Month: December 2020

Starting with January 1, I celebrate each holiday and birthday with a special joy. I have trunks and closets and drawers and an attic filled with decorations for the special times. I festoon my house with hearts and flowers and boxes of chocolate in February and become absolutely giddy when I see the signs of spring and Easter. Memorial Day was once a happy sign that the labors of studying in school were over and the joys of summer freedom were ahead for three long months, but the death of my father on that day made it the one holiday that I dread each year. The Fourth of July is always been all about barbecue and fireworks and happy summer vacations or gatherings. Labor Day reminds me that lots of work in school lies ahead for teachers and students alike but fall is on its way, my favorite time of year. Then autumn bursts forth in all its glory to color the land with my favorite hues of red, yellow and orange. I fill my home with pumpkins, acorns, chrysanthemums and spicy candles. In rapid succession I delight to Halloween, my birthday, and Thanksgiving. Then comes my very favorite holiday of all, Christmas. 

When it comes to Christmas the kid in me shows up full force. I have traditions piled on traditions that I follow religiously starting with the day after Thanksgiving or maybe with the sighting of Santa Claus in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Over the years I’ve added four Christmas trees to hold the ornaments that I have cherished that came from friends, Hallmark, Swarovski, Lenox and vacations. I never pass by a Christmas store without going inside. I have Santas from the many lands in our family ancestry. I collect Nativity sets like some people search for special stamps. I set out my gnomes, and gingerbread men and light up the outside of my house to the point of pushing the limits of my circuit breakers. I watch Christmas movies non-stop even though I know the lines in them by heart. I send out hundreds of holiday cards by snail mail.

I suppose that I enjoy Christmas more than any other time of year not so much because of the trappings but mostly because it has always represented hope and joy and all that is truly important in our lives. We seem to set aside our differences in this holy time that for me is a remembrance of the birth of a child who would change the way we all view the world. His constant message of unconditional love has lived through the ages and following his example has helped us to overcome our human challenges over and over again. 

For me Christmas is about family and friends and feeling like a member of a human race that is bigger than its individual parts and nations. It is a quiet if unspoken time of unity sometimes even in times of war. Somehow we do not feel all that different from one another at Christmastime. For me Christmas is steeped in religion but I love that it is inclusive enough to allow even those of other faiths and no faiths at all to feel the love that is its essence. Somehow I believe that Christ himself would find joy in the celebrations whether they be Christian or Catholic or Jewish or Muslim or of any other beliefs, or non beliefs. Its spirit of giving encapsulates the best in us as people. 

We’ve gone a bit crazy with our Black Fridays and shopping sprees that sometimes overshadow the true meaning of this holiday. We fight over whether we should keep Christ in Christmas or just accept greetings of Happy Holidays. We forget how lovely it is that we can celebrate our oneness as people all the world over regardless of how our philosophies differ. We disregard the stories of Jesus demonstrating that sometimes strict adherence to religious laws created by people can be outmoded and unkind. He taught us that it is more important to save someone on the Sabbath than to let them die because a ridiculous rule tells us that we cannot work on a particular day of the week. We forget that Jesus bucked the religious system of his time and died like a criminal for that very reason. I think he delights in seeing us simply love rather than judge. 

I remember a Christmas when I was eight years old and we were thousands of miles away from the place I called home. We had moved from Houston to San Jose only weeks before and had yet to make friends or find a niche in which we felt comfortable. There were no computers to schedule Zoom meetings back then nor did we have cell phones that would connect us through texts or Facetime. We were all alone, knowing that our big extended family and friends would be gathering together just as they had always done. I still feel the misery that filled my heart as I longed to celebrate Christmas, not as a time for Santa to come but as the joyful moment to connect with people I loved. I suppose it was when I understood more than ever what Christmas was all about. Never again would it be just a time for gifts or decorations. 

This Christmas may be quite different. I already know that I will not be gathering with my ever growing extended family on Christmas Eve just as I have done for my entire life save for that Christmas in San Jose and couple of times when I was sick. My annual Christmas Day bash will be greatly scaled back much as my Thanksgiving Day was this year. Covid-19 has forced us all to rethink our plans and find ways of feeling joy without all of the traditions or even the hugs. I know that it will be okay and I will enjoy it as much as I ever have regardless of how different it may be. I can wait just as people waited for the birth of that little boy in the long ago. I know what it is really all about and that alone will bring me the greatest of joy that will follow me all the year long. 

As we travel through life there always seem to be people who help us to become better versions of ourselves. Sometimes it is their job to mentor us and sometimes they simply impact us by example. Few of us become who we were meant to be without other people leaving a positive mark on our souls. We are constantly learning from others in ways both big and small.

I was recently asked if I’d ever had a mentor and as I considered the query I realized that there had been many individuals who had changed my life for the better because of the interest that they took in my welfare. I don’t know if all of them purposely set out to help me but somehow they did. 

Back in the long ago we had a neighbor named Pat Wright who had the artistic flair of an Auntie Mame. She was a free spirit who turned even the furnishing of her home into a work of art. She often invited me to spend time with her learning how to draw and create images of the world around me. I was so young at the time that I recall few details of those events other than the feeling that I adored everything about Mrs. Wright and the environment she had created for herself. She always made me feel important and appreciated and she encouraged me by nurturing my creative talents. 

We moved away from the neighborhood where Pat Wright lived when I was only six years old and I never had an opportunity to see her again. Somehow her influence on me was so great that in all the years that followed I never forgot her. Such is the importance of small gestures of kindness.

Many years later when I was in college at the University of Houston I was slated to take a required class from Dr. Howard Jones. Reviews of his course were varied with many speaking of his zaniness and others suggesting that he was far too tough. I was a bit worried but dove into the inevitable. By the end of the first class I knew that I had found a kindred spirit in Dr. Jones who had asked us to call him Howie. He indeed had high exceptions for all of his students but that was because he understood the difficulty of the careers in education that lie ahead of us. I clung to his every word and when it came time to graduate he offered to help me find a teaching position in a year in which there was such a glut of jobs that few schools were hiring. 

I only saw Dr. Jones once after I threw myself into teaching. I was in the process of applying for graduate school when I encountered him in the parking lot of the university. He looked old and a bit feeble. His energy appeared to have dimmed but I knew him right away and so I introduced myself since I had changed even more than he had. His eyes brightened with recognition and he told me that he had kept the note of gratitude that I had written to him inside one of the drawers of his desk. He admitted that he had read and re-read it many times whenever he felt a bit discouraged and worried that he was not adequately helping his students. It made me feel quite good to know that I had somehow returned the favor of touching his heart the way he had burrowed into mine.

There would be other remarkable individuals who took the time to guide me in my journey as an adult and a teacher. Joyce Eversole spent countless hours patiently showing me how to understand and inspire the children who came to my classroom. Lucas Vegas invested time and funding in my continued development as an educator, encouraging me to expand my repertoire of best practices. David Kendler saw my leadership abilities and went an extra mile in using them by creating a special role for me as a facilitator and mentor of other teachers. Ken Estrella allowed me to share my humble expertise with my peers as the Dean of Faculty. One by one these remarkable people took the time to help me to become more than I had ever thought of myself as being. 

I would be remiss if I did not mention one more very special person who literally changed my world. When I was taking courses for my advanced degree I encountered Dr. Roger Durand in yet another required course called Public Administration. He was as fascinating to me as Pat Wright had been all those years before. He came to class elegantly dressed and he explained the politics of the public sector and for that matter everything in the world in ways both amusing and insightful. I felt as though his class provided me with an insider’s view of reality. I literally learned more from him than virtually anyone I had ever before met. 

Dr. Durand taught other classes that were not required for my degree but I enjoyed his knowledge so much that I signed up for every course that he taught. I became a familiar face to him, so much so that he recognized my section of writing on a group project that clumsily cobbled together the work of six people into a single rather wretched paper. I was the only one who received an A for the effort because he had discerned that I had also been the poor soul who had tried to make some sense of the messy contributions handed to me just before the paper was due. 

When I was about to finish all of the requirements for my Masters degree I received a notice indicating that I was short by three hours of coursework. I did the math and knew that this was incorrect. Sadly no amount of proof satisfied the clerk who stood in my way of graduation. When my exasperation grew to desperation the young lady told me that the only avenue left for me other than taking another course in the fall would be to find a professor willing to sponsor me in an independent study. I immediately thought of Dr Durand but I would have to work quickly because the university was about to shut down for an extended summer break so I sent Dr. Durand an email in a time which such communications were still mainly the quirky domain of universities. I described my dilemma and mentioned that I would be on campus taking a final exam the following day. I somewhat sarcastically suggested that if Dr. Durand agreed to help me I would be certain that there is a God. 

The next evening I was just finishing my test when I heard a booming voice float over the classroom like a miracle. “Sharron Burnett,” it said “God is here.” I looked up to see Dr. Durand smiling mischievously at me in the doorway. He pointed in the direction of his office and I understood that he was going to help. Indeed he had already filled out the paperwork to make the independent study possible and he walked me to the office where we all sealed the deal. A few weeks later I received a grade of A+ for the paper even though I had not yet sent it to him. I finished the project anyway and thanked him profusely for taking such an interest in my future. 

There are angels out there who pass our way and even change the trajectory of our lives. They are people who see what is special about us even when we may not see those things ourselves. They go an extra mile in helping us, saving and guiding us to places of which we have never dreamed. Sometimes they even seem like the earthly incarnation of God.

I have so many lovely Christmas decorations that I sometimes find it difficult to find a place for all of them. Some years I leave a few behind in the attic and then rotate them into the holiday lineup at another time. Interestingly my most cherished pieces are rarely noticed as they sit beside much more elegant creations. Nonetheless they make my heart sing each time I give them an honored place in my home. 

The first two are homemade ornaments for my Christmas tree. One was a little gift from my dear friend Linda back in the days when our children were babies and toddlers and neither of us had much money. We were young mothers in our twenties having contests to see how long we might survive the Houston heat without air conditioning to save on our electricity bills. Linda was the more steadfast and creative saver of the two of us and so one day she made a cute little ornament from an old holiday card and a photo of her two boys. She carefully trimmed the image of a wreath and let it encircle a picture of her smiling sons. I’ve proudly placed it on my tree every single year since then and my own daughters always look for it when they visit on Christmas Day. 

The other ornament is also made by hand and was inspired by the one from Linda. My youngest child, Catherine, took a snapshot of our faithful and beloved Golden Retriever, Red, and framed it with a garland from a Christmas card. Red was a remarkable pet and we loved her as much as she loved us. After she crossed the Rainbow bridge that little paper ornament became more precious than ever and I have to admit that I am never able to hang it on one of the branches without getting a catch in my throat and a few tears in my eyes. 

On the first Christmas of my married life my holiday decorating was rather threadbare. Mike and I were both in our early twenties and still studying at the University of Houston. We managed to get by on savings from the work he did in the summer and a little job as a teachers’ aide that I had gratefully landed. We had to adhere to a strict budget to make it from month to month so luxuries like Christmas trees and ornaments were not part of our spending habits. Luckily I have a birthday in November and that year Mike’s parents gave me twenty five dollars that I set aside for Christmas celebrating. I used it to purchase a tiny live tree, a stand for holding the tree upright and two boxes of glass ornament and a string of lights the rest I kept in my savings jar for gifts. I wrapped a sheet around the base of the tree and my Charlie Brown creation looked lovely in our tiny living room. 

One day when I was shopping for groceries at a big box store I spied a creche for five dollars that I thought would look perfect at the base of our tree. It was about ten inches wide and six inches tall and held tiny figures of Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus and some angels and wise men. I just knew I had to have it but purchasing it would mean sweating bullets until the next pay check arrived so I grudgingly left it behind. The following week at my job I learned that all employees of the school district where I worked would receive two paychecks in Decembers to ensure that everyone had a jolly holiday. I knew then that a miracle had happened and I would be able to purchase the nativity scene. I rushed to the store after work praying that there would still be one available and to my delight there was. 

Now that little manger scene is always the finishing touch as I place it underneath my tall tree that is dripping with collectible ornaments. I doubt that anyone else even notices it amongst the gorgeous things that I have purchased over the last fifty two years but to me it is the most important and meaningful decoration for the holiday. It has held up quite well given its age and it reminds me of the true meaning of the season with its simplicity. 

There is yet one more Christmas decoration that I cherish above all others and it comes from my childhood of long ago. I suppose that I was about ten years old when my mother and brothers and I were perusing the aisles of a five and dime store located in a strip mall near our home on Belmark Street in Houston, Texas. My father had died about two years earlier and we had somehow adjusted to being a different kind of family. Finances were always tight but my mother never spoke of it. She somehow appeared to be a magician when it came to money. She found a way to keep us comfortable and secure while also providing small luxuries like trips to drive in movies or an occasional ice cream cone on a Friday night. We knew not to ask for things because we did not want to burden our mother with our childish wants. We took whatever she was able to give and were satisfied.

On that day in December as we gazed at the wares in the little store that we loved to frequent we came upon the most beautiful nativity set that we had ever seen. The figures were about ten inches tall save for baby Jesus and so wonderfully crafted that they were like artistic renderings from Michelangelo. They all stood under a primitive looking wooden stall mesmerizing all of us with so much delight that we were hardly able to walk away from the lovely sight. 

We spoke of the manger scene all the way home and in a rare moment expressed our desire to have it for our home. Our mother reminded us that we had to be careful with our spending but admitted that even she had been taken by the creche. She sat silently for a few minutes and then with a twinkle in her eyes and a smile on her face she announced, “I think we can do it. What do you think? Should we go back and buy it?”

Of course we all concurred with glee and immediately piled back into the car with great joy. I have rarely in my life experienced such delight as I felt as the clerk in the store brought a big box from the back room and carefully wrapped and placed the figurines inside. Every Christmas from that time it was the show piece in our family home and when my mother died my brothers announced that I should have the few pieces that had survived the more than sixty years of Christmas splendor. 

The wooden structure rotted years ago so I found another to replace it. One of the wise men broke along the way so I now have only two. Baby Jesus is missing one of his arms but there is something touching in that. I place the figures in a lighted nook in my home each year and feel the same joy that filled my heart when I was ten years old. Not even the newer more elegant nativity set that graces my living room holds a candle to the memories and feelings of hope that I experienced on that Christmas of long ago. 

I suppose that each of my favorite holiday decorations mean more to me than anyone else. They represent love in its purest form and isn’t that what Christmas is really all about? 

I still remember the slumber parties that I attended when I was in junior high. A group of us girls would get together for an evening of pure silliness, usually for someone’s birthday. There were never more than half a dozen honored guests because we had to fit inside the small bedrooms of the era. Being invited was a great honor that required a willingness to conform to the traditions. 

There would always be lots of eating, chattering and giggling. In the early part of the evening if the weather cooperated we might pretend to be going for a walk only to find a house to wrap with the purloined toilet paper rolls we had hidden away in our overnight bags. When it became later we usually convened in the living room of the hostess’ home to dance to the latests hit tunes and catch up on the latests schoolyard gossip. There was always a great deal of loud talking and laughing at jokes that only we enjoyed prompting a bit of “shushing” from moms who no doubt were fighting headaches at that point and wondering why they had agreed to entertain a house full of giddy adolescent girls.

Eventually we made our way to the birthday girl’s bedroom where we changed into our jammies and made pallets on the floor with the pillows and blankets that we had brought for the occasion. It was all quite ceremonial including making a pledge not to fall asleep lest there be consequences for being a slumber party slacker. 

Someone would invariably keep the spirit of the occasion going by telling a scary story of young girls being attacked by grotesque marauders. By the time the tale was done at least one of the attendees would be crying and insisting that maybe she needed to call her mom and go home. Most of the time we were able to convince the frightened soul that she would be alright and that we wanted her to stay. Then we would whisper more details of horrors that we swore were true as our nervous friend attempted to appear calm with eyes that gave away her true state of being. 

I never allowed myself to be the first to fall asleep because doing so was never a good thing. Whichever girl lapsed into dreamland before the rest of us would find herself being sprinkled with water or smeared with toothpaste by the more aggressive members of the party. I was more frightened of being the butt of such torture than I was of the murderous tales that I knew were only the product of someone’s vivid imagination. The harassment for surrendering to sleep was real and I wanted no part of it. 

Once the unfortunate sleeper had received her comeuppance the girls would one by one drift off into dreamland until the only sound in the room was rhythmic breathing. We had by that time run of things to say and so we did our best to stay awake in the dark but it never worked. At some point each and everyone of us would fall into a deep slumber that was only broken by the voice of the mom who had prepared breakfast for us before the appointed time of our departure. 

There have only been a few times in my life when I have actually stayed awake all night long. Two of them came on days when someone was dying. Those were brutal experiences inside hospitals where I had lost track of time, unaware of whether it was day or night. My body was both numb and in a state of exaggerated energy at one and the same time. I would not have been able to sleep even if I had tried to do so. In fact I remember feeling as though I might never sleep again in those solemn. 

In 2019 I traveled to London. I had found what appeared to be a bargain basement price on airfare. I was saving so much money that I paid an extra fee to choose my own seat along the aisle so that I would be free to move about whenever I felt the need. It ended up being an horrific experience. 

The seats were so small and so close together that I felt as though I had been bubbled wrapped and packed into a crate. Ironically the passengers who had refused to pay extra for priority seating ended up on rows all to themselves so that they were unconfined like I was. Because my seat would barely recline there was no way of getting comfortable once the lights were dimmed for sleep time. Besides there was a constant flow of people brushing against my seat as they walked up and down the aisle.

The group behind me reminded me of one of those slumber parties of old as they chattered and giggled incessantly. To make matters worse the temperature in the cabin was so cold that I had to retrieve a jacket from my carry on and even then I was shivering. There was no way to get comfortable enough to surrender to sleep so I spent the entire night watching movies and wishing that I was one of the people stretched out over entire rows and snoring under blankets that they had been wise enough to bring. My predicament bordered on torture. 

When morning did finally come I felt as though I had been the victim of slumber party pranks. My joints ached and my head seemed to be filled with cotton. I worried that I would have to spend my first day in London recuperating in my hotel room but once I was freed from the cramped conditions of the plane my head cleared and the walking eased my soreness. I knew that I was going to be just fine and I was. 

I never was one for all nighters. I preferred to rest even as a child. I’ll leave driving all night to the truckers. I will rethink the way I travel on a plane whenever Covid-19 is tamed and we are allowed to travel again. Sleep is a good thing. Slumber is a true party for me. When the witching hour comes I am a party pooper. I say goodnight and go to sleep.

When I was quite young and television was still in shades of black and white and grey I remember being fascinated by a program called The Millionaire. The premise of the show was that a generous and enormously wealthy benefactor would select individuals to receive a check for one million dollars. We never saw the donor because the transactions took place through his executive secretary. The premise of the show was to demonstrate the ways in which humans react to becoming suddenly rich. That million dollars of the nineteen fifties would translate to about nine and one half million in today’s world which would certainly make a difference in somebody’s life.

I remember fantasizing even as a child about what I would do with a million dollars. Back then my ideas centered on fostering my own selfish interests but my thoughts on such a matter changed as I matured. Like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof I often considered what I might do if I were a wealthy woman. I even joked with God insisting that I would be a wonderful candidate for a sudden infusion of riches because I would still live a very simple life and be more inclined to share my money than many of the people who actually have it. 

Much of my focus would be on education. The return from helping promising young people to follow their passions and earn degrees is stunning. I think of my former students and the contributions they have made to society that may not have been possible had not someone first donated to to the programs in the schools where they first began their learning journeys. Then as they matriculated to the various levels of university life the kindness of strangers made it possible for them to become engineers, doctors, nurses, teachers, counselors, computer specialists, engineers, lawyers, business men and women. Perhaps there is no other investment that pays such huge dividends as helping a bright young student to become expert in some area of study without the worry of incurring huge debt in doing so. 

I have been following Bill and Melinda Gates’ efforts in furthering education for many years. On one occasion I had the privilege of actually addressing them when they came to visit the high school where I was the Dean of Students. They were both humble and dedicated individuals whose intention to raise the level of educational excellence in our nation’s schools is backed by huge financial investments and not just critique of a sometimes struggling system. 

I saw them once again when I attended the graduation of one of my students from Stanford University. They spoke on that occasion of their work in global public health. I was actually moved to tears by the stories that they related and the realization that they have consistently used their good fortune to fund worldwide programs designed to eradicate ignorance and disease. Now as we face the prospect of launching a massive vaccination program that may have the power of ending the scourge of the Covid-19 virus I realize that their foundation’s funding has created the kind of environment that made Operation Warp Speed possible. It tells me that these are the sort of things I would want to to if I also had a great deal of money to share.

I really don’t need much in the way of possessions. If I suddenly became a multi-millionaire from my writing (a pipe dream for sure) I would make a few repairs and enhancements on my home and buy a Tesla for my husband. I might invest in a small cabin in Colorado where I would spend my summers and maybe a little beach house in Galveston for watching sunsets over the ocean. I would travel while I am still able. Beyond that I would pay for all of my grandchildren to attend college for as long as they wish. From there I would find worthy causes in education and public health and make investments in revitalizing areas of the country where despair has left a trail of unemployment and addiction. 

Of course it is as unlikely today that I will suddenly find myself sitting on a small fortune as it was when I was a little girl. I am an ordinary soul with a middle middle class way of life. I live comfortably and count my blessings. I suppose that my contribution to the betterment of the world has been more intangible than financial. I have taught people “how to fish” so to speak rather than buying them a fishing pole.

We each have roles that we might play in spreading whatever wealth we may possess. The important thing to remember is that we have choices in how to distribute our riches to make the world better for more and more people. Each bit of generosity multiplies exponentially when we all make it a priority to choose to share. We don’t have to be millionaires to make a difference in someone’s life.