the best Christmas song of all time

I was introduced to Christmas songs in Kindergarten.  Before then, I had not heard any, due to the simple fact that, there in 1956, I was a nice little Jewish boy in Upstate New York.

I remember enjoying the novelty of Kindergarten, under the watchful eye of Mrs.VanDerLip.  I met several similarly nice kids in those early years, a couple of whom I still regularly see on Facebook, but that's getting off-track.

A couple of months into my Public School life, where we had been doing 'art' and group singing, we were marched to a large hall and seated together.  Then, to my shock and discomfort, everybody cheerfully and enthusiastically began singing songs THAT I DIDN'T KNOW.  

For years, I had no clear idea who that 'round, young virgin' was, and I wondered if our next-door neighbor, who we called Uncle Harold, was related to those singing Harold Angels.

Eventually, when I realized that, in addition to being Jewish, I was left-handed, my life-long sense of being an Outsider was confirmed, but I'm getting off-track again.  

As a piano-player, I soon came to realize that Christmas songs, despite the frequent references to You-Know-Who, were A) generally more interesting musically than Hannukah songs and B) received with joy by the listeners, so I learned to play all of them.

Which finally brings me to the best Christmas song of all time.  Of course, it's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas".  The basic chords, the subtle but perfect evolution of the melodic line in each verse, and the wistful bridge, are all just right.  

Then there are the words, and we now have the perfect sense of Christmas 2020.

I do have one quibble.  If you watch the YouTube of Judy's original rendition in "Meet Me in St. Louis" (which you should), the phrase that was later rewritten as "hang a shining star upon the highest bough" was originally the much more realistic "until then we'll have to muddle through somehow". 

Think about THOSE words when you hear it sung this year.

See you in 2021.

a sincere question

A 'pro-Life' advocate was interviewed on NPR this morning, expressing her joy in the new member of the Supreme Court. 

I am, once again, struck by her central argument, that everything flows from the central belief (that word is not chosen casually) that, after conception, we are dealing with 'a human life'.

I presume these people have no major concern about the bazillion cows, pigs, sheep, and turkeys that are about to be massacred in the coming weeks, so it's clear that 'pro-Life' is strictly limited in its application.

Therefore, there must be something that places a paramount value on 'human life', vs. a 20-pound turkey's life.  To me, Life is Life (and, I admit, is biochemically pretty cool), whether it's my dog or the big maple tree that is dumping tons of leaves for me to deal with.

To my understanding (correct me if I'm off-base), their thinking of what distinguishes Human life from Animal or Plant life is encapsulated in the (historically-abused for various interests) term 'Divine'.  A Human embryo, containing the Divine spark, is valued far and above a cat embryo (ancient Egyptians would disagree, and rightly so, according to the creature sitting by this keyboard, waiting for breakfast).

So, the anti-Abortion crusaders (that word is not chosen casually) ultimately base it all on a religious argument, that Humans possess a quality generously granted to them by The Divine, and Animals (and plants, bacteria, and, yes, viruses) do not.

Personally, to believe that Humans are NOT Animals is hard to swallow, especially since so many Humans exhibit the traits of immature baboons, but that's an unnecessary slam on baboons.

The point here, is that having a certifiably-religious opinion dictate public policy for everyone, here in We-The-People-land, does seem to violate the very first 10 words of the very first Amendment.  

I hold that truth to be self-evident, but woe be to any Legislator who has the integrity (a sadly depleted resource) to bring it up. 

A few years ago, I saw a bumper-sticker: "Against abortion? Don't have one". Why, oh why, can't Believers accept this? Why can't they see how their Self-Righteousness has poisoned the body politic? 

Why can't they hear the (silent) screams of the turkeys?

Jonas Salk spoiled us

People of a certain age - I always felt that that phrase referred to people OLDER than me, alas - certainly remember the hoopla when the Salk Vaccine arrived in the 50s, and our parents made damn sure that everyone would receive it.  As Mr. Dylan reminded us, 'Things Have Changed', but that's not where I'm going.

A few years later, US taxpayers funded a plan to put two representatives of our species on the Moon.  That was pretty cool. 

Lesson Baby Boomers learned:  Science and Technology work magic that the rest of us enjoy.  

Of course, this didn't start with Jonas Salk - I could have begun with Thomas Edison and, most of all, Edwin Drake.

Fast forward to the Age of COVID, now that that malevolent Genie long ago escaped from its fragile-from-the-start bottle.

To their credit, the people of many countries have done/are doing the right thing, and have kept their economic and public-health devastation to a (relatively) minimal impact.  To these people/cultures, I say, bravo.

Clearly, though, the US and Western Europe are ramping up for a grim winter and the human psychology is clear. Rather than adopting the drastic measures to effectively bring the absolutely-interdependent global economic system to a halt for an unknown period (not to mention restaurants, bars, and Fascist get-togethers), we collectively decided to 'screw THAT'.

Humans detest inconvenience and, after all, the Jonas Salks will save us.  So here we are, hunkering down (well, about 60% of us), having collectively made a bet that we and our various tribes will magically stay healthy until the magic vaccine arrives, after which we can resume normal self-indulgence, and it will be, once again, Christmas 2019 (with "It's a Wonderful Life" reminding us that Clarence is Up There).

We pray to today's pantheon, from Astra to Zeneca (including both Johnsons). Can you hurry it up please, so that we don't have to have another ridiculous World Series like this year? We demand OUR Jonas Salk.

The odds are currently reasonable that many of us will eventually get thru this.  We just have to endure another year or so, and accept the deaths, evictions, poverty, and despair of those who lose the bet. Losers and suckers, don't you know.

Which brings me, as all things must, to Climate Change.  Same psychology.  Same magical thinking.  

We've benefited from (Edwin Drake, again) 160 years of being (as Vonnegut lamented) 'drunk on petroleum'. Faith now means that we believe clever technicians will manage to cool things down and avert the Collapse of the Biosphere, without us having to give up too much ourselves.  

They've saved us before, and all we have to do is sit back, make sure we have toilet paper, flour and yeast (or baking soda, which actually works great if you add something acidic, like apple cider vinegar), and be grateful for Amazon Prime and the USPS.

Thanks, again, Jonas.

 

'Owning the Libs' is Job #1. Why?

A friend posted a web piece by a guy who was sincerely trying to understand local acquaintances who were dedicated Trump voters.  This exchange resonated with me: 

"Why do you love Trump so much?", I asked a roofer I know.

“Because you hate him,” he said “nothing personal". 

 

I am trying to comprehend this.

 

My "uncle", Sanford Zalburg (actually my mother's cousin), was a remarkable man, and I've written about him several times.  His father died when he was quite young, and his step-father (who I knew only as a VERY old man) was apparently uninvolved, if not outright cold, to his step-son.  As soon as he was of age, he escaped that unhappy little Upstate New York home, eventually joined the Canadian army, and went off to WWII.  

 

A couple of years later, one morning, he found himself on Omaha Beach.

 

After the war, he ended up in Honolulu, married a local, flamboyant girl, and built an amazing career as a newspaperman, traveling the world and becoming a bit of a local character.  Every few years, he would swing thru Elmira, to visit my mother and uncle.  As a little boy, I remember him as very tall.

Here's a typical obit - there were several:

http://archives.starbulletin.com/2008/02/21/news/story15.html

In my 20's and 30's, I maintained a connection.  We exchanged many letters, and I visited him in Hawaii a few times, soaking up his conversation and his deep knowledge of the world.

Years later, his wife, the amazing Vivian, a lifelong smoker, died horribly from lung cancer.  He was devastated, wrote a book about her, her illness, and her death.  The book was so searingly painful that his editor said something along the lines of "no one will be able to read this."  I think I still have that manuscript (plus another unpublished novel of the Korean War) in a stack of his papers that I, somehow, ended up with.

But here's the story.  As Vivian was in the hospital, suffering and in her final days, she continued to smoke.  When, in frustration, my uncle asked her, "you know what this has done to you, why did you continue to smoke all these years?"

"Because my mother told me not to."

a college story from the Before Time

In the Fall of 1969, I arrived in Baltimore as a freshman at Johns Hopkins. I remember thinking, as my parents began the drive back home to Upstate New York, that that was the day my life was really beginning. 

In so many ways, that turned out to be true, but that's beside the point.

Thinking about the very-different experience that this year's incoming freshmen/freshwomen will be having, I remember this true story from the Old Days. 

A bunch of us in our dorm were required to take the basic History survey, the purpose of which, I understand in retrospect, was to not teach us about 18th Century France, but to make us understand the basic mechanics of academic research, analysis, and argument. 

It was a very large class, in one of the very large lecture halls. A couple of sessions in, the professor (who we understood to be a noted world authority on Cardinal Richelieu), announced to everyone that he'd be available to visit the dorms, if any of us wanted to just chat with him in person. Amazingly enough, someone in our group took him up on that offer, and we set a time and date. 

Sure enough, he spent an evening in our humble dorm room (Clark House, at the end of the 2nd floor hall, if you must know). As I recall, the French Revolution didn't come up much - mostly we talked about Vietnam. I remember thinking how cool it was that this famous, notable guy would take the trouble to engage with this group of very raw, no-nothing, wise-guys. 

This interaction is what this year's students will be missing, and it's sad. That's all I planned to say, however... 

As this memory floated up out of the mists of Time, I googled the prof, Dr. Orest Ranum, and it appears he is still alive, at 87. Not only that, but I was totally unaware, all these years, of what had happened to him at Columbia the prior year. NPR story from 2010 

This makes his sympathies with our Vietnam Dread even more poignant. Our class was his first year at Hopkins, after that nastiness and loss at Columbia. 

Now, you may ask, how is it possible that, after over 50 years, I was able to effortlessly call up his name (spelled correctly). It's because his name is forever associated, in my mind, with a proposed prank call from someone in my group. 

In a joke that I hesitate to repeat, that would take a monumental leap to even begin to approach the level of 'sophomoric', someone suggested calling his wife, to ask if she was 'under Orest'. 

There's a reason there is an entire category of nonsense called 'College humor'. Can it survive COVID? Should it?