Posted on by rjonakait

Send Back the Song Which Now the Angels Sing.

I look forward to Christmastime. I like much of the seasonal music. In these weeks of possibilities, in my mind I sing Christmas hymns, carols, and songs, and I sing them perfectly. However, in reality I do not sing them aloud because no one can recognize anything I vocalize. Only dogs want to harmonize with me.

One that I love is “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” It contains the marvelous verse: “Peace on the earth, good will to men/From heaven’s all gracious king/The world in solemn stillness lay/To hear the angels sing.”

(When I recently said, Peace on the earth, good will to men, a listener who I assumed knew neither the song nor the Bible story accused me of being woke. The woke version, however, would say, “Peace on the earth, good will to people of all gender identities.” See if you can work that into a hymn.)

I am unsure, however, about the inclusiveness of the blessing. My Bible acknowledges that some authorities have the angels saying “peace, goodwill among men.” But this version has it: “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among men with whom he is pleased!’” I find this ambiguous. If God were pleased with all men, this is inclusive. But the granted peace might only have been given to a subset of humanity that had pleased Him.

The song’s refrain, of course, refers to the Biblical story that begins, “And in that region there were shepherds out in the field, watching over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them.” (The shepherds were not washing their socks by night as many Sunday School children think.) That angel announces that the Savior had been born in Bethlehem and was lying in a manger. The shepherds hurry off, find the stable, and spread the angel’s words.

This leads to the many creches I have seen. Always in a creche is a manger with the baby Jesus. Mary and Joseph are nearby and a little further away are the kneeling shepherds along with some of their sheep. (We should pay more attention to the sheep because they were celebrating the first Fleece Navidad. I have seldom seen a dog in the countless manger scenes, but a German shepherd would not be inappropriate. Naples is known for its creches, and all sorts of figures are placed around the baby, including representations of historical figures and relatives of the creche’s owner. Even so, I found it strange that I could buy a tiny representation of Maradona to place in my Christmas scene. I did not do so.)

Almost all creches include the Three Wise Men even though the Bible tells us they were not outside around a manger. Those men first go to Herod and tell him that signs reveal that the king of the Jews has been born. They want to know where to find Him. “Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, saying, ‘Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the East, and have come to worship him.’” An assembly of chief priests and scribes say that it is written that the Christ would be born in Bethlehem. Led by a star to the City of David, the wise men “going into the house [Italics added] they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshipped him. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh.”

(The Three Wise Men followed the big star. Were they the first groupies? Yes, I know that the Bible does not say that there were three wise men. That number is merely assumed from the number of gifts. As kids, we liked to sing, “We three kings of orient are/Puffing on a royal cigar/One was loaded and exploded./ We two kings of orient are.” That passed for Sunday School humor among us.)

The Bible does tell us about the manger. Joseph and Mary had traveled from Nazareth to Bethlehem where her labor began. “And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths, and laid him a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.” A song I sang as a kid begins “Away in a manger/No crib for a bed/The little Lord Jesus/Laid down His sweet head.” That hymn always seemed insipid, and it is not one I replay much in my head. I only learned as an adult another song relating to that same Biblical passage, No Room at the Inn. It is now a favorite, both for its infectiousness and its layered meanings. I have heard the gospel song with varying lyrics from different artists, and now each Christmas season I make a point of listening to it. This year I heard on YouTube renditions, both good, from Mahalia Jackson and Ann Murray.

Mary and Joseph were away from home because: “In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled. . . .And all went to be enrolled, each to his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the city of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be enrolled with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child.” Luke 2: 1-5.

(I don’t know if this census included any controversial citizenship questions. The passage says “all the world.” I have a strong feeling that the Mayans and the Japanese did not enroll. Of course, this passage is one of many that demonstrate that the Bible cannot be taken literally.

The angelic appearance in the fields surrounding Bethlehem is sometimes referred to as the Annunciation to the Shepherds. The Annunciation, which has been celebrated in many famous paintings, was the announcement to Mary that she would become pregnant even though she had not “known” a man: “The angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the virgin’s name was Mary. And he came to her and said, . . . ‘And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus.’ . . . And Mary said to the angel, ‘How can this be, since I have no husband?’ And the angel said to her, . . . ‘For with God nothing shall be impossible.’”

(The Virgin Birth is in the Bible. The bizarre notion of the Immaculate Conception is not.)

The Bible contains another annunciation of the virgin birth. It comes earlier in the Bible than the one to Mary, but later in time. Mary is already pregnant, and Joseph, engaged to Mary, for obvious reasons knows he is not the father. He plans a divorce when an angel appears in a dream and tells Joseph not to reject Mary for she has conceived through the Holy Spirit. The angel continues that the son should be named Jesus, “for he will save his people from their sins.” As a result, Joseph did not reject Mary “but knew her not until she had borne a son; and he called his name Jesus.”

Mary is honored for her faith in accepting her pregnancy, but Joseph’s conduct should be celebrated at least as much. His action is an incredible expression of faith, much more it seems to me than that of Mary. Mary finds herself pregnant, but she knows that she is a virgin. Perhaps it is not so hard under these circumstances to accept that the Holy Spirit was responsible. However difficult the acceptance was for Mary, surely it was much harder for Joseph. He finds his fiancée pregnant. He knew he did not impregnate her. It is an extraordinary man of faith that would accept what the unnamed angel told him. If you are going to celebrate faith, this is an act for celebration.

Mary’s annunciation story presents few facts about her. She is a virgin. She married Joseph. She accepts what Gabriel tells her. We learn little about her actions, personality, or character other than the angel telling her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God.”

We do not know why she has found favor. It surely can’t be that she is a virgin. The story is based on the notion that virginity was expected on the wedding day. There were many virgins in the land. Perhaps she was favored by the Lord because she led an exemplary life that we should emulate. But if so, we can’t try to be like her because we do not know why God singled her out. As far as we know, she found favor just as a powerball winner finds favor. Mary has been simply the winner in God’s lottery.

On the other hand, Joseph’s annunciation story reveals something about the kind of man he was. When he finds himself a cuckold because his betrothed is pregnant, my Bible says, “Her husband Joseph, being a just man and unwilling to put her to shame, resolved to divorce her quietly.” Of course, after the angel speaks to him, he abandons this thought, but look at his character. When many men would have been vindictive or trying to save face, he was thinking of another, the one who apparently wronged him. He did not want to shame Mary. Joseph is not just a man of incredible faith, he is a helluva nice guy. The Bible does not tell us that Joseph was favored by God. No reason is given for him to be the “father” who raises the savior. But we do know that this is a faithful man who can put others before himself. We can see at least a bit of Jesus in Joseph. Joseph seems to be someone to emulate, and perhaps he should be pushed more to the center of the Christmas story.

For some the Christmas stories constitute a test of faith. Do you believe in the virgin birth? Do you believe in the guiding star? I am not a believer in any of the Christmas story. For me, its truth is simply irrelevant. His “resurrection,” another test of faith, is also irrelevant. Instead, I would like to believe what truly matters and what points the way for a better life for me and a better world for all is the life He lived.

I like Christmas. Every year during the season I feel a few moments of that spirit where maybe someday there could be peace on earth and good will towards men, or more realistically, a bit more peace and good will. For a few moments each year, the concluding part of the song about the midnight clear haunts me with its possibilities:

“An ye, beneath life’s crushing load/ whose forms are bending low/ who toil along the climbing way/ with painful steps and slow/ look now! for glad and golden hours/ come swiftly on the wing./ O rest beside the weary road,/ and hear the angels sing!

“For lo! the days are hastening on,/ by prophet seen of old,/ when with the ever-circling years/ shall come the time foretold/ when peace shall over all the earth/ its ancient splendors fling,/ and the whole world send back the song/ which now the angels sing.”

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Whither Venezuela?

President Trump hints that the United States will attack Venezuela’s homeland even though there is no declaration of war or other congressional authorization for such a hostile act. Trump has been a norm breaker, but in this instance, he would not be, for the United States has a long record of invasions and incursions into Caribbean countries. I heard from several people who had watched Ken Burns’s The American Revolution that his version was not the history that they had been taught in school. Even fewer of us were taught about our colonial adventures in Latin America.

Although Americans coveted Cuba throughout the nineteenth century and the United States had tried to purchase the island from Spain, America sent troops into Cuba during the Spanish-American War of 1898. Even though the conflict was concluded before the year’s end and even though Cubans had been fighting for their independence from Spain for decades, America occupied the island until 1902. We pulled out and allowed Cuba its independence only after she agreed to the Platt Amendment which permitted the United States to intervene when needed for “good government” and agreed further to lease us Guantanamo Bay in perpetuity for a handful of dollars. With the Platt Amendment as justification, we had troops in Cuba from 1906 to 1909, sent them back in 1912, and ruled Cuba militarily from 1917-22.

American troops, however, have been sent to more Caribbean places than Cuba. Using civil unrest as a justification, the United States sent troops into the Dominican Republic in 1916. They stayed there for eight years. More recently, 42,000 of our troops were ordered into the Dominican Republic in 1965. They left a year-and-half later.

We did not ignore the other part of Hispaniola. We occupied Haiti in 1915 and continued to do that for two decades, finally withdrawing our troops in 1934. In 1994, the United States again sent troops into Haiti to “restore democracy” and did again ten years later as part of a multinational force. Haiti, however, remains a troubled, failed country.

Our Haitian occupation was long, but we occupied Nicaragua even longer, from 1912-1933. We say that our Afghanistan war was our longest, but our armed forces were in Haiti and Nicaragua for nearly as long.

During the Mexican Revolution (1910–1917), the United States occupied Veracruz and sent troops to chase Pancho Villa.

We, however, intervened with more than just our military in Latin American countries. In 1954, the CIA led the overthrow of the Guatemalan government; the CIA directed the botched Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba. Moreover, the United States has tried to coerce our neighbors through sanctions, boycotts, and embargoes including those on Cuba and Nicaragua.(We did not limit such actions to the Americas. Daniel Immerwahrin “The United States Is an Empire” collected in Kevin M. Kruse and Julian E. Zelizer, Myth America: Historians Take the Biggest Legends and Lies About Our Past [2022], states that the United States during the Cold War secretly interceded sixty-four times in other countries to oust a government or tilt an election, often in support of authoritarians.)

Our actions in the Caribbean were designed in part to keep Europe out of the Western Hemisphere, following our self-proclaimed Monroe Doctrine, which, by the way, has no basis in international law. Thus, part of the reason for our occupation of Mexico’s Veracruz was to keep Germany, with whom Mexico was friendly, at bay. We occupied Nicaragua for those decades partly to make sure that no other country would build a waterway to compete with the Panama Canal.

Sean Mirski in We May Dominate the World: Ambition, Anxiety, and Rise of the American Colossus (2023) also suggests that the United States was discomfited by some countries’ debt. Some Latin American countries borrowed profligately from Europe and could not pay their bills. Under international law, the creditors were entitled to use force to collect the money owed to them. This was often a simple procedure when tariffs were the chief source of a country’s revenue. The creditors were allowed to seize the customhouse and collect the duties. The United States was concerned about this kind of European intervention in the Western Hemisphere with the additional concern that the Latin American countries would grant the Europeans more concessions in order to have their sovereignty restored. Facing these possibilities, America thought it was better for it to intervene and use the customs revenues to pay the Europeans. This was often beneficial for the Latin American countries where corruption was so endemic that little tariff revenue made its way to the public fisc. The Americans did not skim the money, or at least not at the same rates, as the native tax collectors. As a result, the debtor nation often saw its revenues increase.

Europe learned to play America in these circumstances. European interventions were expensive, and those foreign powers often actually wanted America to do it instead. America soon recognized that the debt and corruption problems would recur unless the countries became stable and lived within their means. This then required United States to become more involved in the internal affairs of the Latin American countries often leading to military interventions and authoritarian governments.

This pattern can be seen in the Dominican Republic which, in 1907, agreed that United States could appoint a receiver to collect customs duties until the outstanding Dominican debt was paid. Even so, or perhaps as a result, the next decade saw an eight-year occupation of the Republic by the United States.

America, however, intervened, invaded, occupied, and meddled because of more than concern about Europeans getting footholds in the Americas. We were also seeking to protect our own businesses. Our first occupation of Haiti came at the urging of what is now Citibank. Many American businesses urged the occupation of Veracruz. American companies often had massive holdings in Caribbean countries. For example, by 1926, United States companies owned 60% of Cuban sugar industry and imported 95% of the sugar crop.

The United States also claimed an interest in preventing communists from getting power in the Americas. For example, Lyndon Johnson said he was sending troops into the Dominican Republic to protect American lives and property but also to prevent establishment of communist dictatorship. Reagan placed embargoes on Nicaragua because of fears the country was becoming communist.

However, as Stephen Kinzer says specifically about Foster Dulles in The Brothers: John Foster Dulles, Allen Dulles, and Their Secret World War (2013), America foreign policy in general “could not distinguish between indigenous nationalism and imported communism.”

Furthermore, our foreign policy has often conflated support for large, multinational corporations with opposition to communism. Guatemala is a case in point. Seventy years ago, Jacobo Árbenz, the head of the Central American country, wanted land reform. He meant to purchase uncultivated acreage for the government to be redistributed among the people. Eighty-five percent of the United Fruit Company’s vast holdings in Guatemala were in those very uncultivated lands. The corporation cried “communism.” They cried even more when Guatemala offered to pay what United Fruit claimed the land was worth for tax purposes. The corporation wanted ten times that amount. Our country’s response: Overthrow the Central American government, which we did.

Over the years our interventions succeeded in keeping European countries from grabbing significant influence in the region. They also succeeded in increasing the profits and influence for a number of multinational companies. They may have kept the price of bananas and other commodities lower than otherwise. However, they did not improve the lives of most of those in the region, and they did not improve the working lives of most Americans. Finally, our actions did not lead to democracies or stable governments, and thus our interventions continued.

Now the United States seems poised for military action on Venezuela’s home soil. It is almost impossible to gauge the likelihood of success because the goals are murky. A stated goal has been the elimination of “narcoterrorism” to reduce overdose deaths in this country. If that were the real reason, we could declare victory now. Few of the drugs bought in the U.S. come from Venezuela, and these drugs cause almost none of the overdose deaths. Maybe we want Venezuela’s oil. They have a lot of it, and it’s being inefficiently managed. The real goal, however, seems regime change. We want Nicolas Maduro to leave office. Many people do. He is an illegal, brutal ruler overseeing a failing economy. It is not surprising that many citizens have now left Venezuela. But even if regime change is the goal, it is not clear why Trump and Rubio are singularly fixated on Caracas and not other countries with brutal rulers. Rubio may have a far too personal interest. His family fled Cuba, and Rubio has always resented Venezuelan support of Cuba.

History does not necessarily repeat itself, but history often holds lessons. We have forced many regime changes in Caribbean countries. Peace and bonhomie seldom followed. Instability with harsh conditions for the people of those nations often has. Whither Venezuela?

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Who is Perez?

The first gospel begins with a genealogy, which concludes, “So all the generations from Abraham to David were fourteen generations, and from David to the deportations to Babylon fourteen generations, and from the deportation to Babylon to the Christ fourteen generations.” Fourteen seems to be a key, but its significance is not stated, and it is not self-evident at least to this reader. I am surprised, however, that with its repetition it has not become part of the iconography of the nativity story. Perhaps the Christmas table should have fourteen candles or a basket of fourteen pomegranates, but I am not aware of any such tradition.

I am aware of only a few of the names in the genealogy. Most ring no bells, but the unknown ones such as Amminadab, Uzziah, and Zerubbabel at least seem Hebrew. One of Jesus’s progenitors, however, seems out of place–Perez. I think of that as Spanish or as the fictional detective on Shetland Island, not as a Biblical name. But there it is in the genealogy: “Judah the father of Perez and Zerah by Tamar, and Perez the father of Herzon. . . .” (Tamar is the first woman mentioned in the ancestry list. Only a few other women are mentioned. Jewishness may pass through the mothers, but mostly mothers are overlooked in this genealogy, at least until we get to Mary—“Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom Jesus was born, who is called Christ.” Although the Bible says that Joseph did not take part in the conception of Jesus, the genealogy is his. We are told nothing about Mary’s lineage, which strikes me as strange.)

The mention of Perez in “The Gospel According to Matthew” is anodyne, but his birth chronicled in Genesis is not exactly an oft-told story. Judah, Perez’s father, “sees” the Canaanite Shua, whom he marries. My Bible states that Judah “went in to her, and she conceived and bore a son, and he called his name Er.” Apparently, Judah penetrated his love-at-first-sight several more times, and the sons Onan and Shelah were born. Judah marries Er to Tamar (why Tamar is selected is unclear). However, Er is a bad boy for he “was wicked in the sight of the Lord; and the Lord slew him.” This thirty-eighth chapter of the first biblical book only leaves it to our imaginative speculations as to how Er erred and to the method of the slaying, but we do know that Er is dead.

Judah then turns to his second born and using that only slightly euphemistic language tells Onan, “Go in to your brother’s wife, and perform the duty of a brother-in-law to her, and raise up offspring for your brother.” Onan, however, is displeased that any resulting children will not be considered his and interrupts his duty: “so when he went in to his brother’s wife he spilled the semen on the ground, lest he should give offspring to his brother.” (Other Bible translations state that this happened repeatedly.) He should have thought twice and lingered more because “…what he did was displeasing in the sight of the Lord, and he slew him also.” (I understand from this story how onanism became a word for coitus interruptus, but I don’t understand how it became a synonym for masturbation.)

Of course, there was still the third son, but Shelah was understandably not too eager to do his duty as a brother-in-law “for he feared that he would die, like his brothers.” Shelah was apparently young, however, and Judah said to Tamar she should live with him “till Shelah my son grows up.”

Tamar, not surprisingly, is frustrated. When Judah, after becoming a widower, goes off to shear sheep, Tamar dresses as a prostitute and intercepts him. Judah does not recognize her and assumes “her to be a harlot.” Apparently thinking that this is his lucky day, he says “Come, let me come in to you.” He offers a baby goat in payment, but she exacts instead some of Judah’s personal possessions. He enters her and she becomes pregnant. Let’s pause here. Two of Judah’s sons have been struck down by the Lord for their transgressions, but Judah escapes that punishment. Perhaps because his wife was dead, his employing an apparent prostitute did not anger Yahweh. Tamar similarly avoids God’s wrath. I guess Tamar got the heavenly pass because the Lord did not pay attention to women or she only wanted a baby and acted to keep it all in the family.

When it is clear that she is pregnant, Tamar produces Judah’s personal artifacts, and he realizes that he is the father. A form of happiness, or acceptance, results. Judah says, “‘She is more righteous than I, inasmuch as I did not give her to my Shelah.’ And he did not lie with her again.” And the result is the birth of Zerah and his twin Perez, the ancestor of Jesus.

In reading this story the other day, I wondered at what age it is appropriate for children to read this rather explicit sexual history. If you can’t say gay, can you talk about semen on the ground and “let me come in to you”? How would you answer questions from an inquisitive third grader about Judah and Tamar? Perhaps the Bible should be banned from grade schools.

This is not the only dicey sex that lurks in the genealogy, which also delicately states, “David was the father of Solomon by the wife of Uriah. . . .” Uriah’s wife, of course, was the beautiful Bathsheba spied by the peeping Dave. David could not keep his desire in check and impregnates her while she is still married. David, as military commander, sinfully arranges for Uriah to be killed in battle. The supposedly pro-life Lord punishes David by having this first issue with Bathsheba die in early infancy. Later David and Bathsheba produce Sol. (I discuss David, Bathsheba, and Uriah in my post of June 11, 2018. Search for Bathsheba.)

While Jesus, according to the Bible, results from a Virgin Birth, his genealogy contains harlotry, seduction, onanism, voyeurism, and murder. I don’t think that Matthew presented the genealogy for this purpose, but while the miracle of his birth may indicate divinity, he is also linked to very human ancestors. Perhaps true believers should remember both at Christmas.

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Snippets

The sign was for a holiday event that I have never seen but would like to: “A drive-thru living Nativity.” Do you think there are camels???

A few years back I asked a political scientist what a democratic socialist was. She replied that they used to be called “liberal.” Today’s democratic socialists seem to want to remind Democrats of their roots with concerns for housing and food costs, wages, and childcare with the belief that such issues should not just be left to untrammeled free markets. But now such concerns that led to social security, public housing, Medicare, and Medicaid are considered so left wing as to be out of the mainstream.

For those looking for a holiday gift, a new calendar featuring Vladimir Putin in many poses has been released. Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt has not announced whether Trump has already obtained his embossed, autographed copy.

It was easy for me to spot the error. Maxwell King in The Good Neighbor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers was debunking and ridiculing rumors about Mr. Rogers. Those silly rumors included that he was a convicted child molester and that he wore long sleeve shirts to hide tattoos. Another one was that he had been a sniper in Vietnam with many “kills” to his credit. The author reported that Rogers was never in the military and continued, “Fred Rogers was also much too old to have been drafted, given that the draft started in 1969, when his show was just getting established.” Of course, he could have been in the armed forces without being drafted, but what leapt out to me was the confident assertion that the draft started in 1969. I, along with many, many others, got a draft notice in 1968. The Selective Service Act of 1948 authorized conscription of young men, and many, including many I knew, were drafted into the army between 1948 and 1968. In 1969, the Act was changed to institute the draft lottery (you can look it up), but there was a draft long before that. But back to Mr. Rogers. I learned many fascinating things about him in the book, but I wondered, having spotted the error, whether I should doubt other things I had read in The Good Neighbor. I decided that I should not. The error was not about the life of Fred Rogers but about an extraneous fact. There was no reason to doubt the biographical research.

Fashion is dangerous. According to David Reynolds in Mirrors of Greatness: Churchill and the Leaders Who Shaped Him, Winston’s mother died at 67 while still lively. She “died suddenly from a haemorrhage. This followed a fall in the high heels to which she was addicted, which had caused a broken ankle, followed by gangrene and the amputation of her foot.”

I grew up a few blocks from the western shores of Lake Michigan, where I spent much time playing, walking a dog, and just gazing out, often seeing long, thin ships carrying ore on the horizon. Even so, I have read little about the Great Lakes partly because, unlike the oceans, rivers, and swamps, little has been written about them. These important bodies of water are largely ignored by most Americans. However, John U. Bacon’s The Gales of November: The Untold Story of the Edmund Fitzgerald taught me a lot about the commercial importance of the Lakes and the dangers of their waters. Frightening waves are often steeper and come closer together on the Great Lakes than on the oceans. And, of course, there is a good deal to learn about the Edmund Fitzgerald, which sank on November 10,1975, a sad and disturbing event that many of us only know about from the Gordon Lightfoot song. The book is a page turner. Highly recommended.

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Deck the Halls (from the spouse)

I am among the least “artsy-craftsy” persons in the world. I never made anything out of macramé, can’t hook a rug, can’t make a damn thing out of popsicle sticks, but…I’m really good at making Christmas decorations!

I’m not sure where this talent – so uncharacteristic of me — came from. Maybe when I was little. When I was the tender age of six or seven, Mother had my sister and me making our own Christmas stockings. Mother cut the template out of green felt, provided us with scissors, sequins, ribbons, other colors of felt, little angels, needle and thread and had us go at it. Do you know how hard it is for a seven-year-old to sew on a sequin??! No glue was provided (was Elmer’s glue even invented back then?). But I did it and am the better for it. I had that stocking (with my sequined name in white felt) until I left for college!

Mother was good at making Christmas decorations, and I copied some of her designs. She was a major felt fan and had made beautiful ornaments using styroform balls covered in felt, gold braid, sequins (you can attach them to styroform with a pin through the middle which is a whole lot easier than sewing!), and other glittery things. When we were first married and living in our first apartment and our first Christmas came around, I was determined to decorate with a little Christmas sparkle. The local Woolworth’s (my go-to place for all home goods) had an eclectic fabric collection in its basement, and they had…FELT! And sequins! And ribbon! And pearl-headed pins! And even little styroform balls! I was in business and set about trying to recreate my mother’s masterpieces. P.S. We still hang these little treasures on our Christmas tree.

The next year I found larger styroform balls, and wider ribbon and made an arrangement of the (felt-covered) balls on various lengths of ribbon to hang from the mantelpiece. And so…I was on my way to Christmas decoration stardom!

When I finally got a real job and opened a real lab (my own!!!), I discovered that the most fabulous florist supply store in all of the New York area was a mere 2 blocks from my lab. Can you even imagine what treasures they have in a florist supply store? I soon found myself in a Christmas decorators’ heaven. At Christmastime, they carried at least 100 kinds of Christmas-themed ribbon, pin lights, regular lights in all colors, extravagant collections of greens (fake, yes, but incredibly realistic), sparkly things of indescribable luxuriousness, life-sized white doves, golden stalks of this and that, and real poinsettias for cheap. I had a house by now – a Victorian house – a house crying out for a full, over-the-top Dickens decorating spree. So I bought:

200 feet of garlands;

10 white doves;

Yards and yards (who was counting?) of 2” wire-stiffened ribbons of various design;

8 luscious stalks containing some sort of exotic fruit surrounded by exotic greens and normal fir-tree-type greens (Sounds awful, doesn’t it? Trust me, they were beautiful.);

2 wreaths;

And goodness knows what else.

I didn’t know what to do with the yards and yards of ribbon, BUT…help came in the form of the famous “Bow-Dabra” (I probably found it in Woolworth’s), a kit that showed one how to make fabulous bows – the best $9.99 purchase I ever made!

With the help of an extremely skeptical husband, I decked the halls. The garlands outlined the doors; the wreaths went on the outside front door panels (they were promptly stolen – just the way the neighborhood was at the time); the white doves fluttered amid the dining room garlands; the exotic fruit perfumed the living room garlands (well, not really, but they added a salutary bit of sophistication).

It was glorious, if I do say so myself.

When our child came along, I made…yes! green felt stockings for the three of us. Sequins (glued, not sewn!) glittered on our names cut out of white felt. It’s now almost 45 years later, and we still stuff those very same stockings with goodies to open on Christmas morning.

As a wee tot, the AJ was frightened by the white doves (thinking, I guess, that they might fly down and peck at him), but he got used to them at some point. Also, while I favored a Christmas tree trimmed completely in white/gold lights and golden ornaments (sparkly, you know), the AJ preferred a more colorful model with multicolored lights and “traditional” ornaments. Guess who won? For this multicolored extravaganza, I made a tree skirt. Now. I CAN sew a little, so I went to my favorite fabric store (a step up from Woolworth’s), bought yards of red and green velveteen (NOT felt this time) and at least 20 yards of gold braid. This little project designed to save us money (home-made, after all) set us back a month’s mortgage payment, but it fit the tree perfectly, and it WAS elegant, if I do say so myself.

You’d think that would have been enough. Ha! You jest! I have since bought two of those beautifully-crafted carolers (from Byers’ Choice, Ltd.) who sing on the coffee table in their authentic Victorian garb (complete with a real rabbit fur muff for the lady and a leather satchel carried by the man); an elaborate three-foot bearded Santa in a fur-trimmed velvet cape (got him for $10 at a flea market) holding a lighted wreath that’s on a timer (!); and three paunchy “Christmas ladies” whom I fell in love with in Duane Reade (they wear hand-crafted outfits that include real knitted scarves and hats made of…felt). They welcome people to the entrance hall. I didn’t craft any of these personalities (all way beyond my capabilities), but I appreciate their addition to our festivities.

As we got older stringing the garlands over the 10-foot doorways proved a bit too far to go, so the garlands were “repurposed,” and were wound around the banisters outside on the stoop decorated with red bows (no white doves). After the stolen-wreath caper, we never did much to the outside of the house, so this is a departure – one worth repeating in the future.

About four years ago, I realized that I had more pine cones, sequins, baubles, holly berries, ribbons, toy soldiers, exotic fruits, tiny stuffed angels, etc. than I was ever going to be able to use – no matter how many table centerpieces I made. So I gave a party. I provided wine, glue, wire, wreath forms, and sundry vases and watched my friends create their own Christmas cheer out of my cache of wonderment.

I love Christmas decorations.

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Ken Burns and Trump the Outlier

Many people have been enthralled by Ken Burns latest film, this one on the American Revolution. Burns and his crew are tremendous filmmakers. The script always flows seamlessly, incorporating visuals, talking heads, and narration seemingly based on extensive research. He has a winning technique, which he employs no matter the subject matter– jazz, baseball, the Roosevelts, the Dust Bowl or the Revolution. The subject matter is forced to fit the technique, but that technique always seems to leave viewers feeling as if they have learned a lot, that they are intellectual, with little effort on their part.

In a well-prepared presentation at our current events discussion group, a fellow resident talked about Burns’s The American Revolution. Among her points was that the history was more complex than what she was taught when in school; that the outcome may now seem inevitable, but it was not at the time; and that the American “story” is one of a journey that continues. In response to comments, she said that President Trump was only temporary and that she had great confidence in the wisdom of the American people, or at least of her grandchildren. I thought that suggesting Trump was sort of an outlier and that good-sense Americans would soon prevail missed some of the points she drew from the Burns’s documentary. Our history is complicated, but good results are not inevitable.

Unfortunately, Trump is not some outlier. Many if not most mainstream Republicans before Trump took over supported tax cuts skewed to the rich; did not support healthcare for the many; threw up scares about immigrants; opposed “wokeness”; bashed universities; bashed science; suggested there was unconstitutional discrimination against whites, especially white males; maintained that there was rampant discrimination against Christians; promoted islamophobia; and so on. Trump did not create these positions; he just said them more stridently and colorfully than other politicians.

This made me think of Timothy Egan’s, A Fever in the Heartland: The Ku Klux Klan Plot to Take Over America, and the Woman Who Stopped Them (2023), the story of the rise of the twentieth century Ku Klux Klan. This a story not of the deep south, but of Indiana and of D.C. Stephenson, who in effect ruled the Hoosier State in the 1920s. Stephenson did not build this new Klan by himself. Egan points out that the Klan of the 1920s was built with blessing of Protestant clergy. Stephenson, however, had abilities and shamelessness that still exist in modern demagogues. Egan tells us that D.C. Stephenson “had the touch and the charm, the dexterity with words and the drive. He understood people’s fear and their need to blame others for their failures. He discovered that if he said something often enough, no matter how untrue, people would believe it. Small lies were for the timid. The key to telling a big lie was to do it with a conviction.”

The Klan was seeking to make America great again by returning the country to a previous time. It supported eugenics and mandatory sterilizations to limit America to the “right” kind of people that used to be the only Americans. It blessed the restrictive immigration law, the National Origins Act of 1924, which prevented the “wrong” kinds of people from entering the country. It denied the shared humanity of people, and thus the Klan opposed the teaching of evolution because evolution implies that all people had a common origin.

Stephenson’s downfall came when a brave prosecutor arrested and tried him for a horrific rape and murder. Although the disgusting evidence was clear, he still retained power because his followers “believed the trial was a hoax and witch hunt.” The true heroes were the twelve average men of the jury who convicted him leading to a life sentence.

There is much worth studying in this story. The prosecutor pointed out that “‘Stephenson forced a super oath’ on public officials. This super oath was greater than the oath of constitutional authority.” When loyalty to an individual becomes stronger than to the greater good or the constitution, society is in danger. Stephenson demonstrated that “democracy was a fragile thing, stable and steady until it was broken and trampled. A man who didn’t care about shattering every convention, and then found new ways to vandalize the contract that allowed free people to govern themselves, could do unthinkable damage.” And our journey continues. Stephenson’s downfall was not inevitable. Because he committed a horrific crime, he was the eventual cause of his own downfall. But it took a brave prosecutor and brave jurors to make sure that downfall occurred.

As unusual as Stephenson may now seem, Timothy Egan asks the still relevant question: “What if the leaders of the 1920s Klan didn’t drive public sentiment, but rode it? A vein of hatred was always there for the tapping. It’s still there, and explains much of the madness threatening American life a hundred years after Stephenson made a mockery of the moral principles of the Heartland.”

What if Trump does not drive public sentiment but rides it? A vein of hatred will exist after Trump departs. Glass-more-than-half-full optimism about the American people and seeing Trump as an outlier will not change that. I wish I were mistaken.

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                                                            Sing, Sing, Sing, and Dance

               “There is no such thing as hell, of course, but if there was, then the sound track to the screaming, the pitchfork action and the infernal wailing of damned souls would be a looped medley of ‘show tunes’ drawn from the annals of musical theater.” Gail Honeyman, Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine.

I took a six-week course at my residence, Topics in American Musical Theater. It was presented by a marvelous teacher, Dan Egan, who also teaches at Yale. We students were charged with watching a specific musical or two before each class and were also given some short reading. We started with Oklahoma!, the seminal show integrating music, lyrics, text, and dance.

The second week we moved on to Kiss Me Kate (by happenstance, the spouse is in a play-reading group making its way through Taming of the Shrew) and Guys and Dolls. I watched an online version of Kiss Me, which I had not seen before. Not my favorite. I also watched the movie Guys and Dolls, which I had seen before. The film is not the encapsulation of the stage show, since four or five songs were dropped from the movie, including “A Bushel and a Peck,” which I remember my mother singing when I was a tyke. When I first saw the movie, I thought Marlon Brando was miscast. This time I realized that Frank Sinatra was out of place, but I had seen a wonderful revival on Broadway with the always marvelous Nathan Lane. I came out, however, not humming any of his songs but singing “Sit Down You’re Rocking the Boat.”

The next week we considered West Side Story and Music Man. I had seen movie versions of both. Some years ago the spouse and I went to see a re-release of the 1961 West Side Story at a small theater in Brooklyn. Just before its start, a dozen male and female students from a nearby “elite” high school walked in. When the whistling and the finger popping and the crouched dancing began, the teenage-boy jokes started flying. The scene was easy to make fun of, and even the St. Anne’s students could think they were tougher than these 1950s dancing juvenile delinquents. The students, however, soon settled into watch. By the end, most were crying. Seeing it again this time, both the spouse and I were in tears, too.

I have seen the Music Man movie many more times since it was something the son watched over and over and over again at one stage of childhood. Because he liked it so much, I took him to a summer stock production of the musical. He came out critical. It did not have Robert Preston. It starred Gary Sandy, best known as a star of WKRP in Cincinnati. The production seemed more semi-professional than professional, and I learned that every presentation of a classical musical is not necessarily worth attending. Somewhat to my surprise, I have never seen a stage production of West Side Story.

I did not know that these two quite different musicals opened a few months apart and vied for that year’s Tony award with Meredith Wilson’s production winning in a controversial, close vote. The assigned reading maintained that the two plays showed different ways of dealing with America’s race or ethnic differences. Of course, West Side Story deals with those issues, but I was not convinced about Music Man. The thesis just seemed to be an academic overreach. I was pleased, however, that the instructor played a video of Larry Kert, the original Broadway Tony, singing. He had a marvelous voice. We did not discuss, however, the appropriateness of movies casting leads and then dubbing their singing as was done in West Side Story, or Natalie Wood’s attempt at a Puerto Rican accent.

I also felt as if I irritated the instructor that class. I had privately corrected him a week or two before. He was talking about Vaudevillian villains who twirled their mustaches and referred to such a person as Dudley Do-Right. As a devoted follower of George of the Jungle, I knew he meant Snidely Whiplash. Dan graciously accepted the correction. That was minor, but it felt more important when he labeled the Jets in West Side Story as W.A.S.Ps. I, privately told him that there was no way a gang on the west side in 1950s New York were white Anglo-Saxon protestants. In fact, there is a point in the production where ethnic slurs are tossed about and Tony, an original leader of the Jets, is called a Polack. I said the Jets were not high up on the social ladder, only a bit higher than the Sharks, and that was part of the reason for the intense bitterness between them. Dan maintained that in the literature the Jets are called wasps. I said that if so, those commentators were wrong. That seemed to irritate him, and I dropped the topic.

The “students” in the course were of my generation, and several repeatedly made the point that they did not like contemporary musicals because they were no longer musical. Many seemed almost hostile when we turned to Sweeney Todd, where hummable tunes were few but strident,  emotionally powerful singing plentiful. The instructor did a marvelous job explicating the innovative music and the remarkable lyrics. The repeated T sound in “Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd,” for example, is brilliant, but so is much else in the show. I had seen a filmed version of Sweeney Todd with the always marvelous Angela Lansbury and George Hearn, and one Broadway production featuring Patti Lupone (she played the tuba), but I had not fully realized Sweeney Todd’s brilliance until I was led through it by Dan.

We finished with Hamilton. Time and again during the class I had heard how someone had gone to the show with their grandchildren, who loved it, while the grandparent had gotten little from it. Once again, however, the class opened my eyes and ears. I realized how remarkable Hamilton is, a truly transformative musical. Thanks, Dan.

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Snippets

Larry Summers, former Harvard President and former Secretary of the Treasury, said that he would be stepping back from public commitments after a release of emails between him and Jeffrey Epstein showed that Summers stayed in touch with Epstein even after the pedophile was convicted. Summers said, “I am deeply ashamed of my actions and recognize the pain they have caused. I take full responsibility for my misguided decision to continue communicating with Mr. Epstein.” Of course, he should have felt the same shame a week, a month, a year ago. His actions that supposedly bring the shame had already occurred. Apparently as long as the emails weren’t public, he was not ashamed.

The girl in the comic strip asks how best to deal with A.I., and Lars, the space alien, responds, “Become an oligarch.” She asks how to do that, and Lars says that this planet’s requirements are “you need to be a white male narcissist with inherited wealth and live in a country run like a banana republic.” She mutters, “Well, I got one out of three, so it’s a start.”

A coupon urged me to buy beef sticks because they contained “real ingredients.”

All my life I have heard conservatives rail against big government, but I have never been sure of the definition of “big government.” Apparently, food stamps or a subsidy to the poor is big government, but a tariff and/or owning a share in a private company, another form of governmental subsidy, is apparently not big government. Why is that?

A member of the book group denounced a novel “as written for money.” I thought the greatest writers—e.g., Shakespeare and Dickens—wrote for money. Perhaps the only authors who do not write for money are academics, and I assure you that even many of them dream of dollar signs.

“Socialism” is thrown around as an epithet a lot these days. So is “communism.” I wish that those who did so would define the terms, or does it just mean something the person does not like?

Tim Weiner in The Mission: The CIA in the 21st Century quotes David Petraeus: “You really should have a deep understanding of a country and all aspects of it before you invade it.” I hope this is kept in mind as Trump considers actions in Venezuela. It didn’t work out very well in Iraq.

As Ian Frazier was signing my copy of his latest book, Paradise Bronx: The Life and Times of New York’s Greatest Borough, I told him I had been his admirer since Great Plains written more than thirty years ago. He thanked me, and I continued that Paradise Bronx, too, was marvelous . . . except for the ludicrous subtitle. “You didn’t like the subtitle?” I explained that I had been a Brooklyn boy for over a half century. He continued that the subtitle had not been his but the choice of his editors.

I am fascinated by those religious institutions that allow so many to feel self-righteous by making the lives of others so much worse.

A perspicacious person said: “A bigot delights in public ridicule, for he begins to think he is a martyr.”

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First Sentences

“On the morning of April 20,2001, George Tenet gazed out the glass wall of his seventh-floor suite at the Central Intelligence Agency, looking upon a vision of serenity, tall green trees reaching as far as the eye could see.” Tim Weiner, The Mission: The CIA in the 21st Century.

“Behold. Forty-four-year-old him. A low-budget, Black Jack London shivering in the frozen north called Minnesota.” Jason Mott, People Like Us.

“The Bronx is a hand reaching down to pull the other boroughs of New York City out of the harbor and the sea.” Ian Frazier, Paradise Bronx: The Life and Times of New York’s Greatest Borough.

“A prim girl stood still as a fencepost on Rhys Kinnick’s front porch.” Jess Walter, So Far Gone.

“History shows us how to behave.” David McCullough, History Matters (ed. Dorie McCullough Lawson & Michael Hill.)

“The seventeenth century was a tough time to be alive.” Jonathan Healey, The Blazing World: A New History of Revolutionary England, 1603-1689.

“The body floats downstream.” Ariel Lawhon, The Frozen River.

“In 1991, a generational tale of parking’s role in American life began in Solana Beach, California.” Henry Grabar, Paved Paradise: How Parking Explains the World.

“At least it gives me an excuse for sweating, thought Peter Pascoe, as he scuttled toward the shelter of the first of the two cars parked across the road from number 3.” Reginald Hill, Death Comes for the Fat Man.

“Robert Langdon awoke peacefully, enjoyed the gentle strains of classical music from his phone’s alarm on the bedside table.” Dan Brown, The Secret of Secrets.

“After a hasty exit, I patted myself down, checking my pockets to see whether I had stashed anything useful.” Hannah Carlson, Pockets: An Intimate History of How We Keep Things Close.

“In 1959 Florence Green occasionally passed a night when she was not absolutely sure whether she had slept or not.” Penelope Fitzgerald, The Bookshop.

“On the southern slopes of Mount Zion, alongside the ruins of biblical Jerusalem, lies a small Protestant cemetery.” Tom Segev, One Palestine Complete: Jews and Arabs Under the British Mandate (translated by Haim Watzman).

“In conversation play, the important thing is to get in early and stay there.” Stephen Potter, Lifemanship: Some Notes on Lifemanship with a Summary of Recent Research in Gamesmanship.

“Every Wednesday afternoon in the laboratory where I used to work, we had an event called journal club.” Chris v. Tulleken, Ultra-Processed People: The Science Behind Food that Isn’t Food.

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Brace Yourself (Guest Post from the Sp0use)

I was born 79 years ago with one leg shorter than the other. Well, that’s the easy explanation. Currently my right leg is, in fact, 10 inches shorter than my left, but the medical explanation is somewhat more complicated. The textbook calls it “focal femoral deficiency,” which means that I lacked a femur, and, hence, the hip socket that awaited the head of that femur went without. Happily for me, a small nubbin of bone was the single representative of the missing femur, and, as you will see, it was pressed into service.

My mother must have been horrified to find that her second baby girl was going to be “crippled” (as they said in those days). She had classic Rita Hayworth legs of which she was justifiably proud, and would have expected to pass them along to her daughters. More than the absence of pretty legs, though, her second baby girl might not walk.

Mother being at a loss and, no doubt, bereft, my father took on the orthopedic duties. Good man that he was, he took a leave from graduate school and moved the family lock, stock, and barrel from Evanston, Illinois, to Washington, D.C. World War II had ended the previous summer, and the Veterans’ Administration was geared up for equipping returning soldiers with artificial limbs of all sorts. Dad must have known someone in the VA because he seemed certain that people there could outfit me with some sort of apparatus that would allow me to walk. He was right.

Let me stop to interject a word about prosthetists — those people who make braces and artificial limbs. In my opinion they are among the most creative problem-solvers on the planet. Prosthetics were pretty much in their infancy after WWII, and these guys were confronted with a vast variety of injuries. Braces are not made on an assembly line — not in those days anyway; they had to meet a wide spectrum of individual needs. They routinely work one-on-one to develop a constructive strategy. As it turns out, these folks also are among the most patient of all people. I have had many over my lifetime, and they are all good listeners, kind, and just plain nice.

My first brace was an elaborate piece of metal sculpture. These men (and they were routinely men in those days) were artists as well as craftsmen. There were two steel uprights surrounding my leg; a shoe could be attached to a metal footplate; and below the steel footplate were some more steel uprights reaching to the ground where there was a rubber “heel.” A leather strap encircled my leg just below the primitive “knee.” But that’s not all. There was something called an “ischial seat,” a semi-circle of padded leather that tucked in under my right buttock. And yes, I could “sit” on it. But wait; there’s more. A leather belt was attached so that I was strapped in from waist to toe. There must have been a hinge at the waist because I think I could bend over. Otherwise, there was no flexure; the uprights were unbending.

But I could walk (which was, after all, the point). Stiff-legged, but I could walk. And this contraption turned out to be more than just a crutch. With constant use of my legs, that little nubbin of bone managed to grow into a functional femur. It found a place to attach itself, not at the hip socket, but to some soft tissue in the vicinity of my hip. It nestled there, and that attachment became strong enough to support me even without the brace. However, its journey northward pulled my leg up with it resulting in shortening the leg. During most of my childhood I wore the brace to school, but at home I ran, jumped, rode bicycles, climbed trees and swam without it. It didn’t bother me that one of my legs was 4, 6, or 8 inches shorter than the other. Looking like a “normal” person, however, required the brace. Interestingly, I never named it.

But the brace was uncomfortable. In summer, the leather was hot and stuck to my skin. That ischial seat was fine while standing, but it was like a large lump on a schoolroom desk chair. And I couldn’t bend my knee. I was a stiff-legged robot with it on. And heaven knows how much the thing weighed. It also affected my wardrobe. I couldn’t wear slacks because I couldn’t get them over the brace, and I certainly wasn’t going to wear it outside the pants!

As I grew stronger (constant lifting it probably helped), the upper leather belt of the brace was removed, considered unnecessary. A relief for sure, but I was still a robot. In junior high school I was invited (by a boy!) to attend the “Eighth Grade Dance” (catchy title). His dad was going to pick me up with another couple or two and drive us to the dance and then home afterward. I was horrified to find out that I was to be squashed into the back seat with four other people. My brace had nowhere to go. It ended up poking a hole into the back upholstery of the front seat. I was too mortified to say anything. I don’t think I was invited to do anything with that boy again.

Because I was born with one leg shorter than the other, I have always worn a brace. It remained roughly the same into my teens, but two major innovations occurred in high school. One: some clever brace maker (did I mention that they are creative as all get-out?) figured out a way to hinge the brace at the knee. Yay! I could bend my knee! Major breakthrough Two: I figured out how to put a zipper in the inseam of slacks so that I could get pants over the brace. I could wear slacks!

The final innovation didn’t occur until college when the extension of steel above my knee was removed completely, and I was left with only the lower part of the brace. No need for a hinge; no need for zippers. It probably weighed half of the original.

One major vulnerability remained, however: the steel footplate. My husband and I were traveling to visit my grandmother in rural Alabama when the steel footplate snapped in two. You’d think steel could manage the weight of a young woman, but it snapped. Where does one go in rural Alabama to get metal repaired? A blacksmith! Who did, in fact, solder or weld the thing back together enough for us to complete our trip.

It snapped again when we were visiting Florence. Yes, that Florence. No blacksmiths available, but the orthopedic department of a Florentine hospital managed to glue me back together enough to carry on. The orthopedist who helped me found me and my brace quite exotic and asked many, many questions. He spoke bad English and I spoke no Italian, so I don’t know how much medical information I was actually able to impart. After that, I had the footplate reinforced with a steel rod. It has not broken since.

Recently, one of my braces (I had two working models) broke. That is, the steel upright cracked…unusual, but there it is. No one makes braces like mine anymore; the last time I had a brace made — maybe 35 or 40 years ago — they sent to Detroit to have it fabricated, but even that alternative is no longer available. So for the first time, I really didn’t have a prosthetist. But it’s just metal, right? People who work with metal could fix it, right? Yes! Fortunately, I found a wonderful metal fabricator in Brooklyn. He makes things out of metal, like metal shelves for vinyl records. It’s a niche market that he has cornered. This wonderful man agreed to try fixing up an old, retired brace to see if it could be a stand-in in case my “good” one broke. David did a stellar job — one of the best prosthetists I have ever had. I keep his card with me always!

I am thankful to all of the prosthetists who have taken care of me and my brace over the years. When I was a child, it was an emerging profession. The field has made marvelous advances over the years, but it remains hard to find a prosthetic device as individualized as mine has had to be. David is now my go-to miracle man.