“At Christmas, all roads lead home.”
—Marjorie Holmes
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I am a Grinch when it comes to Christmas. Not the virulent “bah, humbug” variety, but a solid out and out Grinch nonetheless. I carry these credentials proudly. This year, I mailed out one lonely Christmas card, to my parents. I have yet to buy a single gift for anyone. The plastic Christmas tree (just assemble it and plug it in, and behold, a thousand little twinkling lights) remains stored in the garage this year. No Christmas lights, iceberg or otherwise, flicker outside on my porch. And yes, the house is dark and cold, devoid of Christmas cheer. (Well, perhaps that is a bit dramatic. I do indulge in Christmas cookies and candy, shattering my carefully controlled diet to smithereens in the process.) Unlike the original Grinch, I do not have a dog to kick around.

It’s not that I hate Christmas, far from it. I always look forward to the season, the good food, a good day to watch college football. Same this year. And it’s not that I’m turned off by all the commercialization. I don’t blame any merchants for hyping the season for sales. I would too. It’s just that Christmas, other than being a day off, was never the huge event for me that it seems to be for many people. I never had visions of sugarplums dancing in my head. I don’t even know what a sugarplum is.

We observed Christmas when I was a child. Observed, not celebrated. We always knew Christmas was approaching when the Eaton’s Christmas Catalog arrived in the mail. A great, bound, thick book of goodies. I spent many hours paging through and drooling over the toys section. I always wanted a toy barn and little animals. The catalog displayed them in full tantalizing, colorful detail. Of course, such an item was only a dream, beyond the realm of possibility.

Then one year, my sister Magdalena, who taught school in Conneautville, PA, brought home a box with a toy barn and animals. Store bought. Made of bright plastic. White with a brown roof. At Christmas. We were ecstatic. Dad frowned darkly at spending money on such trivial things, but he let us keep it. It provided hours and hours of fun on cold winter evenings.

In Aylmer, some grim but influential church members (radical elements) had a strong aversion to getting too excited about anything that remotely smacked of Christmas. They were actually hostile about it, almost to the point of ignoring Christmas alto-gether. At least we didn’t have school on Christmas Day. But we did have church service every Christmas afternoon. Which was a downer for us children. To have to go sit on hard backless benches for three hours did not seem to us a cheery or particu-larly Christmassy thing to do. That’s because it wasn’t.

It was always cold. Bitterly so. The winter winds whipped and the snow slithered about like a living thing, creating huge drifts and piles along the sides of the roads. We got up on Christmas morning, stood shivering around the great wood-burning furnace Dad had just lit in the living room, waiting for the heat to penetrate. On the kitchen table, Mom had always set out a row of coffee cups, one for each of us. Each cup was filled with candies and nuts. Usually a piece of fruit, perhaps an orange, lay beside each cup. My brothers and I raced to be the first one to get to the table, so we could carefully compare the cups and choose the fullest one. Once chosen, it was yours. No switching. We munched on the sweets before heading to the barn for our morning chores.

After breakfast, Dad always read the Christmas story from Luke, Chapter two. In German. We sang some mournful slow-tune church songs. Which never went that well. Then had the rest of the morning to ourselves. We normally just lounged about, reading or playing. After a noon snack, we had to get ready for church. If I remember right, it was acceptable to have guests for the evening meal. The next day, it was back to school.

We sang Christmas carols at school. As a child, my favorite Christmas song was “We three Kings….” It still is. At school, we staged an occasional Christmas program, even though the aforementioned radical elements fiercely opposed such a thing. Too much like the “world.” They were downright grim about it. Killjoys. Bears, we called them. And that’s what they were. Glum, grizzled bears. I remember only a few such pro-grams, and I don’t know how we got away with even those. Must have slipped through when the bears had let down their guard. Or were hibernating.

Later, in the spring, we were allowed to have a school program where we sang and recited poems, but of course it had nothing to do with Christmas. I guess we were all better Christians that way, what with denying ourselves what little joys we could and all. Or so some thought. And what they thought mattered in that world.

We eventually moved to Iowa, where Christmas was much more vigorously and openly celebrated. Some families there even had a tradition of giving each other presents. We were awed that such freedom could exist. I was a teenager then, just entering the magical “sweet sixteen” years, when a youth thinks he’s an adult and no one has the heart to tell him otherwise.

We went caroling in the cold with the youth group, driving from house to house about the community, our steel-rimmed buggy wheels squeaking loudly on the frozen snow-packed roads. We stood outside the houses in the cold and sang “Stars of December” until we sickened of the song. We hollered, “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” Folks invited us into the warmth of their homes. We ate lots of sweets and drank coffee and cocoa. We got home at midnight, or later, slept in delicious exhaustion.

Each year, my sister Naomi made a special Christmas candy. It became a tradition. She laid row upon row of the freshly-coated candy on large flat pans and set them out to cool in the porch or the pantry; we furtively swiped a piece or two as we walked by. The candy recipe was a secret, I think, a rich mixture of cream and butter and sugars, covered with dark brown melted chocolate. She learned it as a young girl from Eli Hostetler’s wife Mandy. Naomi still makes it today because she sent me a box of it this week. It tastes as good as I always remembered it, the most delicious confection imaginable.

I left home for good in 1988. After emerging from all the dust and baggage of that experience, the old home place seemed far away, in another lifetime. It felt like it would always be that way. But, as Christmas approached, some of the battle weari-ness receded, the old longings stirred within. I could not ignore them.

And so my brother Nate, who had also left, and I began a tradition of our own. For a stretch of years from the early to mid 1990s, we went home for Christmas. Despite the scorched earth we had fled, it was still the only real “home” our hearts knew. We returned again and again for that special day.

We always stopped in town on the way out and bought Mom a large red poinsettia and Dad a box of chocolate-covered cherries, his favorite. Mom always met us at the door with a smile of welcome, jubilant that her boys were home, if only for a few days. Dad greeted us politely and went bustling on about his business. Mom fluttered about, laughing and filling us in with the latest tidbits of news and gossip as she hovered above the crackling Pioneer kitchen stove, brewing strong black coffee and stirring our favorite soup concoctions for the next meal.

Dad and I developed a small tradition of our own. On the first night home, we sat up late, until midnight or after, just the two of us, discussing many things. The old mantle lantern glowed and hissed behind us, blending with our muted voices. Somewhere in these conversations, he ceased his endless admonitions and we just talked, man to man. It was a new experience for me, a milestone I will always cherish. He asked a lot of questions about my college classes. I often told him he should have gone to college. He always chuckled and claimed he had no regrets, which may or may not have been true.

Usually, after two or three days, it was time to leave, to return to our world. We could always feel it. Nothing overt, just a subtle nudging. Maybe it was just our weariness of living the old lifestyle, which receded ever deeper into unreality every year.

Then, one year we did not go. It didn’t suit one of us. And the tradition simply faded away and died. It has now been probably ten plus years since I’ve been to my parents’ home for Christmas.

Traditions come. And they go. As did this one. I don’t particularly mourn it. But I’m glad it happened as it did and when it did.

This year I will spend the day with some of my family and some friends. I plan to enjoy it. Eat lots of food. Watch lots of football. Relax. Watch “A Christmas Story,” which plays on TBS for 24 hours straight. And since I have been so lackadaisical about mailing out Christmas cards, here goes. To all my readers: Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

And I’m still a Grinch.

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“Old age: the crown of life, our play’s last act.”
—Marcus Tullius Cicero
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They were born in Daviess County, Indiana, in the 1920s. They grew up there. It was a different place then, and a different time. They married there and had the first of their eleven children there. As a young couple, after he returned from his WWII C.O. service, they moved with friends and a few other relatives to a new little settlement in Pike County, Ohio. There, several more children arrived.

In 1953, they moved again, along with most of the Pike County families, this time to Aylmer, Ontario, Canada, where their remaining children were born. Twenty-three years later, in 1976, they moved again, for the final time, they thought, to Bloomfield, Iowa. In Bloomfield, their younger children grew into adulthood. Most of them married and eventually, whether single or with their own families, scattered to the winds.

With the passage of years and advancing age, they moved into a little “Dawdy” house on the farm of their oldest son Joseph, where they have lived now for almost two decades. But soon my parents will move once again. This time with Josephs to the little Amish community in May’s Lick, Kentucky.

Josephs will hold an auction this Saturday, Dec. 15th at their home place in Bloomfield. To dispose of excess items they will not need, or don’t have room to transport. Many of my siblings plan to attend. I won’t be able to make it.

I do not question or criticize the decision to move. I wasn’t there. And haven’t been. Those who are do the best they know. The decision was not made overnight. It was not lightly undertaken. Much was considered, over time. Many factors weighed, over time. And so it will be. I accept that.

And yet, and yet…when it boils right down to it, I can’t help feeling a little bit sad. Dad is 86 years old. Mom is 84. They are both tough, of pioneer stock, and have done what needed to be done all their lives. But still, something tugs at the heart when one considers the implications of such an aged couple packing up their meager possessions and moving to an entirely new place. Away from the familiar, from their home of rest, from all they’ve known for so long. To a new uncharted land, foreign to them both, populated by strangers who, although helpful and kind, are strangers still and to some extent will always be.

Although those of us children scattered afar in distant places will support them the best we can, only one real anchor remains, one constant presence during the transition. Their oldest son, and his family.

And so they will go. To one more place they will call home. This is, I think, the beginning of the final chapter. The last such journey. They have lived a long time, a full allotment of rich, textured, turbulent years. Resided in many places, witnessed an astonishing array of colossal events. Their legacy endures, written on the trail of their past, in the lives and talents of their children, reflected on each wrinkle of their worn tired faces.

They have seen so much, and much of that so long ago. Who can know what secrets remain in their hearts, what they really felt and thought, and who they really were? They have spoken, yet left so much unsaid. Few of their stories have ever been honestly told in terms of the full human drama in which they occurred. Stories of the life they lived, the family they raised, the people they encountered, the paths they forged. Of all they were and were not, and of all they might have been. So much, so many stories left untold.

One day I will write them.
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Update on Paul and Anne Marie Zook. Anne Marie was diagnosed with a heart murmur during pre-op tests. As it stands today, her brain tumor operation is scheduled for Wednesday, Dec. 19. She will be admitted to the hospital on Monday, Dec. 17. Her parents, who live in Canada, have arrived and are staying with them in their home.

Paul and Anne Marie received many cards and a few gifts (money and gift cards) from my readers this past week. They express their heartfelt thanks to each one who responded. I add my thanks as well. Those who still wish to send encouragement can get their address from last week’s blog.

Last Friday evening I stopped by to see them. They had just learned of the heart murmur, so everyone was pretty much in a tizzy. I offered to take Paul out for a bite to eat. We drove to New Holland on the icy back roads. At the New Holland Pub, he ate a cheeseburger and fries and talked. I just sat and listened. After about an hour, we started back to his place.

It was a foggy, misty night. Snow covered the ground and ice covered pretty much everything else. As we passed a house in the country, Big Blue suddenly was rocked by a large snow ball. I first thought we had driven through a snow patch and the snow had bounced up into the truck side. But Paul hollered that there were some kids out in the yard, and they had thrown snow balls. At the next drive, just around a curve, I slowed up and stopped. Paul claimed the kids were running out behind the barn. I backed Big Blue into the neighbor’s drive and turned around. We roared up and pulled into the drive of the house where the snow balls had been launched. The kids had vanished into the night.

I parked the truck. While Paul remained in the truck and observed with keen interest, I walked up to the house and pounded on the door. A little girl opened it and peered out. Her parents and another couple were seated at the table, playing cards. The man of the house greeted me quizzically.

“I was driving by and some kids just hit my truck with a snow ball. Just wanted to let someone know,” I said in a stern loud voice. The mother looked startled and a bit defensive.

“I told them,” the man intoned, “I told them they can throw snowballs, but not at any vehicles.”

“It’s my son’s birthday party,” he explained. “He’s got three friends over, and they are out playing. I told them not to throw snowballs at vehicles.” He put on his boots and walked out with me. We inspected the truck for damage. It was fine. You never know, they might have packed a rock into the snowball. I got in and we backed out and drove away. Last we saw him, he was striding sternly out to the barn. I hope some-one’s birthday party was ruined. But I doubt it. The little savages.

The bleak rainy weather this week has been incessant. Rain falls, spirits droop. Snow, rain, more snow, more rain. No sun. It’s enough to drive one batty. Perfect fireplace weather, provided one has a fireplace. I do not, alas. I guess it could be worse; we could have the ice storms that battered the Midwest just this week. We’ll probably get them this weekend. The weather here reminds me of the classic painting. The lone figure, scrunched up against the elements, dressed in a long coat and perhaps clutching an umbrella, walking down a dreary empty windy street. Alone, at night.

Glenn Beck, my second favorite talk show host (after Rush), recently published his latest book, titled “An Inconvenient Book.” He wrote it in response to AlGore’s idiotic, apocalyptic global warming movie, “An Inconvenient Truth.” The book immediately shot up to #1 on the NY Times Bestseller list, much to the chagrin of liberals and other AlGore types. Someone gave me a copy for Christmas. It’s an easy read and a very sensible book. I recommend it.

The baseball steroid scandal erupted this week with the release of the Mitchell Report, which names eighty-five players who supposedly partook. The report was compiled by George Mitchell the ex-senator, a vile, viscous partisan man in his time. For decades, he was the implacable foe of Presidents Reagan and Bush 1. I guess old senators never really retire, they just putz around on committees and and get paid exorbitant fees to do useless work. I could care less about who did or did not use performance-enhancing drugs. Including Barry Bonds. I am hugely irritated that the Senate will hold hearings on the matter, beginning next Tuesday. We’ll be subjected to an endless stream of showboating blather from fat blowhards. Don’t they have better things to do? On the other hand, while they are engaged in such hearings, at least they won’t be raising my taxes or handing down more insane environmental regulations, etc.

Kevin Costner strolled into our office last week. Well, it wasn’t really him, but it could have been. Or his twin. Sure looked like him. Talked like him too. Enough so that I gaped and did a double take. The guy was from Jersey, on his way up for a holiday with his family. He stopped by to see about building a shop for his home business.

His name was Andre, and he hand-forges suits of armor for full-contact sword fights. He needs a shop in which to manufacture the armor. I was intrigued. I didn’t know such a thing existed. Full-contact sword fighting, I mean. I asked if they can hit each other on the head. Anywhere, he said. Anywhere on the whole body. He showed me his permanently swollen, flattened fingertips. Hit so many times in the fighting, he said. I was impressed. And a little awed.

He makes entire suits of armor (but not swords), cold hammered from 18-gauge steel, for about $8000.00 per suit. I asked about his liability. What if a helmet he made splits and someone’s head gets gashed open or cut off? The helmets, of course, are padded inside. And everyone signs a waiver, he assured me. Sure. That’ll do it. Waivers are worth about the paper they’re printed on, once some Philly attorney gets hold of it.

It takes all kinds, I guess. Modern day knights-errant in armor running around slashing and hitting each other with swords. Full strength hits. On the head or anywhere else. A full-time Armorer. Who’da thunk it? And maybe I’ll get to build his shop.

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