Month: December 2023

Christmas is a time when the music, the movies, the lights and the tinsel stir our memories. We find ourselves suddenly inside a corner of our minds that brings precious moments of long ago back to life. It feels as though we have suddenly and unexplainably been transported back to a time of unadulterated joy. 

I’ve certainly been enjoying the sudden flashbacks that have greeted me this season. I was watching A Charlie Brown Christmas when I thought of how my mother-in-law always called to remind me that the cartoon was going to be aired on television. I’d tune in and sit down to watch the show with my little girls and each year I would shed sentimental tears when Charlie Brown suddenly understood the meaning of Christmas. As I continue to faithfully watch the short feature film every year I find myself wanting to hear my phone ring. I think of how lovely it would be to hear my mother-in-law’s voice one more time. 

My husband, Mike, and I were on one of our date nights this week when we listened to Christmas music as we drove around looking at the seasonal lights that are all around town. Suddenly one of the many versions of The Little Drummer Boy was playing and I found my thoughts vividly returning to my childhood home. I was there with my mother and my two brothers under the lights of our Christmas tree. Mama was teaching us how to sing the song in four part harmony and it was beautiful. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir could not have done a better job.

We circled around Houston seeing some extravagant displays of light, but it was on a street with tiny homes much like my grandmother’s that I felt the spirit of Christmas filling my heart. They reminded me of Christmas Eve visits to Grandma’s home which was located in east Houston just off of Navigation Avenue. Her tiny house and those of her neighbors would be festooned with multi-colored lights that seemed to announce a welcome to the love and joy that waited for us inside. I knew that my grandmother’s gas space heater would be warming the rooms and that she would already have a big enamel pot of coffee ready to serve to us. 

I always think of the special people in my life who have left this earth. A drive through he downtown area took us past the San Jose Clinic and I immediately thought of our uncle, Dr. Efrain Garcia, who worked there helping the indigent of the city with their diseases of the heart. Losing him this year was sorrowful for all of the world. A great and generous man was lost not just to our family but to all of Houston. Somehow things just don’t feel right without him and his beautiful and generous wife, Rosemary, modeling the essence of how we all should live. We feel such an ache when someone we loved is gone for the first time we gather to celebrate the season.

My corner of the world seems to have come back to life this year after the difficult times when Covid kept us isolated from one another. The streets are more festive than ever. The stores and the restaurants and theaters and churches are filled with revellers celebrating the good fortune of seeing another Christmas with family and friends. Dormant yuletide traditions have come back alive in full force. Social media is filled with the happy faces of people once again feeling free to hug and embrace each other, but also to remember those whom we lost during that time for whatever reason. Our emotions are a mixture of joy and remembrance.  

My neighbors have decorated their yards with great care this year. Anyone entering our section of the neighborhood will be greeted with a spectacular show of lights and goodwill. We seem to be a kind of microcosm of what is best about the world. We come from many races, many nations, many backgrounds. What we share is a goodness of heart and a willingness to love each other without judgement. We’ve exchanged little gifts of baked goods and candy and candles. Mostly we have laughed and smiled together and watched to make sure that everyone is safe and comfortable this year. We’ve travelled together in both the good and bad times and our bonds are strong. I can’t imagine that there is a better place to live anywhere than right here on my own street.

There won’t be snow this year. There rarely is in our almost tropical climate. We’ll have some rain but it won’t dampen our spirits. Christmas has a way of reminding us of what is most important. The birth of Jesus brought the world hope and love. Our little traditions keep that spirit alive no matter what our beliefs might be. All is calm and bright on my street this year. My wish is that those in places of war and turmoil will soon find the kind of peace that I enjoy. Merry Christmas to all!

Christmas is a time when families and friends come together to celebrate traditions. There is an ebb and flow in those gatherings as cherished loved ones die and new life infuses our joy as well. There is an inevitability in life that things will change even as we so often strive to keep everything the same. Each of us has a limited time on this earth regardless of how well we live life. No amount of exercise or healthy habits will forestall our eventual demise. We literally live on borrowed time from the day that we are born. Christmas should remind us to embrace those we love with joy and appreciation every single day of every single year. 

There will be important people missing from the merrymaking this holiday season. Some enjoyed decades of time with us, while others were pulled from us all too soon. In spite of our realization that any of us might end our sojourn on this earth at any moment, we somehow don’t live as though every day and every encounter is important. 

We think about people and places and events that changed us for the better, but all too often never really express our gratitude for such things. We busy ourselves with the mundane rather than pausing long enough to tell the person next to us how much he or she means to us. We wait until a memorial service before finding the words to praise an individual who meant the world to us. 

I find myself talking in my head to my mother during this time of year. I was so focused on her mental illness that I rarely took the time to marvel at her wisdom, strength and loving nature. Of course I needed to protect her, take her to doctors, dispense her medications, but how much more wonderful it would have been if I had told her why I love her so. She needed to hear my admiration of her, not just my commands. 

I wrote about a great man who died this year, Dr. Efrain Garcia. He was a giant in my estimation and yet I realize that I never once told him how impactful his presence in my life had been for me. He inspired me to be a better person, to dedicate myself more to doing acts of kindness. I was so in awe of him that I never told him how wonderful I believed he was. 

Long ago I wrote a letter to a college professor who had changed my view of myself and my duties as an educator. I believed that he had set me on a life fulfilling course, so I sent him a thank you note and opened my heart to him. I never thought I would see him again but one day by happenstance I encountered him in a parking lot at the University of Houston. He was old and bent, walking with a cane. I did not recognize him at first, but he knew me. He called out my name and reminded me who he was. He then explained how important my letter to him had been. He had actually taped it to the bottom of a drawer in his desk. He said that he would open that drawer and reread my letter whenever he became discouraged. I cried and hugged him. Somehow both of us were connected and revitalized in that moment. 

We busy ourselves with the least important tasks of living and rarely get around to expressing our feelings to the people who have most impacted our lives. We know we should do those things. We know how wonderful it feels whenever we receive a random and unexpected pat on the back. It elevates our happiness and reminds us that perhaps we really are doing the right things at least now and again. 

I send out around a hundred Christmas cards each year. I always tell myself that I am going to begin signing and addressing them early enough to include a personal note, not about what I am doing, but about why I care about the person or family who will receive the card. Somehow I get rushed and just sign my name even as I think about each of the people as I address the cards. 

We all live on borrowed time and yet we too often live as though we have all of the time in the world to express our appreciation and love. We assume that people know how we feel when in reality they may never actually understand how they have impacted us. Then over and over again we lose someone and regret that we never gave them the gift of knowing their importance. 

Perhaps we need not wait for a special occasion to begin the process of spreading our good feelings. My mother had a routine in the later years of her life that exemplified her brilliance. She spent time each morning reading passages from her Bible, just a few lines here and there, enough to inspire her prayers and to focus her thoughts. Then she called her sisters just to see how they were doing. The conversations never lasted more than five minutes, but they were long enough to show that she was thinking of them. The best part of her day was spent in selecting one person to receive the gift of her love and admiration. She told people what they meant to her. She openly expressed her love of them. She touched a human heart each day. 

I celebrated my seventy fifth journey around the sun last month. This will be my seventy fifth celebration of Christmas. I resolve to stick with my plan to contact the people who have made my life so wonderful and tell them how important they have been in the making of the person I am today. This time I hope to make it the most important part of my routine just like my mother did. I’ve borrowed a great deal of time. Now I must get busy returning the love and inspiration that has brought me this far. 

When December of nineteen fifty-seven came I was a worried little girl. The death of my father earlier that year had changed so many different things. I worried that Christmas would not be the same. I feared that Santa might not know to come to our home. So many silly concerns invaded my childish brain, but then my mother began to follow our usual Christmas traditions one by one and everything seemed to be alright.

We lit our advent wreath and said prayers at night. We made dozens of cookies and stored them in tins in case any visitors might arrive at our home. On a cold wet Saturday we picked out a Christmas tree in a lot near where we lived. The next day we decorated it just as we always had. We went Christmas shopping for our grandparents and each other. We splurged for a nativity set that we showcased on a bookshelf. My mother sat at the dining table signing and addressing Christmas cards. Wrapped gifts began to appear under the tree and Mama played Christmas music on our Victrola. I began to relax. 

Soon people that we knew came to see us. We gave them the cookies we had made and little gifts that Mama had set aside for them. Cards came in big batches every single day. We went driving around to see the Christmas lights and went to mass on Christmas Eve. Then we met with my aunts and uncles and cousins at my grandmother’s home. On Christmas morning when my brothers and I awoke we rushed into the living room. There under the tree were gifts for each of us. Santa had come and all seemed right with the world. 

I suppose that I have continued to celebrate a very traditional Christmas throughout all of the rest of my life. I sometimes think that it has a psychological effect on me. Knowing that there is something that changes little over time has been quite soothing to my sometimes anxious tendencies. Because of that I try to keep the customs of my childhood going no matter what is happening. 

I begin by rewatching all of my favorite Christmas movies once Thanksgiving has come and gone. Later I play Christmas music for several hours each day. I get into the spirit and think of all the years past and the people who helped and inspired me to reach the place where I am today. I know that my life has been filled with the good fortune of being surrounded by wonderful people and my thoughts go to them as I prepare for all of the Christmas customs that I want to repeat as long as I am able.

Each year I sit down just as my mother did and address almost a hundred Christmas cards to friends and relatives. As time has gone by fewer and fewer people seem to be continuing this custom that was at one time so prevalent. With each passing year I get fewer and fewer cards in return for the ones that I have sent, but nonetheless I want people to know that I am thinking of them in the season. I feel the love that I have for them when I write down their names and addresses. In that moment I think of the times we have shared and hope that my little card tells them how much they mean to me. 

I usually make dozens and dozens of cookies, but this year I will be purchasing them since I have been commanded to stay off of my injured ankle for the duration of the month. Luckily I had already decorated my home when the accident occurred so the trees and the lights are twinkling just as they always fo. The nativity that my mother purchased so many years ago is standing proudly on a table. Some pieces are missing and Baby Jesus has lost an arm but it is still as beautiful as ever to me. 

I meet with the Revere ladies, Adriana, Angie and Romanita for lunch at our favorite Italian restaurant each year. We laugh and love and feel so happy to see each other. Later in the month I meet Judy, the last of the St. Frances Cabrini Church ladies, at Peppers Restaurant. We talk for hours and always plan to meet again in the summer but that has yet to happen. Maybe twenty twenty-four will finally be the year when we get together more than once. 

The most recent tradition has been a neighborhood breakfast held at Patrick and Michelle’s house across the street. Everyone comes dressed in pajamas and we feast on donuts, coffee and hot chocolate. We all bring donations for the Ronald McDonald House which Patrick delivers in our name. I have fun getting more and more creative with my pjs each year and then talking with my fabulous neighbors. 

I used to have a big sit down dinner on Christmas day. I took out my Christmas china and polished my silver then set the table with a freshly cleaned and ironed tablecloth. The presentation was quite beautiful but I won’t be doing that this year either. Instead I have purchased some lovely disposable dishes and I will have trays of finger foods from the grocery store rather than all of my tasty recipes. The heart of the tradition is in having my brothers and their families with me on Christmas Day. What we eat and how the table looks is secondary to being with them. 

The highlight will be Christmas Eve when we gather at my niece’s home and feast on Reuben sandwiches. Afterwards we exchange gifts and have a money drawing like we used to do at my grandmother’s home when we were children. It is always a love fest that feels like what Christmas should be all about. 

I hope I never have to give up my traditions. I might have to hand off some of the things I do to the younger members of my family, but it means so much to me to celebrate the birth of Jesus with the people who are so important to me. Somehow the love that was born in the stable at Christmas time rises to a peak on December 25. The magic always comes. 

I never knew my maternal grandfather who died from a cerebral hemorrhage before I was born. I have had to fill in the blanks in my knowledge of him from the few comments that my mother and her siblings made about him. Only two of my many cousins were old enough to have had a relationship with him and of the two only one was willing to describe him for me. He spoke of Friday afternoon visits with Grandpa Ulrich at a time when he was just a young boy. He remembered talking with our grandfather about his large collection of books. In fact, he described Grandpa coming home from work each Friday with a mesh bag that contained a loaf of rye bread from the local Weingarten’s grocery store and a new book that was his weekly splurge. 

My cousin explained that our grandfather was collecting all sorts of books but that his main interest was in agriculture because he was planning to move to a farm once he retired. I would later learn that my grandfather had already purchased some land in a small town just to the south of Houston, Texas. There he hoped to spend his golden years raising crops and animals and reading his books. My cousin related that our grandfather was a very bright man who had been studying multiple topics for years. He enjoyed sharing what he had learned with his eager young grandson. 

My mother spoke of her father with a kind of reverence but also a bit of hesitation. She loved him and questioned him at one and the same time. She was never as emotionally close to him as she was with her mother. Her memories are of a hardworking and proud man who never missed a single day of work. She described how he would leave their house each morning wearing a suit which he would replace with a uniform at the Houston Meat Packing Company where he labored all day in the butchering area. The work was unforgivingly back breaking and as he grew older his legs would ache so much that he wrapped them in ace bandages for relief. He endured the pain nonetheless because his job allowed him to bring home scraps of meat that kept the family fed during the worst of the Great Depression. 

My grandfather was an immigrant who came to the United States from the Slovakian area of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He arrived at the Port of Galveston in 1912, barely escaping World War I. He worked on a local farm and lived in a rented room near the present day stadium for the Houston Astros. He was a frugal man who secured passage for my grandmother a year later. Together they combined forces to save for land of their own and then to build a tiny house that grandpa would pay a contractor to construct one room at a time, paying cash all the way. When the home was completed my grandfather was the owner of his tiny castle which never ceased to make him proud. He would often remind his children that few people in the world ever rose to the level of being masters of their own fates.

He and my grandmother grew vegetables in the backyard. He purchased a cow and brokered with someone to allow the cow to graze in a pasture within walking distance of his home. My mother would often speak of taking the cow back and forth from her home to the field in the shadow of downtown Houston. It was an onerous task for her, especially as she became older. Her father would remind her that owning a cow was a grand thing and that she should walk with her head held high. That was often the essence of her description of her father, an industrious man who provided well for his family, but also made his own way, unwilling to accept favors or admit that the family of ten souls was ever struggling during the most difficult times. 

A rift opened between my mother and her father when he and two of her siblings testified before a judge that my grandmother was mentally ill and needed to be hospitalized. My mother was only about five years old at the time and she saw this action as a punishment for my grandmother. Her older siblings would explain that the stress of birthing ten children, watching two of them die in infancy, and caring for such a large brood had broken her and left her quite ill. Nonetheless my mother would maintain for all of her life that nothing had been wrong with my grandmother and that her father’s actions had been hateful. 

I suppose that none of us will ever really know what went on in the tiny house that we would visit with our parents. By the time we came along and developed memories of any kind our grandfather had been long dead and our grandmother spoke no English so it was impossible for us to garner any information from her. The rest of my mother’s siblings said little about their father. Only the books remained gathering dust in the bookcases that lined the walls of the dining room. They spoke volumes to me. They were witnesses to my grandfather’s intelligence and curiosity. They spoke of his dreams.

Now and again my mother would proudly describe how much her father loved the United States of America. He was grateful for the opportunities here and would encourage her and her siblings to take full advantage of education and freedom. He became a citizen of the United States only a few years after he had stepped from the steamer that brought him to Galveston. He faithfully read the newspaper and listened to President Roosevelt’s fireside chats, He followed the events unfolding in Europe. 

My mother said that there were only two times that she remembered seeing her father cry. One was when Germany invaded Czechoslovakia. The other was after World War II when the Russians made Czechoslovakia part of the Soviet Union, placing an iron curtain on the freedoms of the people there. His brain hemorrhage occurred shortly thereafter and my mother always seemed to believe that seeing the place of his birth being dominated once again had been too painful for him. 

I have found myself watching the fate of Slovakia and thinking of my grandfather. I wish that life had been kinder to him, but I also know that he thought of himself as being a lucky man. He was determined to make the best of his life and he was able to do it here in the United States. Today as his homeland leans far to the right I wonder if he would disapprove of their desire to become more insular. Would he see history repeating itself? Would he worry that Slovakia will cave if Russia continues a drive to restore the former Soviet Union, to dominate Slovakia once again? I simply don’t know, but I care about the tiny country and its people because I suspect that individuals who share my DNA and his are living there. I am happy that my grandfather came to America and provided his children with freedom and opportunity. I understand from his story how important it is to safeguard those privileges well. I watch the pulse of the world carefully and hope that I don’t have to cry in his name for any country or people who lose their basic human rights. Sadly, I am worried because so many of the signs do not bode well. I will be vigilant and hope for the best.      

I like to take those silly quizzes that crop up on social media from time to time. Recently I completed one in which I had to name sixty comedians. I got a fairly good score of fifty three correct out of sixty. A few were unfamiliar to me, but I silently cackled as I saw the monikers of the fifty three that I knew so well. I suppose that I cut my teeth on comedians when my father was still alive. Some men back in the day loved the cowboy shows on television. Others were enthralled with the detective and police stories. My father invariably chose comedy over any other type of program. To this day I can still call up an image of him laughing with glee over the jokes and pratfalls of his favorite funny men. 

I suppose that I naturally followed in his footsteps even after he died. Just as I became an avid reader under his influence, so too did I love to laugh at the many funny characters who plied their trade in humor. I still enjoy a good comedy more than anything else, but there don’t seem to be as many of them as there once were when I was younger. There was a time when there would be several opportunities to laugh on any given night as funny sitcoms were a staple on television. Somehow it feels more difficult to find such programs than it once was. 

It would be impossible for me to list all of the performers and shows and movies that made me jolly to the point of happy tears. Laughter has been so much a part of my life that hardly a day has passed when I did not enjoy a good joke. Some of my favorite students were the class clowns who briefly interrupted my serious presentations of mathematical concepts with a bit of levity. The truly gifted humorists seem to know exactly when the time was right to break the tension of mastering quadratic equations. 

My father learned jokes and was masterful in telling them, but my brother, Pat. one upped our dad by having a natural born ability to actually create humor on the spot. I often think of how much our father would have enjoyed the frivolity that Pat brings to family gatherings with his wit. Now it seems that his young grandson, Lex, has developed the same talents. With him I think that laughter will continue down the family line for years to come. 

I am nothing more than a die hard appreciator of humor. I’m one of those people who can mangle a good joke like it had been mauled. I get lost in the telling and deliver the punchline all wrong almost every single time. I gave up long ago attempting to entertain with my jocularity. I can tell a touching story and even write about something that is quite hilarious, but I have zero skill in the oral presentation of humor. 

My brother is so skilled that he has saved me a few times by jumping into my failing efforts as though we had preplanned a skit in which I would be the air head and he the sophisticated humorist. I never minded his interruptions with witty thoughts that saved me from laying an egg. I willingly fell into the role of the dim-witted sidekick to save face. Eventually I just stopped trying to be a comedic entertainer and simply enjoy the work of the real artists of humor. 

Thursday nights were my favorite in a time long ago. That’s when I would settle down in front of the television with my papers to grade while I watched Seinfeld followed by Friends. I laughed so hard, particularly with Seinfeld, that I felt all the tensions of being a teacher just melt away. It became a weekly ritual that was as effective in getting me to relax as a slew of therapy sessions might have been. On those nights I fully understood why humor is so important in our human journey. Laughing is as important to our good health as crying. Those who give us this gift are the Shakespeares of mirth.

Sometimes as William Wordsworth said, “the world is too much with us.” Right now so much is happening across the globe and in our own backyards that we feel weary and maybe even a bit hopeless from time to time. We would all do well to pause now and again for a good laugh. It is not disrespectful to insect humor into the dreary days of our lives. In fact, it can be refreshing as long as the digs are not mean spirited and intended to hurt someone. 

Some of my favorite people have made me laugh in difficult times. There was always a fellow teacher who helped us to relax with well chosen humor when tensions were high during the school year. I have known people who brought smiles to everyone’s faces even at funerals with a funny story about the deceased. Somehow their joyful tales cut through the grief and remind us of the really good times that we enjoyed with the departed. We were able to smile as the memories became a blessing. 

We certainly have serious issues to tackle, but a bit of laughter will not interfere with our ability to develop solutions. In fact laughing together may be the first important step in working together. Like infants who smile and chuckle so naturally, we are all made to be joyful and to turn our lips into an upward curve. Go out and find something funny today. Inject a bit of laughter into your day. It is good medicine that costs nothing and brings us healing moments that we all need.