This time of year neighborhoods everywhere are beaming with Christmas displays, that are for the most part, entertaining for their beauty. Then there are those that provide a heavy dose of unintentional comedy. But, no one truly prepares us for those that leave us silently shaking our heads, as we ask ourselves some very pressing questions. Who came up with the idea of the hideous enormous inflatable holiday decorations that make absolutely no sense? Who are these creative geniuses that continue to test our level of Christmas tackiness?What happens behind that closed-door as the design team presents some of these brilliant ideas?
Oh how I wish I were a fly on the wall when the Santa in an Outhouseidea hit the table. Did everyone gasp at the horror or did they ponder the thought “it’s so bad it might be good” idea? Considering this exhibit of Santa’s stenchivities is resting…
Rumor has it, that today is my bloggin’ buddy John Erickson’s birthday. You know John, of Commentality. Approximately 60 seconds after I first “met” John, he became the top commenter on my blog. He is interested in a million things, particularly history, space travel and sci-fi movies, TV and likely books. John is quite well versed on stuff. All kinds of stuff. He is smart, funny, and sweet. Not necessarily all at the same time though. He spreads it out.
I will admit that John’s comments don’t necessarily make sense, but they are great for your statistics. So encourage John. Really. You’ll be glad you did.
Now Ill tell you a secret. Unlike most folks approaching the half-way mark, John has been a wee bit apprehensive about this birthday, because it is a biggie. The Big 5-0.
Fifty. Yup.
To welcome John into the Old-timers Blogging Group, I will play age appropriate music:
Still, I am pretty sure that John won’t go down without a fight. Not a guy who has spent nearly 50 years studying military history. He knows the details of every battle fought between 1412 and 1945, and just exactly how to load a flintlock. Nope, John will never give up; he’ll never surrender. (He could use a Coke and a couple of Advil, though.) Here is a clip of a younger John taken from some important “Historical Documents.” Only they couldn’t get the goat in the picture.
By Grapthar’s Hammer, John, I’m wishing you the Happiest of Birthdays. And I am wishing you health, wealth and good cheer for all the years to come.
But just like me, you ARE gettin’ gross. But I’m pretty sure you can deal with it! But to soften the blow, if it’s OK with Frank of AFrankAngle I will be happy to use my newly acquired Queenly powers to knight you.
Angie is the voice of childhood. She remembers the details, the feelings, the sounds and the smells. Here she puts what we lost on Friday in Newtown into context. Beautifully.
The smoke twisted and turned across the sky in a fluffy white cotton candy stream. I didn’t know what it was supposed to look like – should it look like this? I looked to my teacher’s eyes and I knew – something was wrong. The Challenger was broken.
But there I sat among the neat rows of 4th graders, in our Crayola-colored chairs, waiting for the explanation. Instead, we heard gasps on location in Florida. And we stared in silence at the television cart that only minutes before had been wheeled in for the momentous occasion.
For weeks we’d talked about the Challenger’s impending launch. Christa McAullife would be on board — a curly-haired, common school teacher whose smiling face we’d come to recognize. We’d read about her selection in our Weekly Reader and watched video of her training at Space Camp. And now she was . . …
Around here where I live, there are always a bunch of shiny new cars on the road on Christmas Day. Lexuses. Mercedes. BMW.
It’s so annoying to see the conspicuous consumption. Folks who, on top of every other luxury they already have or have gotten that morning, need to have a brand, spankin’ new luxury car. Jeez.
Well, that’s how I felt until today.
Today I’ve decided to jump on the “gimme” bandwagon and demand a new car for Christmas.
Now, there are three problems with my new plan.
First, I don’t know quite how to convince my husband that I’ve changed my mind. You see for years I’ve been commenting on how disgusting, decadent and indecent it was to expect someone to buy you an expensive car like that. It’ll be tough, but I’m pretty sure I can convince John of my new found fondness for fenders. I am quite an actress, you see.
Second, I’m not sure exactly where we’re going to come up with the money. But it’s never all that tough to come up with $100 K in cool cash around the Holidays, is it? We can cash in everything for it because I’m worth it.
The third and last problem is the most difficult one.
I’m really not sure how I can drive my current car to the dealership to trade it in without John seeing the enormous dent I decorated it with this evening.
I wonder if I can trade my car in for a used AMC Gremlin. That’ll impress the neighbors.
She told the story every year with a warm smile on her face. Sometimes her eyes got a little bit misty.
“It was 1943, and the War was on, and your father was in the Navy, on a ship somewhere in the Pacific. We never knew where he was. Like all the other boys I knew, he was in danger every day. We lived for the mail, we were terrified of unfamiliar visitors in uniform. A telegram sent us into a panic. And ‘I’ll be home for Christmas’ had just been recorded by Bing Crosby. It was Number One on the Hit Parade.”
That’s how Mom started the story every time.
Of course I’ll Be Home For Christmas was Number One that year. Everyone, or just about, was hoping that someone they loved would, in fact, be home for Christmas. That all the boys would be home for good. But all too many people were disappointed. I doubt there were many dry eyes when that song came on the radio that year or for the next few.
Mom and Dad got engaged right around Pearl Harbor Day, but the War lengthened their courtship significantly because Dad enlisted shortly after the attack. It was to be a long war, and a long engagement. But Mom was in love with her handsome man. If possible, I think that Dad was even more so.
Mom, Circa 1943
My Dad was drop-dead gorgeous, and I have heard that in his single days, he was a bit of a ladies’ man. Every girl in town, it seemed, had a crush on Dad.
Dad, Circa 1943
In fact, my Aunt Sally once told me that she had been manning a booth at a church bizarre one Saturday in about 1995, when an elderly woman came up to talk to her.
“Are you Freddie E’s sister?” the woman asked Aunt Sal.
“Yes I am. Do you know my brother?” Aunt Sal responded.
“I did,” she sighed. “I haven’t seen him since we graduated from high school in 1935. Sixty years ago. He was,” she stopped to think of just the right word, “… He was dream-my.”
“He still is,” Sally quipped.
One day not long after after Mom had passed, Dad and I were looking at some pictures I hadn’t seen before.
“Dad,” I told him with wonder looking at a particularly good shot, “You should have gone to Hollywood. You’d have been a star.”
“Nah,” Dad said. “Mom would never have gone with me. And once the war was over, well, I wasn’t going anywhere else without her.”
Dad circa 1935
Dad never quite got over feeling lucky that he had Mom. And he never stopped loving her.
But back to Mom’s story.
“It was Christmas morning, 1943, and I went over to visit Dad’s mom and dad. Grammy E’d had symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease for seven or eight years at that point. She could still move around (she was later, when I knew her, almost completely paralyzed), but she could barely talk.”
Mom continued. “But your Dad’s mom was singing ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas.’ Well, she was trying to sing it, any how. She kept repeating that one line, over and over again. ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas.’ I thought she was crazy.”
“You see,” Mom would say, “Your father had somehow managed to get Christmas leave – he was coming home! He wanted to surprise me and wouldn’t let anyone tell me he was coming. He was expected any minute, and there I was, trying to leave. But I couldn’t stay. That song made me cry; Freddie was so far away, and in so much danger. I couldn’t bear hearing it.”
So Mom left after a while, she had other people and her own family to see. Later Dad caught up with her and they spent most of Christmas together. Both of them always smiled at the memory. Dad was home for Christmas that year, just like in the song. It was a magical year for them both.
Mom was always touched by Dad’s surprise and by his mother’s loving gesture in fighting back the paralysis that was taking over her body to try to get her son’s girl to stay. To sing when she could barely speak.
“I’ve always wished I’d stayed.”
We lost Mom on Easter of 1997, and Dad really never got over her passing.
The song and Mom’s story took on an even more poignant meaning in 2000. Because on Christmas of that year, Dad joined Mom again for the holiday. He went “home” to Mom for Christmas again, joining her in the afterlife.
Even through the sadness of losing Dad on Christmas, I always have to smile when I hear that song. Because I can just see the warmth in Mom’s eyes now as she welcomed Dad home. This time, I’m sure she was waiting for him with open arms.
FiftyFourandAHalf 