man with black hat: milford

Showing posts with label milford. Show all posts

Sunday, January 05, 2025

Christmastide: Twelfth Night

When I was growing up back in Ohio, the Village of Milford had its own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."

This might seem remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later is still more or less dominated by) Methodists, as opposed to us "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- would never go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw the so-called yule log ceremony, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.

(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)

These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:

They have got to be kidding. Is nothing sacred anymore? Why celebrate the glory of the season when you spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?

Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.

Last of all, for those years when we have a live tree, it is sent to its final resting place.

Joy, health, love and peace
Be all here in this place
By your leave we will sing
Concerning our King.

Our King is well dressed
In silks of the best
In ribbons so rare
No King can compare.

We have traveled many miles
Over hedges and stiles
In search of our King
Unto you we bring.

We have powder and shot
To conquer the lot
We have cannon and ball
To conquer them all.

Old Christmas
    is past
Twelvetide
    is the last
And we bid
    you adieu
Great joy
    to the new.

See all twelve days commemorated at the "xmas12days2024-2025" label.

Friday, January 05, 2024

Christmastide: Twelfth Night

When I was growing up back in Ohio, the Village of Milford had its own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."

This might seem remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later is still more or less dominated by) Methodists, as opposed to us "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw the so-called yule log ceremony, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.

(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)

These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:

Friday, May 12, 2023

The First Day of the Rest of My Life

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

IMAGE: Archbishop McNicholas High School, Cincinnati, Ohio, as it appeared back in the day.

You might remember that expression from when you graduated from high school. It signaled a rite of passage, of moving on in life, whether to college, a job, a marriage, or whatever fate decided to bestow upon you as an adult. Mine actually occurred in the weeks before graduation, in two parts.

The first was fifty years ago this evening.

+ + +

I spent my senior year of Catholic high school in the advanced placement "Humanities Seminar," which combined the mandatory subjects of English, Religion, and Social Studies, into a unique interdisciplinary symbiosis. It was quite the challenge compared to conventional high school classwork, but one that cultivated a scholarly atmosphere worthy of college. The experience saved me from the boredom of "senioritis," not to mention the occasional degeneracy of whatever upper-class suburban white trash managed to slip through the cracks of the Admissions office four years earlier.

Mary Margaret -- her real first and middle names; I will spare her the disclosure of the rest -- was the quintessential "nice Catholic girl." She was very pretty without being overly glamorous, and had no pretensions about herself. We spent much of the latter part of the school year sitting next to one another. Even then, the way to my heart was for a gal to laugh at all my jokes. I won't say that a romance blossomed, although part of me at the time wished it had. While she was very much down to earth, something about her was inaccessible, untouchable, rendering me almost unworthy. This did not prevent a deep and apparently abiding friendship from developing. I had no steady girlfriend, and would not have known what to do with one anyway (having learned the hard way earlier in the senior year -- twice). So when the equivalent of the senior prom arrived -- we called it the "Spring Formal," don't ask me why -- I called her on the phone and asked her to accompany me, and she accepted. Fortunately for me, she was equally inaccessible to everyone else. She made no attempt to be. Mary wasn't one of those girls who hiked her uniform skirt six inches above the knee when she was a safe distance from the house. Nor was she interested much in "dating," so far as I knew.

I will save the perspective on that for later. Meanwhile, back to our misadventure ...

IMAGE: Some guy named Bill with (bad fashion sense and) his prom date. Used without permission or shame.

When that magic evening came, it was without a tuxedo.

My mother could not fathom my going to the expense of spending twenty dollars (about one hundred and forty dollars in today's currency, oh yes!) to rent a suit that I would only wear once. This was actually a mixed blessing. That meager price would have afforded me a garden-variety black tuxedo, with a plain white shirt and black bow tie, as opposed to the more expensive, and eminently more "stylish" brightly-colored polyester regalia with a ruffled shirt that was popular back then, and the subject of retrospective shame in the present day. So I wore my favorite brick-red Norfolk jacket with grey slacks, and my favorite tie.

Mary's mother was very nice, and took our picture by the fireplace before we left. She seemed to know my parents, my father in particular, but I don't remember how. I also don't remember who the other couple was that we went with that night. But he drove, and Mary and I sat in the back seat, holding hands, her head gently perched on my shoulder, wearing the orchid I bought for her. We had a very grand time, dancing the night away in the suitably decorated school cafeteria, as this was before renting an overpriced hotel ballroom was de rigueur.

When it was over, and I finally took her home, that goodnight kiss that every teenaged boy meets with anticipation and dread, never came. Girls like Mary didn't take kissing lightly, if at all.

I was driven back to Milford, and stumbled into the house at about three in the morning. Naturally, the old man was waiting. Now, in my younger days, there was rarely a euphoric occasion that he couldn't find a way to ruin somehow, at the breach of any infraction. The good news was, it wasn't in front of a crowd (which never stopped him before). The bad news was, I was up for at least an hour (which seemed much longer), admonished in no uncertain terms for keeping a young innocent girl out so late at night, and bringing shame and dishonor to our entire household. Immersed in his own Euripides play that he was, he ordered me to apologize to the poor lass at school on Monday morning, for being such a thoughtless rogue.

Needless to say, she was sufficiently amused by the whole thing.

Before I left high school, I gave her a final token of my affection; a pair of Snoopy earrings I bought at a greeting card store. (It was the early seventies, after all.) She put them on immediately. After I left, we managed to stay in touch during the summer, but not as much as I might otherwise would have wished.

For you see, there were other events on the horizon, and the matter for our sequel, one week from today. Stay tuned ...

Thursday, January 05, 2023

Christmastide: Twelfth Night

When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had its own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."

This might seem remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists, as opposed to us "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw the so-called yule log ceremony, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.

(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)

These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:

They have got to be kidding. Is nothing sacred anymore? Why celebrate the glory of the season when you spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?

Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.

Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place, in the years that we actually have a live tree, which is the case this year.

Wednesday, January 05, 2022

Christmastide: Twelfth Night

When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had its own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."

This might seem remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists, as opposed to us "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.

(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)

These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:

They have got to be kidding. Is nothing sacred anymore? Why celebrate the glory of the season when you spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?

Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.

Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place, in the years that we actually have a live tree, which we didn't this year -- but that's another story.

Tuesday, January 05, 2021

Christmastide: Twelfth Night

When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had their own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."

This might seem remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists, as opposed to the "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.

(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)

These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:

They have got to be kidding. That kills the holiday magic right there. Why celebrate the glory of the season, when you can spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?

Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.

Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place -- in the years that we actually have a live tree, which we didn't this year in favor of being out of the country -- which as has been noted, is another story.

Sunday, January 05, 2020

Christmastide: Twelfth Night

When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had their own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."

This is remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists and not "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.

(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)

These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:

Monday, October 14, 2019

Signs of the Times

I saw the work of one sign painter everywhere in the little town of Milford, Ohio, when I was growing up in the 1960s. It was as if the whole town was his client. I don't know what happened to him. And yet, when I visit about once every other year now -- none of the family lives there anymore, and the home was sold several years ago -- I see the remnant of the unknown sign painter, amidst the growing number of antique stores, gourmet restaurants, and ... of all things, microbreweries!

I was finishing high school in 1973, when Dad took me to "Commercial Square," a side street in downtown Cincinnati with a row of old factory warehouse buildings (since razed for what is now the Procter and Gamble headquarters) to visit what he called "a dying art." There, a couple of men ran a sign-painting business. Dad knew I aspired to go to college, but he didn't believe in accumulating massive debts and living on credit. (In fact, he never owned a credit card in his entire life.) If I could find a profession that didn't require a college education, so much the better. I viewed their work with some interest, but little enthusiasm.

I went on to complete my graphic design studies at the University of Cincinnati, graduating in 1978. Looking through old magazines and art manuals, I had a brief flirtation with calligraphy and hand-painted lettering. In the early 1980s, I did calligraphy for special occasions; family, parish, that sort of thing. I left it behind completely once the computer came to our office, and "desktop publishing" was the next big thing.

I came across a 2017 article in Monocle just recently ...

... and I remembered that brief page of my history. Part of the trend may be a reaction to our slavery to technology, as if to lend credence to Newton's Law. Whatever is ancient is new again.

The total cost of my college education, culminating in 1978, has been estimated at around ten thousand dollars. I managed to recover that cost in short order.

And so it goes.

Saturday, January 05, 2019

Christmastide: Twelfth Night

When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had their own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."

This is remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists and not "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.

(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)

These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:

They have got to be kidding. That kills the holiday magic right there. Why celebrate the glory of the season, when you can spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?

Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along (which, thankfully, falls on a Sunday, lest the bishops worry too much about inconveniencing the huddled masses into attending the Masses). Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.

Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place -- in the years that we actually have a live tree, which we didn't this year ... but that's another story.

Friday, January 05, 2018

Christmastide: Twelfth Night

When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had their own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."

This is remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists and not "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.

(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)

These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:

Thursday, January 05, 2017

Christ-Mass: Twelfth Night

When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had their own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."

This is remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists and not "Catlickers." (Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. Indeed, it was outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern states, on the other hand ...) Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.

These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:

They have got to be kidding. That kills the holiday magic right there. Then again, why celebrate the glory of the season, when you can spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?

Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.

Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place -- in the years that we actually have a live tree, which we didn't this year ... but that's another story.

Saturday, December 24, 2016

An Obligatory “Reason For The Season” Testimony

I suppose life is simpler when you're young, because the world itself is simpler. My dad used to say as much when I was little. Was the world really so complicated when I was young and he was older? I guess it depends on which one of us you asked in 1960.

When I was growing up in Ohio, the town where I lived would put up decorations along the main drag, like every other town. They all said "Seasons Greetings." Not "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays." It wouldn't have occurred to me that Christmas was being downplayed. Not in a town settled in 1787 by Methodists, who still pretty much run it more than two centuries later, and not in a town where Santa Claus rode a fire truck through the streets of town on the Sunday before Christmas, handing out bags of treats to all the children.

And believe it or not, NOT AT STARBUCKS!

So I went to Starbucks yesterday, and decided to test the limits of political incorrectness (the basis for which is allegedly why they don't want my business, or whatever some right-wing yahoo is ß!+©#ing about this year), and maybe order coffee. When the cashier asked me what my name was to put on the card, I said: "Merry Christmas." Without hesitation, he wrote "Merry Xmas" on the cup. (The "X" is the first letter of the Greek name for Christ. That's where it comes from, you big dummy!) That's also one less reason (or two, because I just mentioned another one) to boycott Starbucks.

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While the actual birth date of Christ remains a matter of debate among scholars and historians alike, the season itself, from time immemorial, and among people who had yet to hear the Gospel, has been associated with the passing from darkness to light, inasmuch as there was celebration at or near the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. Over two millennia, Mother Church has taken that which was good in itself from many cultures, and has elevated such customs to convey the message of Christ. And so we have Christmas trees out of Germany, decorated with lights and ornaments, and lighted star-shaped lanterns in the Ukraine, carried on poles to light the way for singing carols.

As Christmas celebrates the coming of the Prince of Peace, so peace has often reigned on this occasion in the midst of war. An example from modern history would be the Christmas Truce of 1914, a century ago tonight, when British and German soldiers, on the night before Christmas, declared a spontaneous truce and met one another in No Man's Land, singing carols, exchanging coffee and cigarettes, sharing family photos, and even playing a game of soccer. It was not the only such occasion (as the accompanying video clip tells of a replay the following year), and commanders from both sides made attempts to prevent it. And yet, there were men from both sides who befriended one another, even after "the war to end all wars."

The Faith upon which the Incarnation is built, and the Church founded by Him to spread that message, have always been under siege, and the blood of Her martyrs has been the seed-bed of an ever-growing harvest. Witness the occurrence in November of 2010, at a shopping mall food court in Ontario, in Excruciatingly-Politically-Correct Canada. This wouldn't happen for Eid-ah-Adha, the Islamic "festival of sacrifice," or for Ras as-Sana al-Hijreya, the Islamic New Year. No one will pull a stunt like this for a fabricated (and, unbeknownst to many, anti-Christian) holiday like Kwanzaa. And as this is written, NORAD is not monitoring the skies for Hanukkah Harry. (Sorry, Harry.)

The threat to Christmas has been greatly exaggerated, O ye of little faith!

To be Christian, or more specifically, to be Catholic, is to believe that our Savior, the God-Made-Man, took the form of a slave, triumphed over Death, and sits at the right hand of God the Father. He, and He alone, is King. At the end of the day, at the end of Time itself, every nation shall yield, every knee shall bend, and every tongue shall proclaim, that Jesus Christ is LORD! All the billboards in the world to the contrary, all the bellyaching on cable news channels, all the machinations of public school paper hangers -- none of their futile gestures will change that. Christus vincit! Christus regnat!! Christus imperat!!!

And so, this evening, this writer will venture down the road to southern Maryland, to a little church in the country, to serve as an Acolyte for a Traditional High Mass at the stroke of twelve. “Gaudete! Christus est natus ex Maria Virginae!” “Rejoice! Christ is born of Mary the Virgin.”

Now, quit your damn bellyaching and crack open that eggnog already!

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Once again we feature our tribute to Alphabet Photography of Niagara Falls, Ontario, for thumbing their noses at the Human Rights Commission and orchestrating a "hate crime" disguised as a flash mob ... eh?

Tuesday, January 05, 2016

Christ-Mass: Twelfth Night

When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had their own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log." This is remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists and not "Catlickers." Of course, Mom and Dad didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it happen, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.

These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I have learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, courtesy of the county's Office of Environmental Quality:

They have got to be kidding. That kills the holiday magic right there. Then again, why celebrate the glory of the season, when you can spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?

Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we have celebrated Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that have been on continuously for thirteen days straight (that is, from the day before Christmas until its twelfth day) are shut off and taken down. They are put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return. Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place.

Sunday, January 04, 2015

Christ-Mass: Day 11 (Not Epiphany)

“On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, eleven pipers piping ...”

Today, as mentioned earlier, the traditional Roman calendar observes the Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus*, while the reformed Roman calendar observes either (universally) the Second Sunday After Christmas, or (in the Dioceses of the USA and elsewhere) the Solemnity of the Epiphany.

Why the latter, you ask?

This is a judgment by a competent territorial body of bishops. In this instance, the term "competent" is used guardedly. You see, they think you are entirely too lazy to celebrate anything on a weekday. So they make it convenient for you. They would probably provide drive-thru confessions, and probably had to ignore the advice of an army of lawyers and "risk assessment specialists" to pass on the idea. Perhaps once we succeed in converting the culture for Christ, they'll move Christmas to a Sunday as well, to coordinate our schedules with the department stores. Almost seems worth it, right?

We can say all we want about "the reason for the season" and "keeping Christ in Christmas" and all that. But such festivity presumes a priority attached to, and a meaning for, the value of sacred time. We can assure ourselves that "our bishops know what they're doing." But how can something be sacred if we can bend it and twist it to suit our convenience?

And that's when we beg the question, as to whether they really know what they're doing.

When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had a unique way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log." Of course, my parents didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it happen, but I would always read about it later that week in The Milford Advertiser. These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I have learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, courtesy of the county's Office of Environmental Quality: "Many recycled trees are sent through a wood chipper and are used as mulch."

Now that kills the holiday magic right there. Then again, why celebrate the glory of the season, when you can spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn or walking all over it?

Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we have celebrated Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Still, there is a great temptation to take down the lights already, to put the decorations back in storage until the season returns, and to send the dying tree to its final resting place.

But before that happens, we go back to work on Monday, and life continues to slowly return to normal.

Meanwhile, the fourth of January is when the Church remembers Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton (1774-1821), a wealthy New York socialite, who some years after the death of her husband, sacrificed her place in respectable circles upon her conversion to the Catholic Faith, and went on to found the first congregation of women religious in the United States, the Sisters of Charity. Originally based in Emmitsburg, Maryland, four of the sisters established a branch of the order in Cincinnati in 1829, as the Sisters of Charity of Mount Saint Joseph (later the Sisters of Charity of Cincinnati), where they founded Good Samaritan Hospital, and were essential in building the parochial school system in that part of the Buckeye State.

"Mother Seton," as she was affectionately known, was canonized by Pope Paul VI in 1975.

* At one time combined with the Feast of the Circumcision on January 1, before the 1913 calendar reforms of Pope Pius X, thus the revisionist conspiracy is even worse than many are led to believe. And for those who think they know it all, the controversial liturgist Annabale Bugnini was only born the previous year, calling his own part in said conspiracy into question.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

The reason for the Season is not the season of Reason ... and there’s a reason!

The latest onslaught for this year takes at least two forms. There is the obligatory "ATHEIST BILLBOARD," this time in Nashville, Tennessee. According to the Christian Science Monitor, a little girl is depicted as telling Santa that all she wants for Christmas is not to have to go to church because she "no longer believes in fairy tales." She couldn't ask for a doll, or a puppy, or whatever the latest gimmick is for which people will kill one another in the stores to get the last one -- could she now?

And then there's the scene at a Walmart in Klamath Falls, Oregon, the obligatory "THERE'S NO REASON FOR THIS IT'S JUST OUR POLICY," where teenage schoolchildren spontaneously gather near the front of the store to sing "The Carol of the Bells," and are told by the manager to leave. They depart in short order, only to appear a short time later at another store.

Are the feelings of non-Christians genuinely hurt by Christmas? Is anyone really left out at least in the northern and western hemispheres, when every European-based culture, from time immemorial, even before Christianity, celebrated the passing of the darkest night of the year, and the welcoming of the coming light?

This is lost on the atheists, as they call attention to throwing their money away on something that has changed, and will change, nothing. Even the idiots running the Walmart in Klamath Falls, Oregon, cannot ignore the obvious. Contrary to the insistence of those who make an idol of "reason" while being unreasonable, they cannot escape THE reason.

The season is not the season of Reason, and there is a reason.

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While the actual birth date of Christ remains a matter of debate among scholars and historians alike, the season itself, from time immemorial, and among people who had yet to hear the Gospel, has been associated with the passing from darkness to light, inasmuch as there was celebration at or near the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. Over two millennia, Mother Church has taken that which was good in itself from many cultures, and has elevated such customs to convey the message of Christ. And so we have Christmas trees out of Germany, decorated with lights and ornaments, and lighted star-shaped lanterns in the Ukraine, carried on poles to light the way for singing carols.

As Christmas celebrates the coming of the Prince of Peace, so peace has often reigned on this occasion in the midst of war. An example from modern history would be the Christmas Truce of 1914, a century ago tonight, when British and German soldiers, on the night before Christmas, declared a spontaneous truce and met one another in No Man's Land, singing carols, exchanging coffee and cigarettes, sharing family photos, and even playing a game of soccer. It was not the only such occasion (as the accompanying video clip tells of a replay the following year), and commanders from both sides made attempts to prevent it. And yet, there were men from both sides who befriended one another, even after "the war to end all wars."

The Faith upon which the Incarnation is built, and the Church founded by Him to spread that message, have always been under siege, and the blood of Her martyrs has been the seed-bed of an ever-growing harvest. Witness the occurrence in November of 2010, at a shopping mall food court in Ontario, in Excruciatingly-Politically-Correct Canada. This wouldn't happen for Eid-ah-Adha, the Islamic "festival of sacrifice," or for Ras as-Sana al-Hijreya, the Islamic New Year. No one will pull a stunt like this for a fabricated (and, unbeknownst to many, anti-Christian) holiday like Kwanzaa. And as this is written, NORAD is not monitoring the skies for Hanukkah Harry. (Sorry, Harry.)

The threat to Christmas has been greatly exaggerated, O ye of little faith!

To be Christian, or more specifically, to be Catholic, is to believe that our Savior, the God-Made-Man, took the form of a slave, triumphed over Death, and sits at the right hand of God the Father. He, and He alone, is King. At the end of the day, at the end of Time itself, every nation shall yield, every knee shall bend, and every tongue shall proclaim, that Jesus Christ is LORD! All the billboards in the world to the contrary, all the bellyaching on cable news channels, all the machinations of public school paper hangers -- none of their futile gestures will change that. Christus vincit! Christus regnat!! Christus imperat!!!

“Gaudete! Christus est natus ex Maria Virginae!” “Rejoice! Christ is born of Mary the Virgin.” Now, quit your damn bellyaching and crack open that eggnog already!

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Once again we feature our tribute to Alphabet Photography of Niagara Falls, Ontario, for thumbing their noses at the Human Rights Commission and orchestrating a "hate crime" disguised as a flash mob, eh? Our usual thanks once again to Robert Cooper and Chorus Niagara, The Welland Seaway Mall, and Fagan Media Group.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Ole Slew Foot: Update

BLACK BEAR UPDATE

Here is the latest information from the Miami Township Police Department and the Ohio Division of Natural Resources:

• Young male most likely from Kentucky. 2-3 yrs. of age around 85 lbs. Not causing any damage or harm. Law enforcement is monitoring situation and we will only move the bear if a situation arises.

• Dispersal of sub adult male bears occurs annually, typically a result of being driven off by their mother as she prepares for the breeding season. Young females have smaller ranges and seldom venture as far as males to establish territories. We do often get dispersing bears from neighboring states, Kentucky, West Virginia and Pennsylvania where the bear population is very healthy.

• If a bear is sighted, individuals should contact the Division of Wildlife District Office (937-372-9261) to report the sighting, and then leave the bear alone. Enjoy this rare appearance at a safe distance. Do not approach or impede the bears movement.

• Some bear reports in Ohio are associated with nuisance situations. When people remove potential food sources, conflicts with bears often diminish. Moving bird feeders higher, removing uneaten pet food, keeping trash inside until pick up day, and cleaning up after grilling out all help to deter bears from frequenting an area and becoming nuisances.

Ole Slew Foot Comes to Town

Like many other parts of the United States, the eastern outskirts of Cincinnati have been subject to slow but steady suburban and exurban growth, from the end of the second World War to the present day, particularly since the completion of Interstate 275 in the 1970s (also known as the Cincinnati Bypass, formerly known as Circle Freeway). With such encroachment comes the reduction of untamed wooded acreage, and the subsequent conflict of man with nature, as deer are sighted invading people's backyard gardens, and the migration of coyotes from the northern and western regions makes its way to the east and the south.

But the people of Clermont County, just east of Cincinnati, and where this writer's hometown of Milford is located, were not ready for their latest visitor.

Apparently, the two-year-old, 85-pound bear swam across the Ohio River from Kentucky in search of a mate. He would have a hard time finding one, as black bears are an endangered species in Ohio. Nonetheless, state wildlife officials were tracking him, especially once he had encountered humans at an outer suburb less than five miles east of the house where I grew up. The plan as of last night, was to wait until he emerged from whatever deep woods where he was hiding (probably more scared than anyone in the surrounding cul-de-sacs), capture him, and release him into a more remote area.

Who knows, maybe the Ohio Division of Wildlife will arrange a blind date for him.

And so, this bluegrass rendition by Jim and Jesse, of a country classic by Johnny Horton, is dedicated to our furry friend, who will hopefully find a more suitable venue for letting nature take its course.

Sunday, January 05, 2014

Christ-Mass: Day 12 (Not Epiphany)

“On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, twelve drummers drumming ...”

Today, as mentioned earlier, the traditional Roman calendar observes the Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus*, while the reformed Roman calendar observes either (universally) the Second Sunday After Christmas, or (in the Dioceses of the USA and elsewhere) the Solemnity of the Epiphany.

Why the latter, you ask?

This is a judgment by a competent territorial body of bishops. In this instance, the term "competent" is used guardedly. You see, they think you are entirely too lazy to celebrate anything on a weekday. So they make it convenient for you. They would probably provide drive-thru confessions, and probably had to ignore the advice of an army of lawyers and "risk assessment specialists" to pass on the idea. Perhaps once we succeed in converting the culture for Christ, they'll move Christmas to a Sunday as well, to coordinate our schedules with the department stores. Almost seems worth it, right?

We can say all we want about "the reason for the season" and "keeping Christ in Christmas" and all that. But such festivity presumes a priority attached to, and a meaning for, sacred time. We can assure ourselves that "our bishops know what they're doing." But how can something be sacred if we can bend it and twist it to suit our convenience?

And that's when you gotta ask, do they really know what they're doing?

When I was growing up back in Ohio, our town had a unique way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They'd take them to some field at the edge of town, stack them in a big pile, and commemorate "Twelfth Night" with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log." Of course, my parents didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it happen. These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I have learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, courtesy of the county's Office of Environmental Quality: "Many recycled trees are sent through a wood chipper and are used as mulch."

Now that kills the holiday magic right there. Then again, why celebrate the gifts of the season, when you can spend the rest of the year spreading them on your lawn or walking all over them?

Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we have celebrated Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Still, there is a great temptation to take down the lights already, to put the decorations back in storage until the season returns, and to send the dying tree to its final resting place.

But before that happens, we go back to work on Monday, and life continues to slowly return to normal.

Finally, in the traditional Roman calendar, the fifth of January is when the Church remembers Saint Telesphorus, elected Bishop of Rome in 126, and martyred ten years later. The reformed Roman calendar honors Saint John Neumann, the native of Bohemia who was appointed Bishop of Philadelphia in the mid-19th century, and who was a key figure in spreading the Faith to an ever-expanding United States of America.

* At one time combined with the Feast of the Circumcision on January 1, before the 1913 calendar reforms of Pope Pius X, thus the revisionist conspiracy is even worse than many are led to believe.

Tuesday, December 31, 2013

2013: Should auld acquaintance be forgot …

It is the usual order of things to see this day, the last of the calendar year, as a time to reflect on the twelve months that have passed. There are things to remember on the part of this writer, things that have been left unsaid up to now, for want of the time to record them.

As this is written, we're at the historic Jefferson Hotel in Richmond, Virginia, an oasis of genteel southern hospitality since 1895. Whenever Sal returns from her native Philippines, we go on a vacation for a few days. This time the occasion is special, as it was ten years ago this month that we met. Sal is a woman of some refinement, with an upstanding reputation in her homeland, and who is well-versed in old world Spanish manners. People wonder how she ever ended up with a small-town midwestern hick like myself.

So do I.

She is especially devoted to her one-year old grandson, who has proven to be formidable competition for her attention. (Actually, I don't stand a chance, but I'm ready to be a grandpa anyway, even if as an honorarium.)

Anyway, we made a point of visiting the Carytown section of Richmond earlier today, where there are many interesting stores. And now, with the evening coming on, and while preparing to go out to dinner later this evening, this venue provides for an opportunity to look back ...

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This past year saw the world of Catholic new media devolve into a parody of itself. What was once known as "Saint Blog's Parish" would be better known as "Our Lady Queen of Melodrama Parish." With the Catholic Channel on Patheos having become the McDonald's of apologetics, we can now be treated to the continual smackdown of Mark Shea versus Michael Voris, of pantywaist neo-Catholics movin' to the groovin' of that rockin' Steubenville "praise and worship" sound versus the stick-up-the-arse über-traditionalists who are too orthodox to stand even the sight of themselves, of converts from the Church of Satan who are giving book-and-lecture tours as experts on the Faith when they're barely out of their baptismal robes. We can see all the usual suspects in social media taking to their respective ramparts to defend their champion. He's an enemy of tradition. She's a heretic. He's a sedevacantist. She hides little children in her basement and kills her cats.

The one bright spot at Patheos is the least expected, and the most pleasant surprise. Katrina “The Crescat” Fernandez, once little more than a gadfly in the Catholic blogosphere, has emerged as an up-and-coming writer. Following an unabashed write-in campaign which landed her an invitation to the first convocation of bloggers under the auspices of the Vatican in Rome, she returned no doubt with a sense that her craft would have to venture beyond pretty pictures and potty-mouth jokes. The result is that a woman with a degree in art history actually writes about art history, not to mention living the Faith in the wake of a failed marriage, and as a single mother of a son. It is the "slice of life" that raises the level of the conversation. Somebody has to.

And are there any other issues that have raised discourse on matters of the Faith (or lowered it, depending on which end is your vantage point) to new levels?

We know where this is going, don't we?

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Earlier this year, one pope resigned, and another was elected. There has been little said in this venue about the man once known as Jorge Mario Bergoglio, Archbishop of Buenos Aires, Argentina, now known as the 265th successor to the Apostle Peter, who by virtue of his election as Bishop of Rome, is Supreme Pontiff and Visible Head of the Roman Catholic Church. He is the first pope from south of the equator, the first non-European pope in nearly thirteen centuries, and the first pope from among members of the Society of Jesus. Historically known as the "intellectual shock troops" and militant missionaries of the Church, the "Jesuits" are just as historically indifferent to the trappings of pomp and ceremony. So it should not have surprised anyone that such a man would be reluctant to first be seen on the balcony as Vicar of Christ on Earth, without the red-with-white-trimmed ermine mozetta and ornamented red stole, that which was seen by numerous successors in living memory. There is the habit of eschewing even the little things, whether by giving up the papal apartments for a nearby dormitory, employing simpler liturgical vesture than any of his predecessors, or even driving an old economy car rather than a papal limousine (a practice that will end with the first threat to his security). And while it would be wrong to presume what is in his heart with these choices, one is tempted to wonder whether what appears to be demonstrations of humility are more demonstrations than they are humility.

In pursuit of the spiritual life, it is a question we must first ask ourselves, before we ask it of anyone else, including a pope. There is a fine line between acts of spiritual piety and acts of spiritual pride. For those who pay little attention to matters of faith outside of the religion column of The Washington Post, hearing a pope say something along the lines of "Who am I to judge?" then running away with that line, aren't paying attention even to that much of it. How quickly they forget that this same "non-judgmental" pope was barely on the job when he excommunicated an Australian priest for preaching errors against the Faith. He has also condemned abortion as a part of a "throwaway culture," adding that: “Every child that isn’t born, but is unjustly condemned to be aborted, has the face of Jesus Christ, has the face of the Lord.” Are these the remarks of a pope who wants to stop talking about the evil of abortion?

Nah, didn't think so.

There is a saying in Rome: "Those who know, don't talk, and those who talk, don't know." An order of Franciscans recently came under investigation, on the basis of the malcontent of a few, and the cost was the right to celebrate the Traditional Latin Mass. Those who believe that Pope Francis is moving to suppress the ancient rite need to keep a few things in mind; 1) outside the members of the order and those doing the investigating, nobody has the whole story (that goes ditto for the gossip-mongers at Rorate Caeli), 2) the terms of the motu proprio liberating the "Old Mass" makes provision for a religious community requiring the permission of its superior, as conditions within community life demand, by definition, unity of spiritual life through uniformity of spiritual practice, 3) this is not a move by Pope Francis against a form of the Roman Mass which he personally does not prefer, but a specific move against a specific religious community over a specific set of concerns, and while admittedly heavy-handed in its implementation, is neither a guarantee of permanence, nor applicable to the motu proprio as a whole, so everybody with a TLM in their parish can relax, and finally, 4) this investigation, judging only by what is known, had to have begun under the tenure of the previous pope.

Francis has a mandate to reform the Roman Curia, the bureaucracy within the Vatican that manages the affairs of the Church. Cleaning out a rat's nest that has had its heels dug in for centuries will eventually reap benefits for the faithful as a whole. It is where the legacy of the man from Argentina begins and ends, not the trifling symbolic gestures which could be matched by nearly every pope of the last century, but for the amount of attention given to this one. Pray for him.

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In the fall of 1960, I was in kindergarten, and going on six years old. I looked out the door of the classroom one day, to see my mother walking from the cafeteria, which back then was the polling place for our precinct. I asked who she voted for. She said she voted for Nixon. But how could this be, since Kennedy was a Catholic, and we had to stick to our own? My father made the same choice, and I gave him the same reply later that day. They only said, we don't agree with his policies. But, hey, he's Catholic, isn't he? I can still remember, in a town founded and basically dominated by Masons and Methodists, some of us being known as "Catlickers," and not being allowed to attend YMCA day camp at the edge of the town where I grew up. After all, they had prayer services, and we weren't allowed to pray with ... Protestants!

On the 22nd of November last, America remembered the fiftieth anniversary of the assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Much has been said about his legacy, and the magic of his appeal that was known as "Camelot." Many who claim him for inspiration would do well to know him better. A president who was portrayed as a vision of health and vigor suffered for most of his life from a back injury sustained while a Naval officer in World War II, in addition to having been afflicted with Addison's disease. The man given credit for inspiring a generation of liberal activism was actually quite the conservative, not only in his economic policy, but in his fight against communism. His two successors, Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon, were both blamed for the war in Vietnam, but it was Kennedy who got us involved there in the first place. We castigate the clandestine activities of presidents today, but the Kennedy administration made the biggest mess of all of them at a place in Cuba known as "Bahía de Cochinos" (the "Bay of Pigs").

Thirty years later, in the early 1990s, my marriage had fallen apart, and I was living in Georgetown. My landlady, Marilyn Southwell Bell, was a grande dame of the neighborhood, and many colorful characters were entertained over the years in the parlor at 3114 N Street. One of them was a veteran operative of the American clandestine services known only as "The Rainmaker." It was likely from this acquaintance that I learned a story out of the Kennedy years that is little known but to a few.

It was either the summer of 1962 or 1963, and President Kennedy was attending a baseball game. He accompanied his usual entourage through one row of bleachers, and as security was not as tight then as it was now, they had to pass by a group of Cuban expatriates already in their seats. Each man he passed is said to have murmured the following under his breath: “Voy a vengar la muerte de mi hermano.” It would not have occurred to anyone, least of all the men sitting there with their utterances, that at least one of the Secret Service detail was conversant in Spanish, and knew what he heard: “I will avenge the death of my brother.” No conclusions were drawn for me in the hearing of this tale, and one could never be sure whether his untimely death was the work of disgruntled Cubans or the deans of organized crime whose plans were foiled by his brother as Attorney General. Perhaps it really was only the singular mission of a lone gunman, with Communist sympathies and a high-powered rifle, in an unsecured warehouse near the parade route. We will also never know whether a man known for his charisma and charm, and a stunning, sophisticated wife, would have stemmed the tide of discontent, and kept his popularity on the rise, had he lived during a time of societal change. We only know what happened after he was taken from us, and for this our nation would never be the same.

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The day of Kennedy's death is also remembered for the passing of two other men of note; the Anglican writer and Christian apologist Clive Staples “Jack” Lewis, and the dystopian science-fiction writer Audous Huxley. The three men were together the subject of a stage play written by Boston College professor Dr Peter Kreeft, entitled "Between Heaven and Hell: A Dialog Somewhere Beyond Death."

And so it goes.

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This picture was taken in 1943, seventy years ago, on a farm in Brown County, Ohio. My mother is in the first row, to the right, opposite her parents. In the second row, over her right shoulder, is her sister Mary Angela Rosselot. It has been my own experience that if a family is large enough, at least one of the siblings goes their own way, in such as manner as to set themselves apart from the others. Mary was one of those, going to live with an aunt in Arizona before finishing high school. The family folklore suggested a falling out between her and her mother which precipitated the move, a discord made more pronounced by moving to California and marrying a divorced man. True or not, at least that was the story. My parents were never ones to entertain gossip, even family gossip.

It was forty years after this picture was taken, in the summer of 1973, that I met her and her family for the first time. I had just graduated from high school. Aunt Mary walked into the house to meet us. She walked gracefully across the room to shake my hand, and I realized that this was no farmer's daughter. The children, my newfound cousins, were very personable, and very ... well, Californian. Such was noticeable to provincial midwestern sensibilities, and it was then that the boundaries of family, and that which was possible therein, were given new meaning.

With over fifty cousins on my mother's side, most of us have kept in touch over the years, aided not only by Facebook, but by a common legacy. Some of those in the picture have faded from this life, and in the past month, Aunt Mary was one of them. May she rest in peace.

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A series of weekly articles was planned late this year to discuss alternatives for Catholic families to the Boy Scouts of America. Sadly, the research required was subject to constant revision, in light of the impending decision by the BSA at the first of the year, to remove sexual orientation as a determinant of admission for youth members. The series was already well under development, but is currently being re-evaluated, and is scheduled to begin anew sometime in January. In any case, it could not have come soon enough for many young Scouts, belonging to troops whose sponsoring institutions, in a fit of self-righteousness, pulled the rug out from under them before a suitable alternative could be found. Because of such a short-sighted decision, many boys and their parents have completely lost interest in scouting over the past seven months. It is here that we grownups failed our sons. For us, six to twelve months is an interregnum. For boys before and during puberty, six to twelve months is an era. Such is one of the many unlearned (and unrepentant) lessons of this sad chapter in scouting history, matched only by the ambiguous and theologically challenged position of the National Catholic Committee on Scouting.

More on that in the very near future.

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Beverly Stevens of Regina Magazine tells us: "Okay, this is TRADITIONAL in Germany to play this clip on 'Sylvester' -- that is, New Year's Eve." The English comedian Freddie Frinton (1909-1968) is a butler in his famous "Dinner for One" scene, from the 1948 British short comedy "Trouble in the Air." This scene also features Jommy Edwards. Don't ask me why.

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As the year draws to a close, I wish I could tell you that this was a great year for man with black hat, but while last year was our best ever, this one was not up to par. It was bad enough that the day job and household responsibilities kept getting in the way, but much of the subject matter in Catholic new media was a supreme disappointment. What do you add to a conversation where no one is asking the right questions, much less coming up with the right answers? When someone wasn't trying to discern the hidden meaning in every move the new Pope was making -- “This week, the Holy Father was seen scratching himself at his usual Wednesday papal audience. What is Pope Francis trying to tell us about the virtue of humility?” -- they were spouting the usual canards about Masonic-Zionist conspiracies against the Latin Mass. He is past the age of retirement. He has two hip replacements and one working lung. His preference for living in a dormitory with others around on the basis of "psychological reasons" would seem to indicate a melancholic temperament. What kind of energy could this guy have for making too much trouble for anybody?

If hope breeds eternal, and tomorrow is another day, a new year holds a promise of hope for those who would press forward. It will be the year of this writer approaching his sixtieth birthday. They say that "sixty is the new forty," but at the end of the day, sixty is still sixty. As life goes on, we ask ourselves, what must we do to leave this world just a little better than we found it? How will our trust in the Almighty lead us to that end?

On that note, we close with Sal enjoying the giant Christmas tree that dominates the lobby of the Jefferson Hotel, looking tres chic with her newly acquired handbag by Balenciaga of Paris.