O Tannenbaum

O Tannenbaum

By my reckoning I have lived long enough to see seventy-three Christmas trees all decked out with lights, ornaments and lots of presents under their boughs. That’s a lot of Christmas trees, so many that all but the most recent are but a blur of colors, smells and memories. Is there anything more magical than a Christmas tree?

This past week the grandkids came over to help decorate our tree. Judy and I watched their excitement as box after box of lights and ornaments were opened. Many of the ornaments were the same ones that their dad, aunt and uncle hung on past Christmas trees. Hopefully, long after we are gone, they will share some of these same memories with their children.

Another family tradition is cutting down our own tree. Purchasing a permit from the forest service allows us to bring home the perfect Charlie Brown tree. In the past, we have bought precut trees from a lot and even invested in a plastic tree but the best is one right out of the mountain forest. The pine smell and pitch sticking to our hands makes for a real Christmas tree.

I would be remiss without making reference to the German folk song that heralds the beauty of the Christmas tree. As a child, I heard my father sing in German:

“O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum…. O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree how lovely are your branches not only green when summer’s here but in the coldest time of year. How sturdy God has made thee! You biddest us all place faithfully our trust in God, unchangingly O Christmas Tree.”

May your Christmas tree bring you happiness this Holiday Season and many memories for the future!

Tom and Jerry

Tom and Jerry

Growing up in a large family, the weeks leading up to Christmas were a combination of controlled chaos and spiraling anticipation. Trying to be spiritual with Advent Wreath devotions all the while counting the days before we could open our presents made us somewhat schizophrenic.

For years my parents hosted a Tom and Jerry Christmas party. Friends and family were invited to help usher in the season by gathering to sip and share this Christmas cheer. I don’t know how it all started but I do remember lots of people flocking to our home each year to partake of food and drink.

The Tom and Jerry drink is an acquired taste. My dad had this secret recipe that involved concentrated preparation and left the kitchen a mess. This hot drink was a concoction of egg nog, whipped egg whites, brandy, rum, assorted spice and hot water served in a mug. The sign of a good Tom and Jerry was that it left a foamy mustache on your upper lip. Moderation was the key to making it home safe.

For those of less exotic taste there was Silver Satin punch. This is a sweet, inexpensive white wine served in a large punch bowl filled with ice. Because it is pleasant tasting and seems innocent enough, it can be dangerous to the thirsty. More than one child at the party got buzzed thinking it was kid’s punch.

Sharing this family tradition stirs up all kinds of memories. How my dad loved to be the chef and bartender while my mother, dressed immaculately in a red satin dress, wondered who all these people were and who was going to clean up the mess. Singing Christmas carols slightly out of tune and hearing stories of Christmas past were the potpourri of our holiday season.

After my father’s passing, my brother endeavored to carry on the Tom and Jerry Christmas party. Those attending were siblings, in-laws and grandchildren; all former attendees had passed on. Now it is all a memory of Christmas past.

I’m going looking for a bar that serves this holiday nectar and see if it gives me a white mustache.

Photos

Photos

There it sits in our TV room. An old wooden tool chest that masquerades as a coffee table and often used footstool. We bought it at a garage sale years ago thinking it would make an attractive storage bin of some kind. The wood is marred and stained but it has a unique character about it. All but forgotten it, it hides a treasure hold of memories.

While rearranging the room, we opened the old chest to discover hundreds and hundreds of glossy 3x5, 6x4, enlarged school photos, 35m colored slides, and other assorted mementos of ages past. There it was, a menagerie of family history piled in disarray in that old wood chest.

I confess that I have neither time or patience to even begin to sort through all those photos. Judy took on the challenge. She purchased plastic containers and began the process of sorting through photos of each of our children and other significant family events. While watching the QVC and reruns of old Christmas movies on the Hallmark channel, she started making sense of our pictorial family history.

I confess that several times I started digging through the pile only to get lost in the memories that they evoked. I was amazed at how young we looked back then. Seeing our kids as kids brought tears to my eyes. Remembering people and places long forgotten reminded me that we have lived a very rich life. Flipping from photo to photo, I felt drawn into times long gone.

We don’t take photos that way anymore. Now with a click on my smartphone I can instantaneously record family history. For some reason, it’s not the same. Yea, I know you can somehow download those pics and mysteriously send them in cyberspace and within a twinkling of an eye have them reappear in your mailbox as 4x6 glossies (in triplicate) or even made into a memory book. But who has the time or the tech savvy to do that on a consistent basis.

If I could find that old camera that captured all those family memories, I would trade my smartphone for it in a minute. But that’s not going to happen. I wonder how our kids are going to remember us. I guess I will have to stipulate in my Will that they will have to share my phone so they can view all 10,000 pixels!

Gumball Grandparents

Gumball Grandparents

Following my brother into the dark recesses of his laundry room where he keeps his computer so that I could print boarding passes for our flight back to Montana, I saw it. It had been a long time but not forgotten, the gumball machine. In fact, there were two of them but the original stood intact full of multi colored gum balls.

Back in the day that same dispenser of juicy delights was a permanent fixture in my parents’ home. Why they chose to prominently display that mechanical tooth destroyer in their home is beyond me. Whenever our kids visited their grandparents, the first thing they asked was “can we have a gum ball?” All it took was a penny and a twist of the dial to consume that treat. My parents made sure there were plenty of pennies around to meet the demand.

It wasn’t long before the kids started calling my parents “grandma and grandpa gumball.” In order to stop the incessant demand to keep going to their house and play with the gum ball machine, we bought one of our own. This made matters worse because we started to find chewed gum everywhere: under tables, on bathroom sinks and in children and animal hair. Not to mention the cost of  dentists.

One Christmas, Judy embroidered colorful gum balls on two sweatshirts to give to my parents as gifts. The kids were excited to see that we approved of their gum consumption by giving such a thoughtful gift. Although they were gracious is receiving the gift, we never saw them wear the sweatshirts.

There is a moral to this story. Grandparents beware that what you give your grandchildren, may be the very label they remember you by. Our grown children still remember them as Grandpa and Grandma Gumball. Who would have ever thought that a penny gumball machine would capture the imagination of a generation of descendants.

Mom and Dad, thanks for the memories!

Give Thanks

Give Thanks

My favorite Thanksgiving memory is Grandma who had a love-hate relationship with the turkey. She would rise early on Thanksgiving Day to stuff the turkey with homemade dressing. All the while she would be slapping that poor bird around muttering in Polish words difficult to translate into English. Her turkey and dressing were the best; a true labor of love.

 I am reminded of a Bible passage from Paul’s letter to the church in Thessalonica: “Rejoice always; pray without ceasing; in everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” For a guy who gets a bad rap for being too stringent for modern taste, he nails the reason for the season.

It’s difficult to pause from the rat race of life to reflect on the graciousness of God. The only pause I am familiar with is the button on my TV remote. Unfortunately, this national holiday has morphed into the starting gun of the holiday shopping season. So much for taking the time to reflect on the bounty of our gracious God.

There is a song we sing in church at this time of year that captures the spirit of Thanksgiving: “Give thanks with a grateful heart. Give thanks to the Holy One. Give thanks because He’s given Jesus Christ, His Son.

And now let the weak say, I am strong. Let the poor say, I am rich because of what the Lord has done for us. Give thanks!”

When I smell the aroma of the turkey cooking in the oven, I can’t help but pause and reflect on the image of Grandma prepping the holiday bird. I thank the Lord for those memories.

A blessed Thanksgiving to you!

Stetsons

Stetsons

Growing up I wanted to be a cowboy. I remember a childhood photo dressed in cowboy shirt, jeans, holster with cap guns and a cowboy hat. At age seven, I certainly looked like a cowboy. In those days playing cowboys and Indians (Native Americans) was a favorite pastime.

Cowboys were my heroes. Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger, Sky King and John Wayne to name a few. These were the good guys I saw on the silver screen Saturday afternoon at the local movie theatre. I wanted to be one of the guys who did good, punished the bad and always got his girl!

You could tell the good guys because they wore white cowboy hats (the exception being Hop Along Cassidy who wore a black one). The bad guys wore black hats. Back then it was easy to distinguish the bad from the good by the color of their cowboy hat. Things were simpler back in the old days.

I never lost my dream of being a cowboy. When I moved to Montana it was a must to have a cowboy hat, boots and a real revolver. I have two off white Stetson xxxx cowboy hats, a comfortable pair of Ariat cowboy boots and a nice collection of firearms. For you greenhorns the xxxx stand for quality beaver fur used in expensive Stetsons.

On Sunday mornings, you can see me arrive at church with cowboy boots, western vest and Stetson; the firearm is optional depending on my sermon topic. You may think I have finally gone over the edge. The truth is that I still look pretty good in that outfit and, at least in part, living out my dream.

At the end of every Roy Rogers movie, Roy and his wife Dale Evans (in white cowboy hats) sang these words: “Some trails are happy ones, others are blue. It’s the way you ride the trail that counts, here’s a happy one for you. Happy trails to you, until we meet again. Happy trails to you, keep smiling until then.”

Adios!

Remote Starter

 Remote Starter

My first car was a grey 1952 Chevy two door. It was long and sleek with an exterior metal visor over the windshield. When you popped the hood, there was enough room to crawl in with the engine not like today where there isn’t any unused space. The stick shift was on the steering column; no power steering or power brakes. This beauty had two crank down windows and two wing vents; no air conditioning. The radio was a wood box that sat on the front seat with one wire going to the exterior antenna and another one to the battery; no FM or satellite radio.

It was the car I remember best because it was my first. It was my ticket to mobility; no more biking or hitch hiking. My dad bought it for me and taught me how to take care of it: filling the gas tank, checking the oil and tire pressure. When it came time to trade it in, my dad had this advice: don’t by a car with power windows because they will break and don’t buy cheap tires. For years I didn’t buy cars with power windows and to this day I buy quality tires.

The reason I mention this is because I recently had a remote starter installed in my truck. My 2002 Chevy needed a tune up, new starter and battery. My sons suggested I have a remote starter installed as well. I have friends who swear by this modern convenience. Living where I live, starting my truck from inside my front door in winter is indeed a luxury.

I can’t help but wonder what my dad would say. He lived long enough to use a computer and a cell phone. Eventually he didn’t heed his own advice and bought nice cars with power windows and factory air. I wonder what he would have thought about heated seats, power everything and a remote starter.

Funny how technology changes one’s ideas about life. I was happy with that ’52 Chevy. Now I wonder if I can live without my remote starter. I need to check around and see if they have invented a remote starter that will get me out of my warm bed on those cold, winter mornings.

All I have to do now is remember where I put that key chain with the remote starter button on it!