The Holidays Are Upon Us

Greetings to all this holiday season. I have been absent from my blog these last weeks. Holiday doings have been going on and especially at this time of year, I do my best to partake in the good spirit and cheer with friends and family.

I have been making notes, fast and furious and have much to tell you. But that will wait until the new year arrives. I wish you and your families the happiest and holiest of holidays; which ever holiday you observe.

Let us all pray for peace, tolerance and goodness for the year to come.

All my best wishes. . .

Thoughts from Christmases Past

The last few days my mind has been so scattered - things to do, places to go, people to see. I've been planning my travel itinerary to head South to visit family and friends for Christmas. The "sleigh" will be relatively empty this year, but I know it will come back full of memories.

The thoughts of the Christmases past sent me searching through a drawer of photographs. In the drawer was one of my "holiday journals." A journal in which I wrote of holiday events, traditions and kept assorted pictures and drawings. With my mind so scattered, I thought I would share some of those writings from days gone by.


Christmas, 1993

He said, 'I am always with you.' I truly believe I am part of Him, hence, I am always with you as well.

As our lives change and we move about, we all share the memories of 'home.' Even while the vision of home changes, there is still always one place we tend to come back to. . .this house.

It's not a big house. It's not the house that is described and memorialized in works of literature. It stores the memories we share. If the walls in the kitchen could talk; if the chips and the stains on the coffee table could tell; if the dining table could raise it's voice; if the hallway, which chronicles our lives, could repeat the stories it's heard. . .all would rise in unison and say, "this is our home"; "our meeting place"; this is where our family is one.

December 25, 1994

It is Christmas morning and Mama and I are sitting here admiring or new "museum piece". Last evening Bob presented Mama with the restoration of the clipper ship originally built by her father, Wilhelm Lange.

It is an impressive piece of work; art; love; continuity; TRADITION. The concept of restoration began three years ago. At Daddy's last Christmas in 1991, Bob showed Daddy the "remains" of the boat and told him he would restore it for Mama. Daddy and Papa Lange, and the rest of our angels, smiled at yet another part of our family, our traditions being preserved.

We are all very lucky, that each of us, in our own special way, have the talents to preserve, communicate and maintain tradition. Traditions that hold and bind us as family and friends. Christmas Eve at Mama's house is a tradition that I will always cherish.

The house took it's old form last evening; like a grand lady emerging for her annual debut. The tree that Mama labored over and fussed about slowly became the "perfect" tree, glittering and sparkling with its holiday adornment.

The music of the season soothed the holiday melancholy. Those not present are still in our hearts. The tables were set for all here, and afar. . .and gone. . .

. . .Bob, Bea, Veronica, Brian, Mama and I exchanged gifts. The presentation of the ship was quite dramatic. Bob orchestrated it with music by Wagner. Mama was very emotional. Veronica commented that she had never seen "Nanny" so moved by anything; she was grateful to have been witness.

This sharing of traditions helps us grow in our relationships with each other. This is the blessing of God; and He has so blessed this house; this family.

December 26, 1995

. . .Christmas Eve was at "home". . .a tradition I'll not part with. Mama and I prepared a small buffet. . .Bob and Bea joined us along with Diane and Ron, Annie, Lenny and Ethyl and Bob.


On Christmas Day we went out to Bob and Bea's for dinner. Joanie drove out with us. At Bob's house, I got my "house". Bob built me this most exquisite doll house. It is carefully crafted and full of love. It's so beautiful and I find myself silenced by this gift of love, time and talent. The words have not yet surfaced to thank him.

Bob is indeed a "giant". I find it no coincidence that he finds fascination with the "smaller things" in life. . .the doll houses; the model cars; The Village he has created in that huge, old tree in his backyard.

The Village is a magical place. Bob has created a series of winding stairs out of the trunk of the tree and climbing the branches up and up to an occassional platform. On the platforms are small huts, lit, and with small wisps of smoke rising from its chimneys. There are barrels and campfires and entryways into the tree itself. Some of the stairs led to a bridge crossing from one branch to another. He says that every year he needs to re-build the stairs and the bridges; you see the tree is growing, and so is the Village.

The Village. . .I am so glad that I was there to share Alexis' first viewing of the Village. She wanted so much to see "them". . .the little people. She could "smell" them cooking and she felt certain that she was small enough to fit through their entry way. She is such a precious child.

This particular journal ends abruptly. My brother Bob, died suddenly in 1998. Mama's house was sold in 1999 and Bea sold her and Bob's home that same year. There would be no more Village. Mama died in 2003.

I am not saddened by these memories of Christmases past. I am ever so thankful that I have those memories and that these people have been part of my life.

Please don't burst my bubbles

Perhaps everything is not how it is (or was), but how it is remembered.

If you have visited my blog before, you may find that I comment on "perception" quite often. I am fascinated (perhaps obsessed) with how differently we all view the world, our situation and the situations of others. I become distressed over political differences, frustrated over the division of business risk assessments, and often hurt by the wide schism of artistic interpretation.

I use the word "hurt" to describe artistic differences because I believe art is a reflection of soul. And I use the concept of "art" quite broadly - not just painting and literature and performance - but any creative endeavor. I am hurt by intolerance and the lack of acceptance that people view things differently.

How we perceive, how we remember, an event, a person, a thing, a vision, shapes our very being. I am a collection of memories: some are the learned doctrines to live in our society; some are the feelings that have been shared with me; some are the feelings I felt; some are the feelings and memories that I have repressed.

All of these experiences and memories sometimes gives us a skewed reality. Think of the frustration of police detectives as they try to gather accounts from numerous witnesses to a crime. Everyone sees something different. All are correct; and all are wrong. The collective descriptions produce a puzzle for the solving.

Now, consider a family gathering of many years ago. If you round up the usual suspects to recollect the event you will find yourself wondering if anyone was at the same place at the same time. The memory is personal. The memory is a function of your learned perception and likes or dislikes - optimist? pessimist? realist?

I remember the beautiful Christmas tree. I remember that Uncle Harry got incredibly drunk. I remember that I got a cashmere sweater. I remember that we had sauerbraten. I remember that I had a migraine headache. I remember that Susie had on the most beautiful red shoes. I remember that it was the night that Dad got ill and died a month later. All true. Some "trite" memories; some "profound" - all subjective.

There are so many seemingly insignificant events in our lives that stay with us; sometimes haunting us. I remember one time being ever so rude to a woman at a social agency. I was there for a job interview; she was there for help. I made it clear to her that I was not seeking social assistance. I was twenty. I still see her face. I wish I could go back and apologize. She probably doesn't remember. I hope not.

I have a painting in my home that has become "a joke" among some of my "friends". They find some humor in teasing me about the abstract. They don't seem to understand that it is not as much as what I see in the painting that gives me joy, it is also what I remember about the evening I purchased it. I was at one of my favorite galleries in town. I was sipping on a great cabernet savingnon. I was with the man I loved (at the time). I knew the artist. It was raining out. I was in a melancholy mood. The mist in the painting spoke to me. It took me out of the melancholy and helped me to see the joy of the evening. I bought the painting. Whenever I look at the painting I remember coming out of the mist. Perhaps that is not how it was, but it is how I remember it.

We all create our little bubbles of joy; in some cases depression. But, these bubbles are ours. These bubbles are our memories, feelings, thoughts. The bubbles launch into our surroundings and float about our heads. They eventually dissipate on their own. That is how it is meant to be.

Please don't burst my bubbles; let them soar as they were meant to be.

'Twas the Weeks Before Christmas 2009

'Twas the weeks before Christmas in 2009,
All the people were stirring,
in search of a dime;

A dime, a nickel, even a dollar;
'cause it was time to partake in Christmas delights;
Yes, it was time to buy presents,
buy trees and buy lights!

Into the stores and on to the web,
they search frantically for coupons and discounts and mark downs galore;
Where can I spend less?
And get so much more?


The year had not be pleasant you know;
There had been the reduction of jobs and bills piling up;
But December had come, and their heads were held high;
And with eyes all aglow,
Off to the mall they went, still praying for snow;
They must have Christmas;
They must have the Christmas they know.

The department store Santa has lost lots of weight,
The little ones are perplexed by this trait.
I spy him texting and tweeting and hear his phone jingle;
It’s not something we normally see from “the Kringle”


And then I hear him tell a young boy on his knee,
“I’ll get you your toy, yes I will my young lad,
but you must do something for me;
Yes, yes, you must give to your dad my latest CV."


The Santa, you see, had once been a boss,
A Senior VP at Gardner and Ross.
The business had fallen way behind plan,
And now he needed to find new employment;
He must do something to improve his family’s enjoyment.

The year of ’09 has not been plentiful;
Jobs disappeared and the stocks tumbled.
Princes and paupers alike, found themselves dining in candlelight.
No money to pay the energy bills, they found other ways to enjoy and delight.

More time to spend with family and friends,
Getting back to nature and making amends.
Finding repose in the strangest of places.
Why, some even found it on their children's faces.

The meal may be lighter;
The glass less full;
The presents may be less,
But, we will all still gather and bless:

Bless the time we have,
Bless the people we love,
Bless the faith we foster and
The strength we command. ..

And share a very Merry Christmas across the land.

'Tis the season. . .to reconnect

'Tis the season - Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa. Here in the U.S., we've begun filling the stores, visiting the websites and draining our bank accounts. If we're not buying gifts for others and the occasional gift for ourselves (one for you and two for me), we're decking the halls and painting the walls. Yes, it's time for forced merriment.

Please, I am not a Scrooge nor a Grinch or any other smile-robbing bandit. I love the holidays. And part of me is glad that some people are pushed into celebrating and entertaining and reconnecting. Some people just need "a little Christmas" to get them out of the shell and into the "bowl of cherries".

I just wish we would spend more time during the year, appreciating each other, reaching out to each other and taking stock of our faith and fortunes. Even if it's just a Facebook howdy or a quick Tweet; why do we wait until December to see what's up with the people that parade in and out of our memories? And, why do we close the door come January 2?

I will tell you why - because it's hard! Our days are long and filled with job worries, financial woes, health issues and other obligations. The kids need to be schlepped to soccer and their science project is due on Monday. Your mother needs a ride to the doctor appointment and Aunt Betty needs someone to go to the grocery store for her. If we find some precious time with nothing planned, we collapse into the chair and stare at the television.

My nails need a manicure desperately and that closet of mine has exploded again. I can't find a damn thing on my desk, let alone a pen, and you want me to write Christmas cards? It's not going to happen. It's just too hard!

So I've been giving this reconnecting thing some thought and was reminded of something one of my old CEOs would do. Each week I would send him a list of five names of our sales people. And each morning of every week, during his 10 AM coffee, he would call one of these people. Just one person a day and when we had gone through the list, he would start over again. It wasn't hard at all.

I bet I could make one extra phone call a day and maybe send one extra email or write a short note. I'm not going to send out 300 Christmas cards in a mad rush during the next week, but I can take that list and make it my mission for the entire year.

The holidays are upon us: there are parties planned, concerts and performances scheduled, places to travel. I will see many of you over the course of the next month. But if I don't and if you don't get that Christmas card (again), just know that you are on my list and in my memories. And when you least expect it, I will be at the other end of the phone.

Peace out.