Category: Commentary

Most of us will begin decorating, shopping and planning for Christmas in the coming days if we have not already done so. I’ve begun many of my preparations by visiting the stories while there is still lots of inventory from which to choose. I’ve noticed that the Grinch is particularly popular this year. He’s always been part of our yuletide celebrating because somehow my family has great fondness for him.

It began when my husband and I were children and we watched the Dr. Seuss cartoon on television with Boris Karloff narrating the tale. As children we learned how to sing “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch.” The words of that song were pure genius and we laugh at them to this very day. In honor of those beloved memories my husband wears a really ugly Grinch t-shirt every Christmas day and we scatter Grinch memorabilia around the house with our other decorations. 

While we laugh at the Grinch we often obscure the profound meaning of his story with our focus on his Scrooge-like ways. In truth he was a tortured soul, isolated from the rest of society by prejudice and misunderstanding. He was a foundling initially loved by two women who saw his goodness in spite of how different he was. At school, however, he was bullied and often shunned. His attempts to be part of the group went unanswered, angry and frustrated he moved as far away from the town and its people as possible. His only companion was his faithful dog. There his feelings of hurt and anger grew and grew until one Christmas he focused on seeking revenge by stealing the trappings of Christmas that seemed to be so all important to the townspeople.

Of course we all know the story of the Grinch stealing presents and stockings and even the roast beast for the Christmas feast. He was about to push the sleigh loaded with all of the holiday cheer over a precipice when he heard the people of the village below singing happily even without their worldly goods. It was then that he realized that sweet little Cindy Lou was atop the sleigh and in danger of falling onto the rocks below. His heart swelled and he saved her and all of the presents just in the knick of time. He became a changed man. 

We rarely pay enough attention to the Grinch’s reconciliation with himself and the people of the town. He found the goodness that had always been in his heart and that goodness overcame his anger from being shunned by many of the people in the village. At the same time, Cindy Lou taught everyone the meaning of unconditional love. It is a true Christmas story as earnest as It’s A Wonderful Life. 

In truth we have many Grinches living among us who have become that way because they were deemed to be different or unsavory or unworthy by the societies in which they live. Being treated with disdain over and over again tears down the soul. Over time it sometime leads to seething anger and maybe even crime. Being an outcast is difficult and rarely leads to good outcomes. Peace only comes from everyone setting aside their preconceived notions about each other and demonstrating kindness and understanding.

The Christmas story is all about love. A baby was born in a manger and that baby would grow up to be Jesus. His message remained the same throughout his very short lifetime on this earth. He embraced outcasts, cured the sick, bent rules to perform miracles. He loved children and women and even prodigal sons. He told us to love each other the same way we love ourselves. He would have loved the Grinch and would have urged us to do so as well. 

The Christmas story is about forgiveness. We know that eventually Jesus would die on a cross like a common criminal. He would remind us as he was dying that he was willing to forgive those who tortured him. We too have to power to renew our determination to be our better selves. All we need do is sincerely have contrition for our sins. We in turn must be willing to forgive others.

The Christmas story is told in so many different ways but its message is universal. Our task is to be good to one another, even the least among us that we sometimes do not understand. The story of the Grinch is a parable. With humor and rhyme and song it reminds us that during the holiday season there is nothing more important than embracing our fellow humans no matter how they look, or speak or believe. 

Love was born at Christmas time. Spread good cheer wherever you go. Welcome all. Watch your heart grow. Be the Grinch!

My mother was a wonderful cook and she did her best to create healthy and delicious meals that included a variety of recipes, but with her rather meager food budget our favorites tended to come back around with great regularity. She wasn’t as tied to repetitive meals as some of my other relatives. I have one cousin who swears that on Sunday his family had roast, on Monday it was stew, on Tuesday hotdogs, on Wednesday fried chicken, on Thursday soup, on Friday fish and on Saturday hamburgers without fail. He didn’t seem to mind the routine at all. In fact, he notes that he always knew what meal was ahead and he enjoyed the dishes that his mom chose to present on the table. 

For many years Sunday meant having dinner with my grandparents and there was no telling what my grandmother might have in store for us, but the meal would always be fabulous. It really was the best day of the week, not just for the food but for hearing the stories of long ago time from both of my grandparents. Grandma might have chicken or ham or roast or pork chops but her most delectable delights were her vegetables. She’d cook creamed corn, okra, potatoes, green beans, peas, squash, tomatoes, broccoli. The table would be lined with her dishes that somehow seemed to come from a five star restaurant. Everything was made fresh. Nothing ever came from a can. Much of what we ate grew in her backyard. She’d pair biscuits and corn bread with freshly churned butter and jam that she made from berries. Our favorite was dessert that might be strawberry shortcake filled with freshly whipped cream or one of her famous pies with crust so light that it flaked on the fork. 

On Mondays there was no telling what our mother would create. She often made the meal a bit lighter since we had eaten so much on Sunday. This was a day for her soups and stews and hash or maybe a big bowl of beans with a side of cornbread.

By Tuesday she was ready to venture into a lovely meal with chicken made a number of different and delightful ways. She was masterful at taking a canned vegetable and turning it into a gourmet wonder. There were rarely leftovers from one of her meals unless she decided that it was time for beef liver and onions.

Wednesdays might be anything from pizza to her famous secret special hotdog recipe which is still a carefully guarded family favorite. She also had a way of making beanie weenies seem like food fit for a king. Her chili was scrumptious just like everything that she made.

On Thursdays she often went all out because she knew that our meatless Catholic Fridays were coming. She created heaven with a round steak or a pot roast. She liked to make interesting salads long before most people thought of such things. I loved her coleslaw or carrot salad. Her vegetables were almost as good as Grandma’s but her mashed potatoes were prizewinning. 

Fridays might have been a bust because of our prohibition of meat, but my mother’s tuna salad has never been recreated by anyone. It was so good that we actually looked forward to it. She also created homemade pimento cheese that was legendary even among my friends. They speak of it in awe to this very day. Once in awhile we had fried fish and if Mama was in a rush to get to her mother’s house for our Friday night rendezvous with the family, she just popped some fish sticks into the oven. They were okay, but not really worthy of my mother’s culinary talents.

We often had something fun on Saturdays. It might be hamburgers or hotdogs or even Tex-Mex dishes. This was a day for spaghetti and homemade meat-sauce or barbecue that our mother seasoned with her own recipe. Saturdays brought “kid” food that we absolutely adored. 

I suppose we took those wonderful meals for granted at the time. We did not think of the hard work that went into earning money to pay for the food or the labor of love that went into the cooking. We just eagerly rushed to the table where the most delightful aromas enticed us to chow down. Looking back I realize that she had to be very creative with her budget and her menu planning to keep us so full and satisfied.

I have such warm memories of sitting around a table with my mother and my brothers. We laughed and talked and actually paused long enough to really pay attention to each other and to the food. There were no phones. The television was not turned on. Our focus was on being together and really tasting the delicious morsels that our mother had made. It was a simple but quite delightful time. 

I forgot to mention something that my mother often did that absolutely thrilled us. On Saturdays she almost always made a fabulous dessert of some kind that we ate late in the evening while watching old movies on the television in the dark. She was literally known for her chocolate cake with buttercream frosting, so it was our favorite. Sometimes, though, she made cookies or ice box lemon pie. Other times she simply bought ice cream that we devoured in a single sitting. It was a wonderful life and I am grateful to have experienced it. I suppose it has much to do with the contentment that I feel to this very day. 

There is hardly a person on the face of the earth whose life is always smooth sailing. Sometimes we observe people who appear to be immune from the trials that stalk the rest of us, but the truth is that they too have dealt with tragedy and disappointment just as we all do. The sad fact of life is that sadness and loss is inescapable. There will indeed be times when we will have to pull ourselves out of the depths of despair and find ways to keep moving forward in the hopes of finding brighter days ahead. 

I learned this at a very early age when I lost my father so suddenly and cruelly. In those days adults assumed that children were generally unaware of the kinds of deep emotions that come with adult grief. The general feeling was that keeping children busy with play and friendships would be enough to pull them out of the doldrums of sadness. It was a belief in innocence that prompted such thinking, but we now know that it was wrong. Children indeed have complex emotions that should be addressed, but are not always noticed because they have an amazing ability to adjust to whatever situation befalls them. They instinctively find ways to survive.

My own resilience came from school. I quickly learned that being a good student was a way of crowding out the sorrow that was consuming me. If I paid attention to my teachers, did my homework, studied and read I filled the hours of each day with a powerful diversion. I was able to carry on as though I had moved on from the horror of my father’s death. Nonetheless my pain remained buried deeply inside my soul. It was agonizing to hide it and to pretend that all was well. it made me feel self conscious and different because I did not yet realize that other people were carrying challenges of their own. 

I made it past the debilitating feelings of loss because I channeled every bit of my anguish into being an exceptional student. I found so much solace in my classes at school. Just learning and moving from one grade to the next was my tranquilizer, a method for calming the beast that lurked inside my mind. Everyone marveled at how well I had adjusted to my father’s death. One of my dearest friends even wondered aloud how I had managed to forget him so quickly. I was unable and possibly unwilling to admit to the sorrow that stalked me every single day. I worried that if I opened that Pandora’s box I might never recover again. So I remained silent and just kept using school as my therapy.

Eventually I matured enough to be open about how devastating my father’s death had been to me. I found that talking about it with caring and intelligent people was incredibly helpful. I saw that bottling up my feelings and pretending that all was normal only intensified the anger that I felt in losing the man who had influenced me so profoundly. Honesty with myself and others helped me to heal the damage that still lingered in my heart. 

I suppose I was about twenty five years old when I looked in the mirror and realized that I was really okay. I had learned that tragedy is as much a part of life as triumph. I found joy in both my work as a teacher, which was a kind of extension of my studious childhood, and in admitting to my feelings no matter how scary they were. I found a balance that has sustained me through other challenges that unmoored me from time to time. I learned how to be good to myself, how to calm my worries, and how to freely admit to my human frailties. All in all this has served me well. 

When I became a teacher I understood that my students would sometimes be dealing with their own concerns and that they might not be able to channel their feelings into their studies the way I had always done. I often helped them to get past the rough patches in their lives. I wanted them to understand that it was okay to express their frustrations and ask for help. 

For some reason we have enshrined the image of the stoic as an ideal that we should strive to achieve. We honor the person who seems able to recover quickly from setbacks without emotional turmoil. We hint that it is a form of weakness to fall apart even for a brief moment. We make fun of tears, especially from boys and men. We equate courage with those who never appear to break. It is a dangerous way of modeling behavior for our young. It leads them to believe that they are somehow damaged whenever their emotions take hold of them. Their efforts to stifle pain can lead to dependence on temporary fixes like drugs or alcohol or even spending money. 

We all must find ways to be resilient or we will be ground down into the muck. My journey to healing began with sublimation, but ultimately it also had to include an honest discussion of how deeply I felt my loss. It is only in talking human to human that we find the courage and strength to move forward, never quite the same as we had once been but stronger. Resilience is not about ignoring how we feel. It is about admitting that we sometimes need help to heal.

I used to be very competitive. I had a killer instinct when it came to winning. I tried not to be a bad sport, but I wanted to be the victor in games, grades, you name it. It gave me a thrill to come out on top. Somewhere along the way I took a complete one hundred eighty degree turn and literally don’t care one way or another about attempting to be on top in any way. I simply want to enjoy life and do my best. I no longer stew over what my ranking might be. I suppose that I have reached a point at which there just seem to be better things to do than worry about winning. 

It’s an odd and comforting feeling given my past longing to compete even with myself. I suppose that I’ve finally feel good without needing reassurances outside of my own confidence. Maybe this is what really growing up feels like, I’m one hundred percent comfortable in my own skin. I’m quite content, so much so that I can’t even think of things that I might want for my birthday or Christmas other than being able to help those who have so much less that I do. All I really desire is to quietly spend my days bringing a modicum of joy to the people I encounter. 

I think about the future and I have to admit to worrying for our younger generations. We don’t always treat them as well as we should. I shudder whenever I hear older adults trashing them, contending that they are lazy and spoiled. I know better than that and it bothers me that some people really do believe all of the insults hurled at those who are young and eager to make a difference in the world. 

I have grave concerns about the dangers of climate change. I really do believe that we are flirting with dangers that will only grow worse if we continue to deny our role in damaging the planet. When NASA engineers tells us that our earth is in a fragile state which we may not be able to repair if we wait much longer, I listen to them. They have no reason to simply frighten us. They are sounding the alarm and we are looking away. 

I see people all over the world living in poverty and under the dominance of authoritarian governments. I truly wish that we would be more concerned with such things than worrying about the cost of the many luxuries that we take for granted. I possess so much and often feel that it would not hurt me to share much more than I presently do. 

I look at the world and my future and see that I am at once both unimportant and critical to the outcome of our planet. I am no more exceptional than another human whose privileges and freedoms are less than mine. At the same time how I and every other person on earth votes, and lives, and shares makes a stunning difference in what the future of our young will prove to be. We can decide not to worry about our choices because we won’t be around if and when things get bad, or we can begin the process of healing that seems to be so needed all over the world. 

I often think of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. who in his lifetime was accused of being unpatriotic, a communist, and many other pejoratives. Some saw him as a threat to our nation. Others viewed him as a silly dreamer who envisioned an impossible world. I have always thought of him as a great hero, one of the most most Christian and courageous men to walk the earth. I know that I will never have the ability to be great like he was, but I can certainly attempt to model my life on his. 

That means working for my fellow humans. Sharing what I have. Understanding and loving all people. Remembering that the good book tells us that the first shall be last and the least among us must be honored. I don’t have to be gloomy or wear a hair shirt, but I can’t look away when I know that others are suffering. I am no more exceptional than any other human on this earth when the truth is told. Each of us is precious and each of us should be treated with the highest regard. 

My mother and my grandmother taught me these things when I was a child. I was impressed by their examples even as a young girl. They showed me the way to behave even if I did not always follow their lead. I rejoice that I now fully comprehend what they were attempting to impress upon me. It certainly took me long enough to get to this glorious place in my development. I find great joy in being totally aware of the importance of each of us. Tearing each other down to make ourselves seem better is a blood sport that I firmly eschew.

I’ll still try to beat the computer at Scrabble or get the Wordle answer of the day in only three or fewer tries, but competing with my fellow travelers on this earth is no longer something that I want to do. I simply desire to enjoy what I have and share it whenever I have the opportunity. That is what brings me peace. It’s a wonderful feeling to have, so no more competing for me. I belong to team human race.

I have to admit that I am rushing the Christmas season this year. I’m ready for a normal time, whatever that really is. It’s been so long since anything has felt routine that I’m not even sure that I know how to handle a Christmas like those in the past, but I’m going to do my best to get back into the saddle again. I have my fingers crossed that my dreams are not dashed by a really bad influenza season or even a last gasp return of Covid. It appears that our big family Christmas Eve is on once again without restrictions and I’m going to do my best to have my Christmas Day Gumbo fest for the big extended family. 

There are other traditions that I plan to enjoy like the Christmas lunches with friends and my absolute favorite, attending the Dickens on the Strand festival in Galveston, Texas. I can’t really explain why I enjoy it so much but it always warms my heart to stroll back in time. My husband and I don Dickensian costumes and walk around the historic area of Galveston sipping Christmas punch while marveling at the people who are as decked out as we are. 

There is always a grand parade featuring St. Nicholas and bagpipers filling the air with their delightful music. Christmas and revelry is in the air, especially when the weather turns cold, which is somewhat rare in the more tropical climate of the coastal city. Those of us who attend do a great deal of pretending that we are living back in the day when Charles Dickens invented stories like A Christmas Carol.

In the past I’ve gone to the Nutcracker Market which is an extravaganza designed to raise funds for the Houston Ballet. For some reason I can’t seem to arouse my usual excitement for attending the crowded event this year. The fact that I can’t find anyone who wants to accompany me to the affair is a fairly good sign that I am not alone in deciding to skip that tradition this year. 

I’m excited that I will finally be able to visit with a friend who is in a nursing home after almost three years of not seeing her anywhere but on Facebook. She had a stroke and is no longer able to talk, which is quite sad because it was always so delightful to spend time conversing with her. Nonetheless, I want her to know that I have not forgotten her so I’ve already purchased a gift and set a tentative date for visiting her. I suppose I am more excited about that than anything else I am planning. 

What I really like about Christmas is giving. I take great delight in making cookies and sharing them. I remember mixing batches of cookie dough with my mom in the long ago. We’d spend a whole Saturday baking dozens and dozens of cookies that we stored in tins until visitors came to our home. 

I laugh about one Christmas time when my aunt arrived at our house with her two boys when Mama and I were baking. They began grabbing and devouring the cookies almost as soon as they came out of the oven. We baked furiously, attempting to get ahead of them, but our efforts seemed fruitless. Then my aunt decided to adjust our recipes by putting gumdrops in all of our batter. My mother and I just looked at each other wondering how things could have gone so wrong. After they left Mama announced that she would purchase new ingredients and we would attempt to bake our cookies again on another day. I still laugh about that memory. My mother was so gracious and would have given me the evil eye if I had openly complained about my cousins’ voracious appetites. 

So who knows how it will go this year? I intend to make the most of the season even if I have to adjust like we did when our unexpected guests consumed all of our cookies. If the last couple of years have taught me anything, it has been to be ready for a change of plans. It makes me thing of my friend Pat Weimer who always proclaimed that it was wise to have Plans B, C and D in our hip pockets because we never know when we will need them. 

Pat’s the one who taught me how to be ready to entertain at a moment’s notice. Her formula was spectacular: always have a roll of cookie dough in the refrigerator and some ice cream in the freezer. Keep the kitchen countertops clean. Swish out the guest bathroom regularly. Have a junk room ready for storage of items in a quick pick up of the living room. Light a candle for a nice scent. Smile when the guests arrive and have a fabulous time. 

I am so ready. Let the celebration begin. Who knows I may even stumble upon a new tradition and learn how to change old ones. Any way I look at it, I sense that it will be fun.