Apocalpyse Not Now

Oh, hello!  I didn’t expect to see you here today. I’m so glad you’re able to join me for this column.  Honestly, I couldn’t be happier.  Do you know why?  I’m thrilled because if you’re reading this, then that means those fun loving, doom-predicting, wacky Mayans were wrong and the world didn’t end after all.

I mean really, nothing puts a damper on the holiday season like a good old-fashioned fire-and-brimstone, end of the world scenario.  Seriously, couldn’t the Mayans have planned a little more carefully?  If you’re going to predict the end of all time, then at least push it back a few days to December 26.  That way, everyone gets to enjoy the Christmas presents that were purchased, yet avoid the credit card bills in January.

And did the Mayans really think that December 21 allows us all enough time to consume the mountain of cookies we’ve accumulated from co-workers, neighbors and cookie swaps?  Did they not think about how long it actually takes to eat all those gingerbread, anise and thumbprint cookies, not to mention those miniature cookie cups with the Hershey’s kiss in the middle.  And speaking of cookies, did anyone else notice that the Mayan calendar in question looks like an Oreo cookie?  I saw a side-by side-comparison on Facebook and it’s uncanny.  I’m surprised Nabisco didn’t jump all over that and decide to sponsor this particular event:  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Nabisco Apocalypse.  Co-sponsored by the American Dairy council.  Because there’s no better snack for the end of the world than Oreos with milk!”

I joke about the Mayan calendar when all along a little niggling thought in my head whispers “what if?”  The rational side of me knows that this is just one of many doomsday predictions that will not come to pass.  When my son voiced his concerns about whether the prediction could be real, I said, “Let me tell you a little story about a thing called Y2K.”  I then proceeded to relay the tale of how everyone bleated about civilization grinding to a halt at the stroke of midnight on January 1, 2000 because the genius who invented the computer forgot to factor that the last couple of numbers would roll over again at the beginning of the millennium like a car odometer.  People were urged to stock up on water, duct tape, meals-ready-to-eat and cash because everything that ran on a computer (which was pretty much everything) would cease to operate on January 1. And when Y2K came and went with no noticeable impact, we all stored our spare gallons of water in the basement and re-deposited (or spent) the extra cash we’d taken out on December 31.

I reassured my son by suggesting he pull out his bible and read Matthew 24:36 which says, “But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” I think he felt a bit better knowing that God would never reveal such secret information to the Mayans. Everyone knows God only shares that kind of information with Nostradamus.

I do feel bad that my child is anxious about December 21, because I can relate to him. At one time in my life, I was convinced that Skylab was going to fall to earth and hit me.  To refresh your memory, Skylab was the first U.S. space station, launched in 1973.  Although it was damaged at launch, it managed to perform several tasks fairly well before hurtling back to earth in 1979.  Since no one could predict where the rubble would land, I naturally assumed it would head straight for wherever I happened to be at the moment of re-entry.  Despite my mother’s soothing words of comfort and reason, I was steadfast in my belief that the wreckage would make a beeline right for me.  Thankfully, I was wrong.  Somewhere in Australia lie the bones of a dingo taken out by a flaming chunk of space junk.

So if you’re reading this column, that means that the earth has, once again, managed to avoid the total destruction and annihilation heretofore seen only in Michael Bay movies. 

And in the unlikely event that the Mayans were correct…I guess I should have billed my editor for this column at the beginning of the month, rather than waiting till the end.

Tragic events spur prayers of peace

I don’t know where to begin.

Typically each week, as I sit before my computer, the cursor blinking expectantly on the blank page, I have a clear idea of my topic.  During this week, I tossed around ideas about outdated Christmas specials you won’t see on television anymore, a variety of holiday cards received, or my ineptitude with the one kitchen utensil I just can’t seem to master: the cookie press.

But all of that now seems ridiculous and trivial in light of the tragedy that occurred last Friday at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.

A part of me desperately wants to choose a humorous topic for this column, to give readers a moment of escape from the horror of this unspeakable crime.  I know that by the time this column goes to press, readers will have seen endless hours of television coverage and possibly hundreds of online and print articles outlining every fact, hypothesis and opinion on this nightmare.   Who wouldn’t want to forget, if only for an instant, the images of those children being led from the school by law enforcement officials, their little hands resting on the shoulders of the child in front of them?   But not acknowledging the event feels wrong.

I love Christmas.  I love the music and the gift giving and the crazy dynamics of family.  I love the displays both tacky and tasteful.  I love the way people often perform additional acts of kindness because they’ve been moved by the spirit of the season.  I love sitting in church and quietly reflecting on the miracle of Christmas, the birth of Christ and the “good news” proclaimed for all mankind.  It all adds up to that one word that encompasses the holiday season: joy.

But in the wake of the Newtown tragedy, with Christmas just a few days away, it feels as if the mythical Dementors from the Harry Potter series have swooped in and removed all of the joy.  As I wrap presents for my sons, I can’t help but think about the wrapped gifts under some of those Newtown Christmas trees that will remain unopened.   As I debate over a scarf purchase (orange or blue?), I think about those 20 families who are faced with the task of planning their child’s funeral.  As I sit in church and thank God for all of His blessings, I simultaneously wonder how He can allow such evil to exist in our world.  How are the violent deaths of all those innocent children part of His plan?

This heinous act has already spawned much discussion about school safety, gun control, violent video games and mental illness, and I’m sure the debate will continue over the weeks and months to come: If only there were stricter gun laws in place.  If only kids weren’t allowed to play violent video games.  If only someone had treated the perpetrator’s mental health issues. These are important issues that need to be addressed, and should be addressed before the faces of these victims fade from our memory and another gunman batters his way into an elementary school.  These statements are also our way of trying to make sense of this senseless act.

I’d like to give you a chuckle or two before Christmas, but out of respect for those who were taken from us, I’ll offer you a prayer instead.  I pray that your holidays are filled with love and joy.  I pray that the families of the victims draw strength from their loved ones, their community and the nation.  I pray that someday we may finally learn how to live together in peace.

And may God bless us, each and every one.

Hippos not as cute and cuddly as they seem

The floodgates have opened and the deluge of Christmas music has begun.  I admit that during the holiday season, I set my car radio to one of the local stations that plays nothing but Christmas music.  And though I enjoy most of the songs they play on the radio, there are a few I could certainly do without.

Who knew there was a Christmas donkey named Dominick?  I find it icky to hear a child sing, “I saw Mommy tickle Santa Claus, underneath his beard so long and white.”  The morbidly depressing “Christmas Shoes” makes me want to rip my eardrums out.   These songs do nothing to enhance my Christmas spirit.

And then the other day, I heard a song that gave me pause:  “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas”.  Recorded by 10-year-old Gayla Peevey, the holiday favorite shot to number 24 on Billboard’s pop chart in 1953.  The lyrics include, “Don't want a doll, no dinky Tinker toy; I want a hippopotamus to play with and enjoy.”  The singer is the antithesis of the kid who only wants his two front teeth for Christmas.  This girl wants the third largest land mammal.

I’ve always thought of hippos as lovable, quiet creatures.  The dancing hippos in Disney’s “Fantasia” are clumsy, but adorable.  Hasbro’s popular “Hungry Hungry Hippo” game is a perennial bestseller.  I loved Hanna-Barbera’s “Peter Potamus” series when I was a kid and this generation has their own share of cutesy hippo characters from cartoons like “The Back Yardigans” and the “Madagascar” series.  All in all, you’d get the impression that hippos are sweet, docile creatures, right?

That’s what I believed until a recent party, when one topic of discussion at dinner was the aggressive nature of hippos.  Someone had seen a video of a hippo attacking a family trapped on a small island in a river, and suddenly all the guests were chiming in with stories they’d seen of hippo attacks on television and the Internet.  “I thought they were vegetarians,” I countered, but a quick peek at Wikipedia confirmed that if you get between a hippo and their young, or even deep water, you risk death by an angry, angry hippo, regardless of their herbivore status.  “Imagine being chomped to death by those giant Chiclet teeth!” my friend hooted.  I left the party with my image of the sweet, lumbering, lovable hippo destroyed.

And then two days later, I heard that charming little ditty, “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas”.  Ordinarily I would have relegated the song to background noise, but in light of our dinner conversation, I was fascinated.  As I listened to the lyrics, I couldn’t help but picture what the little girl would really think if Santa brought her Africa’s most dangerous animal.  One line says, “Mom says the hippo would eat me up but then… teacher says a hippo is a vegetarian.”  Yeah, Gayla, that’s what I thought until I saw the YouTube video entitled “Hippo Attack on Boat” when a hippo tried to take a bite out of a giant, metal boat.  Or how about the video “Hippo Rams Tour Vehicle” where an angry hippo charges after a jeep. The song continues,   “There's lots of room for him in our two car garage; I'd feed him there and wash him there and give him his massage…” Yes, you’d definitely want to keep him in the garage as opposed to your living room, because I also learned that hippos poop while spinning their tails in a circular pattern, thereby marking their territory more widely.  And if you don’t believe me, check out the YouTube video “Hippo Poo Storm”.  If this little girl really received a hippo for Christmas, the entire living room including the walls, windows, carpet and Christmas tree, would be covered in hippo spoor.

Clearly the song was written in a time before the Internet and Animal Planet and the NatGeo channel.  Perhaps the songwriter was overly enamored with those lively hippos from “Fantasia”.  But believe it or not, little Gayla Peevey got her wish.  According to Wikipedia, “A local promoter picked up on the popularity of the song … and launched a campaign to present her with an actual hippopotamus on Christmas.”  Thankfully, Gayla donated the animal to the city zoo, where it lived for 50 years.

I tend to doubt that vicious animal ever set foot in that little girl’s home.  Then again, the “B” side of “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” is the disturbingly titled song “Are My Ears on Straight?” 

Hmmmmm.

This Season, The Signs of Peace Are Everywhere...

Peace has returned to my town after a long absence.

Now that Thanksgiving is over, the holiday season is heading into full swing.  Radio stations are playing Christmas tunes around the clock, the cable channels are featuring night after night of holiday specials and catalogs are piling up in my mailbox.

The melee of Black Friday has segued into Small Business Saturday and Cyber Monday.  The stores are packed with shoppers and the parking lots are jammed with cars.  Though it’s supposed to be the season of “good will towards men”, that goodwill doesn’t seem to extend to someone else trying to grab the last parking space, the last pair of Ugg slippers or the last iPad mini.

And yet peace has returned to my town.

Lawns have been scraped clean of autumn’s last leaves and the natural foliage has been replaced with endless strings of lights.  The warm ones remind me of Christmases past, while the new LED lights seem cold and impersonal.  There are light displays that coordinate to music, pulsating to the sounds of Mannheim Steamroller and The Trans Siberian Orchestra. Enormous inflatable Grinches and snowmen and Santas loom over bushes while illuminated skeletons of reindeer graze silently on lawns.  Some folks prefer the understated look of a single wreath on their door and a few white candles in the window, while others try to outdo their neighbors by planting more candy canes along the walkway, hanging more icicles on the roof and blaring Christmas carols from their outside speakers.

And amidst all the noise and electricity and conspicuous consumption, peace has managed to quietly find its way back to my town. 

You see there’s a home not far from my own, which features the same display each holiday season.  I forget about it each year until late November rolls around. Driving through town after dark, I spot that wonderful, seasonal beacon of hope.

It’s a peace sign, mounted on the owner’s garage, completely wreathed in lights.  I’m sure there are some that scoff at this leftover 60’s relic, but that simple symbol bathed in white lights never fails to bring me a moment of calm during the hectic holiday season.

The peace sign was original created in 1958 as a symbol for the British Nuclear Disarmament movement.  The symbol is a combination of the semaphore signals “N” and “D” for nuclear disarmament.  Shortly afterwards, it was adopted by anti-war protestors in the United States.  Recently, I’ve seen bumper stickers that identify the peace sign as “the footprint of the American chicken”, suggesting that someone who wishes for peace is automatically a coward.  Perhaps that person just wants peace.

Isn’t peace what we want, not just during the holidays but also all year round?  Imagine opening a newspaper or surfing the Internet and seeing no war in the Middle East.  No unrest in Africa.  No shootings in schools or movie theaters.  No trampling innocent shoppers to get the last digital camera on Black Friday.  There would be no bullying, no road rage and no family feuds.  Just…. peace.

I guess that’s a pretty tall order, so for now I’ll strive for a peaceful holiday season.  When the crowds and the shopping and the school projects and family squabbles get to be too much, I’ll get in my car and drive by that house and let that glowing white symbol serve as a reminder of why the word “peace” is such a prominent part of the season: Prince of Peace.  Peace on earth and goodwill towards men.  Sleep in heavenly peace.

May the peace of the season be with you all.