “You know, the best jazz is not played around here (the North Side). It’s played in South Chicago. If you like, I can take you there. But you can’t go there by yourself.” I appreciated the concern for my safety, but I declined. I’ve often wondered what kind of experience that would have been.

            I’m very sad about what’s happening to one of my favorite cities. It’s not just the murders on the South Side, but the little signs that the city and the State of Illinois are on a steep decline.

            I read recently that the infamous Jessie Smolett is suing Chicago for malicious prosecution, because authorities are taking a second look at his case. This is the same Jessie Smolett who staged a sensational homophobic crime to promote his career and escaped with only a slap on the wrist.

            Chicago police superintendent Eddie T. Johnson actually brought crime down in the city after hiring 1,000 new officers and switching to hi-tech policing. The Chicago mayor fired him when he lied about why he was found asleep in his police car in the wee hours of the morning.

            On September 24^th FBI agents raided State Senator Martin Sandoval’s Chicago office and home searching for evidence related to concrete and construction businesses, bribery, and theft of federal funds. On September 27^th Sandoval resigned.

            I read that in an Illinois school, children as young as five can be locked up in a separate room for “isolated time-out.”  And that’s not only for making threats, but for just about any reason, like spilling milk, swearing, or throwing legos. Let’s enforce discipline in high schools rampant with drugs and violence against teachers, but a five-year old serving time in solitary confinement for spilling his milk?

            I’m not likely to revisit Chicago anytime soon. Maybe it’s just as well. I’ll stick to my memory of a piano bar on Division Street and a lady who liked jazz.