Just Doing Her Job

     It's been a month since I posted to my blog. First, I had the flu which took me out of commission for several days, then I was out of town with my sisters- in-law and some nieces. Today I have a moment to write, only because I spent the day at my doctor’s office, then to a hospital, the nearest one that had availability for a scan. So now, I must relax, but my idea of relaxing is to keep busy. That’s just the way my mind works.

     Over the decades I have had a multitude of problems from physical to mental, from accident caused, to disease. I won’t give details today except to admit that I mask them well. Not many people know this, but I have a psychiatric service dog. A service animal is different than a therapy pet or emotional support dog. A service dog performs a task that is needed by the patient. In the case of sight-impaired people, they are guided by their canine companions. Some of our furry co-workers pick up objects or provide a strong support for their humans to get up off the floor if they’ve fallen. Some will indicate that the diabetic human they serve has rapidly falling blood sugar and for young, busy people this actually does save lives. Teddi provides grounding and a sense of safety. I’ll explain more about that later.

     A service dog, in most states, is recommended by one or more medical professional. They are trained for specific jobs. These canines (and sometimes horses) are a little different than our furry friends that are there, just as our friends and companions, in that SD’s are allowed everywhere: clinics, restaurants, salons, museums, concerts etc.

     I personally do not anticipate taking Teddi to a restaurant unless it has outdoor seating. I never dine alone. I won’t take her to medical or physical therapy appointments, although my physical therapist says Teddi is welcome any time. I don’t need her at work, but I have had her at my feet, in the past, while I type reports and greet clients. Many people have their SD by their side every moment. It is their choice, need, and right. Please, do not distract their dogs or harass the team. Err on the side of caution. Be kind. When I need Teddi is mainly at night and specific situations due to my PTSD. My mind takes me back to certain moments and Teddi brings me back to reality.

     Several days ago, once I felt well enough to go for a short walk, I took Teddi to a mall. I’ve met other people there in the past that ask A LOT of questions. I appreciate it when these shoppers and walkers ask first before petting, and wait for an answer. Teddi is very accommodating. Many people ask me why she doesn’t wear a vest. The answer is, some SD’s do wear vests but it is not required by law. Wearing a vest encumbers Teddi from some tasks. Add to that, anyone can buy a vest online, slap it on a dog and it will look authentic. Chances are that dog will still bark, nip, lunge and pee indoors. Service dogs will bark to signal that their human needs help, but will not yap in public continuously.

     It’s because of these liars, many people assume most service dogs and owners are fakes. Some malls will remove all dogs including service dogs, which is against the law and breaks ADA rules. I’ve had it happen in another town, but left quietly (and injured myself) because my anxiety was getting the better of me during the harassment. 

     On our most recent jaunt to the closest mall, the guard on duty and I did more talking than I did walking. I’ve met a couple of the security officers there over the months and they are pretty good about Teddi. This guard didn’t recognize me at first, but when he remembered me, we visited and talked about PTSD and his time in the service of our country, the men he lost, injuries and survivor’s guilt. I saw that he was desperately fighting back his emotions. His eyes began to water. Teddi stood up on her legs, touched his chest and looked into his eyes. She put pressure on him and he began to calm. He said, “She’s doing her job.”

     I said, “Yes, Sir. She’s just doing her job.”

Along The Road

     After running unsupervised for more than a year in Oregon, Davey and Harold were about to be sent home. The next step was: how to get George Ransom Owen’s young sons back to Detroit.

     It was warm enough for a cross-country drive so Edward, the boys’ oldest brother, went to retrieve the little scoundrels. Some other family members went along for the drive, but I cannot recall who. It was about 1946.

     On the road they were, once again, camping sometimes along the way, Edward using his Army issued (or so I was told) dual coffee-maker-water heater-maybe cookstove at picnic tables. If I find that old relic in my camping gear, I’ll snap a photo and share it. I also thought that it belonged to my Grammaw Farmer.

     It was quite the journey for two young boys. Unlike their bus trip, they got to tour places like Strawberry Reservoir and the Kodachrome Basin. More than likely, those iconic destinations were off the beaten path as the saying goes, but for a man who just got out of the US Army, it was a pleasure for Edward to take his young brothers to see the country for which he served.

     One eventful day, a convertible passed them on the highway. The young teen drivers waved and acted like they wanted to race. They’d slow down, then speed up repeatedly. The sun was bright. The girls wore sunglasses and scarves. Edward just grinned but would not take the bait. Finally the driver in the other car waved then sped off, going over a hill. Only a few moments passed as Edward’s car crept over the ridge to a horrific scene: The convertible had sped into a truck carrying new sewer pipes. The front of the sportscar was folded into itself. Edward slowed his vehicle and the boys saw something that my father, Davey, never forgot – a young woman’s head tumbled out from one of the cracked pipes, still wearing the scarf, landing on what remained of the convertible’s crumpled hood.

     There was nothing that could be done. If not for Edward refusing the challenge, perhaps my father could have died.

     I don’t know how to end this story. Nothing else eventful happened along the road home to Michigan after that accident, but two things can be learned A. No matter how cock-sure you are of your driving abilities and vehicle, don’t drive recklessly; and B. It’s wiser to keep a cool head in every situation and just smile.

Davey Faces his Goliath

 

     They faced each other. One group of boys up on a hill, a smaller group below. The boys above had the advantage of a clear view as well as gravity to aid them in throwing their chosen projectiles, mainly stones.

     Davey was once again left to his own devices, and his little “gang” was outnumbered by the children looking down at them with malice. Having a reputation of possessing quick reflexes and a sharp eye, he was known for walking through the park, and all the yards along the way, then when a patch of clover was at his feet, he could zero in on the rare four-leaf clovers and even more hard to find five-leaf specimens. He’d look, bend down and pluck one, just as fast as that. He could catch a fly from midair with the flick of a quick arm and snatch it in his fist. (With encouragement, he could have been a pro ballplayer, but he got none of that growing up.)

     He threw stones here and there, but mainly assessed his situation. Davey was pelted by pebbles, dodged a brick or two, and watched a shard of metal land at his feet. He looked at one boy in particular who’d been taunting him menacingly with words as well as sharp rocks. He picked up a fair-sized stone and aimed it at the apex and the child atop it.

                                                                      THUD!

     The stone hit its mark, striking right at the boy’s temple just as the big-mouth braggart turned his head toward his comrades. The injured child collapsed and then fell down the back of the hill. Davey realized he’d probably killed his target. Like before with the Russian sailor, he ran as far from the scene as he could, but this time, he felt remorse. He’d fatally struck a fellow playmate. Davey later heard that the boy was in rough shape and possibly could have died. Nobody knew who struck the damaging blow. He never confessed.

     Davey vowed never to throw rocks again. EVER.

     Shortly after that incident he and Harold were sent home to Michigan.

     Twenty years later, living in Delray, Dave Owen was a father of two step-daughters with a baby on the way. In the late summer humidity and city haze, neighborhood children were at play. His little six-year-old favorite, Margie, got into somewhat innocent rock throwing with the Nagy children and some others. At first it was just lobbing, but it quickly tuned into the oldest kids seeing who could throw a stone the hardest and leave a mark.

     Dave took Margie aside and told all of the youngsters, “Stop that! You could kill someone! I don’t want to see any of you throwing rocks at each other, ever again. You got that?” He turned to little Margie, and said, “. . . and if I ever catch you throwing rocks again, I’ll blister your little bottom!”

     Generally, the threat of a spanking would be more than enough for the waif to comply, but the next day, there they were again, chucking stones in the alley, Margie in the thick of things. He walked outside and the girl was still clutching a rock in her tiny fist, about to throw it, her back to Dave. The other children let their rocks drop to the ground, wide eyed. Margie let hers fly, but of course she didn’t have the arm strength to reach her intended mark with any real force. Deed accomplished, she then followed the gaze of at least one child and turned to see her daddy fuming. He took her by the arm and led her to the yard. All the while he thought to himself,

What am I going to do?  I told her not to get into another rock fight and yet she defied me! I need to show those kids that I mean what I say, yet, I can’t beat my little girl!

     Once inside their house, Dave asked Margie, “Do you know what you did wrong?”

     “I threw rocks after you told me not to.”

     “Do you know what I have to do?” he asked.

     “Daddy, please don’t spank me!” she pleaded as Dave slowly removed his leather belt.

     “This is going to hurt me more than it will, you,” he confessed.

     Outside the children listened as they heard the loud crack of the belt as it landed. “WHOMP!” followed by screaming. Again, the striking sound and yet again, followed by the keening wails of a small child. By this time, some of the neighborhood kids had pulled their moms and dads off of their porches and out of their homes, but back then, it was rare for another grown up to interfere with the punishment a parent inflicted upon his children. There was another blow, and another, then loud yelps.

     Inside, Dave was about to lash again. His belt lifted high, it came down and struck the leather couch a sixth time just as it had the others. He had not touched Little Margie. He knew that if he had, not only would it have possibly killed the tiny girl, but he couldn’t live with himself for inflicting such pain. She screamed and cried and meant every lamentation that blubbered from her lips beneath a snotty nose. Arm sore, Dave threw his belt in a corner. Margie did not go outside again until evening.

     For many years the neighbors thought that Dave had whipped his little step-daughter. Even as a teen, Margie believed he’d struck her mercilessly with his belt. A decade later as I sat with everyone and we gathered to talk about the old days, Margie said, “I remember when you hit me with your belt for throwing rocks. I hurt so bad -- far past the first day of school!”

     “You thought I’d actually hit you? I could have killed you if I’d struck even one blow!”

     Mary and Steve Nagy looked at each other, “Yeah, we remember that day!”

     “Well, each and every smack, I was walloping the couch next to your little bottom. I never hit you in your entire life!” Dave confessed. “What was I supposed to do, let you go unpunished for throwing rocks after I told you not to? All those kids watching?”

     Margie sighed, then got up and hugged him. They both had tears in their eyes. He drew back and with a ragged breath said, "I might have killed someone throwing stones, when I was a kid." That’s when he told us all about the last rock fight he ever had:                                                                                           

     “We faced each other. One group of boys up on a hill, a smaller group below. The boys above had the advantage of a clear view as well as gravity to aid them in throwing their chosen projectiles, mainly stones…”

A Short Story About a Russian Sailor and a Squirrel

                    The continuing tale of my father, David Owen, and his adventures along the Oregon coast.

 

     While my dad lived in Oregon with his brother Harold, their father George and LaVera, their stepmother, I don’t think the boys went to school. He never mentioned attending classes. It seems he just got into a lot of mischief, as youngsters that age are prone to do with little supervision and guidance.

     My father told me that many ships came into port from all over the world. One time he spent the day playing in a park close to the docks, running in the grass, and dodging tall trees. The cool shade was adequate, but he was thirsty and made his way to a fountain. As “Davey” took sips, he watched several squirrels scampering up and down limbs.

     In the meantime, a freighter docked from Russia. The weary sailors disembarked, many making their way to the very park my dad was playing in. One burly maritime comrade separated from the others. He said in broken English that he was from Russia. My dad kept a safe distance, not wanting to be shanghaied, but observed that the man was also eyeing the squirrels.

     “Good eating, those?” asked the sailor.

     My dad had eaten a few that his big brother shot and cooked during hard times and nodded. “Yes, they are.” He imagined fresh-fried squirrel and dumplings were better than the buggy sea rations and salted fishes that the sailors must have consumed for several weeks.

     The sailor reminded Davey just a little of the cartoon character Bluto from the Popeye comics and he watched with amusement as the large-armed stranger casually walked toward a bunch of the rodents. Their bushy tails twitched a little, but generally they had little to fear from the average picnicking families and their children. The little animals went about their business.

     The Russian set his sights on a fluffy momma squirrel with large haunches who rested beneath a tree that had a wide girth. As the foreigner approached, she eyed him with disinterest. The Russian looked to see if his audience was watching. Yes, indeed, Davey wanted to know what would happen next. The big man got closer, so the bushy-tailed animal jumped, but instead of scaling up the tree bark, it ran to the other side of the trunk. Davey and the man could still see the tip of a wee tail flicking from the other side, just above some gnarled roots. “Bluto” ran to that side of the tree, so Momma Squirrel did the same, running to the opposite, as if she was playing a game. Davey laughed, the Ruskie guffawed and grinned. He looked around the thick trunk; she looked from the other side, and it went on like that for several minutes until the squirrel had enough and climbed about five feet up, clinging to bark. She was still and quiet. Davey could see large shoulders heaving on the other side, then two hulking muscular arms reaching out as if to hug the tree. Then came the two hands with sausage-like fingers that, in an instant, throttled the squirrel around its slender middle.

     Just as quickly, the toothed, angry creature began to chew the man’s hands. He screamed and howled, but for some reason he would not loosen his grip! My dad watched in stunned horror as the fierce battle for survival went on and the intense pain-infused yelping from the other side of the oak continued.

     Suddenly the fingers disengaged. The squirrel dropped to the ground and hobbled off. Bluto came from the other side of the log, blood dripping from his meaty hands.

     “You!” He lifted a digit that looked like it had met with a sausage grinder and pointed it at Davey. “Look at my hands! They are no good to me now! YOU said it was good to eat! I should kill you!”

     My dad, with the swiftness of the unremorseful boy he was, ran a ways and said, “Yes, they are good to eat, but I never told you to catch one with  your  bare  hands!”

     So, the boy ran as fast as his feet would carry him, out of the park and as far from the scene as he could reasonably get. He did not go back there for some time, but there was more mischief to be enjoyed, as we shall see next week.

                        Harold Klein Owen and David Evert Owen in Detroit, just before their big move to Oregon

My Father's Journey to Oregon and Sneaking Into The Temple

     About 1944, my father David Owen, and the brother closest in age to him, Harold, ventured to Oregon. My grandparents had divorced and remarried—in fact my grandmother, Arizona, was newly wed a couple years to her second husband, Roy Farmer.

     These two youngest sons, were about to enter puberty and were full of mischief. They were no longer little children digging forts in a backyard in Detroit. The United States had only just entered World War two; Eugene and Edward, the older sons, were soldiers. Sisters Lynn-Marie and Delma were married and engaged, respectively.  It’s understandable that Zona and Roy needed some time to themselves.

     Grandpa (known as Ransom by friends and siblings, and Papa George by the youngsters) lived in Oregon with his second wife LaVera, so the boys were shipped by bus, west from Detroit. It was a long journey for two boys almost twelve and ten. They sat, day after day, city after city, state after state. They left the concrete of Detroit and soon entered highways lined with trees, drove past lakes, then farms, and through Chicago’s streets famed for gangsters, hooch and speakeasies only a decade or two before. When the boys left the Windy City, tall buildings behind them became smaller in the distance and soon there were only small towns, fields and little farmhouses to break the landscape during the day. If sleep came at all, it was fitful, bouncing and jostling in the hard seats. The whir of the large tires was their lullaby.  During the crossing, trees gave way to plains, plains changed to arid landscapes and within days, the Rocky Mountains came into view.

     In those days, older children could safely wander most cities as long as they didn’t venture far from the station. They’d listen for an announcement calling them to board yet another bus.

     Just as their transportation was entering Utah, the driver said, “Utah was settled by the Mormons in the 1880s. They turned a desert wasteland into what today, is a thriving state. Many of you have heard of Brigham Young and his many wives. He sent missionaries out into the world to preach, and when they departed, those boys were told to gather more women. ‘Bring them back and bring ’em young! bring ‘em young!’” the man joked.

     The vehicle pulled into the station in Salt Lake City. Passengers departed, some meeting relatives and others stretching their aching legs. Davey and Harold were told to return at a designated time, but they had a few hours to explore. They day was warm and the sun was shining. Davey toured around Temple Square and learned about the miracle of the seagulls who had flocked in to eat an invasion of crickets that were devouring the newly sprouting crops; the only food that the pioneers had. If not for those birds, the newly arrived families surely would have starved.

     By mid-day, alone in the bright direct sun, my dad being the curious boy he was, sought shade and respite in the large building he was nearest to. He entered a door that was obviously not being used. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, the boy looked around, saw alters and such. There was some light and he saw a group of people in another room, dressed in white.

     A very surprised older gentleman saw him. The man walked over and asked, “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

     Davey pointed, then answered, “I’m waiting for my bus. I came through that door over that way.” The old man gently guided him right back out the door, into the bright sun. He found Harold and the two made their way through the city and back to the station.

     Soon they heard a voice call them to board their bus to Oregon and days later, the boys were reunited with their Papa George. Davey was bound to get into more mischief and his brief adventure into the historic Salt Lake City Temple was only the beginning.

 

To be continued.

Photograph of the bus station in Salt Lake City ca. 1940's

All Mixed Up, With A Twist of Teriyaki

 

     I had a conversation today that made me remember events and consider things anew.

      At church, I met a young man that told our ward (congregation) about his mission to the Philippines, the various languages, the many islands he lived on and, of course, the people that he’d taught the scriptures to. I told him that half my family is Asian and several of those are of Pilipino descent.

      I recounted the time I was working at a museum a couple decades ago. I hadn’t seen my co-worker (I’ll call her Deborah) for several days as I’d been in Lake Tahoe for a family wedding. I told her that I’d be making a scrapbook and I’d bring it in. (Scrapbooking was a thing in southern Utah where I was living at the time.) It was slow that mid-morning. I counted my drawer and slid it under the register. Before we shared my photos, I asked Deborah how she was doing. “Well, I spent too much time on the phone with some Asians. They kept forwarding my calls to different departments! Why can’t we just have Americans answer customer service calls?” I agreed with her. “Then there was this Asian at the grocery store; why did they hire her? She doesn’t fit in. Also, there’s some Asian dating my nephew. She has funny-looking eyes, but enough about my week. Show me your photo album!”

      “No, it can wait; we’re bound to get some tourists soon," I declined. "Maybe another day.” (I wasn’t ashamed of my family. I really didn’t want to get into a big discussion just before welcoming customers, selling tickets, talking about the history of our museum and the discovery of dinosaur prints on the very rock our building was standing on.)

      “Oh, is this it?” She asked, reaching for the white book next to my purse under the cash register.

     “Yes, it is,” I answered as she opened it up. It was too late to stop her.

      As she thumbed through the pages, Deborah saw the bride, the wedding party, my nieces, nephews, spouses and the reception photos. Asian Americans. Beautiful, slanted eyes. She looked at me and turned as white as a sheet of paper. She kept saying, “Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry!” She was embarrassed. I was embarrassed for her. It was very awkward. “I didn’t know!” she gasped. How could she? Despite all the things that I am, I present as white. She mumbled her apologies and repeated that she was sorry.

      I mentally asked, ‘You’re sorry I have Asian family or that, unlike you, I am not a bigot?’ but I kept my mouth shut. This wasn’t about me. People were ready to come in and enjoy themselves. I wasn’t about to steal their joy with a grumpy attitude. Soon a few families came through our big, glass doors, approached our counter and before long I was selling tickets.

     A few weeks later, I was back in Michigan for the summer; Deborah found other volunteer opportunities in our community, so I didn’t see her when I returned, and I don’t give the incident much thought, except that it makes me laugh sometimes. What else can I do when someone makes a fool of herself?

     I repeat -- how could she know? I myself was raised Japanese. I realize that sounds delusional to someone who casually knows me, but I was.

     My Scots-Irish Cherokee dad’s significant other while he served in the Navy, Mary-Hana, ¹  was Japanese. While living in Japan, he learned how to make tempura vegetables and shrimp, teriyaki marinated beef, shrimp curry, and much more. He taught me how to count in Japanese, how to say phrases like good morning, and I’m sorry. My mother’s first husband, Kiyoshi, was born in Hawaii but was 100 % Japanese by ethnicity (possibly Okinawan). My mother cooked a lot of fried rice. Of course, there were other things she’d learned but about a third of our meals were Japanese.

     The home that I grew up in was decorated with what my parents brought into the marriage: Delicate Japanese paintings of flowers and birds, bamboo furniture, a low to the ground octagon table with accompanying large pillows that we sat on for some meals, Asian rugs and more. It wasn’t until 1976 that my mother came into the 20th Century and purchased modern American furniture. She sold much of what she had on the walls and on shelves. So, it was exciting to finally have nice American furniture and new (to me) meals that my mother was learning to cook while watching talk shows on the Detroit area TV stations.

     Once in a while, at school or at the skating rink, kids would bad-mouth Japanese factories and cars. They’d talk about their grandfathers fighting the Japanese soldiers and how our Detroit-made cars were far superior to those ugly little Japanese automobiles infiltrating our neighborhoods. My sisters were living in California, with their biological dad, so when Margie ² the one closest in age to me would visit, I’d have some explaining to do. My “Koshi-Daddy,” an American citizen, fought in World War Two for the United States. I tried to explain that to some of the other kids, but they just didn’t care to listen and learn. To them, all Asians were dirty, potential spies, apt to torture you just for fun. It  gave me a weird feeling that anyone would believe that nonsense. How could they lump my sisters in with such paranoia? Some kids (and teachers) were already mad at me for having a German mother.

     It was refreshing that I’d occasionally see two really nice kids from Canada who were of Asian descent at festivals and venues in the Great Lakes Region. We’d run into each other sometimes. I bonded with them right away (but I’ll leave that for another blog entry).

     I had other things to deal with: Black children spitting in my curly hair at the mall for being white. White kids beating me up and calling me the N---word for having tight curls. A mother clueless as to how to style my hair, my dad loving each and every lock on my head. A broad nose that, when I found out there was a thing called “plastic surgery,” I couldn’t wait to “fix” it.

     The ethnic confusion continued. My Japanese-German sister Margie would visit from Stockton, California, and share her Motown albums with me, then she was perplexed that I was listening more to country than my city’s trademark music style. All my neighbors’ families listened to Charlie Pride, Hank Williams, Conway Twitty, Glen Campbell, Johnny Paycheck and Kenny Rogers, so that is what I sang and played up until just before high school.

     That brings us to today: I really pondered what it means to be me, a mixed-identity soul in a world of labels and constructs. If I embrace my Japanese upbringing, then some misguided people call it culture appropriation. My own sisters didn’t eat (or remember) the meals that my dad cooked. They didn’t have Asian furnishings and art in their father’s home. They didn’t know ANY Japanese words because their dad didn’t speak it. Maybe one or two ancient aunties did, but those dear ladies were living in Hawaii and had little influence on Jeanette³and Margie.

     I thought even more about what it must be to identify with a culture but be ethnically different. What about the part African American child that is raised with a white-European mother? What about a man who was very much Native American whose family suppressed their heritage for a century, yet subtly instructed their children and grandchildren in the old ways, whether they knew they were teaching it or not? I was blessed to have the influence of many cultures growing up. What I wasn’t, my neighbors were. I don’t feel that I missed out, but these past two decades I feel very confused.

     In 2025, I hope to touch upon these subjects. Some of them are: being a curly-haired little toddler in Georgia at a funeral, my uncles having served during World War Two just to have their baby-brother (my dad) marry a German-born woman with Japanese-American children, my uncles fighting during that war, how my father’s younger siblings fought at home, their life on a houseboat, my dad surviving a tornado, my Uncle Harold’s pet pig, my Papa George meeting the great escape artist Harry Houdini,  how my American grandparents met, their unusual marriage ceremony, their ways of camping under the stars, how my Auntie Delma met Oak Spiering who was the love of her life, good things my daddy showed me how to cook, some food history that he taught me, how I gained a Vietnamese brother, my great-grandfather who was a country doctor in North Carolina a century ago -- and that’s only the beginning!

     My late father, David Owen, often shared tales of the rollicking life he had in the Navy, and I hope that I can relate those experiences to you in his words. He was quite a character.  I recorded his tales more than forty years ago, and they're on old cassettes. 

     This New Year will be full of the stories that made me the complex human being that I am today. You may not understand. Don’t fret; I do not even fully understand! I just hope you enjoy my family history. 

     See you next year – 2025 here I come!

 ¹  Mary was not Ms. Hana’s actual given name. This is just what my father and other Americans called her. My dad wanted to marry her in the States and make the marriage legally recognized, but she would not leave Japan.  They lost contact with one another.

  ²  Known as Maggie in my first published book Lizzie’s Blue Ridge Memories.

  ³  Known as Jenny in my first published book Lizzie’s Blue Ridge Memories.

Christmas Traditions

                                            Merry Christmas

     Today I want to briefly talk about Christmas traditions. I am not talking about mine versus yours, specifically. I’m referring to a cultural construct that actually evolved over the centuries.

     The basic Christmas celebration, as we in America know it, originated from mainly European (specifically German) traditions and beliefs. Queen Charlotte, the German wife of King George III, introduced the first known Christmas tree to England in December 1800. The fragrances, art and songs have grown (snowballed you might say) since the days when Charles Dickens’ much loved and lauded novella A Christmas Carol was published in 1843. A decade or two later, the common masses slowly took on these traditions, and the United States, still in its infancy as a nation, followed suit.

     Some of our own U. S. citizens (as noted in previous posts) were of the belief that pine bows in a home were a tradition of fetishistic heathens. It’s true, such practices were pagan in origin. Many cultures, even inside our nation, still reject the bringing inside and decorating of pine trees. Some may even profess that those of us that decorate for Christmas are going to Hell!

     Take for instance individuals that reject science (yet it is my belief that God is the greatest scientist of all). You have people who emphatically adhere to a flat-Earth notion. You might meet people who believe if you and your children get inoculated for any disease, your souls will be in Satan’s grip. They seem to think that their version of Christianity is the only form of Christ-following. 

     Conversely, there are some ladies and gentlemen that attend each and every parade, cookie exchange and pageant. Some people watch Hallmark holiday movies, take their toddlers to visit Coca-Cola inspired Santas, giggle at Rudolph's exploits as he frolics with an elf who wants to be a dentist, sing Jingle Bells at the top of their lungs, (even yapping and growling along with Carl Weismann's barking dogs version). Many of these people start to decorate just before Thanksgiving.

     I meet individuals that state our dear Savior could have only been born at lambing time and reject that Jesus’ birth was actually in the winter season. Others will debate with their neighbors, point at a calendar and loudly say, “You heretic! Jesus’ birthday is on December 25, it has always been December 25 and if you don’t believe it, you’re going to spend eternity gnashing your teeth in Hades!” (Never mind that the Gregorian Calendar that we hang in our homes or glance at on our phones was first used in 1582.)

     Christmas as I celebrate it is not exactly like the observance of December 25 that my American great grandmother knew. The one that I celebrated with my children is not like the tradition of exchanging gifts on December 24 like my German-born mother. She decorated on Christmas Eve as a child and when I was a little girl Mommy allowed the tree to go up only a week before Christmas. It was then taken down New Years Day. The ceremony my own descendants will experience will most likely change with every generation.

     Does your family open gifts the night before Christmas or the day afterwards? Maybe you and your friends wait for New Years when you get together? If you have a tree, should it be festooned with red and green bulbs or blue and silver? Maybe burgundy and pink ribbons and little else?

     Do you serve ham in your home, or goose? Do you have a green bean casserole or a salad? Biscuits or rolls? Late lunch or dinner? Wine or water? Does it matter?

     Now, I want you to think of a Christmas dessert. Let’s use cake as an example. You might have the sweet cake of Christianity at your core. Your icing is blue, mine is red. The next person has sprinkles, the one down the street has piping. The core of our belief should be something sweet and good. Does it really matter if your church meets Sunday evening or Saturday morning? Does it matter if you have baptisms the first Sunday of every month only or anytime people are gathered? Does it make a great difference if that baptism takes place in a warm font or at a pond in Grandpa’s old pasture?

     The essence of the season is remembering the birth of a baby boy whose young mother accompanied her new husband for a long-distance journey. She was a stranger in another city and she gave birth without the comforting aide of relatives. Her son grew to teach radical ideas that irked the traditions of powerful men in His own community. He dined with people considered unworthy and filthy. He welcomed the friendships of political adversaries. He listened first, then taught truths that changed ingrained dogmas and customs. He instructed all who would listen to give second and third chances (and seventh chances!) to people who followed His path – the path that taught them that if they kindly gave second chances they’d be forgiven as well. He knew then (and knows now as an immortal being) that even the worst of us can mature spiritually and become better people as we follow Him. He proclaimed that He was sharing the teachings of His Father in Heaven. Whereas ancient Jewish tradition taught that women must be stoned to death for sexual indiscretions, He stated that all people are sinful (mortal and imperfect) and nobody was (or is) pure enough to execute another person for being human. He was called a heretic by leaders in His own religion. He healed the sick of mind and infirm of body. Miracles were documented by contemporaries of His own time. Stories were told of Him for many decades and centuries. He was killed for what He believed in. Even now, people who may or may not be religious, ascribe teachings to Him that He Himself never preached. Yet if each of us studies the Bible, we will find the true nature of this great man who was more than just a mere human.

     This miraculous man’s name is Jesus. We also call Him Christ, meaning that He is the only one anointed (christened) as the Son of God. If we take on His teachings and follow His path, we can call ourselves Christians.

     This Christmas no matter how you proceed with your gala, the core of our celebration of Christ’s birth should center around a special baby, born in a humble stable, to a poor mother who was a visiting stranger to an unfamiliar city. Know that this child grew to teach love and buck accepted traditions that were doing more harm than good. This child of wayfaring strangers claimed to be the Son of God and performed miracles, not to make money or entertain, but to mend the broken. He wouldn’t want us to argue about who has the best gingerbread house, which community had the best marching band in the holiday parade, or who doesn’t have a decorated tree no matter the reason. If your holiday meal is merely a ham sandwich in a motel, that is enough. Most importantly we must remember why we celebrate to begin with and follow His teachings.

     Jesus is NOT the season. He is the reason for the season.

     Merry Christmas