a Soul Searching

Christmas Hanukkah to Merge

2018-12-08T07:45:00.002-05:00

Continuing the current trend of large-scale mergers and acquisitions, it was announced today at a press conference that Christmas and Hannukah will merge. An industry source said that the deal had been in the works for about 1300 years.

While details were not available at press time, it is believed that the overhead cost of having twelve days of Christmas and eight days of Hannukah was becoming prohibitive for both sides. By combining forces, we're told, the world will be able to enjoy consistently high-quality service during the fifteen days of Christmukah, as the new holiday is being called.

Massive layoffs are expected, with lords-a-leaping and maids-a-milking being the hardest hit.

As part of the conditions of the agreement, the letters on the dreidel currently in hebrew, will be replaced by latin, thus becoming unintelligible to a wider audience.

Also, instead of translating to "a great miracle happened there," the message on the dreidel will be the more generic "miraculous stuff happens."

In exchange, it is believed that Jews will be allowed to use Santa Claus and his vast merchandising resources for buying and delivering their gifts.

In fact, one of the sticking points holding up the agreement for at least three hundred years was the question of whether Jewish children could leave milk and cookies for Santa even after having eaten meat for dinner. A breakthrough came last year, when Oreos were finally declared to be kosher.

All sides appeared happy about this. A spokesman for Christmas, Inc., declined to say whether a takeover of Kwanzaa might not be in the works as well. He merely pointed out that were it not for the independent existence of Kwanzaa, the merger between Christmas and Hanukkah might indeed be seen as an unfair cornering of the U.S. holiday market. Fortunately for all concerned, he said, Kwanzaa will help to maintain the competitive balance.

He then closed the press conference by leading all present in a rousing rendition of "Oy, Come All Ye Faithful."

(An oldie but a goodie)

There is a Santa Claus

2018-12-08T07:42:00.001-05:00

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.... Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?

VIRGINIA O'HANLON
New York, N.Y.

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe unless they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith, then, and no poetry, no romance, to make tolerable this existence. We would have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

FRANCIS P. CHURCH
Editorialist
New York Sun
New York, N.Y.

Note: Virginia O'Hanlon wrote this to the editor of the New York Sun in September 1897.

Mr. Church's response was printed as a column in the New York Sun Sept. 21, 1897.

Scrooge is Redeemed

2018-12-07T08:40:00.000-05:00

"'Spirit!' Scrooge cried, tight clutching at its robe, 'hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I would have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope?' ...

"'Good Spirit,' he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it: 'Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life? ... I will honor Christmas in my heart. I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this tombstone!'

"In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him.

"Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.

"Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in! ...

"'I don't know what to do!' cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoon of himself with his stockings. 'I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!'"

The Legality and Authenticity of Santa Claus

2018-12-06T08:09:00.000-05:00

In the court of quarter sessions of
Allegheny County, Pennsylvania
In re Legality and Authenticity of Santa Claus
Docket N. 52 - December 1936
OPINION Judge Michael Musmanno:

During the last month several requests have been made of this Court for a judicial pronouncement on the legal status of Santa Claus. There have been some suggestions to the effect the white-bearded gentlemen, with beaming smiles and bulging sacks on their backs, are deceiving the public, in that they purport to represent a personage that does not exist. There have even been intimations that perhaps warrants of arrest should issue against these Santa Clauses, charging them with false pretense.

So that no one may be misled, we hereby declare that anyone initiating such a prosecution, on the supposition that there is no Santa Claus, will not only have the case dismissed against him but he will be require to pay the costs of the suit in addition.

Santa Claus is a reality recognizable by the law and he will be protected in this court against all aspersions and insinuations to the contrary. If the law recognizes John Doe, it will certainly respect Santa Claus. This Court can state with judicial correctness that it has seen Santa Claus, but has never had any ocular observation of John Doe.

There are many famous and celebrated characters who are as real to us as the flesh and blood people of our daily contacts, and yet they have not come within the range of our physical vision. For instance has anyone seen Jack Frost? But who can deny his existence? Jack Frost, who takes a green forest and converts it into a sublime and dazzling riot of color, each tree an inverted golden chandelier with crystals of scarlet, orange and bronze, turning their gorgeous facets to the mellow light of the autumnal sun. Jack Frost, who in the wintry morning etches fairy castles and prancing silver steeds on the window pane. This lovable sprite and incomparable artist does his work when we sleep and then gayly dances away before we can open an eye to him. An as Jack Frost decorates the leaves of the forests and the glass of our windows without our seeing him, so does Santa Claus put warmth into our heart, life into our spirit and cheer into our nature without our being aware of it.

Has anyone seen Dan Cupid? But who doubts the being of that chubby little lad who visits royal palaces as well as peasants’ homes? Who can question the accuracy of his aim, and the power of the bow behind his arrow when its reverberations can shake and have shaken the foundations of empires? Deny the reality of Cupid and you can call into question the verity of the tender passion that brings maiden and youth together and makes the possible the family - the bond that holds society together....

....Santa Claus is a reality. He stands not only in front of the department stores but he is in every home, sitting with the children on his knee before the crackling fireplace, chuckling with self-satisfied felicity as he surveys the plenty of today and contemplates the hope and the promise of even better days yet to come.

Santa Claus is not a figment of the imagination. He is an actuality and does not live alone for the children. In fact, the adults derive even more soul-filling ecstasy from the amiable and corpulent gentleman than do the kiddies. Little Susie and Billy howl with delight when they espy the life-size talking doll and the bright sled under the Christmas tree. But the parents first had their fun when they purchased the gifts, experienced a third thrill when they heard the shouts of happiness of their children as they discovered the presents their hearts had craved.

If there were no Santa Claus in the courts, there would be no justice, because Santa Claus represents the spirit of mercy, goodness and sympathy; and without those qualities there would be no intelligent appraisement of the human factors involved in every trial and every sentencing.

Santa Claus is the symbol of amiable kindness; he is the token of smiling charity’ he is the badge of all that is cheerfully benevolent in the make-up of man. The best judge is he who walks with Santa Claus. Even in sentencing the worst offender one must remember that the defendant still belongs to the human race, and in the final reckoning we are all brothers. Even judges will some day be judged, and we will be much relieved if we can be assured that on that final day the spirit of Christmas will prevail in the Judgement Hall.

Thus, after considering all the evidence in the case, which is made up of the testimony of the season, the attestations of the human heart, and the exhibits presented by Mother nature; and after listening to the rosy-cheeked laughter of the December winds laden with the glittering snow, each flake a pattern of beauty and harmony, we conclude and find that Santa Claus is a reality. We find further that without him life would be dull and cheerless, and that with him the heart is merry and the spirit gay, as life should be.

Therefore, in view of the foregoing we hereby order, adjudge and decree that anyone within our jurisdiction who questions the authenticity of the genuineness of Santa Claus will be declared in contempt of court and he will be committed to the bastille, there to be kept in dungeon vile until his soul expands and the spirit of Christmas enter therein, when he shall then be released, provided he shall shout with whole lungs and full heart: “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” “MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

- Musmanno, Judge

Sayings of Chairman Mao from the Little Red Book

2018-05-01T07:38:00.000-04:00

"Every Communist must grasp the truth, 'Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.'

“Communism is not love. Communism is a hammer which we use to crush the enemy.”

“In waking a tiger, use a long stick.”

"A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery; it cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows another."

"Whoever wants to know a thing has no way of doing so except by coming into contact with it, that is, by living (practicing) in its environment. ... If you want knowledge, you must take part in the practice of changing reality. If you want to know the taste of a pear, you must change the pear by eating it yourself.... If you want to know the theory and methods of revolution, you must take part in revolution. All genuine knowledge originates in direct experience."

"The proletariat seeks to transform the world according to its own world outlook, and so does the bourgeoisie. In this respect, the question of which will win out, socialism or capitalism, is still not really settled… It will take a fairly long period of time to decide the issue in the ideological struggle between socialism and capitalism in our country."

"We should support whatever the enemy opposes and oppose whatever the enemy supports."

"Politics is war without bloodshed while war is politics with bloodshed."

"Our army has always had two policies. First, we must be ruthless to our enemies, we must overpower and annihilate them. Second, we must be kind to our own, to the people, to our comrades and to our superiors and subordinates, and unite with them."

"We are advocates of the abolition of war, we do not want war; but war can only be abolished through war, and in order to get rid of the gun it is necessary to take up the gun."

"Our principles of operation are:

'(1) Attack dispersed, isolated enemy forces first; attack concentrated, strong enemy forces later…

'(4) In every battle, concentrate an absolutely superior force (two, three, four and sometimes even five or six times the enemy's strength), encircle the enemy forces completely, strive to wipe them out thoroughly and do not let any escape from the net. In special circumstances, use the method of dealing the enemy crushing blows, that is, concentrate all our strength to make a frontal attack and an attack on one or both of his flanks, with the aim of wiping out one part and routing another so that our army can swiftly move its troops to smash other enemy forces….

'(5) Fight no battle unprepared, fight no battle you are not sure of winning; make every effort to be well prepared for each battle, make every effort to ensure victory in the given set of conditions as between the enemy and ourselves.

'(6) Give full play to our style of fighting - courage in battle, no fear of sacrifice, no fear of fatigue, and continuous fighting (that is, fighting successive battles in a short time without rest).

'(7) Strive to wipe out the enemy when he is on the move…

'(9) Replenish our strength with all the arms and most of the personnel captured from the enemy. Our army's main sources of manpower and materiel are at the front.

'(10) Make good use of the intervals between campaigns to rest, train and consolidate our troops. Periods of rest, training and consolidation should not in general be very long, and the enemy should so far as possible be permitted no breathing space…"

I Have a Dream Today Speech

2018-01-15T07:37:00.001-05:00

"Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends. And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

'I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.'

'I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

'I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

'I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

'I have a dream today!

'I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of 'interposition' and 'nullification -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

'I have a dream today!

'I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."

'This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

'And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

'And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.

'And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.
Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.
Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.
Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

'But not only that:
Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

'And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

----From the "I have a dream" speech delivered by Martin Luther King on August 28, 1963.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

2017-11-11T08:03:00.002-05:00

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

"The poem 'In Flanders Fields' by the Canadian army physician John McCrae remains to this day one of the most memorable war poems ever written. It is a lasting legacy of the terrible battle in the Ypres salient in the spring of 1915.

"The most asked question is: why poppies?

"Wild poppies flower when other plants in their direct neighbourhood are dead. Their seeds can lie on the ground for years and years, but only when there are no more competing flowers or shrubs in the vicinity (for instance when someone firmly roots up the ground), these seeds will sprout.

"There was enough rooted up soil on the battlefield of the Western Front; in fact the whole front consisted of churned up soil. So in May 1915, when McCrae wrote his poem, around him bloodred poppies blossomed like no one had ever seen before."

Read more in The Heritage of the Great War / First World War 1914-1918 from which the foregoing quotes were taken.

I Remember Gabrielle

2017-08-15T07:20:00.000-04:00

Six years have passed since Gabrielle sailed away on a midsummer breeze. Here is the poem I wrote for her on one restless morning.

Cherry blossoms dance
just beyond my open window.
A robin alights,
clinging, bobbing on a delicate branch, swaying
in a gentle April breeze.
She stares quizzically at me.
She sings Cheer up...cheerily...
Cheer up ... cheerily...

I remember Gabrielle,
a beautiful little bird
singing, bringing joy;
a robin in spring
who too quickly flew away.

In western lands beneath the Sun

2017-06-10T14:43:00.000-04:00

Photo of J. R. R. Tolkien

The one small garden was all his need and due, not a garden swollen to a realm; his own hands to use, not the hands of others to command.

---from The Lord of the Rings

Letter to the World

2017-05-26T08:01:00.001-04:00

This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,--
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.

Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

---Emily Dickinson

A Bird Came Down the Walk

2017-05-25T08:43:00.000-04:00

A bird came down the walk:

He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.

Sparkles from the Wheel

2017-05-24T08:01:00.001-04:00

Sparkles from the Wheel

Where the city's ceaseless crowd moves on the livelong day,
Withdrawn I join a group of children watching -- I pause aside with them.

By the curb toward the edge of the flagging,
A knife-grinder works at his wheel sharpening a great knife,
Bending over he carefully holds it to the stone -- by foot and knee,
With measur'd tread he turns rapidly -- as he presses with light but firm hand,
Forth issue then in copious golden jets,
Sparkles from the wheel.

The scene and all its belongings -- how they seize and affect me,
The sad sharp-chinn'd old man with worn clothes and broad shoulder-band of leather,
Myself effusing and fluid -- a phantom curiously floating -- now here absorb'd and arrested,
The group, (an unminded point set in a vast surrounding,)
The attentive, quiet children -- the loud, proud, restive base of the streets,
The low hoarse purr of the whirling stone, the light-press'd blade,
Diffusing, dropping, sideways-darting, in tiny showers of gold,
Sparkles from the wheel.

---Walt Whitman

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking

2017-05-23T08:09:00.000-04:00

1
OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot,
Down from the shower’d halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears,
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous’d words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
A man—yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them,
A reminiscence sing.

2
Once, Paumanok,
When the snows had melted—when the lilac-scent was in the air, and the Fifth-month grass was growing,
Up this sea-shore, in some briers,
Two guests from Alabama—two together,
And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown,
And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand,
And every day the she-bird, crouch’d on her nest, silent, with bright eyes,
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, 30
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.

3
Shine! shine! shine!
Pour down your warmth, great Sun!
While we bask—we two together.

Two together!
Winds blow South, or winds blow North,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
While we two keep together.

4
Till of a sudden,
May-be kill’d, unknown to her mate,
One forenoon the she-bird crouch’d not on the nest,
Nor return’d that afternoon, nor the next,
Nor ever appear’d again.

And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea,
And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather,
Over the hoarse surging of the sea,
Or flitting from brier to brier by day,
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird, 50
The solitary guest from Alabama.

5

Blow! blow! blow!
Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore!
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.

6
Yes, when the stars glisten’d,
All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop’d stake,
Down, almost amid the slapping waves,
Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.

He call’d on his mate;
He pour’d forth the meanings which I, of all men, know.

Yes, my brother, I know;
The rest might not—but I have treasur’d every note;
For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding,
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts,
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,
Listen’d long and long.

Listen’d, to keep, to sing—now translating the notes,
Following you, my brother.

7
Soothe! soothe! soothe!
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,
And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close,
But my love soothes not me, not me.

Low hangs the moon—it rose late;
O it is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love.

O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land,
With love—with love.

O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers?
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?

Loud! loud! loud!
Loud I call to you, my love!

High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves;
Surely you must know who is here, is here;
You must know who I am, my love.

Low-hanging moon!
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?
O it is the shape, the shape of my mate!
O moon, do not keep her from me any longer.

Land! land! O land!
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again, if you only would;
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.

O rising stars!
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.

O throat! O trembling throat!
Sound clearer through the atmosphere!
Pierce the woods, the earth;
Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want.

Shake out, carols!
Solitary here—the night’s carols!
Carols of lonesome love! Death’s carols!
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!
O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea!
O reckless, despairing carols.

But soft! sink low;
Soft! let me just murmur;
And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea;
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,
So faint—I must be still, be still to listen;
But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me.

Hither, my love!
Here I am! Here!
With this just-sustain’d note I announce myself to you;
This gentle call is for you, my love, for you.

Do not be decoy’d elsewhere!
That is the whistle of the wind—it is not my voice;
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray;
Those are the shadows of leaves.

O darkness! O in vain!
O I am very sick and sorrowful.

O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, drooping upon the sea!
O troubled reflection in the sea!
O throat! O throbbing heart!
O all—and I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night.

Yet I murmur, murmur on!
O murmurs—you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not why.

O past! O life! O songs of joy!
In the air—in the woods—over fields;
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!
But my love no more, no more with me!
We two together no more.

8
The aria sinking;
All else continuing—the stars shining,
The winds blowing—the notes of the bird continuous echoing,
With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,
On the sands of Paumanok’s shore, gray and rustling;
The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost touching;
The boy extatic—with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying,
The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting,
The aria’s meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly depositing,
The strange tears down the cheeks coursing,
The colloquy there—the trio—each uttering,
The undertone—the savage old mother, incessantly crying,
To the boy’s Soul’s questions sullenly timing—some drown’d secret hissing,
To the outsetting bard of love.

9
Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul,)
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me?
For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping,
Now I have heard you,
Now in a moment I know what I am for—I awake,
And already a thousand singers—a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me,
Never to die.

O you singer, solitary, singing by yourself—projecting me;
O solitary me, listening—nevermore shall I cease perpetuating you;
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there, in the night,
By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon,
The messenger there arous’d—the fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny of me.

O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere;)
O if I am to have so much, let me have more!
O a word! O what is my destination? (I fear it is henceforth chaos;)
O how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes, and all shapes, spring as from graves around me!
O phantoms! you cover all the land and all the sea!
O I cannot see in the dimness whether you smile or frown upon me;
O vapor, a look, a word! O well-beloved!
O you dear women’s and men’s phantoms!

A word then, (for I will conquer it,)
The word final, superior to all,
Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen;
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves?
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?

10
Whereto answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whisper’d me through the night, and very plainly before day-break,
Lisp’d to me the low and delicious word DEATH;
And again Death—ever Death, Death, Death,
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my arous’d child’s heart,
But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my feet,
Creeping thence steadily up to my ears, and laving me softly all over,
Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.

Which I do not forget,
But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,
That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok’s gray beach,
With the thousand responsive songs, at random,
My own songs, awaked from that hour;
And with them the key, the word up from the waves,
The word of the sweetest song, and all songs,
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,
The sea whisper’d me.

_________________________
"'Out of the Cradle' remains a centerpiece of Whitman's poetry and poetics. In its poignant evocation of a lonely beach where a "curious boy" sits "peering, absorbing," hearing a mockingbird's natural cries of love and despair and feeling those notes turn to poems within him, "Out of the Cradle" embodies for many the Whitmanian poetic moment, the emotive origin and measure of his song." (quoted from this Mark Bauerlein article)

Here's a virtual movie of the great Walt Whitman reading his exquisite poem "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking"

The Frumious Bandersnatch

2017-05-22T07:48:00.003-04:00

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll (a.k.a. Charles Dodgson) is generally considered to be the greatest of all nonsense poems in English. It is so well known that a number of its nonsense words have entered the Oxford English Dictionary. Alice (of Wonderland fame) here, in the paragraph following the poem, puts her finger on the secret of the poem's charm:

"... It seems to fill my head with ideas -- only I don't know exactly what they are."

My Favorite Twilight Zone

2016-12-31T08:16:00.000-05:00

In recognition of the SyFY channel Twilight Zone Marathon, here is my revised and updated short list of my favorite episodes:

"An old man and a hound named Rip, off for an evening's pleasure in quest of raccoon. Usually, these evenings end with one tired old man, one battle-scarred hound dog, and one or more extremely dead raccoons; but as you may suspect, that will not be the case tonight. These hunters won't be coming home from the hill. They're headed for the backwoods of the Twilight Zone."

The Hunt

A mysterious power failure causes paranoid suburban residents to suspect one another of being disguised creatures from outer space. Originally aired when memories of the Second Red Scare were still fresh in the minds of viewers, the episode is often presented commercial-free as part of the Cable in the Classroom series in order to teach children about the dangers of prejudice and hysteria.
The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street

A lonely old woman, Wanda Dunn, will not leave her seemingly abandoned, dark basement apartment because she's afraid "Mr. Death" is waiting for her outside. She has fought with death a thousand times and has always won. But now she finds herself afraid to let a wounded policeman in her door for fear he is Mr. Death. Is he?
Nothing in the Dark

"This is one of the out-of-the-way places, the unvisited places, bleak, wasted, dying. This is a farmhouse, handmade, crude, a house without electricity or gas, a house untouched by progress. This is the woman who lives in the house, a woman who's been alone for many years, a strong, simple woman whose only problem up until this moment has been that of acquiring enough food to eat, a woman about to face terror which is even now coming at her from the Twilight Zone."

The Invaders

"Talky Tina, the doll that does everything, a lifelike creation of plastic and springs and painted smile. To Erich Streator, she is a most unwelcome addition to his household. But without her, he'd never enter the Twilight Zone."
Living Doll

Other episodes, I always enjoy include: Steel The Hitch-Hiker The Masks
Five Characters in Search of an Exit Nick of Time, Will the Real Martian Please Stand Up?, The Obsolete Man, To Serve Man, Little Girl Lost, And When the Sky Was Opened, A Stop at Willoughby, The Mighty Casey, The After Hours, The Shelter, Deaths-Head Revisited, Nightmare at 20,000 Feet and The Howling Man

Any Halloweeners?

2016-10-28T08:12:00.001-04:00

Trick-or-treating is a customary celebration for children on Halloween. Children go in costume from house to house, asking "Trick or treat?" The word "trick" refers to a (mostly idle) threat to perform mischief on the homeowners or their property if no treat is given.

Not where I come from!

Back in Scranton and other parts of Northeastern Pennsylvania, children go “Halloweening” not "Trick or Treating". We knock on a neighbor’s door, or ring the bell, and shout in unison to the person who answers, “Any Halloweeners?” If they are accepting spooky guests, we are invited into their home.

We work for our treats. We perform a poem or a song or tell a joke before receiving nuts, apples, candy or, preferably, cold hard cash. After performing and before unmasking, the host family giddily tries to guess who we are.

No particular hours, nor, indeed, particular nights are set aside for Halloweening. Often, we spread our visits over two nights. In grade school, we have been taught the little ditties that we recite or sing. Here is an example

Black and Gold

Everything is black and gold
Black and gold, tonight;
Yellow pumpkins, yellow moon,
Yellow candlelight;

Jet-black cat with golden eyes,
Shadows black as ink,
Firelight blinking in the dark
With a yellow blink.

Black and gold, black and gold,
Nothing in between -
When the world turns black and gold,
Then it's Halloween!

We are part of a neighborhood tradition that cloaks us in warmth and love and community. It is great.

Columbus Was First: Dissent by Musmanno

2016-10-10T09:44:00.002-04:00

Columbus was first. So contended the Honorable Michael Musmanno, the colorful, outspoken, controversial judge, congressman and author, who died, fittingly, on Columbus Day in 1968. Mussmanno is buried in Arlington Cemetery across the road from the eternal flame of the grave of John F. Kennedy.

The Michael A. Musmanno collection at Duquesne University contains the personal papers and library of the man. Among the many highlights of his career were: the campaign to abolish the Coal and Iron Police (a private police force maintained by the coal companies for the purpose of strike breaking); legislation to end the Sunday Blue Laws; acting as a defense lawyer in the Sacco and Vanzetti trial; serving as a presiding judge at the Nuremberg war crime trials; and appearing as a witness for the prosecution in the case against Adolf Eichman. Quoting the Duquesne Univerity site:

One of the highlights of the collection is the transcripts of Musmanno's personal interviews of the Hitler intimates. Other notable features are the transcripts of the Einsatzgruppen Nuremberg trial and the Adolf Eichmann war crimes trial. Musmanno was also the author of a number of books including, Ten Days to Die, which recounted Hitler's last days and was later made into a motion picture, and Black Fury a novel about a coal miner struggling with the hardships of the mines and the brutality of the Coal and Iron Police. He was also a zealous defender of Columbus discovering America and supported his claims in the book Columbus Was First.

Musmanno penned blistering and sometimes hysterical dissenting opinions as a jurist. His dissent in the Pennsylvania Supreme Court obscenity case regarding the book, "Tropic of Cancer," is a classic. The majority opinion failed to find the book obscene within the meaning of the First Amendment. Justice Musmanno disagreed:

The decision of the Majority of the Court in this case has dealt a staggering blow to the forces of morality, decency and human dignity in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. If, by this decision, a thousand rattlesnakes had been let loose, they could not do as much damage to the well-being of the people of this state as the unleashing of all the scorpions and vermin of immorality swarming out of that volume of degeneracy called the "Tropic of Cancer."

As this post from Moleskin Notebook observes "That's just the introductory paragraph, it only gets better." The opinion continues and concludes:

[Henry Miller's, "Tropic of Cancer"] is not a book. It is a cesspool, an open sewer, a pit of putrefaction, a slimy gathering of all that is rotten in the debris of human depravity. ... One wonders how the human species could have produced so lecherous, blasphemous, disgusting and amoral a human being as Henry Miller. One wonders why he is received in polite society. ... From Pittsburgh to Philadelphia, from Dan to Beersheba, and from the ramparts of the Bible to Samuel Eliot Morison's Oxford History of the American People, I dissent.

The opinion can be found at Commonweatlh v. Robin, 421 Pa. 70 (Pa. 1966).

Musmanno loved Columbus, but he didn't care for jazz music, as noted in this The Volokh Conspiracy post, quoting another of his dissenting opinions:

In the eyes and ears of many people, including the writer of this opinion, a juke box confined to ‘jazz’ records may be a nuisance. It robs the air of sweet silence, it substitutes for the gentle concord of stillness the wailings of the so-called ‘blues singer,’ the whinings of foggy saxophones, the screeching of untuned fiddles, the blasts of head-splitting horns, and the battering of earshattering drums. It makes a mockery of music, it replaces harmony with cacophony, tonality with discord, and peace with annoyance.

Musmanno once also ruled on the existence of Santa, stating, "Santa Claus is a reality recognizable by the law and he will be protected in this court against all aspersions and insinuations to the contrary."

Quite a character.

My Aunt Jeanne's Madrid Moon

2016-03-08T08:57:00.000-05:00

I share this piece again in honor of my Aunt Jeanne's birthday.

They say you can't go home again, but on a recent trip back to Scranton to celebrate my mother's 80th birthday, while rummaging through a large box of papers and photos and mementos and junk stored in a forgotten closet, I found a gem - the travelogue ramblings of my Aunt Jeanne (God rest her soul). My Aunt Jeanne was unique - a heady, crazy mixture of love, intellectuality, non-conformity and fun. Jeanne led many lives. She was a nurturer, nurse, teacher, handwriting analyst, lecturer, humorist, therapist, friend and life saver. Jeanne converted an old barn into a nursery school, founded and held country dances for the Singles Club of Northeastern Pennsylvania, and on and on.

Aunt Jeanne took a trip to Madrid to visit her son, George. This is her account of the trip, transcribed as I found it from her hand scribbled lovingly on both sides of three sheets of 14 inch legal pad paper discovered in a musty old box one weekend in March in Scranton, Pennsylvania.

Madrid Madness

As we boarded the overstuffed bird, 360 passengers, sandwiched aboard the Spantax, I was grimly aware that there would be a 7 1/2 hour interval between sky and land. The joy of coming together with Jord, overshadowed the Trigger of Time.

Marc, a left-over 60’s hippie sat next to Mary and shared his crusade toward nuclear free cities. He was from Hoboken, New Jersey and he was off to a conference in Spain. He is a Lawyer, who is still umbilically attached to his ideals, while stuffing his coffers into Hoboken First National to protect himself from the acid rain.

Upon our arrival, like a praying mantis on his hind legs, we were brought in full view of Geord, the Aryan prince of Madrid. He stood tall amongst the cretin-like Spaniards. The moment we awaited was here – Santa Claus arrived and with Christmas hearts we touched hearts and hands with joy.

Madrid beckoned to us with happy surprises. Were we ready? Perhaps, but was Madrid ready for us?

We walked joyously arm in arm gaping at the paternal structures, sternly welcoming us. The feel of the city was strongly masculine with an aura of obedience and respect. Crossing the streets was maddening as the repressed anger of a country’s fascism permeated sickeningly the Franco mentality behind the wheel of a car.

An impotent bus driver was made more powerful by his dynamic thrust in our direction as we ran for cover as he turned a corner. George retaliated with a phalangeal gesture of both hands, and brought the Gestapo to his tails. As he was ushered to the impotent driver the honor of the worm was restored by Jord’s gracious apology. Masculinity was restored once more and all left the scene with their tails intact.

The majestic scenery and magnificent structures overloaded my senses at times. Country warmed by sun, less cluttered emotionally, as we wandered through the gardens of the Royal Palace, I envisioned Franco’s dwarf-like appearance addressing a nation of Spanish sheep. The Royal Guards survey the surroundings with clock-like cadence, as Mexican gold twinkles to the heavens. It’s hard to imagine how people could dance to one man’s drum, without question or revolt. But Franco is now ashes and the memory of power rings in the heads of other fascists eager to keep the Masses obedient by epic loyalty apparently kept hopes and fears alive by having people move in the direction of their option.

Geord’s apartment was an Experience of Bohemian-like qualities. One enters a Spanish Museum of Relics, Velasquez art and other paraphernalia of warmth and charm. “Bong-hit” welcomes us to his humble abode, and Josef has an opportunity to practice his English. Christine, George’s lovely Spanish Mona-Lisa girl friend, warmly welcomes us, as does Laura, the Jackson, Mississippi girl next door. One is able to appreciate the international flavor Geord is adapting to as we join together with café-con-leche communion.

As one does in any new country, the taste sensations are always of interest. To date I have immensely enjoyed the Spanish tortilla, Spanish pizza, and of course, the Chinese food with a Spanish touch. I enjoy shopping in the Mama and Papa grocery stores, that provide an option for the little man to have a business of his own.

Transportation for us has either been by foot – walk – walk – walk – stroll – stroll – stroll – or the metro. The metros here don’t have the vigilante quality of New York City. Perhaps the Fascism had kept people so repressed that the open quality of New York crime is not as prevalent. Cabs are reasonable and provide one with interesting dialogues. Cab drivers remind me of Henry Miller caricatures – squandered in the moment of their vehicles.

As Annie Cerminaro joins the Veglia Kobrick Cerminaro Entourage, it is hard to imagine that the Flour Bay Pants Co. is now trend setting on European soil. As e.e. cummings once said, “ Whatever you believe to be true – can come true- if only in the province of the mind.”

I did have a dream of Europe when I was encased in the perimeters of 15th and Alter, when I imagined the borders of Europe in the foyer of Yanick’s store. One corner was Italy, another France and another Spain. My imagination would project to those far-off lands as I slid corner to corner.

Here I am years later. My dream is indeed a reality – the miner’s daughter has left the earth and kissed the sky.

One adapts to the culture by an understanding of the Arts, so a visit to the Prado provided a unique understanding of Spain.

I was most impressed by Goya’s incredible personality expressed through his art. He reveals his inner life dramatically by his inner experience. At the end of his life cycle, he drew in dark colors and the vicious conflicts were expressed in hideous faces and grotesque figures. His art probably provided an outlet for his depression and fulminating madness.

El Greco was also impressive. I will never forget an El Greco because of his personification of black upon black. Also his hand always has two fingers held tightly together. Velasquez was seemingly impressed by dwarfs but in a kindly way. He gave importance to their idiocy by adorning them with large books.

The massive amount of religious art goes along with the obedience factor of the culture. Christ (the Tortured, masochistic, blood letter) predominates rather than the teaching, loving artist of life of my imagination.

The finale was the Guernica by Picasso – the Epitome of Symbolism and madness.

Does genius only come by permitting the edges to obliterate and the walk with No Exit unfolds the secrets of mankind.

The highlight of our journey was our day at Retiro Park where Geord, Annie and I performed for a captive audience. Geord unfolded the entertainment with a smorgasbord of Beatles, home-made renditions of Bojangles, Piano Man, etc. Annie brought dance by her art and I improvised a little bit of Living Love. We were joined by Earl – the expatriate journalist who is currently writing a book on Chi. He is a most interesting, dapper gentle person, who sees life as an ocean of love. The scenery was magnificent as all of Madrid strolled, enjoying the sights, sounds and smells of Madrid.

One learns much from relating to the people who live their lives in a particular country. We were invited to Eduardo’s for a dinner with Laura and her father, Ed, a trauma physician from Jackson, Mississippi, Christine – George’s friend, Jaime – Eduardo’s brother. The dinner (cena) was elegant – paella, rice and chicken, tortilla, 7 bottles of wine, champagne, cider and of course, café con leche and pastries. They asked what I thought of Madrid. I stated, “It feels like a masculine city.” They thought that was a funny way of relating to a place. They then asked what I felt of their home – felt it was feminine. I felt these feelings not based on biology, but on feelings. The home was warm, sensitive, caring, comfortable (feminine qualities).

Jordi, a handsome Spaniard joined the group later and since George’s guitar was out of pick, they suggested night life exposure in Chueca. George – the Spaniard referred to me as Mrs. Robinson – He was only 22, and very flirtatious. He sat across from me in the bar and we philosophized a lot. He asked me whether I felt money was important. He’s studying to be a lawyer and would like to come to the U.S. He asked if I ever was poor – as he felt it was good to be poor for comparison. He said perhaps you will get married while here – Spanish men are very passionate. He expressed his desire to come to America – And here’s to you Mrs. Robinson.

Upon leaving Chueca, I felt a surge of fright – the characters in the street were non-ideological types – oddballs, rejects, hangers-on and chocolate specialists. We hailed cab after cab only to be passed through – moving us further in the direction of fear. Madrid felt cool by the moon of darkness and demons.

I Remember Grandpa on Valentines Day

2016-02-14T07:08:00.001-05:00

My grandfather celebrated his birthday on Valentine's Day. This, even after he discovered when applying for social security and sending for his Italian birth certificate that he was actually born in November. So on this Valentine's Day I am reprinting a piece I wrote about Grandpa and our trips to Yankee stadium as kids. Today...

I remember Grandpa – his sturdy frame silhouetted in the dusky evening light beside the grey, weathered workbench in the upper backyard. Firmly, yet gently, he struck hammer to chisel and chipped away bits of rock along a scored line in a flag destined to become a stepping stone. Grandpa loved work and he loved us.

Nowhere was his love more evident than in our epic trips to Yankee Stadium. Always a Sunday double header; usually “bat day” or “ball day.” The journeys were all-day affairs. No – they were more than that. They were all-life affairs. Overflowing with life and love and expectation and excitement. Full of agitation and calm, anxiety and serenity. Long and tedious, short and exhilarating.

“Grandpa! Grandpa! Bat Day is June 20th. Will you take us? Will you?”

Shouting and stumbling we would cross the threshold into Grandpa and Grandma’s house next door on a Sunday morning after mass as the clan was gathering for weekly cake and coffee. We had just perused the New York paper (after having completed our paper routes) and found the upcoming Yankees season schedule. Grandpa would smile and ponder a moment or two and then nod. The trip was on - Yankee Stadium – Bat Day – joy.

Anticipating the trip was excruciating. How many more months, weeks, days until we would get to see the Mick, Roger Maris, Elston Howard and the others? How many hot dogs would we eat? How many balls of cotton candy?

And much more than this, we would get bats – real, honest-to-goodness official little league bats. Bats – stamped with the signature of a Yankee player no less. We all wanted Mickey Mantle models, but not so we could put them away in cases to gather dust and appreciate in value. We were going to use the bats to play baseball – over and over until they broke. We wanted Mickey Mantles because he was our favorite player. We wanted Mickey Mantle bats – just because.

When the time for the sojourn arrived, we spent the night before in fits of nervous sleeplessness. When morning dawned, it seemed like the dreaming had just begun. We were actually going. And we would have to leave early. It was more than a three hour journey to New York from Tripp Park. Two-lane blacktop all the way. No superhighways like now.

What a journey. It took forever. To try to calm us, Grandpa and his helper (usually my father or an uncle or a friend of Grandpa’s) would tell us things like, “The Delaware Water Gap is coming up. Look for the Indian Head mountain. It’s a mountain shaped like the head of an Indian.” So, for a long time before we were anywhere near them, we would be kind of quiet, looking for the water gap (whatever that was) and a rock formation resembling an Indian Chief. And I always missed them. Still, to this day, when I pass through the Delaware Water Gap, the Indian Head mountain is a mystery to me. It just looks like a bunch of rocks jutting out of a forest. Anyway…

The next thing we were told to watch out for was Hot Dog Johnny’s, a classic American roadside stand on Route 46 in New Jersey on the banks of the Pequest River. Sometimes, we stopped there on the way and other times on the way back from the Stadium. We would swing on the swings or relax at one of the picnic tables with a frosted mug of birch beer, a hot dog or French fries, before continuing to our destination.

Usually after some debate about whether to take the tunnel or the bridge into New York, we would cross the George Washington Bridge and slowly wind our way to the Bronx. Grandpa would ride around and find a place to park on the street and we would walk several blocks to the Stadium. We would stand in line, buy tickets and then head across the street to the Jerome Cafeteria for brunch.

What a wondrous place the Jerome Cafeteria was. I remember that at least part of it was an Automat (short for an automatic restaurant). It is hard to explain how futuristic it seemed to make change, take your coins to a large bank of small glass windows behind each of which was a sandwich, piece of pie or other delight, drop in the coins, open the window, take out the food and then look through the window to see if you could spy the people behind the array who kept filling the cubby holes with more food.

On to the ballpark, to the bats, checking to see whose signature you got, hoping your seat was not behind a steel girder support beam that blocked your view, heading to the upper deck, hoping to catch a foul ball or a home run, batting practice, the first game, walking around the stadium on the inside, the next game, banging your bat on the concrete deck and brandishing your bat aloft along with 40,000 others in a ritual mass photo opportunity, hot dogs, cotton candy, peanuts, Cracker Jack, soda, back to the Jerome Cafeteria, on to Hot Dog Johnny’s, sleeping in the car, back home in Scranton, sometimes near midnight, feeling alive, being loved. It was great.

I Have a Dream Today

2016-01-18T08:16:00.000-05:00

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

----From the "I have a dream" speech delivered by Martin Luther King on August 28, 1963.

Twilight Zone Faves

2016-01-01T14:20:00.004-05:00

The Hunt

The Invaders

The Christmas Tie

2015-12-24T09:41:00.001-05:00

On Christmas eve, we gathered with my cousins' family at "Grandpa and Grandma next door's" for a traditional Italian fish feast. We exchanged presents after dinner in front of an aluminum Christmas tree that slowly changed colors from yellow to blue to red and green as the light from a revolving lamp reflected in its silver branches.

My little sister, Ann, was really little then, a toddler. As the gift exchange progressed, Ann was feeling left out because she had no present to give to Grandpa and Grandma.

Without anyone noticing, Ann slipped out the front door, crossed the porch to our side of the duplex and went searching for a present. She found a beat up dirty old tie, that once belonged to my notorious Uncle Joe. When she arrived next door beaming with her gift for Grandpa, the laughter, joy and goodwill was big enough to last a lifetime, and it has.

Scrooge Sat Counting

2015-12-23T08:16:00.001-05:00

"..Once upon a time -- of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve -- old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house...The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank was copying letters ...

'A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!' cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

'Bah!' said Scrooge, 'Humbug!'

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.

'Christmas a humbug, uncle!' said Scrooge's nephew. 'You don't mean that, I am sure?'

'I do,' said Scrooge. 'Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough.'

'Come, then,' returned the nephew gaily. 'What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough.'

Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, 'Bah!' again; and followed it up with 'Humbug!'

'Don't be cross, uncle.' said the nephew. 'What else can I be,' returned the uncle, 'when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas. What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in them through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will,' said Scrooge indignantly,'every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!'

'Uncle!' pleaded the nephew.

'Nephew!' returned the uncle, sternly, 'keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.'

'Keep it!' repeated Scrooge's nephew. 'But you don't keep it.'

'Let me leave it alone, then,' said Scrooge. 'Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!'

'There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say,' returned the nephew. 'Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round - apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that - as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!'

The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever.

'Let me hear another sound from you,' said Scrooge, 'and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You're quite a powerful speaker, sir,' he added, turning to his nephew. 'I wonder you don't go into Parliament.'"

Read the rest at A Christmas Carol or check out this public domain movie: Scrooge in which Seymour Hicks plays the title role in the first sound version of the Dickens classic. This British import is notable for being the only adaptation of this story with an invisible Marley's Ghost and its Expressionistic cinematography. This is the uncut 78 minute version.

Scrooge Redeemed

2015-12-23T08:14:00.001-05:00

Re: Legality and Authenticity of Santa Claus

2015-12-22T11:15:00.001-05:00