Goodbyes and Winnie the Pooh

Two chapters remain in The Complete Tales of Winnie the Pooh.
Two evenings remain unscheduled before the grandgirls return
to their side of the world for a year,
perhaps two.
Their first week in the USA,
Anna and I went to Goodwill
and found a EH Shepard stuffed Tigger
(not the Disney Tigger).
Lucy immediately claimed him.
A whisker trim and a good washing--
which made him loopy,
somewhat like his tiger cousin Hobbes--
and he then joined Lucy's foxes
and became a bedtime buddy
and substitute pillow.

The Hundred Acre Wood we created last year
has been often re-explored
from the seat of the four wheeler.
Pooh and Uncle Rabbit are still engrossed
in their long conversation
at the foot of a mid-sized oak.
They stay rrrrrrreally still when the girls pass by.

Presently, Paul and his family are visiting friends in eastern PA
and I am catching up on laundry,
spacing out the loads because
even though we have had lots of rain
the well recovers slowly.
I was rolling towels
(Anyone else do that?)
and putting away clothes--
only four pairs of socks (it IS summer)--
and thinking about Winnie the Pooh.
Lucy's nickname is now "Tig"*
and I wondered which character I am most like.
When in college, I travelled upstate New York as Roo
with my roommate Holly as Uncle Rabbit,
but now I relate to Owl,
who thinks he knows everything
and bluffs when he doesn't.
He spells his name WOL.
I saw Denny as Pooh because he is so faithful and steady.
When asked, Denny agreed that he was Pooh,
but his reasoning was that Pooh sits around a lot
and always likes to have a little something around eleven.

The grandgirls' last day here will be Saturday,
the fiftieth anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing.
Next week we will see the same moon,
just not at the same time.
And while I am having a few Eeyore thoughts,
these Pooh quotes come to mind:

"If there ever comes a day when we can't be together,
keep me in your heart,
I'll stay there forever."

"How lucky I am to have something
that makes saying goodbye so hard."





* Anna has gained a nickname, too.
She is Pip (chawming!)
as we also read Pippi Longstocking 
and James and the Giant Peach
among others.

Bigfoot Sighting

For years, Rockton Mountain has been known 

as a possible home for Bigfoot. 

We first heard of the the possibility over a generation ago 

when a Rockton woman found footprints near her pond 

and, upon further investigation, 

discovered some fish were missing. 

She concluded that this was the work of Bigfoot.

Why?

“Those footprints were an inch deep. 

My husband’s footprints are only a half inch deep 

and he’s a big fella, 

so the thing that made these footprints 

has to be bigger than my husband.”

And so it began.

A man returning from a New Year’s Eve party 

briefly saw something in his headlights. 

Bigfoot? 

One has to wonder what else he saw on the way home, 

but that same night, 

a woman who had NOT been drinking 

also saw an unidentified something in her headlights.

Later, a local jogger saw an unidentified creature cross the highway. 

Could it be a bigfoot?

Half-eaten roadkill?

Bigfoot.

Peculiar smell? 

Bigfoot.

Damage in your garden?

You guessed it. 

Bigfoot.

Even though primatologist Jane Goodall 

supports the possibility 

of the yet-unconfirmed ape-like creatures, 

we remained skeptical.

Over the Mountain restaurant, 

a mile from our house, 

advertised an upcoming meeting 

of The Bigfoot Society. 

We smiled condescendingly when we drove by 

and declined to attend.

And then the mystery invaded our lives.

At 2:20 on June 4, 2019, 

we were driving down the mountain 

toward the Anderson Creek bridge 

when I saw the silhouette of a bent over old man 

waiting to cross route 322. 

Behind him was the Moshannon State Forest, 

and in front of him, where he must have parked his car, 

was a spring at the bottom of a very steep, rocky mountainside. 

I watched him walk quickly and furtively across the highway. 

It looked like he was carrying something. 

I assumed he had picked up something that had blown from his vehicle— 

the day before I had watched a man 

retrieve an errant propane tank— 

but I could not see his vehicle 

as the highway curved and obscured my view. 

In ten seconds we reached the spring at the bottom of the mountain, 

but when we got there, 

there was NO vehicle. 

There was NO old man,

and there is NO WAY that a human could 

climb that mountainside in ten seconds.

“Whoa!” I said.

“Whoa what?” said Denny.

“I saw an old guy cross the road 

and then he just disappeared... 

I can understand why some people believe in Bigfoot 

because I have NO IDEA how to explain what I just saw.”

“Are you sure you didn’t see a deer?”

My vision is not what it once was, 

but I know a deer when I see one.

“Deer have four legs. What I saw was on two legs, bipedal.”

I enthusiastically continued to think about 

and then discard possible explanations 

until Denny reminded me that it was possible to think silently, 

a subtle suggestion.

When we saw friends that night, 

I told them of my Bigfoot sighting.

They smiled skeptically but admitted, 

if anyplace around here would have a bigfoot population, 

it would be on Rockton Mountain. 

Mary Kay listened attentively, 

then asked, “Are you sure it wasn’t a bear?”

I assured her that the creature was walking on two legs,

but later that night, eyes wide open, 

I contemplated her remark again

and padded downstairs 

to enter “bear walk two legs” in a search engine. 

Up came a video of a bear walking on two legs.

It. Moved. Exactly. Like. My. Bigfoot.

I phoned a friend, a retired Penn State Wildlife professor, 

and asked him if a bear would walk across a highway on two legs. 

“That would be highly unusual,” he responded, 

“but it is possible...”

So now I think my Bigfoot sighting 

was really a highly unusual bear 

crossing the highway on two feet. 

Two big feet. 

But I could be wrong.

Dinosaur Bob, Glaciology, and Micah 6:8

It is a frosty morning here on the mountain 

and Dinosaur Bob is worried.

Weeks after we trekked down the road to Punxsutawney 

to hear the groundhog prognosticate an early spring, 

the snow remains. 

The robins are two weeks late.

The daffodil noses are still buried.

While waiting,

I am reading David McCullough’s book 

Brave Companions: Portraits in History. 

It contains chapter biographies of remarkable people. 

Theodore Roosevelt. 

Miriam Rothchild. 

Frederick Remington. 

Harriet Beecher Stowe. 

I was particularly struck by the lives 

of Alexander von Humboldt and his friend Louis Agassiz.

Agassiz studied rocks in Switzerland’s Aar Valley

and first voiced the scientific opinion of Ice Ages,

that the Alps region had experienced prolonged periods

of being covered by vast glaciers 

whose retreats scoured the bedrock.

When Agassiz moved to America to lecture at Harvard, 

he found similar evidence there of prior Ice Ages. 

Agassiz is now known as the Father of Glaciology.

He loved to justify his opinions 

of science and nature

and his talks were packed with fascinated listeners.

We also love to give our opinions—

just ask us, we’ll tell you!

But last week our friend  

asked for opinions on Facebook 

and I had trouble answering.

She wrote

“What historical figure (not current) 

was not as great as people have thought?”

My mind went immediately to Louis Agassiz, 

as further Wikipedia reading informed me 

that his name had been removed from a Boston school 

when his interpretation of science 

did not line up with some current thought.

How easily he was dismissed!

One of my major memories of college 

was sitting in Ethics class 

listening to the prof go through a list of philosophers— 

“(Insert philosopher’s name here) 

believed 

(Insert philosophy in twenty-five words or less here), 

and this is why he’s wrong: 

(Insert current opinion here.)” 

One of my classmates asked, 

“These are among the greatest minds on the planet; 

who are YOU to dismiss them so quickly?” 

BAM. 

Over the passing decades, 

I have often thought of his words, “Who are YOU…?”

when someone is dismissive 

(often me).

I looked again at the Facebook post. 

Commenters offered the names of flawed people:

Thomas Jefferson.

Lincoln. 

Mother Teresa.

Gandhi.

JFK.

Winston Churchill.

Mister Rogers had not made the list. Yet.

Hmmmm. What IS my opinion?

I immediately thought of Abraham

and how Sarah encouraged him to sleep with Hagar.

How that one act has changed the world!

Obviously, King David would be a candidate

for the Bathsheba Incident.

Then I heard my classmate’s words:

Who are you?

and I responded by quoting another friend:

“None of us are as good—

or as bad—

as others think we are.”

But the question continued to bother me

and I woke in the middle of the night 

to unload my brain on paper:

“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”

Is that language sexist? 

And how far do we go to remedy the translation?

“Hindsight is 20-20.”

We are all influenced by our culture, 

our century, 

our personal stories, 

our belief systems.

We make decisions based on these things.

I look at decisions in history

and recognize that some 

WERE made strictly for selfishness 

and evil purposes, 

but that many decisions have been made

believing information whose faultiness was later exposed.

People have been tasked with making decisions

while being ignorant of important information. 

These people made decisions 

without knowing what the side effects might be.

They were trying their utmost to make their best guess. 

Examples could include plastics,

fertilizer,

the reaction to 9-11,

dynamite,

hand sanitizer,

genetic modification, and

the post-WW II drawing of national boundaries.

We all, hopefully, try to make our best guess 

with the information we have.

We need to hope the future will forgive us our sins,

known and unknown,

as we forgive those who sin against us.

If we cannot gather information 

and then make our best guess,

how are we not paralyzed to make any decision?

Denny recently didn’t notice a stop sign on a quiet street.

When I brought this up,

he responded, “That was one time. 

Don’t you remember all the times I have done things right?” 

I make plenty of mistakes all the time.

I am a fallen creature in a fallen world.

So are you.

I hope I am not remembered for my sins. 

I need to apologize

for things I have done that I should not have done, 

like the Tuxedo Incident 

and things I have not done that I should have done,

like listening with both sides of my brain

and speaking up.

I am often more pursuant of logic than of love. 

Should I also apologize for the mistakes of others?

I recently did that for the first time. 

When someone told a story of being verbally stung 

by an opinionated, self-righteous person, 

I apologized to her on behalf 

of opinionated, self-righteous people everywhere.

Should I also apologize on behalf of mothers? 

Teachers? 

Christians?

North Americans? 

When does “water under the bridge” come into play?

I have been a questioner all my life.

Want to get the teacher off the subject? 

Ask me.

Need someone to ask what everyone is thinking? 

I’ll do it!

For years, our car had the bumper sticker “Question Authority.”

Yet Corinthians tells us, “All things are lawful 

but not everything is beneficial.”

There are times when questions don’t aid in healing.

Sometimes we can tell when that is happening.

And sometimes not.

We try to live our lives by the quote

Err on the side of compassion,

and Micah 6:8,

Do justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly.

If we have wronged you, 

we are sorry.

Please remember us with compassion.

Peter Pan, Rotten Smells, and a Moose Named James

I will be retiring in about a month
and have just directed
my last classroom performance of Peter Pan.
This past week
I invited primary children to squeeze together on the floor
while parents and adult friends
perched on tiny chairs in the back of the classroom.
We had been practicing since Easter
and the Darling family knew their parts, mostly.
Nana the dog could Woof in the right spots,
the Indians knew their dance,
Crocodile could slither and wrestle,
the pirates were great at "Arrrrrrr",
and the Lost Boys were slightly wild, right on cue.
Pan and Hook had practiced their sword fight.
"Bold boy, prepare to die," growled Hook.
"To die will be an awfully big adventure!" responded Pan.
The choir belted out, "I won't grow up!"
It was a great success.

The day before the play's opening,
I entered the classroom and smelled rotting flesh.
Though I could see no droppings,
no chewed particles,
the smell was somewhat familiar,
dead mouse.
I imagined calling maintenance:
"Hello, Maintenance? This is Sue Shaffner.
I smell something dead in my classroom."
"Something dead?
You mean besides the bear skull,
the deer skull,
the horseshoe crab,
the five foot blacksnake skin,
the taxidermy armadillo,
and the 217 bones recently extracted from the owl pellet?"

Instead I lay on the floor by the heater
with a flashlight,
looking for fur.
I would have taken the heater apart,
but it was covered with child-painted sky mural,
as children needed to stand atop the heater to fly to Never Land and back.
Instead I sprayed every surface in the room with air freshener,
hoping for the best.
After our first performance,
a shy little girl raised her hand and said, "What stinks?"
I started into a short science talk
about rotting flesh and opportunistic mice
when a boy at the next table piped up,
"Well, I didn't know what to do with my egg..."
He reached into his desk tray
and lifted up a pink plastic egg into the air
and a large gooey glob hit his folder
and splattered onto his tablemates' belongings.
The stench exploded.
Kids faces disappeared inside their shirts
and the sounds of gagging filled the room.
Apparently he had not been listening a month earlier
when I had instructed everyone
to take their "Egg Olympics!" eggs
to the cafeteria for disposal.
Instead, his hard-boiled egg lurked inside his desk for weeks
tucked inside his plastic egg,
decomposing.
We opened every window,
took the garbage can outside,
and all cleaned our desk trays
with wintergreen alcohol.
When the afternoon audience arrived,
the rotting smell still lingered.
Thankfully, the crowd was understanding.

It was great to have an audience after weeks of practice.
I had put a tape line on the floor
to keep the climactic battle scene in bounds
but it wasn't helping,
so I asked "Slightly" to set up the stuffed moose cousins
as a front row audience.
The moose cousins,
really Hallmark "Comet" reindeer from the 90s,
are my boys' daily playmates.
They have names written on their butt tags,
named for someone encountered on their day of purchase--
Hans and Tangie from thrift stores in Montana,
Jack and Shirley from Utah,
Barbara and Leslie from local Goodwill trips--
and have Goodwill sweaters to help tell them apart.
"Slightly" loved his moose-arranging job.
He angled their heads to look all around--
some watched the London skyline,
some the clouds above Never Land,
some waited for the pirates to tie up their captives,
some kept an eye on the Jolly Roger--
and then he quickly returned the cousins to their basket after curtain-call.
It was Slightly who suggested that,
during actual performances,
the moose cousins sit all over the bookshelves
so they could still watch the play.

Recently I found a new cousin.
I brought him to school and told Slightly
that this cousin had heard about his good work in the moose world
and wanted to belong to him.
His eyes widened.
I asked if he had a name for the new cousin.
"Not yet," he responded,
"but could he have a sweater?"
A few hours after a sweater was chosen,
Slightly returned to my desk
and whispered, "His name is James."
We wrote it on his butt tag.

James went home with Slightly that day.
I imagine them having adventures in the wilds of Penfield
and James tucked into the crook of Slightly's elbow
as he grows, slightly, each night.
Generations of children have left my classroom
and have grown up.
Many of those kids now have kids themselves.
We know that "I won't grow up" is a lie,
that it happens in the bat of a moose's eyelash.
The last line of our Peter Pan play is
"Wendy never saw Peter Pan again,
but she told the story of Peter Pan to her children
who told it to their children
who told it to their children
for ALL children grow up,
except one."

This new growing season
I wish you pleasant smells,
hugs from small children
or stuffed animals,
and joy in your coming adventures.

Juneberry Thoughts

One of the advantages of living on the mountain
is the panorama that spreads out when we drive to the valleys.
Last month,
Bennett's Valley was spectacular
with hundreds of juneberry trees in blossom.  
Ameleanchor is known by a number of names:
shadbush,
serviceberry  two centuries ago
the berries were ripe
when the many wedding services were performed
by a circuit-riding preacher
About ten years ago
Den planted three plants
This year the conditions were perfect for fruiting.
Last week the berries were pink,
Wednesday they were darkening to a perfect ripeness,
and Thursday night the bear came.
Branch tips were stripped
by his bite-and pull method of eating
and a big branch was broken on the ground.
Friday morning
the grandgirls and I discovered the damage.
Anna was a bit sad that the bear damaged the tree,
but Lucy was thrilled that so many berries
were now within her reach.
She ate them indiscriminately
until she discovered that green ones are pretty bad.
The next hour
was spent consuming Hundreds Of Delicious Red Berries.
While Anna braved the tippy stones in the wall
to reach higher branches,
Lucy took Bop a fistful of berries,
which somehow became half a fistful of berries.
When Bop gratefully accepted the gift
and then immediately gave them back to her,
Lucy 's cheeks almost burst with enthusiasm.

This morning the girls are back home
and more branches are broken.
Luckily the weather is  perfect,
nice breeze,
relatively low humidity,
great for beating the bear to the remainder.
I gently bend the branches to reach the higher berries--
not too hard or I will break the remaining branches.
I pick the ripest maroon berries
and the darker reds
and listen to them ping into the bowl.
When I release the branch,
the remaining reds look riper than the pinks
and I wonder if perhaps I should pick them as well.
As I work, I think of spectrums--
the spectrum of juneberry ripeness,
the spectrum of branch brittleness,
the spectrum of house cleanliness,
the political spectrum,
the spectrum of attention given to children.
I think the middle is usually a good place to be.
Colson Blakeslee,
our first family physician,
advised "Everything in moderation."
I like that.
My house has dust bunnies
and the occasional dust possum
but the CDC wouldn't be interested.
I am easily swayed
by both Rebublicans
and Democrats.
I eat low-far cottage cheese and butter,
carrots and bacon.
I use store-bought pie crust
and homemade filling.

I think I'll go make a juneberry pie.

The Possum Saga Continues...

Earlier in the month,
I wrote of a young possum
that frustrated my cookie-making efforts.
We did not part on good terms.
It is now December 23,
Christmas Eve Eve,
and you may be interested to know
that the possum and I are becoming friends.
I have named her Li'l Poss,
though truthfully I don't know if it is a girl.
She hasn't shown me her belly--
but then, I suppose
I haven't shown her mine, either.
Here is the original story
and the follow-up.

Early December:
Last night I was talking with our son Paul
and granddaughter Anna via FaceTime.
It was morning in Taiwan
and Anna was home with a stomach bug.
I told her that I was about to make Christmas Crack
for the Historical Society's Christmas Open House.
"Follow the recipe this time,"
Paul suggested with a wry smile.
My kitchen exploits are rarely consistent.
I smugly informed him of the chart that I had made
with different temperatures
and times
and ingredient variations.
This time, nothing would go wrong.

I measured accurately,
stirred the butter and brown sugar
for exactly three minutes,
distributed and smoothed the dark chocolate chips,
then put Christmas sprinkles on top.
The final step was to put it in the freezer for twenty minutes,
but the back porch also was freezing
and more energy efficient.
I sat down by the Christmas tree,
feeling quite pleased.
Fifteen minutes later
I heard a crash.
A possum had enjoyed the lovely chocolate coating,
then knocked the pan off the table.
We scowled and growled at each other,
then he waddled off.

Tonight I made another batch.

Possum

Recipe for Possum's Favorite Christmas Crackers may be found at the end of the blog

Later in December,
I mixed a batch of chocolate chip cookies
to take to the church's nativity play
and put the dough on the back porch
in the antique icebox
where possums cannot reach--
lesson learned--
to chill for an hour.
Soon after, Den started outside to fix the fire
and said, "Possum's back."

Sure enough, there she sat,
huddled and blinking,
nose twitching.
Seeing her made me laugh about our previous experience
so I turned a bit soft-hearted
and gave her a tiny bowl of cookie dough.
She didn't seem afraid,
so I decided to give her a party.
I got her a friend, Moose,
an ornament for sparkle,
Baby Jesus to remember the incarnation,
and brought out Grandma Maud's Christmas placemat.
Li'l Poss even let me put a tiny Santa hat on her
to go with her fur coat.

L'il Poss's Christmas party

After she ate the dough,
I gave her a lesson in manners
using an old slate that Anna had written on years ago.

Cooke dough consumed, smile on face. I think she's smiling...

I thought we were done,
but a few nights later
I heard loud rummaging sounds
and saw that she had chewed the lid off the cider jug
and was frustrated that she couldn't get a drink.

Cider

I poured a bit in her bowl
and we had another party,
complete with Christmas candle.
I reallyreallyreallyreally wanted to pick her up,
but I didn't.

Christmas party #2

 Soon we may celebrate New Year's Eve.

May you have strange and wonderful adventures in the new year
and may you make many new friends,
some of whom are not of your species.
Carpe Anno!

Sue and Denny
 

Recipe for Possum's Favorite Christmas Crackers:

1 sleeve saltine crackers
1 cup butter
1 cup brown sugar
2 cups dark chocolate chips (or milk chocolate chips, your choice)

1. Preheat oven to 400°.
2. Line edged cookie sheet with aluminum foil.
3. Place saltine crackers in single layer on foil.
4. Heat butter and brown sugar in saucepan,
    stirring constantly until bubbly.
    Continue cooking and stirring for three minutes.
5. Pour over saltines.
    Bake at 400° for six minutes.
6. Remove from oven and sprinkle chocolate chips evenly across the top.
7. Let sit for 5 minutes,
    then spread the melty chips evenly
    and sprinkle with your choice of toppings:
    Christmas sprinkles,
    chopped almonds,
    ground coffee beans,
    sea salt, etc.
    Use your imagination.
8. Put in the freezer for 20 minutes.
    The back porch is not recommended if there is wildlife around.
9. Remove from freezer and crack* into pieces.

*Thus its original name, Christmas Crack.
Or maybe because it is made of CRACKers.
Or perhaps because it can be addicting...
the possum did come back the next night.

Ten Non-traditional Traditions: A Christmas Post

A Christmas Post      

It's December here on Shaffners' Mountain.
The wrapping of the grandgirls' presents was done months ago
and they were shipped to the other side of the world.
We will FaceTime the unwrapping,
thankful for this aspect of technology.
With no wrapping duties,
we thought we'd use the extra time
to share ten non-traditional ways that we celebrate Christmas:


1. Write the year's highlights on an ornament.

Each year,
Den plays John Denver's Christmas album
and gives advice from the couch
while I hang lights and ornaments.
This process can take a long time,
as for years we have judged an ornament's worth
by the ability to write on it with a fine-tipped Sharpie marker.
The year's events are recorded on that year's ornament.
We reread the family highlights on the ornaments
on tree decorating night...
births,
first wiggly teeth,
two-wheelers conquered,
dogs lost,
roles in plays,
college acceptances,
marriages...
The cycle starts again with grandchildren.
The older we get,
the longer it takes
as the ornament number increases.
The print also gets smaller.

1989- Paul loses his first tooth, Luke dresses himself, Den gets chiggers, Pap has a bypass

1995- Luke stars as the Big Bad Wolf, Paul gets his first deer, Sue sings with Red Grammer

2001- Luke babysits ferrets and gets Heeleys, Paul goes to the Dominican Republic alone, Den takes sabbatical to study C.S. Lewis

2. Write a Christmas newsletter, then illustrate it.
Our newsletter is usually started during Thanksgiving break.
We list memories that we are thankful for,
think of unique experiences that each family member has had,
try to present them in a semi-organized way,
then draw small illustrations.
Tech-savvy people would add photographs,
but I feel that
1. I am not tech savvy.
2. people may be impressed with my tiny cartoon drawings, or
3. people will feel much better about their own drawing skills after seeing mine.
It's similar to hearing Pierce Brosnan sing in Mamma Mia!
You appreciate his guts
and feel better about your own voice at the same time.
It's a win-win situation.

An alphabetical recap of our western RV tour

3. Decorate your vehicle for Christmas.
When December begins,
Den decorates our vehicles.
The jeep has a wreath on the grill,
magnetic lights on the sides,
and sports the added bonus
of a souvenir plate
from our trip to North Pole, Alaska.
"Got reindeer?"

Holly jolly jeeping

4. Wear a Christmas hat.
During December,
I wear a black fedora covered with Christmas pins
gathered year round from thrift stores.
Many people give sideways glances,
but the ones that make a comment
get their choice of a pin
and a blessing, like
"May your new year be blessed with health
and safety
and adventure
and peace
and may you be aware of the presence of God."
Warning:
Wearing so much metal on a hat
can get you moved
to the potential trouble maker line
at the United Nations.

Which pin would you pick?

5. Host a wreath-making party.
For the last two years,
we have provided assorted fresh greens and ribbons
and invited friends to bring wreath forms and wire
to assemble their own wreaths.
Needle-proof gloves are highly recommended.

Watch Sue's wreath making video here.

Wreath-making-- a great way to spend the first Sunday in December

6. Visit your local children's library.
Just like Christmas is not just for kids,
neither are children's books.
Visit your local library
and read children's books to your grownup self.
May we recommend
Peter Spier's Christmas! by Peter Spier,
The Biggest, Best Snowman by Margery Cuyler,
and especially How Little Porcupine Played Christmas by Joseph Slate.
Its phrase "You are the light of my life"
has become a part of the family.
The pseudo-children's book
Father Christmas: The Truth by Gregoire Solotareff
is also a slightly bizarre delight.
For Sue, anyway.

ostrich: in Africa, where it is far too hot for reindeer, Father Christmas has to ride an ostrich. He always feels rather nervous about it. So does the ostrich.

plate: all the elves are envious of Father Christmas's plate. Theirs are much smaller.

7. Go to a children's program...
even if you don't know any of the kids.
Not feeling the season yet?
Go to a children's Christmas presentation,
the local theater's kid production of Elf
or How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
Our elementary school program this year had wonderful harmonies
and recognizable band numbers
and a funny song about ugly Christmas sweaters
and a break-dancing Rudolph.
You don't have to be a relative to attend school performances,
you just sign in for security purposes.
Friends come to see my first graders put on A Christmas Carol every year;
"Bah! Humbug!"
and "God bless us, every one!"
coming from small smiles with missing teeth
are especially memorable.
One of my favorite characters was a belligerent Ghost of Christmas Past--
"Ebenezer! Think about what you done!"
And almost any church's nativity play has energetic shepherds
and wise men
and angels
to tell the story of the incarnation
when God became human,
became a child with burps
and tears
and coughs.
Take your tissues.

Tiny Tim with tiny cane. God bless us, every one!

8. Spend a dollar to dress festively.
When you venture out,
looking festive is recommended.
This can be accomplished
by first making a trip to the dollar store
to buy plastic ornaments to attach to your earrings
or shoes
or coat zipper
and plastic holly to tuck behind your ear.
(Real holly hurts when you wear it. Trust me.)
Use Will Hillenbrand's illustrations
in The Biggest Best Snowman
as your inspiration.
You may want to keep in mind our son's advice, though:
There is a fine line between wacky and tacky.

Love Big Sarah's style

Plastic bulbs and tiny lights

Plastic bulbs that sway when you walk. Better than your neck swaying

Just about anything can be added to hoop earrings

9. Stay home and watch a Christmas show.
Don't want to venture out?
Eat some Christmas cookies
and watch The Snowman
or A Charlie Brown Christmas.
"Ah," you think,
"That is very traditional."
But did you ever catch Linus's drop-the-blanket moment?
We just became aware of it last year.
Linus recites Luke's Christmas passage
and he drops his blanket,
his well-loved security,
when he quotes "Fear not."
Watch it here.

(Don't eat my cookies. Had a little possum trouble this year.
Read that story here.)

"Fear not..."

10. Read the Christmas story outdoors.
The same Milky Way
and Pleiades
and Orion
that sparkle on crisp, clear nights
served as the backdrop
for angel song and the proclamation
"Don't be afraid!
I bring you good news of great joy for everyone!
The Saviour--
yes, the Messiah, the Lord--
has been born tonight in Bethlehem,
the city of David."
Bundle up
and read Luke 2:1-20 under the ancient skies.
Raise your eyes
and your voice
to the Lord of Heaven and Earth.
Immanuel.
Our GOD is with us,
and if GOD is with us,
who can be against us?

Amen.

To hear Michael Card sing "Immanuel"
click here.