i was getting ready to write what i thought was a funny Christmas post.

But something happened.

This Christmas season had not been joyous really. i could not quite figure out why. Oh, anyone my age has some sad thoughts about how Christmas is missing a dear one this year. But i felt that wasn’t really at the root of my sadness. Actually, it was more than sadness. It finally dawned on me i was afraid. i was scared. And not afraid and scared for me. Heck, in a month, i will be seventy-six and short of a gigantic disaster, i am out of it. I’m going to be pretty much okay whatever happens. But i am scared for my children and grandchildren.

What made me face my fear was reading Andrew Maraniss’ latest column for the “History News Network.” The link and Andrew’s comments as an introduction on Facebook are included below.

i hope most of you know i am almost apolitical. The two parties and the supporters of each seem only interested in getting themselves and others in their party elected. Individuals seemingly grab one aspect of a party’s agenda and ignore all the rest, including scary political maneuvering. Any means, many unethical or even amoral in my book, and certainly opposite of the morals, ethics, and code of conduct i was taught by parents, family, teachers, and coaches, are dismissed by political parties and their supporters to attack the other side.

As i have watched this go down and read and listen to good friends, good people, latch on to their party’g pitch, ignoring facts and manipulation of the truth, if not outright lies, it reminded me of two parts of our past: Nazi Germany and McCarthyism.

Andrew Maraniss and his father David Maraniss have written superb books detailing how both Adoph Hitler and Joseph McCarthy, along with their henchmen, manipulated the public with lies, fear, and nationalistic rhetoric to create terror and suppression of truth and justice. The aftermath of what both of those terrible figures of our past left is shame for our humanity.

David’s book, A Good American Family, details the injustice and the hardships of those blacklisted by McCarthyism. The central victim in this tale of our country’s shame is David’s father, Andrew’s grandfather, Elliot, who rose above the hardships and was a good man. i was mesmerized by the book and ashamed our country let this happen.

Andrew’s latest book, “Games of Deception” is a story of the U.S. team in the first basketball played in the Olympics. It was 1936. Americans, notably Avery Brundage, whose bigotry and catering to the Nazi regime hid the lies Nazi Germany was using to deceive the world.

Andrew’s column draws on the lessons he learned in researching and writing this book.

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In 1986, one of Maureen’s best friends growing up recommended a cabinet maker for constructing a large bookcase for my home office in my new home. The cabinet maker was George Hoemann. He was good. His cabinet stands behind me while i write, still a wonderful piece of furniture after thirty-two years. While the construction was taking place in George’s workshop behind his home, less than a block away from Maureen’s parents’ home in Lemon Grove, i visited often. While George worked meticulously on the cabinet, he and i talked of our past.

George had been a German infantryman in World War II. After the war, he immigrated and became cabinet maker. i was cautious in my questions about George’s WWII battle experience, but i learned he had been in several battles against the allies.

George was a good man. He loved his native country. But he was not proud of his country’s caving to Hitler’s Nazi program. Yet as he talked of his Germany, i kept thinking of how good people can be duped into representing bad things. Such duping has occurred throughout our history.

Somebody in the mid-1800’s duped a lot of people to fight a war against their countrymen, even against members of their own family. It was different then. States were more independent than now. Slavery was at the forefront of this conflict, but many chose to fight for their states, rather than fight against such a terrible institution.

And therein lies my fear, why i am scared.

i hear rumblings from folks who believe in one side of the aisle that they are willing to fight for their cause, even if their cause is lying to them.

Who is going to wake up before this polarization erupts into something much worse? When?

Regardless of anyone’s political beliefs, our current president has taken this kind of demagoguery to a new and dangerous level. Both sides have drawn lines in the sand, painted their opposition as evil. And people, good people, my friends are buying into it. Big time. Both sides ready to fight.

And my fear is many, enough, will not come their senses and not deal with people with different ideas with respect, and not adhere to the principles and procedures established in our constitution, something about “all men are created equal” and things like freedom and equality.

Thank you, Andrew for a wonderful column capturing my fears, and continuing to address inequality and men (and women) rising above the deception and succeeding in so many ways.

Andrew Maraniss’ Facebook introduction to his column:

“In the face of a mounting threat to humanity, a campaign of lies, inaction, and disinterest in the truth were all equally dangerous. It’s more obvious than ever before in my lifetime that those dangers haven’t gone away. They’re still with us, and every generation must resist them. If the first casualty of Nazism was the truth, then we must call out dangerous lies in our own time and raise alarms when we see justice or humanity imperiled. In his Nobel Peace Prize speech in 1986, Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel said history has taught us that we cannot be bystanders.”

The link to Andrew’s column is: https://historynewsnetwork.org/article/173853?fbclid=IwAR1ZcF5swK7p3ZPBNQvQnGHZ8ES9v-pOf7hJ1QcVIorp8A7cDyqEfurldm8.

i’ve been in the memory mode for a couple of weeks. Lots of reasons. Primarily, i’m remembering because i’m old and wishing for all things past that were good. i’m always amazed i forget the bad things first.

But one memory is both good and bad. Certainly bad at the time.

It happened in church. The First Methodist Church in Lebanon, Tennessee. On East Main. The Sunday night service, probably around 7:20 p.m., maybe a bit later. 1960 or 1961. It was about in the middle of the pews under the balcony. That’s where we would sit. In other services, the 8:30 a.m. or 11:00 a.m. services, we would sit with our families. But on Sunday nights, it was a whole different thing. Everything was different. Sometimes they would even roll in the piano from the fellowship hall or the choir room or the old hall in the old wing and play it instead of the pipe organ. The men’s chorus assembled for a supper cooked by the women in Fellowship Hall, while on the other side of the partition, the Methodist Youth Fellowship attended their weekly meeting. After the supper, the men would practice their one or two specials for the service and then the two groups would filter into the sanctuary where the wives and younger children would take their seats. Under the balcony was the not really but really reserved seats for the MYF attendees, at least a majority of them.

As i remember this evening, Henry Harding, Sharry Baird, Jimmy Gamble, Marcia Emmert, Linda Leftwich, Ann Clark, Martha Donnell, several more i will remember as soon as i post this, and me. i am guessing my sister was there too. i’m not sure all of these folks were there, but that was the usual cast of suspects. i cannot remember if i was sitting next to Sharry or Linda, but i’m sure it was one of them. Henry was sitting on my other side with Jimmy Gamble next to him. i actually think i remember Judy Lewis had left the MYF session early for some reason. i remember watching her head out of the back door of Fellowship Hall wondering where she was going.

The opening rituals had been observed, and as usual two or three gospel songs had been sung. The men’s choir had sung their special arrangement directed by the choir director of all things, Burton Wilson, and was singing another special for the offertory. The ushers had passed the collection plate back and forth along the aisles of the main sanctuary and begun the collection process under the balcony — the balcony was nearly always empty during the 8:30 and evening services but packed to the gills at the 11:00 service when the Castle Heights cadets would march from the hilltop down main to the church, file in, remain militarily silent during the service, file out and march back up to the campus at the conclusion.

Amongst the MYFer’s, silence was not golden during that evening service. Whispering was the modus operendi in between the gospel songs. Occasionally, a titter might become a muffled laugh, but looked upon askance by the group, while ignored by the minister and the congregation although i’m sure mothers and fathers were taking mental notes. Actually i know because of the several lectures i received on the way home.

i would like to blame at least part of it on one of the others with me, but i had already established myself as a goofball and bumbler. i have later added forgetful and artful loser of things of all sorts. i think this particular incident sealed my fate.

When the collection plate ushers came to our aisle, the collection plate moved from our right to the left. Being the evening service, the plate did not contain a lot of the tithing envelopes or larger bills like the morning services. The evening service yielded some five and one dollar bills and lots of change.

i know there was lots of change in that plate that night because as Sharry passed it to me (i’m now pretty sure it was Sharry), i reached into my pocket for a quarter or more with my right hand while reaching for the plate with my left hand.

This was not a wise decision or a good move. The gold metal plate with the maroon cloth bottom slipped from my left hand and dropped to the floor. It made a loud clanging noise as hit the wood floor. Change was rolling everywhere. The plate did not lay down but rolled crazily under the pews toward the front of the sanctuary. To me, the clang sounded like a nuclear blast and the noise of the plate and change rolling everywhere was a cacophony of an orchestra warming up with discordant notes.

i tried to act as if nothing had happened as church goers began to collect what change they could and pick up the finally still collection plate to hand back to the ushers. Of course, the gang around me was giggling and trying suppress outright guffaws.

It was not a good night for me. i think it started me down my path of goofiness, which i have never lost.

It’s that time again, and i need to get this posted so i can get all of the other things completed before we head east for our Signal Mountain Christmas. Once again, i thank Coach JB Leftwich for giving me the idea of posting this annually. 

The saga continues. The “NOEL” sign in the original story was made of 1×2 pine, was much larger, had holes drilled into the wood for the lights, and weighed considerably more than the current version. But a couple of years ago, some of the lights on the original went out and it was just too complicated to replace the lights in the series. So i constructed a more manageable sign. i was very meticulous and before drilling the one hundred or more holes, i decided to check it out and just stapled the light strings on the front. i showed it to Maureen. She decided she liked it much better than the more regimented one with holes drilled in it. Since she is the one who has an eye for design (and it was one heck of a lot less work), i agreed.

i was going to do some revisions this year, but as usual, i forgot until it was up and too lazy to take it down, revise, and put up again. The lights are still two different “whites.” Next year, next year, i just might reinvent it again. It keeps me out of trouble.

Noel.

Notes from the Southwest Corner: An Embarrassing Christmas Moment

As I have noted previously, I am (will be) in Tennessee for Christmas, not in the Southwest corner. The below events, however, did occur near San Diego.

Have you ever had one of those days when everything turned into an embarrassment? I had a champion day like that several years ago.

It started innocently while I hung our outdoor decoration, a home-made “NOEL” sign from the eave of our garage, hoping to get it up before my wife’s friends arrived for their Christmas dinner.

Maureen and her six friends have been meeting monthly for dinners for 15-plus years. They had this December dinner catered, did it up right. It was Maureen’s turn to be hostess.

It was dark when I began. I was at the top of my step ladder attaching the second of two wires from the sign to a hook secured to the eave when the ladder lurched and toppled. I grabbed a metal ornamental grating above the garage door.

There I hung, my arm intertwined with the “O” of the sign. If I tried to drop, the sign could catch my arm and do some pretty bad stuff.

I yelled, but Maureen had Christmas carols at top volume and didn’t hear. I tried to think of what to do while simultaneously wondering how long I could hold on. The dog wandered underneath, occasionally looking up as if I was a very strange person hanging there.

After several minutes, a neighbor’s son and friend pulled into the driveway several houses away. As they emerged, I swallowed my pride and yelled “Help.”

At first, they could not discern who was calling. Then they spotted me and came to help. The dog decided to protect me and began barking threateningly. The boys hesitated. I assured them the only danger was being licked to death. They finally righted the ladder and helped me down.

I thanked them profusely and then studied whether I should tell Maureen or not. Now that I was back on solid ground, I decided it was too funny not to tell her. She was incredulous and not particularly amused.

I did not realize my embarrassment for the night was just beginning.

While Maureen made final arrangements for her dinner, our daughter, Sarah, and I went to a local spot for supper. The little place was an oasis of sorts in Bonita, where there were only Mexican, Italian, and fast food restaurants. The attraction was being different and having a wide-range of ales and beers for golfers finishing a round across the street.

When we arrived, two couples were at tables and three guys sat at the bar. As we neared the end of our meal, the largest of the guys at the bar walked to the door and then turned back. I noticed his eyes seemed glazed. Then he walked back to the bar.

Suddenly, this guy and the one on the other side grabbed the guy in the middle off his stool, slammed him into the wall and started pummeling him with their fists. The three male diners, me (instinctively) included, approached from one side and two cooks approached from the back. Sarah had retreated to the door with the two lady diners. I grabbed the big guy. He spun and fell backward, slamming us into our table, knocking it over with shattering glass. It gave me some leverage, and we spun to the floor with me on top and knocking the wind out of the big guy. The other two diners helped me hold him until he calmed down. The cooks had quelled the other assailant. The two left quietly.

Even though the waitress wanted us to not pay our bill, we paid and left for home. On the way, I talked to my daughter about what I should have done (directed her outside before joining the fray) and what she should do the next time if she were ever in a place where a fight broke out (get out and away and not come back until she was sure it was over).

I was feeling pretty good as we arrived home. Then Sarah dashed out of the car, ran into the house and yelled to her mother in front of the caterer and her six friends dressed to the nines amidst fine china, Christmas decorations, and haut cuisine, “Mom, Dad got in a fight in a bar.”

Some days, I just can’t get a break.

May your holiday season be embarrassment free.

And may all of you have a most wonderful and amazing Christmas Season, and please, please, please (as James Brown would implore) remember the reason this all occurs every year.

i keep finding these things in my old age reorganization.

These were in a 5×4 old, faded envelope. They are small, just over two inches wide and about two and half inches long. They are in remarkably good condition. I am pretty sure they are photos my father sent my mother or my aunt, his sister Naomi Martin. i am guessing they were taken in 1945 in the Philippines, but it could have been on Bougainville or Santa Isabel in the Solomon Islands, or New Guinea, or New Caledonia. But for some reason, it looks like Luzon to me where they landed on D+4 and where i stopped many times in Subic Bay. Perhaps it’s the native helper in camp or even more likely the monkey that gives me that idea.

To visit the past from far away and long ago: