white envelope

Christmas Story: For the Man Who Hated Christmas
By Nancy W. Gavin

It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past ten years.

It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it—overspending and the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma—the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.

Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.

Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was on the wrestling team at the school he attended. Shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes.

As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford.

Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.” Mike loved kids—all kids. He so enjoyed coaching little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came.

That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes, and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed a small, white envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done, and that this was his gift from me.

Mike's smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year. And that same bright smile lit up succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition—one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.

The white envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children—ignoring their new toys—would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the small, white envelope never lost its allure.

The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree. And the next morning, I found it was magically joined by three more. Unbeknownst to the others, each of our three children had for the first time placed a white envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing to take down that special envelope.

Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us.

***** ***** *****

I think I will start doing this.

Even if all the envelope contains is my donation record as a Hope Builder for Habitat For Humanity, that's a wonderful gift of love to the world.
There's nothing like having four walls, a door, and a roof to give a child a sense of security and a feeling of being loved by someone they don't even know.

Even if the only thing in the envelope is my blood donation sticker from the American Red Cross, that's a wonderful gift of love to the world.
There's nothing like precious life-giving fluids for someone's child, parent, spouse, or best friend, to bring light back into someone's eyes and joy to their heart.

I think Mama would have approved.

I so miss sharing Christmas with her.

power of the pen

This is all about the one film I saw today.
"Trumbo".
I had especially wanted to see it because it starred Bryan Cranston, one of my favorites from "Malcolm In The Middle" (the white kids' version of "Everybody Hates Chris"). The film was about a dark decade - starting in the late 1940's - of American history, when Hollywood went after writers, actors, and crewmembers for being members of the Communist Party USA. Blacklisting, it was called, instigated by fear after Congress started blaming the film industry for begetting spies. Crazy, right?
But true.
Dalton Trumbo, a highly praised novelist and screenwriter, had to use pseudonyms and write schlock for a small studio for a decade because his name had been trashed by scaremongers like Hedda Hopper. To his credit, he made sure to spread that work to other blacklisted writers, so all were able to stay afloat.
In spite of the difficulties of writing under such conditions and in such times, the man still wrote award-winning material. Not once, but twice during this period, his scripts won Academy Awards! Perhaps you've heard of "Roman Holiday", the gem starring Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck? That was the first one, though his family did not receive the trophy under his name until 1993, more than a decade after his death.
The other was "The Brave One", based on a scene he had witnessed years earlier while on holiday in Spain. The Oscar for Best Story was presented to Trumbo in 1975, when he was 70 years old and still alive to enjoy it. (He died the next year.)
How did that terrible time come to an end? Kirk Douglas and Otto Preminger, and even President Jack Kennedy, are the ones to thank. By officially naming Trumbo as the author of "Spartacus" and "Exodus", respectively, and by the President publicly attending the screening of "Exodus", Hollywood had to kiss its blacklist goodbye.
How very appropriate that two tales of justified rebellion won the freedom of so many. One was the tale of a slave's fight against the Roman use of slaves as gladiator fodder. The other told of a fight by Holocaust survivors against British interment and for a return to their religious homeland.
How very appropriate that a man imprisoned by fear was able to craft such incredible tales of empowerment to gain the freedom of himself and others.
Hallelujah!
Such an uplifting tale!
It was also entirely appropriate for this holiday season, when the birth of Jesus is heralded. In two of the world's major religions, Christianity and Islam, Jesus is a game-changer, born of virgin birth, striving for the acceptance of all peoples on this planet we call home.
Amen, sister.
Amen, brother.
Amen.

rashes, rashes, rashes!

Trust me, if you say it like Jan of "The Brady Bunch", it's pretty funny.
That's the only way to look at it.

Today, I spent four hours at the VA Outpatient Clinic.
I had made an appointment on Monday for 10:30 this morning. I was a little late, but that wasn't the issue. I had thought I might have shingles, but that was not the issue, either. (Shingles affects only one side of the body, I learned.)

The issue was the clinic was on holiday schedule. So, even though the place wasn't that busy, I had to wait to see my doctor, after nurse Kim had verified that I did not have shingles. Then I had to wait for the pharmacist to release the Benadryl and the Decadron steroid for the two shots I needed. (The pharmacist was at lunch.) Then, my doc had to prescribe a different steroid as the pharmacy had the other drug on back-order. Then, we had to wait for my doc to get back from lunch so she could order a rash test to be performed, with the drawing of the six tubes of blood to accomplish that.
Sigh.
Kim was great. I knew none of this was her fault, so I was patient. What was my other option? Be snitty and ruin both of our days?
I opted for the less stressful choice.
Kim made sure the Benadryl injection in my left buttock was the final procedure. Then, she encouraged me, yet again, to drive straight home, as quickly as possible.
She wanted to be sure I didn't fall asleep on the way.
I did as she requested.
I made it home in time to fix some lunch before I passed out.
I slept for an hour on the couch.
Then I slept another two hours in my bed.
I would have crashed out longer if I had not set an alarm. I wanted to make sure I saw tonight's episode of "The Big Bang Theory".
I'm glad I did! Sheldon has a musical tune plaguing him for most of the show. Finally, he realizes the song is "Darlin'" and recognizes that his subconscious mind is telling him he wants to make up with Amy. She is "the fabric softener of his heart". I do love how that boy's mind works!
He rushes over to her apartment and the show ends with them in an endless kissing session.
Very nice!
Then I watched most of "Toy Story".
Very nice, too!

And what was my medical issue?
I was diagnosed as having hives from an allergic reaction.
Again.
I first had it in June, while at McKee Gardens in Vero Beach. I had thought it was heat rash, exacerbated by stress. (That was when my car battery died and stranded me on a very hot day.)
That rash on my lower arms had lasted well into my trip to the Polynesian Isles. Hydrocortisone cream seemed to have handled it.
Then, only two months later, I had the poison ivy incident. That rocked on for a month, with the rash on my arms, chest, and legs. Hydrocortisone was alternated with benadryl itch cream, as well as the two-week Prednisone regimen and oral benadryl.
Shite.
This latest rash from hell is on both arms, from mid-forearm all the way up to my shoulders. Not very itchy, except at night, or when I wear sweaters.
I've had it for about a month.
The usual at-home creams didn't faze it.
Now that school has finished and my grades are turned in, it was time to take care of me. The result of the bloodwork will be known in the next week or so. Meanwhile, back to the daily children's Benadryl doses.
At least they come in grape flavor.
(smile)

Samuel L. Jackson says: "WAKE UP!!!"

I had to get a little car work done, so I scheduled my time for that task for today.
Tuesday.
Tightwad Tuesday, as it is known at the cinema near my mechanic.
I specifically wanted to see "Chi-Raq", the latest from Spike Lee. You can always count on him to get a conversation started, right?
How very true this time around! What a star-studded cast! With Samuel L. Jackson, John Cusack, Angela Bassett, D.B. Sweeney, and Wesley Snipes, you knew the message must be important and must be meant for all people to hear.
That's quite a bit of celebrity fire-power locked and loaded, aimed straight at the heart of the matter: sex for peace. Incredible, right? Especially when you consider that this film is a timely remake of Aristophanes' "Lysistrata" - a Greek play that's almost 2400 years old. I have no idea how Spike Lee learned of the work, but kudos to him for his part in updating it into a modern script.
Kudos for him, also, for the acknowledgement that men are not going to solve the problem of black-on-black crime. The mothers, sisters, grandmothers, aunts, and female cousins of the children shot dead or maimed by stray gang weapons, these are the women of the world who are going to have to lead the fight to stop the death toll of innocents. More than SEVEN THOUSAND DEAD in Chicago? A city in a peaceful state in a peaceful country? Outrageous. Unconscionable. As Spike Lee said, "I'm trying to save lives. We have to save lives."
Amen.
Kudos to the folks in charge at the Victory Square 9 for screening this film.
Of the five multiplexes in Savannah, they are THE ONLY CINEMA SHOWING THIS FILM.
It bears noting that this location had long been regarded as the "black" movie theater in Savannah, before Frank Theatres took charge. They have certainly worked hard to remove the once-negative stigma of that branding. It was only a few years ago since I was "run off" from this cinema after one too many threatening encounters with black teen groups on one too many evenings.
So, again I say: Kudos to Frank Theatres.
Let's hope the womenfolks, the murderers, and those in charge in Chicago, ILL, take heed.
There certainly weren't any gangbangers, 'bang' shorties, or politicos in attendance with us tonight.
Me? I think only the choirmembers will show up for this practice session.
Still, I'm going to sing its praises to all who stand still long enough and all who wander to my piece of ethernet.
Hallelujah!
And pass the inspiration...

running with ghosts

Not me, of course.
Well, not literally running, anyway.
Today, the incredible Jin Hi Soucy Rand was one of the participants in the Savannah Bridge Run.
This is her fourth time crossing that span on foot.
Literally.

She posted the photo, as well as some lines from Clinton Powell, the impetus behind her first run in 2011.
He was better known in the land of hashtags as #skinnydudesneedlovetoo.

I can't control
my destiny
I trust my soul
my only goal
is just to be.
There's only us,
There's only this
Forget regret,
or life is yours to miss.
No other road,
no other way.
No
Day
But
Today

Totally concur.

spotlight on sadness of the world

How appropriate that a gentle rain was falling as I exited the cinema.
It may not have masked my tears, but it gave me a gentler reason for having a wet face and streaming eyes.

This morning, for who knows what reason, I watched part of CBS This Morning. The weather segment was on and I heard that Mark Ruffalo would be on shortly to talk about his latest movie.
I stayed tuned in.
"Spotlight" was one of the night films at the recent Savannah Film Festival. I had missed it then and I missed it again on Sunday, when I had gone to the Wynnsong to see it.
(On that occasion, I had missed about fifteen minutes of it, so I went to "Brooklyn" instead, another SFF night film which had come to the multiplexes. As I told some friends, that film was not only a nice history piece, but it also dealt with nonracial bias, which was a refreshing change of pace. It seems that black and white are the only colors of the spectrum, especially these past eight years. people who were young, scared parents at the time of desegregation in the late 1960's are now great-grandparents, spreading that fear to yet another generation. Very sad state of affairs. Change takes so very long.)

As I was saying, I was watching for the interview with Mark Ruffalo. When he came on, he was with Mike Rezendes, the Boston Globe reporter he portrayed in the movie. [It should be noted that Rezendes still works for that newspaper. Amazing.)
After listening to their talk about the scientific process of reporting, I resolved to see the movie this afternoon. After all, I would be out and about southside anyway, collecting my students' Lab Final Exams and attending the talk and luncheon.
And so I did.

Heartbreaking.
I sat there and cried throughout most of the movie.
So very much sadness in the world, sliding off the screen and into my head.
Overwhelming.
The church had known all along.
So had the lawyers.
So had the police.
The Boston Globe had even known back in 1973 and wrote a short story about it. Then, no follow up occurred.
No one - no one - did anything to stop it for many years.
Five years before breaking the story, the Boston Globe had a victim's group bring a box full of evidence. The reporters wrote him off as a lunatic with an axe to grind.
Really.
It wasn't until a non-Catholic, non-Bostonian was put in charge at the newspaper that the story of priests abusing underprivileged children started gaining momentum.
All the time, the survivors spoke of the deceit of having a man of God betray them physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
All the time, everyone else spoke of how much the people of Boston needed the church, needed to have the church's reputation as a safe haven safeguarded.
Heartbreaking.
If not for Mitch Garabedian, a lawyer working to help several victims of abuse, the story might not have ever come together. He had told Rezendes that he was arranging to have fourteen files unsealed by the legal system that had hidden them for decades.
Then the carnage of September 11, 2001, distracted everyone's attention away from the scandal with the Catholic church.
Everyone's attention, that is, except Garabedian's. He had said he would hold off for six weeks - and then he made his move. The onus was then on the Spotlight team at the Boston Globe to rise to his charge and follow through with their reporting.
And they did.
But not before realizing that their leader had dropped the ball on the story back in 1973, when only 20 priests had been accused.
Now, in 2001, the count was up to 87 abusive men of the cloth, almost six percent of the number of Boston priests.
That was the same percentage a researcher had told them there would be, based on his three decades of study.
Heartbreaking.
At the end of the film, a list of other cities in which priests had sexually abused children appeared on the screen.
Savannah, GA.
Damn.
Heartbreaking.

While in Venice at a premiere of the film, Mark Ruffalo called on Pope Francis to please use the film to promote change. He said they all were “hoping that the pope and the Vatican use this very, very sober and judicious story to begin to heal the wounds that the church also received. [Spotlight is] a perfect opportunity to begin to right these wrongs, not just for the victims and their destroyed lives, but for all the people who’ve lost a way to order a chaotic world for themselves.”

Pope Francis, please do the right thing.
Please help all of the people involved, both the victims and the abusers, to find their way back to God, if not to the church.
Please.

mizzou and the choir

Honestly, I came for the free lunch.
I had no idea what #MIZZOU meant and the invitation from President Bleicken's office did not explain the cryptic hashtag.
Google was not much help, either, sending me to the website of the Missouri Tigers.
Was Armstrong getting a football team? Highly doubtful. Those are very expensive sports teams, requiring lots of players, lots of equipment, and a football stadium.
Was Armstrong teaming up with University of Missouri for some educational benefit? Possible. There are sister cities, why not sister universities?
So, curiosity also drove me to this meeting.

A panel of five, in comfortable chairs, awaited in the Ogeechee Theatre in the Student Union. One was a student, one the new provost, one the diversity & equality aide, and two professors. Another professor moderated the event, making sure none of the panelists tried to monopolize the microphone.

The first two questions were fairly explosive softballs. No worries, the panelists had been given the questions earlier so they could each have a two- or three-minute reply.
The first question dealt with the student demands for fair treatment from an unresponsive University of Missouri administration.
The second question concerned the "Black lives matter" movement.

Wow.
Not softballs after all, but hard balls pitched directly into the gut.

Good.

Conversations like this should occur on university campuses.
Open minds don't occur without a little use of a prybar.

I was glad to be one of the many faculty and staff that stood to be recognized at the end of the discussion.
Hopefully, in January, when a second discussion is held, a larger venue will be needed.

The choir always needs more members.