White Christmas

There is a win/loss when going to warmer climes as winter’s lock clangs shut on Michigan. A whirlwind 36-hour trip to Orlando started with a drive through flurries and beastie temperatures en route to the airport on Sunday. Then landing in 80 degrees and hearing Bing’s golden baritone crooning White Christmas through the airport shuttle’s speakers was truly discordant.

Speaking of White Christmas, did you know that the song played a role in the end of the Viet Nam war? As the North Vietnamese army reached the outskirts of Saigon in late April 1975, any American strongholds were under threat.

Evacuation was imminent and what would become the largest helicopter evacuation in history began with a radio announcement relaying the secret code that the temperature in Saigon was “105 degrees and rising” and Bing Crosby’s White Christmas was played. Bing’s voice told evacuees to get to the U.S. Embassy where helicopters were waiting. (http://www.u-s-history.com/pages/h1880.html)

Crosby's White Christmas single has been credited with selling 50 million copies, the most by any release and therefore it is the biggest-selling single worldwide of all time. The Guinness Book of World Records 2009 Edition lists the song as a 100-million seller, encompassing all versions of the song, including albums. Crosby's holiday collection Merry Christmas was first released in 1949 and has never been out of print since. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Christmas_%28song%29)

Back in Michigan, scant snow blows through spine-chilling temperatures . . . highs in the 20s with accompanying single digit wind chills offer their early winter challenge. Frankly, the temperatures aren’t really particularly annoying if one has the right gear and a modicum of heartiness.

That heartiness declines with age. I got to see my pal Howard this evening. Howard turns 87 in March (“God-willing,” he’d say) and he’s still living independently. He tells me he’s fallen twice since I’ve seen him. Not from tripping nor ice; instead, he’s certain his heart stops and doesn’t restart until he hits the ground. I asked if he capitulated to his physician’s advice to have a defibrillator implanted. “Not yet, but I might let them after we meet in January.”

He’s noticeably more areel since our last visit; slower and repeating himself. But, as always, full of stories and graciousness. Tonight he told me of his courtship with his wife Donna Lee Chapman, their life together and her untimely demise at age 55. It’s been nearly 30 years since her death and her mention still makes his eyes well. Howard brags on his grandson, reports his delight that his pastor is moving back from Tennessee to Michigan, and shares his recipe for fried potatoes. In less than an hour, we pretty much cover all the bases.

He yawns and I announce my intention to leave. Howard asks my forgiveness for not getting up – I tell him he doesn’t have to stand on ceremony – he laughs at the pun.

“Come back any time.”

I believe I shall.

A Thanksgiving Story

Ray wrestled with sleep – just like every other night for the last ten months. Watching the digital alarm inch through the darkness added to his frustration. Finally, the clock reached 5:00 AM: not optimal, but a reasonable time to rise, wrap himself in a tattered black terrycloth robe, and shuffle into his therapeutic slippers (the heel on the left slipper chewed partially away by a long-passed Cocker Spaniel named Hobo).

In short order, a measure of Folgers was in the percolator, and a rasher was scenting the small house. “Millie loves her bacon,” mused Ray as he set out unmatched place settings and a couple of mugs for the coffee. Spits of grease shot out from eggs in a cast iron fry pan that was the first wedding gift he and Millie opened fifty years ago this week.

He sometimes lucked out and their anniversary would fall on Thanksgiving – the kids and (eventually) grand kids would gather and he didn’t have to take Millie out to dinner. Ray wasn’t particularly cheap, but he loved Millie’s cooking more than anything found at the few restaurants still open in their middle-Tennessee town.

The farm, in its heyday, sent 70-90 cattle to market annually and was located just east of the Hickman County seat: Centerville. Their land backed up to the Duck River and the bottom land would reliably flood every third or fourth winter. Ray and the boys would spend the late spring repairing fences while the herd was pastured on the upper ground.

It was a good living and it sent four children through college, allowed Ray and Millie a week’s vacation in Destin, Florida each year, and paid off the mortgage 10 years early. Millie’s acre garden supplemented the meat he raised or hunted for their family and Millie’s autumn canning ritual would easily carry them to spring.

He had almost forgotten that today was Thanksgiving. Closing his eyes, he recounted fifty years of Thanksgivings. The first time the two of them hosted his and her parents for the holiday – and Millie cooking the Butterball with the package of giblets still inside; the year their oldest was in the hospital with bacterial meningitis and they brought turkey, dressing, yams, cranberries, and chess pie to the ward and fed the entire second-floor nursing staff and most of the hospital residents; the year their youngest daughter’s soon-to-be fiancée followed Ray to the barn to ask if he could marry her (this brought an audible chuckle as the rest of the story included the boy slipping on a cow pie and having to borrow clothes before Millie would allow him to join the family at dinner); the year that their oldest grandson didn’t come back from Iraq.

There were plenty of ups and downs over five decades. On balance, however, Ray was truly thankful for and proud of his children, thankful for the joy and the laughter that defined their years on the farm and, especially, he was thankful for Millie. Oh, they didn’t have a perfect marriage, but he’d still fight anyone who said anything critical about his beloved. It wasn’t a perfect marriage; it was a perfect love.

Ray finished his breakfast and noticed that he once again set the table for two despite Millie being gone for ten months. Today, his daughter was picking him up to celebrate the day in Murfreesboro at their family home. It was his first Thanksgiving without Millie and his daughter promised she’d make chess pie just like her mom’s. Ray just hoped she would remember to take the giblets out of the turkey.

Happy Thanksgiving.






Image reported to be in the public domain and available here:  
http://blogs.cdc.gov/publichealthmatters/files/2012/09/ElderlyEmergency_Banner.jpg

A smaller sphere

Sean Lee during the Detroit/Dallas game 10/27/13

The idea of “six degrees of separation” is familiar: that we are connected to anyone else on the planet by no more than six different relationships. There is even a tongue-in-cheek axiom: “six degrees of Kevin Bacon” where it is asserted that any actor can be connected to a movie in which Bacon appeared through six instances of various actors and their co-stars.

I can’t vouch for the reliability of “six degrees” – I suspect that there are farmers in North Korea with whom I have no connection. Conversely, I can easily trace short steps to Presidents, Celebrities, Serial Killers, CEOs, Popes, and Royalty from my little splash of Lima Township.

It’s likely more productive to consider a simpler degree: with whom are we personally connected and what do those connections mean?

This last weekend, I got to reunite with enatic cousins and watch one of them excel at the highest of gridiron levels, the NFL. Cousin Sean Lee and the Dallas Cowboys came to town for a match-up against the Detroit Lions. Sean had two interceptions (he’s a linebacker) and some key tackles in a game where the Lions managed to squeak out a victory with 12 seconds left. While I can only imagine Sean’s disappointment, I was very proud to have this connection to such a successful and gifted athlete.

I’m also proud to be connected to a number of others: to my nephew who served in Afghanistan; to a good friend who, after losing his wife, re-energized his life and became a chef; to friend who is a firefighter and another who is a police officer; to the friend who is a State Senator; to several friends who are committed to keeping the Constitution alive in our Republic; to a brother who faces life’s challenges with enviable faith and optimism; to my mother who inspires me and makes me laugh. There are also cancer survivors, activists, caregivers, artists, actors, moms, dads, plumbers, educators, farmers, restaurant workers, lawyers, judges, entrepreneurs, scalawags, bandits, and many others who comprise my life’s tapestry.

I guess that may be tonight’s reflection: we are enriched by those friends and family who nurture and support us and we are educated by those who disappoint and betray. Each, in his or her way, contributes. And we too, in turn, contribute.





Photo credit: Shannon DeVilbiss Gallup