Word of The Year: "War"

Has anyone else noticed the media's hyperbolic use of the word "war" to describe every debate, disagreement, difference of opinion? Its use began as a startling, ear-catching sound bite designed to grab attention. Now there's a war on religion, on women, on Christmas, on human rights, on reproductive rights, and so on. It reminds me of my teenager's complaint that I "yelled" at her if I express a differing opinion. 

Have we become so sensitive that we can't even express a differing opinion without it being deemed a war-like action? I mean, respectfully speaking (not personal attacks). It's kind of ridiculous to frame everything from a standpoint of military action.

A dictatorship considers differing opinions subversion, war, treason. As inflammatory a statement as that is, the concept of labeling every difference of opinion a war reminds me of how dictatorships methodically and intentionally program people's way of thinking. "If you're not for us, you're against us."

It tends to normalize what is hopefully NOT a normal mindset. I realize there are wars and rumors of war, etc., until the end of time. I understand that sports are pseudo-wars, and so on. But perhaps it is time - or past time - to set aside a blanket acceptance of persisting in a warlike state? When a culture throws around a word so casually, its meaning is weakened. "War" needs to conjure death and destruction, something undesirable, to be avoided, averted, and so on -- not "Oh well, we don't like that so let's call it a war."

And now some people suggest we intentionally place uniformed military personnel in our schools in order to make them safer? Half the world has uniformed military personnel all over the place, and that presence unequivocally fails to stop car bombings, shootings, drones, and other violence.

We need to normalize, not escalate.

Hobo Christmas Morn

The following is one of my personal favorites. Written Christmas Day 2006 and never edited (ducks various thrown objects), here it is for your raw reading pleasure on this St. Stephen's Day. Remember Good King Winceslaus looking out on the Feast of Stephen?~~GH

I wake on Christmas morning to the children's excited "Good morning, Momma." Dog-breath kisses are exchanged between us along with regards of the day and I stumble to the kitchen to check on my roast. This year I decided to slow-roast it at a low temperature for three times as long. Not good for fuel efficiency but perfect for human efficiency. 

It occurs to me we should feed the birds. I read someplace you'll have good luck all year long if you feed the birds on Christmas morn. 

"You can't feed the birds," my husband chides. "It's pouring rain down; there are no birds today."

"Still, we should try…" 

My youngest pipes in. "We didn't feed the birds, but we gave a hobo a sandwich." It's too early for my brain to process this strange statement. Hobo? Where did she learn the word hobo? And how did she come to give a "hobo" a sandwich?

Our son James is here to spend Christmas with us, fresh from the arms of his live-in girl friend and the walls of his new apartment. "He was standing outside and asked if he could have a sandwich," James explains. 

"I made him a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich… and I gave him a cookie," my daughter adds hesitantly, as if I might be angry at her generosity.

"That was sweet, Kelly. I like your heart." The smile on her face tells me she's glad I approve of her decision.

It's a dreary day, a Monday and Christmas too. The soup kitchen across the street doesn't operate today. I expected a line of homeless and elderly to queue up outside but the news spread along the invisible grapevine, and no one shows up to stand miserably in the rain.

All day long I imagine the faceless "hobo" who asked for a sandwich and was given a sandwich… and a cookie. I feel like crying. I wish I could have given him more. He surely smelled the roast cooking. He probably knew I routinely feed the overflow from the soup kitchen.

The rain falls, bitterly cold, cold to the bone kind of cold. I'd hate to be standing in the rain, waiting for a sandwich or a soup kitchen to open on a day like this, much less a Christmas morning. Was the man thankful? Did the sandwich/cookie touch his heart? Did he breathe a sigh of relief? Or did he curse the rain and God, and the soup kitchen, and my child?

James tells me Aqualung died. Our city's homeless mascot, Bill Dunn, showed up around town in 1971 pushing a shopping cart with an impossible stack of grocery bags towering above. His wild long hair and beard reminded us teens of Jethro Tull's Aqualung characterization, and the nickname stuck. Bill was never a threat to little girls and as far as I know, he didn't check out their pretty panties. No one I knew was afraid of him.

I sat at a lunch counter having a slice of pecan pie and a chocolate milkshake – disgusting to think of now but manna from heaven for the fifteen-year-old girl I was at the time. Aqualung – I didn't learn Bill's name until years later – moved along the sidewalk and I watched him through the restaurant's window. A man flicked a cigarette into the gutter and Aqualung scurried toward it. Birdlike in his movements, he darted and snatched up the smoldering butt before it went out. He smiled and took a whiff of it, then smoked the remaining tobacco.

Disgusted, dismayed and yet fascinated, I watched him finish the stranger's cigarette. I couldn't eat my food. I left a small tip for the waitress and with my legs trembling so hard I feared I'd collapse on the sidewalk, I walked up to Aqualung and shoved two brand-new cigarettes into his grimy hand. "Here you go," was all I could manage to squeak out. His eyes twinkled with such life and light that I was surprised. Everything else about him was dingy and smelly and dark. But those eyes…

The years passed and Aqualung remained a fixture in our town. At one time he was a hero, helping to solve a murder. He went missing one winter and the police tracked him down to someplace in North Carolina. He'd gone to a warmer area to wait out the winter. It amused me, a homeless man taking a vacation.

Our paths crossed numerous times over the next thirty years. Sometimes I'd be eating out and see him tucked into a booth in the back of the restaurant sipping coffee and eating dinner. Aqualung was never poor. In fact, he was rumored to be a millionaire and have countless bags of money in his shopping cart. I'd ask if he needed anything. Sometimes I sat with him, asking how he was and making small talk. It was important to me that he knew I saw him as human. He was always polite, rational if not always completely tuned into the moment.

Last year a reporter did a feature story on Aqualung for the newspaper. I didn't learn anything new but felt gratified that younger generations would know a little about our Aqualung. 

Now it is Christmas day and Aqualung is dead. My son said Bill "Aqualung" Dunn left his fortune to a son. My first thought was what woman had lain with Aqualung… I felt ashamed. At some time he had been some woman's son, another woman's lover. He hadn't always been Aqualung. The world felt a little smaller just then as I thought about my own son and his woman. Some tragedy could befall James that would drive him to live on the streets. I thought about the birds, the soup kitchen, and the hobo who'd asked for a sandwich. 

And I cried, not for the hobo, or the birds, or even for the rain. I cried for Bill Dunn's mother, and myself. 

Christmas Carols for the Disturbed

Maybe you're tired of Christmas carols, sick of tinsel, and if you hear another Salvation Army bell ringing you'll scream. The ornaments are still in a box somewhere in the basement; you're out of wrapping paper; and you don't want to spend $1300 on Resident Evil 6 Special Edition for your teenager (even if it IS the only thing s/he wants this year). 

These Christmas carols are for you, dear soul. Grab a bag of potato chips, put some rum in that nog, crank up Led Zeppelin and enjoy. When you're finished giggling, get those Christmas cards addressed. Heck, there's only one day till Christmas! ~~GH

CHRISTMAS CAROLS FOR THE DISTURBED [Author Unknown]

1. Schizophrenia --- Do You Hear What I Hear?

2. Multiple Personality Disorder --- We Three Kings Disoriented Are

3. Dementia --- I Think I'll be Home for Christmas

4. Narcissistic --- Hark the Herald Angels Sing About Me

5. Manic --- Deck the Halls and Walls and House and Lawn and Streets and Stores and Office and Town and Cars and Buses and Trucks and Trees and ... .

6. Paranoid --- Santa Claus is Coming to Town to Get Me

7. Borderline Personality Disorder --- Thoughts of Roasting on an Open Fire

8. Personality Disorder --- You Better Watch Out, I'm Gonna Cry, I'm Gonna Pout, Maybe I'll Tell You Why

9. Attention Deficit Disorder --- Silent night, Holy oooh look at the froggy - can I have a chocolate, why is France so far away? 

10. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder --Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle,Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells

Errata Sheet

Christmas Memories: 

Assembling a Tricycle on Christmas Eve

Scenario... I'm a divorced mom, it's Christmas Eve, my child is nearly two, it's late, I'm exhausted. All I want to do is finish assembling her giant gift, a red tricycle. My eyelids weigh a ton. My back aches. I'm bound and determined to get this thing done.

I flip the 8x11 instruction booklet (which I have folded over for convenience's sake) to Page 11. At the top of the page, it reads "ERRATA SHEET." The errata sheet was on PAGE ELEVEN. Yes. And it said NOT to insert the cotter pin lock until after inserting a shim between the wheel hub and the foot rest. 

Too little warning, too late in coming.  

Sigh. That one wheel never did roll right.

A lot of things in Life are like the tricycle assembly instruction book. Sometimes all the information you need is there, just not in the order you need to apply it effectively. Sometimes you discover it after the fact. Sometimes the box comes without any instruction book at all. Assembly required, no guidance available. 

We do the best we can with what's available. If possible, we undo the damage done. Sometimes, like with the cotter pin lock, it can't be fixed. That's when you put on a smile and make-do every time the back wheel wobbles and squeaks. Which may happen every afternoon for years. 

It isn't ideal. It doesn't roll like the other trikes, or sound smooth like the ones in the commercials. But that, too, is okay. There's always an up-side. You can hear your child coming from behind the building. If she's playing out of your eyesight, you notice immediately when the squeaking stops and you go check on her. 

Best of all, you learn the lesson printed on every instruction booklet ever written, which is: "Read all directions thoroughly before assembling."~~GH

Counting Sheep - At the Funeral Home

Counting Sheep at the Funeral Home © 2001 Ginger Hamilton Caudill
Appeared in November 2004 Mountain Echoes

GHC's Note: This was written 11 years ago. My skills have hopefully improved since then. Am posting it as is.

James was two and Mena five when we created my favorite Christmas memory. A local funeral home sponsors a nativity display each year featuring live sheep. I invited Mena's best friend Cerissa along for the adventure. I thought it'd be a unique experience for the children.

How right I was.

Despite asking before we left home, all three children needed to "go" as soon as we stepped out of the car. We trooped inside the funeral home to find the restroom. While I was helping James, the girls wandered off and entered a viewing room. When I finally found them, they were staring transfixed at the mortal remains of a very pink, very old lady. Recognizing a teaching moment, I began to explain the purpose for viewing.

Just then the very pink, very old dead lady's only surviving relative entered the parlor, welcomed us, and thanked us for coming. I used all my powers of diplomacy to extract us from the situation and gladly herded my charges back to the parking lot.

Cerissa marveled at the life-sized manger and commented on how sweet Mary's expression was. Mena noted how humanlike the sheep's eyes  were. Several other folks sharing the experience murmured in agreement. It was a truly lovely, peaceful Hallmark moment. Just as I started congratulating myself on a successful evening, to my horror a chain of events worthy of a Saturday Night Live skit began.

James complained he couldn't see Jesus. I lifted him over the fence and set him inside the corral. A lone sheep backed into him. James slapped its behind. Bleating in fear, it lurched away and dashed for the sanctuary of the crèche. The other sheep followed. Each animal leapt over baby Jesus, knocking against Mary and Joseph. Attached to the top of the stable by wires, the statues spun wildly as each sheep's generous hindquarters bumped them. I hadn't realized how many people were there until I heard raucous laughter. A few witnesses even applauded.

We now view the live nativity scene each year from the safety of the car, even though they're both nearly grown. You just can't count on sheep.

A Message of Hope

He Watched With Me © 2004 Ginger Hamilton Caudill

I awoke abruptly from a troubled sleep. The pains are back again, I thought, and worse than ever too. Like a wounded animal, I dragged myself out of bed to suffer or possibly die alone. The pain was so intense, the prospect of my dying from it wasn't hard to imagine. Thankfully still asleep, my husband didn't move. He had helplessly watched with me, both of us in tears, many nights before. I think he suffered nearly as much as I did.

A new chemotherapy drug I took for my breast cancer had caused my nerve cells to swell up, sending millions of pain messages to my brain. Every nerve cell in my body panicked and told my brain to make my body get away from whatever caused the pain. Unfortunately, it couldn't. The medicine had absorbed into each and every cell in my body. There seemed no relief, except perhaps death. At that moment, death seemed a preferable experience.

I decided to try and take my mind off my pain by surfing the net or reading email or even trying to write a story. Millions of people are online at all times, but none of my friends were. I went through my list of online bulletin board groups and read each posting. Cheerful Christmas stories and silly requests from Santa weren't what I wanted to read right now. I felt even lonelier knowing the entire world was happily anticipating Christmas, baking and wrapping presents, while I suffered.

I opened my email. A thoughtful friend had sent me an e-card. Suddenly feeling cold, I looked down at my pajama top. It was soaked clear through with my tears. Lifting it away from my chest, I realized it was sopping wet. Just then, a midi file began to play "Silent Night."

Surprised, I looked up at the monitor. I hadn't realized I'd clicked on the e-card. I loved "Silent Night." It was one of my favorite Christmas songs. I began to sing the words in a blubbering whisper to try and take my mind off my suffering…all is calm…all is bright. I felt as if my chest would burst, and choked on yet another sob. All is not calm. All is not bright. I am suffering and alone! I am so alone! 

It occurred to me this must be how Christ felt in the Garden of Gethsemane when all he wanted was for his friends to watch with him, and they fell asleep. I would have watched with you, my Brother. I would have kept the faith and not slept, I thought. I'm so sorry you were alone.

At once, I felt a comforting, loving warmness that filled me from head to toe. I felt like a cup with warm cocoa being poured into it, all the way to the top. A veil of calm descended over me, and my breathing became deep and regular.

I didn't hear a voice, but a powerful thought entered my mind that I was not alone, I was never alone, that Christ was with me in everything that I experienced, that He would never abandon me. The thought continued that all was well and according to plan, that the part of me that was truly me, my spirit, was alive and well and thriving despite what my physical self experienced, that I was eternally safe.

I got much-needed relief from my pain. The intensity was never as severe after this marvelous event. I was able to tolerate the pain until the effects of the medication wore off some weeks later. The real relief, though, is in the complete assurance that I am never alone.

The End of the Shamrock as We Know It

You know, I only today learned the whole "driving snakes out of Ireland" thing was a metaphor. Once that's common knowledge in the U.S., can the "sanctity" of the shamrock be far behind? Then there will be great consternation and controversy from grade school teachers who will be forced to stop compelling schoolchildren to laboriously cut out shamrocks and decorate the walls and boards with them. American Greetings and Hallmark will bankrupt from the post-Christmas slump and subsequent falloff in spring shamrock-themed sales. McDonald's Shamrock shake sales will plummet as the propaganda machine churns to a halt and stops promoting artificial green food. Angry mobs will form seeking retribution from witches, and we will have come full circle. Damned trouble-making Pagans! ~~GHC

Note: This is satire, folks. I <3 Pagans!