VSCC 2013 Poetry Award

Recently I attended the Arts Festival at Volunteer State Community College in Gallatin, Tennessee, where I was presented with the certificate shown and a cash award for one of my poems, "On the Hunt."  This poem along with two others of mine were published in the 2013 edition of the literary journal, Number One, which has been publishing fiction and poetry of writers from around the country since 1972.  Before retiring from the college, where I served as Director of the Writing Center and taught English, I also was for ten years managing editor of Number One.  While in that capacity, I introduced the practice of "blind readings" so the submissions editors would not be influenced one way or another by seeing the names of writers familiar to them.  This innovation has been deemed the most fair way to determine who is accepted for publication.  As I mentioned, I had in addition to the award-winning poem, another two poems published in the current edition, all of which I have included below.

On the Hunt                                       

It usually takes a while to get there,
Those places deliciously remote from city centers
In barns or old houses or cement block buildings.
We go prepared, armed to the teeth,
You with jeweler’s loupe and measuring tape,
A price guide in my hand.

Inside, you always go to the left,
I turn to the right and go my own way,
Refusing to follow you with the sharper eye.
I thrill at the thought of discovery,
Moriage or Staffordshire dogs
At a bargain price.

But all I see are things I gave to charities
Or sold at garage sales years ago.
Down one aisle I find my mother’s kitchen,
Her Jewel Tea mixing bowls no one liked,
A smiling pig cookie jar now worth hundreds
Sitting on the same green Formica table.

I pass people sober and intent on spotting
The rare, the ancient, the beautiful.
Others may only want to capture memories
Or fill some vacant place on a shelf.
Hunters and gatherers,
We seek another way to define ourselves.


Words and Meaning                                 

I have been contemplating
A phrase I came upon,
“Walk with light,”
Which at first suggests
The avowal of religions,
Helping us to see a road through life
That we may tread with joy,
Our senses open to the beautiful,
A heart relieved of burdens;
I see a stony path made smoother
By enlightenment of soul.

Or is the phrase more worldly:
Pressing us to keep our minds
Brim full of knowledge and lore,
Like a pot of stewing ideas,
Or to be a fount of information
From which others can set store.
We should not settle, it says,
For the dark and hopeless way
Of vague understanding
Or blind ignorance.

Then again, “walk with light”
May only be a helpful plea
To watch the traffic signal
Before we take the plunge
Into a busy street.


Big Wheels 
                                  
It was while driving along
Through Arkansas that we began
To feel oppressed, as if we didn’t belong,
Sandwiched between two semis,
With trucks rolling by on both sides.
Not from just the big rigs
That roam the interstates at will,
But also bullying pickups and duallys.
We seemed outclassed, outsmarted,
In a word, small.

We drove farther south and west,
Trucks keeping up their threats,
Riding our bumper, honking, passing.
We stayed away from gas stations
With blaring signs of, “Truckers Welcome!”
We shopped a long while for a motel
Where the hulking beasts weren’t parked
And set off next morning at the crack of dawn
Hoping to steal a march on them.
But wise to the trick, they soon came along.

If Arkansas is a terminal for trucks,
Texas seems to be a truck haven.
They live there, maybe breed there.
And worst of all, they seem fighting mad.
One day while waiting at a stop light
We were rear-ended by a small truck.
From the window of an eatery we watched in horror
As an SUV backed into our car like it wasn’t there
Often they pass us with no room to spare
Then forced by a red light to stop, pant, and paw.

We haven’t relented yet,
Unwilling to join in the mania.
Or maybe the truck that suits us
Hasn’t yet been made.
But I must admit I’ve been eyeing
Certain big wheels that take over the road
And I’ve wondered, really wondered
What it would be like to get behind the wheel
Of a gravel truck so I could yell,
“Just eat my dust, you all!”

Scotland: A Bonny Trip

St. Andrews, Scotland

    If on our trip to England the people seemed like old friends, the Scots were a decidedly different breed.  But I liked the Scots with their unusual accent and interesting apparel, whose no-nonsense demeanor reminded me of my Norwegian grandparents.  Less forthcoming than the English, some almost gruff, they no doubt have a long history of being on the defensive, so from our first encounter, we noticed they kept themselves to themselves for the short time we visited there.  I expect it might have taken a while for them to warm up–maybe literally.  It was June, and as we stepped off the train in Anstruther (the closest RR station to St. Andrews), we were assailed by a sharp wind off the North Sea with the temperature 40 degrees Farenheit, spitting rain–and it never really improved.  The Scots acted a little embarrassed about this, for almost everyone we met during those days of harsh weather said, “Last week it was 70 degrees!”
    We had a very pleasant stay with hospitable people at our B and B on a charming crescent, our only real criticism being the pathetically thin mattresses that couldn’t mask the hard springs beneath.  I was used to reading before going to sleep, but the light nearest the bed was high overhead on the wall and too glaring, so when I requested a table lamp, the landlord complied without a comment but with good-natured alacrity.  We got a kick out of seeing him assist his wife at Sunday breakfast wearing his kilt, which he said was his customary garb when he attended church.
    The various staff in the restaurants and stores were helpful, so a little stiffness from the natives was easily forgiven.  We spent one whole day on the road, traveling from St. Andrews through the highlands to Elgin and Inverness.  We stopped along the way at sites of interest such as the Bowes-Lyon House, the late Queen Mother’s ancestral home; and Glamis Castle, mentioned in Macbeth.  As our guide there was showing us a medieval iron mouth guard for a nagging wife, he burst into laughter along with everyone in our group when my husband asked if there were “any for sale in the gift shop.”  (I forgave him, knowing he can’t resist a good joke.)
    On the homeward trek, traveling beside Loch Ness, we marveled at the view and scrutinized the lake for a suspicious outline–to no avail.  Eventually we arrived at Glencoe, the site of the famous massacre by the then treacherous Campbells.  It was uncanny how affecting this place was.  It seemed to be haunted and maybe was if unquiet spirits can be said to remain as ghosts.  At any rate, we were impressed.  We didn’t arrive home until 11:30 PM, driving in what seemed to be twilight, a strange experience, accustomed as we were to the dark nights of a Tennessee summer.
    We couldn’t leave the area without taking in Edinburgh, so Sunday afternoon we set off for the capital, having lunch along the way at a large farmhouse-like restaurant smack dab on the coast.  It was not only picturesque, but also crowded with well-dressed locals, we surmised.  Seated at a small table on the flagstone floor, I had a delicious bowl of mussels in milk.  It wasn’t until later that I discovered mussels and I did not agree, but the view and ambiance had been terrific.  After so much climbing of castle steps on the trip north, and especially my braving the one-hundred-plus steps at St. Rules Tower attached to the ancient ruin of St. Andrew’s Cathedral, we opted for a driving tour of Edinburgh, a quaint and pretty city.
    Altogether, this trip and my other foreign adventures were well worth the trouble and expense, and though I enjoyed them all, I have no desire venture forth again.  Maybe it’s my age, or maybe I agree with Malcolm Muggeridge, who also gave up traveling, saying he’d decided that “travel narrows the mind;” perhaps he meant it squelched imagination or encouraged restlessness.  I've found his mysterious and profound words speak to me, so except for visits to relatives, I hope to find my amusements and edification closer to home from now on.

York, England: A Minor Adventure

Castle Howard

My first and only trip to England was limited to the north, mainly because my husband, Max, and I planned to travel to Scotland after a week in York to visit our son, who was studying at St. Andrews.  We’d arrived in Glasgow and hoped to tour the Lake District first, but because of an injury to his leg prior to our trip, my husband needed to get quickly to our hotel in York.  There, we stayed at a small Victorian hotel across from Memorial Park, a stone’s throw from Old Town. We couldn’t have been more pleased with the helpful and friendly staff of the hotel, which I had picked out from a website.  Somehow, we had gotten their best and largest room, a bonus for Max.  He ended up spending most of his time either in his room being waited on by the sympathetic staff (though no room service was available, according to their policy), or sometimes in the bar chatting with visitors, or in a glassed-in room at the side of the hotel overlooking the green where a bowling tournament was taking place (he watched Manchester play York).  But that meant I had to take in most of the sights by myself, including a tour of the magnificent Cathedral.  While listening to the guide there, I heard some quiet words nearby in an American accent.  I turned and saw and attractive couple, but when I said, “American?” they only nodded.  I said, “Me, too,” hoping we might strike up an acquaintance since I considered myself quite presentable.  However, they turned away from me as if affronted, so that was that!  Ugly Americans!  Sunday I managed to get back to the Cathedral for Morning Prayer in the chapel, a lovely service accompanied by Camerata singers.  I also was determined, though going it on my own with a tour, to see Castle Howard, having been a dedicated fan of Brideshead Revisited.  Besides gawking at the great house and grounds, I found my way to the basement area where local women were serving lunch.  It was a lonely tour for me, no tourists befriending me and wishing Max could have been along to enjoy viewing something so typically upperclass English.
    Deciding he might be able to limp into town, my husband after a few days at the hotel joined me in a slow walk across the park where we halted in front of a walled structure.  The park attendant eagerly spent much time telling us about the old fort and its layers representing the Romans, the Vikings, and the Normans.  From there, we walked through Old Town, and while I went into a store to pick up a pair of reading glasses, Max sat on a bench to rest.  When I returned to him, I saw he was in terrible pain.  I asked someone where I could get a cab, and they pointed me in the direction of the cab rank, a few blocks away.  Sprinting as fast as I could, we got the cab to the invalid and sped off to the emergency services at the hospital where he was admitted and treated.  During the exam, I was standing by, and an amusing interchange took place.  The doctor asked how he had gotten the injury, and Max said he’d caught his leg on a “limb” while on a riding mower.  The doctor looked at us with a confused expression and repeated “limb?”  My husband said, “Yes, a low-growing tree limb caught my leg.”  Whereupon the doctor’s face cleared and he said in a posh accent, “Oh, yes, I see, a braunch!”  Apparently, the word “limb” in England means “arm or leg.” We appreciated a moment of levity in the midst of a difficult situation.  I must say that like others we met in York, the employees at the hospital were wonderfully efficient and helpful, even supplying my husband with a cane before he left with the admonition to “drop it off at the airport before leaving the country.”
    Maybe because I am a confirmed Anglophile, having enjoyed many an English movie and a preponderance of English novels, the people of York and the employees at Castle Howard seemed quite familiar to me as if I’d known them for years.  In fact, the most outstanding impression of that visit was that I felt no culture shock at all.  Furthermore, it seems a very happy coincidence that my favorite show, Downton Abbey, takes place in my favorite place in England--Yorkshire!

Berliners, Summer 1989: A Traveler's Glimpse

Watchtower--another day and time

    I’ve only ever visited three foreign countries (not counting a few limited forays into Canada), specifically Germany, England, and Scotland.  The first named was in Berlin just before the wall came tumbling down in the summer of 1989.  I stayed, of course, in West Berlin, but I had the opportunity to spend a day in East Berlin, which was very instructive.  My socialist-leaning friends should have been there to see the effects of a strictly-run socialist economy–a grimy city with virtually no available merchandise full of sad-looking residents.  West Berlin was a contrast with its economic prosperity, yet I was interested to note one particular common characteristic of the people in both the East and West: a love of order.  Since I spent just a week there, I can only give a snippet of my observations, and some of what I witnessed may have sunk by now into the oblivion of American-style efficiency.
    As I mentioned, the trip to Berlin was really fascinating at such an important time in that city’s history (particularly viewed in retrospect).  The tour guide who conducted us around West Berlin was a well-informed law student, who when asked about reunification declared that possibly the wall might come down in his lifetime, but he couldn’t ever imagine East and West as one.  A few amazing months later the two events had become a reality (a year later officially for reunification). 
    In both East Berlin as well as West, the most definitive characteristic about these people from my point of view was their sense of order.  For example, I was used to walking up to the counter to ask for help while shopping.  I mistakenly tried that in the only large department store in East Berlin, which, by the way, had hardly a thing for sale.  I heard a horrible hissing sound, and turning to my companion, who had been in Germany for a few years, asked what that meant.  She informed me I’d committed a shopping sin–barging in front of those patient people waiting in line to be served by the clerk behind the counter.  Thinking this was an effect of a communist state, I forgot the lesson at the Ka De We, a huge and rather marvelous department store in West Berlin.  I had picked out something on a rack and wanted to pay for it, but when I walked up to the counter, a low muttering arose with my friend tugging at my sleeve to go to the end of the counter.
    When visiting the department store restroom, I was a little startled to see an attendant who zoomed in after me to do an official clean-up, after handing me a towel to wipe my hands.  The same thing happened in a restroom at the Berlin Zoo.  This kind of attention had been abandoned here by commercial or government-run establishments decades ago as being not cost effective.
    Out for a walk one day, we saw a young woman in front of her house with a dog, which immediately went to her side as we approached.  I thought I heard her say “foos” (fuß in German), which I later learned meant “heel.”  I was impressed with the smartly trained animal and was told the Germans had better behaved dogs than children!  I can’t attest to that, not having met any children there, but the dogs were lovely, including those in restaurants.
    Many of the streets in Berlin are paved with cobblestones or bricks, and they look perfect, even after what might be centuries of use.  I found out that when, say, the water department needed to get under the paving, a cobblestone crew took up enough stones for the repair crew, and then came back to replace them, leaving the street pristine again.  I wonder if there’s a brick-paved street left in any city in the United States?  I expect they’ve all been cemented over as being too much trouble or expense to keep them in trim.
    During just a week’s sojourn, I became accustomed to this orderliness, evidenced also by how very neat were the street parking areas with the grass finely clipped as if with nail scissors. Just outside the city there were no weeds or trash along the roadside.  Imagine the culture shock I experienced on the way home from the airport in Nashville when I couldn’t help but notice the difference.  I don’t think my home city is any messier than others, at least in the South, but I suppose the residents simply don’t care like the residents of Berlin.  It really is a different mind-set, maybe for better, maybe for worse, but that sense of order remains in my memory as a significant characteristic of a wonderful trip to a remarkable city.
   

A Writers Group: Helpers in Intelligent Design

    Writers groups have abounded for generations ever since wordsmiths have gotten assistance and inspiration from fellow writers.  A couple of notable groups have familiar names attached to them: The Algonquin Round Table of the 1920s in New York listed Dorothy Parker, Sherwood Anderson, George Kaufman, Robert Benchley, et al, among its members. (They called themselves The Vicious Circle, probably a fairly apt nickname considering their collective sharp wits.)  Another notable group of the 1930s and ‘40s, based at Oxford University, was The Inklings, where such eminent writers as J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis shared their memorable works.
    But alongside, if you will, these prominent groups have been countless other obscure gatherings of scribblers, some published, and some not–and may never be.  Yet the association of these writers is meaningful, even pleasurable to those who attend.  I belong to a group that has met every Friday afternoon (when possible) for thirty-five years at Volunteer State Community College in Gallatin, Tennessee, just outside of Nashville.  This group has a membership that changes periodically, though it still retains a couple of original members (of which I am one), lending a sense of continuity. 
    For the most part, members have been faculty or staff of the college with an occasional person from the community or a recommended student.  The latter is currently represented by Paul Farmer, who is employed as a marketing analyst with HCA and is in the throes of writing an historical novel.  The others now meeting include the putative chair who instituted the group, Betty Palmer Nelson.  She has the distinction of publishing first with her five novels in the Honest Women Series.  She is presently working on a novel of intricate relationships set in 1970s Nashville that revolves around the music business.  Another novelist, Mickey Hall, is completing his third unpublished novel.  His wit and engaging dialogue have consistently delighted the other writers.  The Ingrams, Ray and Sarah, bring to the group diverse talents, Ray with his poems, stories, and novels centered in the back country of Middle Tennessee, his ancestral homeland where he and Sarah still live.  She writes poems for all occasions and extended fiction for the younger set.  But she’s not the only one who has an affinity for poetry.  Widely published in numerous literary journals, Cynthia Wyatt continues to impress her fellow writers (and other readers) with insightful, memorable poems.  Another poet and newer member, Betty Mandeville, writes of personal and universal feelings best expressed in poetic form.  Jaime Sanchez employs his foreign background as the setting for fascinating glimpses in elegant prose of a privileged family mostly through the lens of chaotic political change. Other writers will appear and then disappear over the course of a year, but those named are the regulars.
    The most interesting and significant contribution that writers groups make is the background diversity of its members.  I can recall former participants like the late Humanities chair, Don Goss, a weekend pilot happy to provide accurate information on weather phenomena.  Retired administrator Jim Hiett, who attended the group for several years, was a bird expert with a published bird book.  Also now retired, longtime member Dan Jewell was an English teacher, but his expertise concerning country music is evidenced in his published novel, Blood Country. 
    From the above, you might guess that a large aggregation of well-informed members have come and gone through the years.  However, another contingent has baffled the group by their unwillingness (or inability) to conform to a certain standard or whose actual writing was problematic.  I remember a charming man who after writing a history book, quite a logical project as a retired history teacher, decided to write a novel about his university days.  Too bad he’d never even read a novel.  Members tried tactfully to suggest improvements on his many mistakes in structure, dialogue, and characterizations until he became aware of his shortcomings and left the group without any rancor.  Then an erstwhile young writer joined us and announced that all novelists in the group were on the wrong track by including narrative in their prose, that dialogue only was the wave of future novels.  When we ignored his advice, he too didn’t last long.  The worst writer to attend and mercifully have a short tenure with the group was a fellow who was writing a sadistic, sexually exploitative novel.  I remember after one reading, I could only say, “Yuk,” which might have suggested he didn’t belong in our midst.  He left soon after.  Amusingly, we once were entertained by a hit and run writer, recommended by someone not in our group.  He came from a distance away, asked to read first, and in a non-stop drone read his entire story of twenty-five pages (we allow five to seven pages to be read aloud).  When he finished, apparently just wanting an audience, he nodded at us and left, never to be seen again.
    So the Vol State Writers Group goes on.  Its talented members have helped me produce ten novels, with another one in the works, as well as several dozen poems and short stories, published in various venues.  I can only hope that this group will continue for at least another thirty-five years, providing, if nothing else, a forum for intellectual diversion and an enjoyable interlude.

My Favorite Movies--and Why

I suppose the easiest as well as one of the most self-indulgent activities is making a list of a favorite something-or-other, and I am about to indulge myself by discussing my favorite movies.  Movies have been a long-time passion of mine, but I am rather picky, and so I’ve tried to describe not only what I like but also why I like particular movies.  Every good list has categories, and mine is no exception.  I’ve divided my favorite movies into four categories: drama, adventure, mystery, and romance.  You will note that comedies aren’t listed though some of my favorites certainly have humorous elements.  And you would find no westerns on my shelf except a sort-of western, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, and only a couple of war movies, including Schindler’s List. 

First on my list are the dramas, which strictly speaking could also be part of the other categories.  So movies like Bette Davis’s Now, Voyager and the last version of The Painted Veil with Edward Norton and Naomi Watts are also romances while Anatomy of a Murder and Rumpole of the Bailey or Harrison Ford’s Witness could be classified as mysteries.  Maybe I should dispense with categories and move on to the salient point that I discovered while contemplating my favorites: all of them reflect a way of life that is different from the common culture of today.  Few of the movies I love the most have been filmed within the last few years and even those are generally of another time, such as Downton Abbey, which is a great favorite of mine (see my April posting).

As I think about the pleasure I derive from the various movies in my collection such as I Remember Mama, which dramatizes my Norwegian heritage, and My Brilliant Career, set in Australia with a very young Judy Davis and Sam Neill, I know they please me, first, because I am not confronted with foul language or crude sexual encounters at the drop of a hat.  I’m disgusted with the former, and the latter is so prevalent on TV and contemporary movies it reminds me of the comment made by one of my favorite philosophers, C. S. Lewis.  He said about Hollywood that the movies managed to do what he thought was impossible: they made sex boring.  I have found that the movies concerned with sexual repression from the novels of E.M. Forster, A Passage to India, Howards End, and A Room with a View, treat the subject with delicacy and sensitivity while at the same time have a memorable impact.  (By the way, the music in Room is gorgeous.)  I also have three or four movies of Jane Austen’s novels of various quality but all quite enjoyable.

But I like action movies, too, and have watched Rob Roy, The Patriot, and Gladiator completely entranced, though I don’t own DVDs of them since they appear so regularly on TV.  They are interesting to my way of thinking because they show the measure of a man.  Just as exciting but a little more subdued are the English adventures I do own: The Four Feathers, Rogue Male, and Mountains of the Moon that also indicate character.  Jim Caviezel’s The Count of Monte Cristo is exciting and fun with a good script based on Dumas’s work and includes a charming romance.

Yearly, I take out my copy of Rebecca with Joan Fontaine and Lawrence Olivier and settle in to watch a superb 1940's mystery.  Another mystery of an earlier era I find intriguing:  Dial M for Murder, while the made for TV mysteries, Morse and Miss Marple, also make the grade.  And speaking of Joan Fontaine, she can’t be beat in Jane Eyre with Orson Welles.  My twenty-two-year old granddaughter also classes this version as the best even though it omits one section from the book by Charlotte Bronte. Another excellent historical movie is The Name of the Rose, where Sean Connery’s character solves a mystery at a gloomy monastery during the time of the Inquisition. 

Well, the list could go on and on, but I expect you get the idea.  Besides the qualities of restraint and subtlety that typify the movies I admire, my choices always reflect a literary quality–not in the high-flown sense but as words carefully chosen by talented writers.  If the scripts don’t come from actual books or plays, they are written by professional screen writers, not blurted out by the actors.  Who wishes to hear ad libs, the mindless mutterings from actors, when an experienced writer does the job so much better?  Most of the cast from Downton Abbey have praised the series creator, Julian Fellowes, for his marvelous writing which has been a large part of its outstanding success.  And perhaps this last quality is the capper for me, since as a writer myself, I can appreciate not just the cinematic excellence of these movies, but the inherent literature that accompanies and informs them and takes us out of ourselves.  If movies are an imaginative escape, then I want it to be to a better or more interesting place.  They’re not heaven, but they can be a mighty nice temporary visit.

Christmas Icons: Their Legends and Lore

Many stories have turned up through the years about the origins of the symbols that signify Christmas to those of us who celebrate the season.  Several years ago, I wrote a short accompanying piece opposite the greeting for a series of Christmas cards, describing the various beloved and significant icons that appear at that time of year.  In my researches, I began to see a similarity in the stories explaining their rise to popularity and eventual prominence in our culture.  My presentation of those stories follows below.


A Tale of the Holly


Long treasured at Christmas for its burnished green leaves and bright red berries, the popular holly has not escaped the inevitable connection to pagan peoples.    Ancient folk revered these and other evergreens in celebrating the cycle of life.   The early Romans brought plants into their homes during the festive January Kalends to be offered as a sacrament, a blessing on the house.  This custom traveled to northern lands with the Romans where the favored plant was the beautiful, prolific holly. 
Although the Church frowned on what they saw as a lapse into pagan ceremonies, they soon realized the value of such practices if the holly could be accorded Christian significance.  Thus the holly became known familiarly as "Christ-thorn" in order to represent the high and holy things of Christ's Passion:  the cruel spikes His Crown of Thorns, the red berries His Blood, the white flowers His Purity, the bitter bark His Sorrow.  For whatever reasons, sacred or secular, the holly has remained through the years a favorite holiday greenery.

A Tale of the Mistletoe


Under a sprig of mistletoe, according to legend, comes a blessing of peace between enemies and love between friends.  The little parasitic plant, found in America on maple, osage orange, and black gum trees, is considered an emblem of affection at Christmastime, but its legend has roots in paganism.  The Druids revered it as the "golden herb," which symbolized strength and purity.  In mythology, the Norse goddess of love, Freyja, gave to the plant the property of peace-maker.  How natural that in the middle ages the mistletoe, called "all heal" or "guidhel," continued to be plucked from its European host tree, the oak, and brought inside during the season that celebrates "good will toward men."  Mistletoe even appeared in the churches of medieval times where it was a symbol of pardon for sinners.  Only in more recent years has the charming plant been relegated to a more secular use.  Each Christmas the white-berried mistletoe is found atop door sills where those who pause may receive a kiss of friendship and peace.


A Tale of Santa Claus


The Santa Claus so beloved of American children came by his unique appearance and name from significant changes through the centuries.  Originally known in legend as St. Nicholas, a kindly, fourth-century bishop, he was transformed after the Reformation in Germany to Kris Kringle, from Kristkindlein, the little Christ Child.  Sixteenth century Dutch immigrants are credited with introducing the concept of Santa Claus to the New World; it took, however, a celebrated poem of the last century, "A Visit From St. Nicholas" by Clement Moore, to firmly establish the old gentleman as we know him today.  "Santa Claus" is merely a corruption of St. Nicholas's name, but the pale-faced, lean ascetic in ecclesiastical robes has given way to a jollier figure with red suit and matching cheeks. Despite the superficial changes, the benevolent spirit of Santa Claus has persisted.   He is the imaginative incarnation of generous giving in imitation of the greatest Giver of all:  "For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son."


A Tale of the Christmas Stocking

For generations, children throughout Christendom have hung up stockings on Christmas Eve with only thoughts of Santa's bounty.  Few have questioned the practice of using stockings rather than other receptacles such as baskets or bowls.  In fact, stockings hung by the chimney may seem to be a happy tradition whose origin is lost in the mists of time.  But legend has it otherwise in a story about the forerunner of Santa Claus, the famed St. Nicholas, the fourth-century bishop, whose generosity was unmatched.  Among his parishioners was a poor man with three daughters about to be sold into slavery because he had no dowry for them.  The good bishop saved the daughters with bags of gold, tossed down the chimney into their stockings left there to dry.  The traditional gift of an orange or tangerine in the toe of the Christmas stocking is a reminder of St. Nicholas's golden gift.


A Tale of the Christmas Tree

The Christmas tree is one of the more beloved traditions of the holiday season, despite some attempts to link it to paganism and ban its use.  If it is true that primitive peoples worshiped the tree as sacred, it is equally true that our familiar Christmas tree was inspired solely by Christian thought and sentiment.  A wonderful legend told by Georg Jacob, an Arabian geographer of the tenth century, soon spread throughout Europe:  On the night Christ was born, all the trees in the forests, heedless of the weather, bloomed and bore fruit.  So taken were people with this story that it even appears in one of the Coventry Mysteries, The Birth of Christ, and in German folk tales.  It was in Germany that the transition was made from natural blooms to artificial decorations.  The Christmas tree was noted to be in homes there as early as 1604, and despite periodic puritanical grumbling, it remains today as the crowning glory of Christmastide customs throughout the world.


A Tale of Christmas Lights

The brilliant star that announced the Christ Child's birth hung in the heavens amid a field of stars that first Christmas night.  Since that time, lights have illuminated our celebration of that sacred event.  The story is told of the German reformer Martin Luther who being overwhelmed by the wonder and beauty of the starlit sky one Christmas Eve wished to transmit his sense of awe to his children.  He brought in a small fir tree and adorned it with candles in gratitude to Him who "for us and our salvation came down from heaven."  Symbolically, lights represent to Christians not only the starry heavens that night in Bethlehem, but also they represent Jesus Christ as the Light of the World.  Almost unimaginable is a Christmas without lights.  From simple candlelight to dazzling outdoor displays, the lights of this season spread their shining message of peace and love to all who would see them.