I used to think the land
had something to say to us,
back when wildflowers
would come right up to your hand
as if they were tame.

Sooner or later, I thought,
the wind would begin to make sense
if I listened hard
and took notes religiously.
That was spring.

Now I’m not so sure:
the cloudless sky has a flat affect
and the fields plowed down after harvest
seem so expressionless,
keeping their own counsel.

This afternoon, nut tree leaves
blow across them
as if autumn had written us a long letter,
changed its mind,
and tore it into little scraps.

In my reading of it today, I am particularly struck by the word, Word, world, whirled alliteration and chaotic overlapping imagery in section V. How convoluted and subsuming so much of life is, so difficult to sort the word from the Word within the whirl of the world.

From dust do we come, and to dust do we return. I am ever reminded that Life is Short, so we should be quick to give love, and slow to anger if we are to do anything meaningful with the time we are given.

I fail at this quite often, and the ashes do remind me, particularly, to live more intentionally.

Ash-Wednesday
by T S Eliot

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

II

Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

III

At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs’s fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.
IV

Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary’s colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary’s colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

V

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

O my people.
VI

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

While I continue to cogitate on the future of Episcopalifem, here are some things I’ve been reading this week which have given me food for thought and focus and pleasure.

While there have been statistics presented demonstrating the women have experienced far less of a negative impact than men in the economic crisis, that appears to be at an end, especially as Tea Party types look to cut state/federal budgets and end collective bargaining rights as we’ve known them. The New York Times recently published this article His Recession, Becoming Hers to tell us all about how and why this is likely to change, and change for the long haul.

However, women are more concentrated in state and local jobs that are now on the chopping block as a result of efforts to cut taxes and reduce public spending. About 52 percent of state employees and 61 percent of the much larger category of local employees are women – many of them working as teachers, secretaries, or social workers.

Women make up a majority of two important public sector unions, the American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees and the American Federation of Teachers.

The economist Randy Albelda asserts that the conservative attack on public-sector unions resembles the welfare reform discussions of the 1990s, in which recipients of public assistance were labeled greedy, lazy welfare queens.

As a recent New York Times article put it, “Around the country, many teachers see demands to cut their income, benefits and say in how schools are run through collective bargaining as attacks not just on their livelihoods, but on their value to society.”

Yeah – who knew? teachers and welfare queens had so much in common, both being life sucking lazy sacks of shit, according to our conservative rabble rousers.

Jon Stewart, in his customary pithy awesome directness, does a great job of showing how teachers need to take the lead from Wall Street, when it comes to making a shared sacrifice, and negotiating out the contractual obligations of their employers in times of economic duress, and should definitely expect to take it across the chin. Wink, wink, jab, jab, since Teachers Have It Too Good (Wink)

Then, I stumbled across this excellent piece by George Lakoff, What Conservatives Really Want. This piece presents the framework in which uber-conservativism lives, the moral platform upon which is rests, and as you might have already strongly suspected, it has a lot to do with Daddy, and that what Daddy says goes. Oh, and they don’t believe in social responsibility, oh no, just individual responsibility alone. Lakoff posits:

The way to understand the conservative moral system is to consider a strict father family. The father is The Decider, the ultimate moral authority in the family. His authority must not be challenged. His job is to protect the family, to support the family (by winning competitions in the marketplace), and to teach his kids right from wrong by disciplining them physically when they do wrong. The use of force is necessary and required. Only then will children develop the internal discipline to become moral beings. And only with such discipline will they be able to prosper. And what of people who are not prosperous? They don’t have discipline, and without discipline they cannot be moral, so they deserve their poverty. The good people are hence the prosperous people. Helping others takes away their discipline, and hence makes them both unable to prosper on their own and function morally…
In conservative family life, the strict father rules. Fathers and husbands should have control over reproduction; hence, parental and spousal notification laws and opposition to abortion. In conservative religion, God is seen as the strict father, the Lord, who rewards and punishes according to individual responsibility in following his Biblical word.

Above all, the authority of conservatism itself must be maintained. The country should be ruled by conservative values, and progressive values are seen as evil. Science should NOT have authority over the market, and so the science of global warming and evolution must be denied. Facts that are inconsistent with the authority of conservatism must be ignored or denied or explained away. To protect and extend conservative values themselves, the devil’s own means can be used against conservatism’s immoral enemies, whether lies, intimidation, torture, or even death, say, for women’s doctors.

Freedom is defined as being your own strict father — with individual not social responsibility, and without any government authority telling you what you can and cannot do. To defend that freedom as an individual, you will of course need a gun.

He also complains that the Democrats are awfully good at helping this Conservative world view right along:

…Democrats help conservatives when they function as policy wonks — talking policy without communicating the moral values behind the policies. They help conservatives when they neglect to remind us that pensions are deferred payments for work done. “Benefits” are pay for work, not a handout. Pensions and benefits are arranged by contract. If there is not enough money for them, it is because the contracted funds have been taken by conservative officials and given to wealthy people and corporations instead of to the people who have earned them.

Democrats help conservatives when they use conservative words like “entitlements” instead of “earnings” and speak of government as providing “services” instead of “necessities.”

Excellent points he makes, really. Do read the whole thing!

Another friend (waves to MOI) pointed out an excellent article from America Magazine that discusses the idea of individual responsibility, from a slightly different vanatage point, but one that feeds directly into the cultural world view of the uber-conservative, and that is, The Limits of Positive Thinking. In this article, the author talks about her work with the homeless, and how she winced her way through some workshops that were based on the ideas presented in The Secret – that is that positive thoughts/energy/intention attract positive thoughts, and that negative thoughts/energy/intention beget more negativity. So, you want a nice house with a picket fence, visualize it, and it will come to you! Only the author points out, um, not so much, because they blow off suffering or make that suffering one’s own fault. Is it the negative thinking of a five year old child that brings rape and beating down upon them? Is it negative thinking that causes an accident which brings a brain injury upon one, thereby impacting every facet and interaction of life?

This troubling idea, that affliction is doled out as punishment for one’s negative thoughts and that prosperity is a result of thinking positively, prompted me to reflect on my own understanding of suffering, informed at least in part by the writings of Blessed Julian of Norwich.

In Revelations of Divine Love, Julian offers no causal explanation for suffering. While she acknowledges human sinfulness, she also recognizes an unjust and fallen world in which all people suffer. In Julian’s vision of the parable of the lord and the servant, a lord sends his servant on a journey. While traveling, the servant stumbles and falls in a dell. Trapped in the dell, injured and alone, the servant suffers greatly. Instead of being angry at the servant’s clumsiness or sin, the lord mysteriously loves the servant more than ever. In this radical accounting, suffering is not simply negative, at least not in its entirety. Rather, it is sometimes the means through which humanity is drawn impossibly closer to God’s self.

During my year at the homeless shelter, I was confronted daily with the realities of homelessness, rape, addiction, violence and mental illness. In that space, Julian’s approach seemed not only more compassionate, but perhaps more helpful as well. Yes, our attitudes can and do positively improve our lives, but they do not explain suffering or success. All people suffer. We are not our own creations, tidy products of ideology. We are human beings, hopelessly interdependent, ugly and beautiful, both.

And thank god for that, huh?

Here is another excellent essay I came across today via a facebook friend, I think Elizabeth Kaeton. Debra Dean Murphy sums up the meltdown that is Charlie Sheen, Rob Bell’s version of hell, and the upcoming Ash Wednesday observance in her excellent piece, My Lent: Ashes, Addiction, and the Reality of Hell (Pace Rob Bell) in Religion Dispatches today. She ties these seemingly disparate cultural events up quite readily.

“Lent reminds us that we’re all in the same boat—the sinking ship of our failed attempts to save ourselves, love ourselves, and save those we love. The ashes are not mere symbol; they are not a public sign of our piety (exactly what Jesus …warns against in Ash Wednesday’s gospel reading). Instead, the ashes are as real as it gets—a sticky, gritty, grimy smear plastered to our foreheads, precisely on the same spot that the oil of baptism was applied. For Christians, the juxtaposition is as liberating as it is instructive: we are dying, yet we live. Death may be at our doorstep but it cannot steal our substance.”

And last, but most assuredly not least, PJ, Writer Extraordinaire has a neat little piece of micro-fiction/poetry up over at her place that will delight, called All Filler, No Killer (which, I beg to differ with her on because it’s my prerogative so to do…)

Besides, the video for this song, evocative of Dangerous Liaisons, one of my favorite movies of all time, includes the sexy John Malcovich AND Hugh Laurie.  So…here’s my offering to the Friday entertainment Gods – Enjoy!

You were the sweetest thing that I ever knew
But I don’t care for sugar honey if I can’t have you
Since you abandoned me
My whole life has crashed
Won’t you pick the pieces up
‘Cause it feels just like I’m walking on broken glass

Walking on walking on broken glass

The sun’s still shining in the big blue sky
But it don’t mean nothing to me
Oh let the rain come down
Let the wind blow through me
I’m living in an empty room
With all the windows smashed
And I’ve got so little left to lose
That it feels just like I’m walking on broken glass

Walking on walking on broken glass

And If you’re trying to cut me down
You know that I might bleed
‘Cause if you’re trying to cut me down
I know that you’ll succeed
And if you want to hurt me
There’s nothing left to fear
‘Cause if you want to hurt me
You’re doing really well my dear

Now everyone of us was made to suffer
Everyone of us was made to weep
But we’ve been hurting one another
And now the pain has cut too deep…
So take me from the wreckage
Save me from the blast
Lift me up and take me back
Don’t let me keep on walking…
I can’t keep on walking
I can’t keep on walking on broken glass

Walking on walking on broken glass

Heeeeeeee.

It certainly does bring to mind the famous passage from Dicken’s A Christmas Carol:

‘Are there no prisons?”

‘Plenty of prisons,’ said the gentleman, laying down the  pen again.’And the Union workhouses.’ demanded Scrooge. ‘Are  they still in operation?’

‘Both very busy, sir.’

‘Oh. I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,’ said Scrooge. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

‘Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,’ returned the gentleman, ‘a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?’

‘Nothing!’ Scrooge replied.

‘You wish to be anonymous?’

‘I wish to be left alone,’ said Scrooge. ‘Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned-they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there.’

‘Many can’t go there; and many would rather die.’

‘If they would rather die,’ said Scrooge, ‘they had better  do it, and decrease the surplus population.”

Really! Imagine, a civilized country, reportedly full of greatness and wealth – the American Dream and all that…which actually gives a shit about its most vulnerable constituents, because, well, it CAN, and it should, and it must.

Otherwise, aren’t we as a nation, like Gingrich and my state’s own Republican leader, Alex DeCroce (who “told business owners last week that New Jersey’s jobless benefits are “too good for these people.” He said someone collecting $550 a week has little incentive to seek work.”) saying we are not quite as civilized, great or wealthy as we claim, if we can’t even manage to take care of our own, be they “deserving” or no?   When did WE the people, begin to mean, ME the people?

In my mind, the people who speak these words can not have been people who have ever been so humbled as to have to seek assistance to keep their families afloat, who have the unmitigated gall and amoral temerity to laud their unchallenged lives as a product of their own fortitude alone, rather than a capricious aligning of opportunity and circumstance.

Last night, I stood on line at the grocery store after work, waiting my turn to pay. I was tired, and aggravated (as grocery shopping tends to make me cranky de facto), and my grocery cart was full, and I was hungry and just wanted to go home.

There was a woman in front of me online, with a carriage full of baby food and formula almost obsessive-compulsively arranged in her cart.  She was shuffling through her assistance checks, to be sure she could pay for what was in her cart, and kept having to put certain items back on the shelf because they weren’t covered by WIC.  All these items were baby food jars – not desserts or junk food.  She had to get out of the line at least twice.

At first, I was very grumpy that I had chosen this line. All I wanted to do was go home, and this woman was obviously going to take a long time to get her order rung up.

But then, it dawned on me, that when I bought baby food for my kids, I never had to worry about buying the right “kind” based on my ability to pay for it.

When she stepped out of the line a second time, I asked the cashier how much the jars were: $0.50 a piece, and there were around 10 of them.  Because her order was already in process, and she was paying with WIC checks, I didn’t have a good way to get the cashier to allow me to pay for the items without the woman knowing, so when she returned with the correct items, I asked her if the foods the cashier held aside were ones her baby particularly liked. (I tried to be as discrete as one can possibly be in the front of a grocery store, because I wanted to help, but not embarass the woman, who seemed to be in her mid-30s, a Russian immigrant).  She told me yes, and I told her that I would very much like to buy them if she would allow me to, as a Christmas gesture to her and her child.

Of course, she thanked me, but wouldn’t let me, and so I walked back to my cart feeling unsure as to whether I had done a good thing or not.

It broke my heart. I paid for the rest of my groceries, packed them into my car, and called home to tell my husband I was on my way, and as I was speaking to him, I burst into tears of anger and frustration as I stared the realization that I could have been that woman had just a few things in my life been different full in the face. There but for the grace of God go I, or words to that effect (because I don’t believe in that kind of God, but you get the gist). The world is capricious and my efforts only go so far – that could have been – could still be – me.

And honestly, that line from A Christmas Carol was reverberating in my head, because, apparently, this is the way so many Americans feel: the poor are parasites whom we can’t afford, so, “Are there no prisons? No workhouses?”

The pertinent part of the video starts at 2.09

There was a romantic full moon in the sky when Pedro said, “Hey, mamacita, let’s do Weeweechu.”

‘Oh no, not now, let’s look at the moon!’ said Rosita.

‘Oh, c’mon baby, let’s you and I do Weeweechu. I love you and it’s the perfect time,’ Pedro begged.

‘But I wanna just hold your hand and watch the moon.’ replied Rosita.

‘Please, corazoncito, just once, do Weeweechu with me.’

Rosita looked at Pedro and said, ‘OK, one time, we’ll do Weeweechu.’

Pedro grabbed his guitar and they both sang…..

‘Weeweechu a Merry Christmas, Weeweechu a Merry Christmas, Weeweechu a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.’

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!

(What did you think weeweechu was ??????)

I work with some good people, you know?

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid.

I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: “There is no Santa Claus,” she jeered. “Even dummies know that!”

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her “world-famous” cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. “No Santa Claus?” she snorted….”Ridiculous! Don’t believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad!! Now, put on your coat, and let’s go.”

“Go? Go where, Grandma?” I asked. I hadn’t even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun. “Where” turned out to be Kerby’s General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. “Take this money,” she said, “and buy something for someone who needs it. I’ll wait for you in the car.” Then she turned
and walked out of Kerby’s.

I was only eight years old. I’d often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping.

For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church.

I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock’s grade-two class. Bobby Decker didn’t have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn’t have a cough; he didn’t have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.

“Is this a Christmas present for someone?” the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. “Yes, ma’am,” I replied shyly. “It’s for Bobby.”

The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn’t get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, “To Bobby, From Santa Claus” on it.

Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker’s house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially, one of Santa’s helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby’s house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. “All right, Santa Claus,” she whispered, “get going.”

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.

Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open.

Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven’t dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker’s bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were — ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.

I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.

May you always have LOVE to share,
HEALTH to spare and FRIENDS that care…

And may you always believe in the magic of Santa Claus!