THE EVOLUTION OF CHRISTMAS

Evolution. That’s a word we usually associate with biology. For example, some scientists believe that human beings evolved from apes. (That stretches the imagination until you consider some of the similarities in behavior!)

Wikipedia, however, says that the word "evolution" can refer to any gradual change that occurs over generations. With that definition, I think it is clear that there has been an evolution of Christmas. I mean, after all, originally it was just a day when a boy child – later named Jesus – was born in Bethlehem.

Many came to believe that Jesus was the Messiah (Savior) prophesied by the Hebrew scriptures. Persecuted by the Romans, they began celebrating his birth on December 25, the time of a Roman holiday celebrating the returning of the sun. Thus, their festivities escaped governmental attention. By 354 A.D. that date was fixed in the calender of the early church and soon became a day for feasting and celebration.

It was not until 1038 A.D. –700 years later – that the day was called Christmas. The word comes from the old English, Christes maesse, or Christ’s Mass. At that time, the seasonal holiday continued for twelve days, from December 25 till January 6,Three Kings’ Day (or Epiphany).

Decorations for Christmas have also evolved. It was traditional to decorate with evergreen branches for ancient Roman and Jewish winter holidays. In the 1400's England added holly and ivy to the holiday decor.

Artful miniatures of the nativity of Jesus had begun to be created in Italy as early as 900 A.D. St. Francis of Assisi was especially fond of these "nativity scenes" and popularized them in the 1200s. The tradition spread rapidly across Europe.

Christmas trees date back to Germany, perhaps to Martin Luther, in the 16^th century. English royalty imported this symbol of the season by the 1700s and it spread to America with immigrants from Europe by 1870.

Music, especially composed for the Christmas season, was sung in Rome as early as the 4^th century. France, Germany and other European countries developed their own Christmas carols beginning in the 1100s. In England, too, special seasonal music was composed and the custom of "wassailing" became a common part of the holiday celebration. Small groups of people singing carols walked from house to house. The gracious recipients of their music would invite them into the house for wassail, a hot, spiced fruit juice-based drink.

Not everyone has rejoiced in the celebration of Christmas, however. In England, during the brief rule of the Puritans from 1647 to 1660, Christmas celebrations were outlawed. Puritans who immigrated from England to America also opposed all festivities at Christmas-time, believing it was an invention of the Roman Catholic church against which they had rebelled. Their neighbors who had immigrated from Germany, however, celebrated the holiday lavishly with special foods, decorations, music and pageantry.

Perhaps the greatest evolution related to Christmas customs is the changing nature of the season’s major gift-giver. In various countries, gifts were brought by Father Christmas, the Christ Child, the Three Kings, St. Nicholas, Pere Noel, or Basil of Caesarea. But Santa Claus had begun to emerge in New York City by the early 1800s. In 1822, Clement Clarke Moore wrote a poem that described his view of Santa Claus. It was called "A Visit from St. Nicholas" and described the seasonal gift-giver as "round" and "jolly," dressed "all in red" with a white beard. He drove a sleigh pulled by reindeer, carried a sack full of toys, and came down the chimney to deliver gifts for children on the night before Christmas. This became the classic picture of Santa Claus which has now spread around the world.

Even within the half century plus of my lifetime, there has been much evolution of Christmas. In my childhood, celebrations of the season revolved around our church and our home. The religious nature of the holiday was emphasized by the singing of carols and the reading of the nativity stories from the Bible. Gifts were simple and often homemade.

But Christmas has now evolved into "the largest annual economic stimulus for many nations," Wikipedia reports. Christmas shopping season begins about the middle of October as the stores begin "decking their halls" with Yuletide trimmings and advertising "holiday sales" in newspapers and on TV.

Perhaps we could hasten the evolution of Christmas from faithful to financial by establishing October 15 as the beginning of the season. We could revive again the old English custom of "wassailing" so singing parents could accompany their "trick-or-treating" children!

As for thanksgiving, new carols could be created for the Yuletide repertoire in order to "christmas-ize" that holiday. For example:

(TUNE: Over the River and Through the Woods)

"Over the highways and to the mall for Black Friday sales we go.

We know the way well, and we’ll be there a spell,

For we don’t want to be left out. Oh, no.

Over the highways and to the mall to fill up our shopping bag.

We won’t think twice about the price

Though our spouse will probably nag.

Over the highways and to the mall, to each store that advertises.

We’ll get there at 3 in the morning, you’ll see,

In our Santa Claus disguises.

Over the highways and to the mall. Oh, shopping’s such a lark.

We’ll shop ‘till we drop and still not stop,

If we can find a place to park!"

Other new Christmas carols could focus upon the economic emphasis that has developed around that gift-giving holiday. For example, a Christmas Theme song for merchants:

(TUNE: White Christmas)

"I’m dreaming of a green Christmas, with every purchase that is made.

As the cash drawers jingle and credit cards mingle

with overdraft letters from the bank.

I’m dreaming of a green Christmas, to turn my bottom line to black.

With each ad in print or TV, I count all my profits, don’t you see!"

Of course, the shoppers, too, need a theme song:

(TUNE: God rest ye, Merry Gentlemen)

"God rest ye, merry shoppers. May you find your heart’s desire.

Go, grab it quick and pay for it before the price goes higher!

The special sales are really grand; I’ve bought more than I planned!

Oh, tidings of lots of gifts for me; stuff I don’t need.

Whoops! And tidings of money woes indeed!"

Christmas customs and celebrations have changed over the years. From a babe in a manger to a diamond necklace in a velvet box, our holiday outlook has changed. Christmas has evolved. But, like the evolution from apes to humans, it’s too early to tell whether the change is for the better or not!

24 Nov 2011 - mshr

American White Pelican

While we were riding bicycles in the Edinburg Municipal Park today we saw many American White Pelicans. There were 60-70 in one lagoon and perhaps 23-35 in another lagoon.

As if to protect their territory from the migrating pelicans, two Neotropic Cormorants sit atop a pole watching over the scene.

AWKWARD AGE

I’m at an awkward age again! Half a century ago, I survived the painful transition from teenager to young adult, an awkward age I had been warned about. But I never realized that there would be more times when my body felt like it didn’t belong to me!

This current awkward age I am experiencing is difficult to explain, let alone live through. The calender, my hair color, and my knees and my thumbs all tell me I am old. The calendar doesn’t lie, of course. I could change the color of my hair, but that would only hide the truth. My knees are unpredictable: sometimes they will hold me up, sometimes they won’t and my thumbs have trouble grasping anything. And, all too frequently, all four joints hurt. I’m adding wrinkles on my face (and in other body areas!) and age spots are "bustin’ out all over." My balance is no longer steady, and occasionally I’m surprised to find myself on the ground. I’ve fallen because my coordination has been replaced by the lack of it!

When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself! Who is that aged creature staring back at me? I struggle to accept the image in that mirror as being me. That’s because, inside that aching and wrinkled old body, there lives a joyful and carefree little girl. That child still likes to run, jump, turn cartwheels and somersaults. But the body in which she is imprisoned can’t do those things anymore. "It must belong to somebody else," she concludes sadly.

What is the answer to my chronological dilemma? How can I cope with this awkward age of being a young self in an old body? Perhaps the solution is to learn how to act old, out of respect for my body. Maybe I should practice walking slowly; trade in my bicycle for a rocking chair; begin using large print reading material; learn how to use a cane; learn the fine art of grouchiness; and refuse to try anything new, greeting all changes with a skeptical "Bah! Humbug!"

That might satisfy the needs of my body, make me more comfortable and keep me up off the ground. But what would it do to that happy little inner child? Surely she would quit laughing, joking, trying to learn new skills and experience new challenges. It wouldn’t be long until she would shrivel up and die!

‘Learning to act old’ might ease the tension of my current awkward age. It could increase the harmony between my body and my self, but it would also remove most of the fun and excitement from my life. I would become old all the way through, both inside and out!

No, thank you, I’m not ready for that yet! I’ll take the painful joints, the graying hair, and the facial wrinkles in order to keep my inner child happy and active! I’ll just stay at this awkward age for as long as possible.

As for my occasional falls, the day will come when I must leave this worn-out body behind and travel on in the hope of getting a new, heavenly one. When I go, the scars on my body from all my falls will make it so much easier for my loved ones to identify my remains! So, even in the midst of an awkward age, there are blessings!

9 Nov 2011 - mshr

DUMP LESSON

Yesterday, Bruce gave me a dump lesson. Actually, I’ve been dumping for years, but not that smelly kind of stuff that accumulates in the "black water tank" of an RV. 

From an early age I tried dumping guilt upon my parents, but my Mother, wise woman that she was, put a quick end to that. "Sorry, my dear," she responded to my guilt-dumping attempt, "I have enough sins of my own to answer for. I’ll not accept the responsibility for yours!"

I was no more successful in trying to dump guilt upon my husband-to-be. On a cold November day, he silently opened the car window, letting in a blast of wintry wind. "What are you doing?" I shrieked.

  

"Just making room," he replied calmly, "so that what goes in here (pointing in his right ear) and comes out here (pointing out of his left ear) can keep on going!"

 But the kind of dumping Bruce was teaching me yesterday involved stuff more tangible than guilt. He’s been trying to teach me for years and I’ve always watched carefully as he did it. But then, I’ve always found some way to be "busy" the next time it needed to be done.

 

This time he’s preparing for cataract surgery which will put restrictions on his bending over. So, I really did need to learn how to dump the "black water" (that’s an RVers genteel way of referring to feces or poop!).

We walked outside, around to the back side of the fifth wheel. There he stopped, folded his arms, and waited expectantly. Suddenly I realized that, unlike previous lessons, he wasn’t going to demonstrate for me how to do it. He was going to make me do it myself!

I looked down at the maze of handles – four of them – that need to be pulled and pushed at the proper time, and I froze! All I could think about was that scene from the movie RV when Robin Williams tries to dump the accumulation in the black water tank of the RV he has rented to take his family on vacation.

If you’ve seen the movie, you know what I’m talking about. He, too, did not understand the system of hoses and valves required for the task. He ends up getting sprayed by a geyser of the smelly crud when his sewer hose proves to be too short to reach the dump drain!

I knew I wouldn’t have that problem. Our sewer hose is securely mounted on one of those caterpillar-like sets of plastic legs that carries it downhill and directly to the drain. I don’t know what the proper name is for that little device, but I think it ought to be called a "craperpillar."

With a mighty effort, I pushed the images of geysers of liquid brown sludge out of my mind. I bent over and pulled a handle. It was the right one! Then I pulled a second handle, and I could see that the desired action was taking place. Just for good measure I pulled the other two handles – one at a time – and another gush of water, thinner and lighter in color than the first, poured forth down the sewer hose. I had dumped the "gray water" (dishwater, shower water, and stuff that’s not so contaminated), too.

Then it was time to push the handles in and close off the valves, in the proper order, of course. That part wasn’t nearly so scary, but another image flashed through my mind.

Several years ago, at a state park in Louisana, Bruce waited in line for his turn at the public dump station. As he waited, he couldn’t help but hear the booming voice of a man behind him in line. The loudmouth was bragging about how most people don’t know how to dump properly, but he did.

 Bruce completed his task, pulled forward out of the dump station and turned around just in time to see a disaster. The braggart had pulled up to the dump, connected his sewer hoses, placed the end down the drain, and pulled the release handle on his black water tank. Unfortunately, the hose connections were not tight enough and gave way under the pressure of the exiting fecal fluid! There was no geyser this time, but there was a wide-spread stinking mess and lots of quiet chuckling in the crowd around him.

So, I mentally patted myself on the back at completing the task in a clean and efficient way. Now, if I can just remember how I did it when I need to do it all by myself!

MEDICAL MONTH

        You are all familiar with the months of January, February, March, December, etc. I’m sure you’ve used terms such as "the summer months" or "the winter months." Perhaps you’ve even heard the saying "a month of Sundays" (I don’t know what it means, either!). Well, currently, we are discovering another kind of thirty-day span: "the month of the doctor." Our October schedule this year has been entirely controlled by medical appointments!

         It may just be an unavoidable part of the aging process; one of life’s necessary nuisances. On the other hand, it could be the result of our annual summertime travels. From May through September, we visit medical professionals only if an emergency arises. Unless bronchitis, heart palpitations, or something equally fear-inspiring occurs, we steer clear of doctors in the summer.

         The result of our summertime avoidance of health practitioners is that they all want to see us for a semi-annual check-up at the same time in the fall. Returning to our half-year home in south Texas in late September, we are ushered into our "medical month" in early October.

         This year, doctor and dentist appointments consumed nine of the 31 days of that month. There were appointments for each of us with the eye doctor (not just any eye doctor, mind you, but a retinal specialist!), the dentist, the lab for blood work, our family doctor. Bruce then visited a different eye doctor (this one a cataract surgeon!) This week he will go back to the eye clinic for pre-op preparations, to the heart doctor for routine testing, and we will both see the dermatologist. Of course, Bruce will have to go back to the cardiologist for the results of his heart tests.

         Health care will have consumed nearly one-third of our entire month, and we’re still healthy! If we were sick, no doubt we’d owe the health care system every day of our schedules as well as our lives and our bank accounts!

         This year it looks as if "medical month" will be extended beyond October. We already have five more appointments scheduled in November. However, each time we read the list of obituaries in the daily paper, it is sobering to find so many listed there who are younger than we are. We breathe a prayer of thanks that our names are not yet included. We give thanks, too, for the skill and expertise of all those medical professionals who gobble up our schedules, for they are a major reason that we are still standing upright and above the sod.

         Doctors are sometimes criticized for "thinking they are God." But that misconception is not really surprising. They spend every hour of their professional lives trying to fix or improve upon the imperfections and wear-and-tear in God’s finest creation: the human body and mind. Their knowledge of the human body and mind (or at least of a small part of it!) is continually digging deeper into the mysteries the Creator has so far kept hidden.

       The story is told of a doctor who died and went to heaven. He checked in with St. Peter at the pearly gates and was told, "You’ll need to wait a little while before God can see you. You can make yourself comfortable in the waiting room around the corner. Your name will be called when God is ready to see you." The doctor was not used to waiting for others but he tried to make the best of it, thumbing through a magazine. 

        After about an hour, he could no longer contain his impatience. He slammed down the magazine and went back out to the pearly gates and let St. Peter know of his frustration.

         "Look, Pete," he said loudly, "You said it would only be a little while until God would see me. It’s already been over an hour and I still haven’t been called in. Am I going to have to wait for all eternity before I get my chance to stand before my Creator?"

          "Well, sir, I hope not," responded St. Peter. "I’m sorry for the delay in your appointment. But, you see, today God thinks He’s a doctor!"

          So, in the coming weeks, as we wait our turns in various medical offices, we’ll try to remember the Heavenly Healer and be patient. But we will also be thankful that our "medical month" only lasts about 60 days this year!

24 Oct 2011 - mshr

Sandcastle Days at South Padre Island

Today we visited the 24th Annual Sandcastle Days at South Padre Island, Texas. 

What a delightful event!

We were welcomed to the competition area of the beach by this sand-sculptured sign.

The event features competitions at various levels of artistic skill: professionals (called Masters of Sand), and amateurs (Family and Friends Division, Kids & Castles Division, and Teen Division).

Cat o' Nine Tales

This artistic sculpture won the Texas State Sandcastle Championship for 2011. 

Note the play on words "tails" and "tales."

A few of the sand sculptures really looked like castles!  This one, in one of the amateur divisions, was really ornate and detailed, both front and back.  Individual steps were shaped on stairways and fancy archways were hollowed out like real-life doorways.

This castle, in the amateur division of "Family and Friends" was tall, with winding staircases and roofed turrets high above the main structure.  While we admired the workmanship, we also wondered how long it took to design, shape and build such a masterpiece.

In this sandy spectacular one can see a man, sitting in front of a tall column, playing his guitar.  This, too, was entered from one of the amateur divisions.

"Calavera del Toro" by Carl Jara of Ohio

This ghastly work by another Master of Sand -- whose title translates as "Skeleton of the Bull" --  was probably inspired by the approach of Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead).  It is a combination of Hallowe'en and Memorial Day that is celebrated throughout the Hispanic world.

"Sea Saw" by Kirk Rademaker of California.

 

"Padre Palace" by Amazin' Walter McDonald of South Padre Island.

This masterpiece, too, was created by a Master of Sand. 

It was voted the People's Choice Winner of the competition.

Overview of "Masters of Sand" division of Sandcastle Days

Organizers of the four day event anticipated as many as 30,000 visitors.

The week-end attraction also includes free sand castle building lessons,

live music by a local band, and

a "Castles by Candlelight" shrimp boil.

Mother Nature blessed the celebration with nearly perfect weather,

so the respiratory irritation of a little red tide didn't keep the spectators away.

Colorful kites fllying above Sandcastle Days.

Although the focus of the event was on sand sculptures,

kite enthusiasts decorated the sky above the competition area 

with their brightly colored and variously shaped air-borne creatures.

The sand, the sky, and the sea all seemed to celebrate together with us

the creativity and skill of those who sculpt in sand.

THE GREAT SAND BURR WAR

You’ll never see it recorded in world history alongside the Trojan war, the Crimean war, the French revolution or the wars fought by the Crusaders to “liberate” the Holy City Jerusalem from the pagan Muslims. You won’t even find it in American history where the Revolutionary war, the French and Indian wars, the war between the States, the “war to end all wars,” the “war to make the world safe for democracy,” the VietNam war, and the “War on Poverty,” are described. The Republicans vs. Democrats war taking place currently in the U.S. Congress will, no doubt, be discussed in future history books. The “Great Sand Burr War,” will never be recorded by historians, however, so I myself must insure that it is not forgotten!

I like to think of myself as a tolerant and accepting person (whether or not that’s true!). I believe in the “live and let live” philosophy of life. But my tolerance and acceptance has limits. It ends when I encounter a sand burr! In the midst of my flower beds, in the grass of our side yard, or imbedded in a carpet in our living room, I hate sand burrs!

Now, for you Northerners who have never encountered those prickly little south Texas pests, I’ll try to explain. Sand burrs are bead-sized stickers, shaped like a curled up porcupine ready to strike. They grow in clusters on a certain type of vine that masquerades as grass and loves to infest lawns and grassy areas. The vines are nearly indestructible and flourish in drought-like conditions when other (respectable) vegetation is dying of thirst. Sand burr vines are resistant to weed sprays which kill the surrounding plants. Rabbits, and other small animals, give them a wide berth and eat decorative plants instead.

The vines, with their Velcro-like burrs attached, can grow to a length of 6 or 8 feet, or longer if left undisturbed. Then, when a bare foot, a pant leg, a finger, or anything, happens to touch one of those invisible little spiny clusters, the burrs attach themselves painfully to the exposed part. Shoes sometimes carry the spiny little burrs into the house where they embed themselves in rugs and carpets, only to be discovered by a bare foot on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. So, now you know why I hate sand burrs!

I’d show you a picture of the prickly pest if I had one, but I don’t. We’ve never found anything photogenic about sand burrs!

Year after year, when we return to the Valley, I have to spend hours waging war against them. They especially love one of our flower beds. There, the vines hide in the soil and grow silently, poking an occasional green frond up above the flowers. But, beneath the thick leaves of the ground cover, the sand burr vines invade the entire patch. They twine themselves around the stems of the flowers and slowly choke or starve them to death. I cannot sit idly by and let my sworn enemy destroy the flowers I’ve worked so hard to nurture.

So, again this year, I declared war on the sand burrs in my flower bed! I donned my palm protected canvas garden gloves and grabbed my weed bucket. I waded out into the center of the patch, and began pulling. My bucket was filling up fast with yard after yard of green and brown vines. I discovered, however, that the spiky little burrs love canvas and will cling to it stubbornly. They quickly covered my gloves and had to be painfully removed with bare fingers!
The next day I tried leather gloves and found them far more suitable armor for sand burr warfare.

Early that second morning of conflict, I learned just how desperate my vegetative enemy had become. The sand burrs and vines had enlisted mosquitoes or other biting insects in support of their cause! My arms, legs and neck were covered with itchy, red blotches. I was getting desperate but becoming ever more determined.

By day three I had a strategy. The evening before I had enlisted the help of a powerful ally: the water hose. The one thing sand burrs don’t like is water, so my strategy was to drown them out. I pulled what I could see, and then flooded them again.

After three days, the battlefield was quiet. No healthy green fronds of the sand burr vines were visible above the flowers. But it was just a stalemate, not a victory. My sneaky enemy vines were quietly growing new and stronger roots under the ground. They were just waiting for the showers to cease so they could again attack in force.

Sure enough, after a week-long cease fire, I attacked again and discovered an even thicker maze of enemy vines hidden beneath my healthy green plants! I pulled and I yanked; I yanked and I pulled. I filled up another weed bucket with vine casualties, but they were everywhere. They had even curled themselves around the roots of the healthy plants so that when I pulled them up, they brought up innocent bystanders with them. I had to admit defeat when the “body count” in my week bucket included more flowers than sand burrs! I know that, in the end, I’m going to lose this Great Sand Burr War. But I would at least like to win the battle for my flower beds!

10/6/2011 - mshr