Revising Christmas?

My love of history encompasses both the arts and the humanities. Whether I actually understand anything I read or watch is another discussion. Such venerable authors as James Michener and Pierre Berton have done more for my grasp of history than any other source, teachers included. (Sorry, fellow-pedagogues.)

We are well on our way to that time of year where basic history, common sense, and economic restraint are tossed out the window for the better part of two months. We call it Christmas. In other, more repressive regimes (read: parts of the USA, for example), you would not be allowed to call it that; you would have to use the correct term "yuletide" or "winter celebration." (Did I say some thing about basic history already?)

You know and I know that there are great, traditional songs, with moving and meaningful words, having their roots in the verifiable account of the Good Book. Then there are silly, goofy ditties that, to me, are embarrassing, glib renditions of an awesome message. Finally, there is a third category - some substance, some bounce, but not terribly reverent.

In other words, there is no real historical substance, but nothing really glaringly stupid. Almost, but not quite.

A good journalist would ask the following questions at this point: Who wrote it? When and why was it written? To whom was it written? Where did it get written? How did it ever become a song-ditty-carol? and Are there any more questions before we move on the next point? Good.

I have a few suggestions as to where some of the Category Three songs have come from. There is absolutely no historical evidence for the following, just a some historical fun. Talk about creative revisionism: You ought to read the new Social Studies texts that we are supposed to teach. At least I admit that I'm not serious. But I digress. Let me "help" you with three of them.

You are aware that "The Twelve Days of Christmas" has an Olympic backdrop, aren't you? How else could you explain the "five golden rings"? (They simply changed colour over the years). The "lords a-leaping" were part of an all-male cheerleading team (in all likelihood Greek nationals), decades before women were allowed to carry out that role. Finally, the fowl (partridge, turtledoves, calling birds, geese, and swans), suggest the enormous feeding demands for such a huge crowd.

"Santa Claus is Comin' to Town" sounds more like a symbol for Big Brother. Or, it could also signify the Second Coming of Christ. Either way, the song sounds like St. Nick is basically omniscient (all-knowing) and almost omnipresent (all-present), and he is neither. The hint that every child everywhere needs to curb his or her bad behaviour is funny on the surface, but scary when you really think about it.

If Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer had human feelings, I think he would be devastated to hear people talk about his shiny nose the way they do. After all, even his fellow-reindeer used to laugh and call him names. I know people with shiny, red noses, and I have a pretty good idea why they got them – maybe too much Christmas cheer, all year long. One wonders was in those round bales.

So that's it: A little creative, a little revisionistic. I'll be back next week, after I check the malls for wads of jelly.

Heat in California

I don't know if things can get any hotter in California. You think I am speaking about the grass fires that have destroyed homes, toys, and families in the greater Los Angeles vicinity. Well, yes and no. I am also referring to the outrage on the part of the Prop. 8 losers (read: same-sex marriage).

So when I say hot, I mean angry, ticked off, burning mad, and vindictive. My sources – and they are many and varied, religious and irreligious – have suggested that the losers (must be careful how I use that term) have threatened to burn churches, parishioners and pastors personally, plus many of the blacks who voted against Prop. 8.

The link with the blacks is horribly ironic, and this is the point of this week's column. The promoters of same-sex marriages have considered this rejection akin to the Civil Rights movement of the '50s and '60s. Many of us a) weren't even born then; or, b) were born, but were too young to have any idea what was going on; or c) were born then, knew what was going on, but were so far removed from the South (Alberta to Georgia is a long walk, man); or, d) all of the above.

Talk about hot: If I were a black person today, I would be angry, ticked off, burning mad, and maybe even vindictive. Whether I would stoop to burning, beating, and blacklisting, I cannot say. To be honest, people who choose certain lifestyles can live in those lifestyles, but they certainly have no right or business destroying others who do not.

This is not about homophobia – an over-used and abused term, if there ever was one. Just for the record, with all the crass attacks on those who don't buy into that lifestyle, why don't we ever hear the term "heterophobia"? (Freedom of the press, you say? I don't think so.)

So the struggles of people born a certain colour are the same with people who choose a certain lifestyle, right? Hardly. Granted, neither party should be harmed, violated, or abused in any way, shape, or form. I just draw the line when one's ethnicity is compared to one's morality. I also draw the line when innocent people (eg., church-attendees, little old ladies [literally]), and such are harmed, violated, and even abused. No one should be allowed to be a moral bully.

My thoughts go deeper than mere opinion, but I must leave them here on the surface. I find it a sad day in our culture when those who embrace traditional view must fear for their safety. One may counter that those who have differing views on morality have feared for their lives for years, maybe even decades. Granted, and I would quickly and loudly add that that is also a very sad commentary on our culture. In other words, there should never be any gay-bashing, but there should not be any non-gay-bashing, either.

Civil rights (which are rarely very civil) and moral rights (which have little to do with morality). Who's right? Who's wrong? Is there a right and a wrong? The next so-called messiah, Mr. Obama, likely doesn't have the answers, either – no matter what he promised. I posit that when we distance ourselves from sound, moral foundations, we tend to create a very haphazard structure. Unstable, ill-built structures tend to be unsafe places in which to live and thrive.

There should be a coming together of the different factions, a clear-cut discussion as to what is feasible despite our differences. Then, as a result, we could aspire to a greater commitment to the health and welfare of all concerned. If not, we may end up having a greater meltdown in our culture than the current economic one.

In other words, those houses north of Malibu may only be the start of the California heat.

Help! First Aid!

I think I would have made a great EMT, at least until the first phone call came in. That would then be my cue to quit, or at least go on strike. Blood and I do not do well. In case you haven't guessed, I do not watch ER, and I have never rented The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

The above serves as a backdrop for my successful completion of a St. John Ambulance First Aid course (Emergency Level, A) the other day. Why I took it, I cannot say. Oh, actually I can: I was told to by the powers-that-be. It also makes sense. When you are around as many kids as I am, both at work and at home, it make sense to know which way to fall when you faint. I even have the opening line memorized: "Hi, I am trained in First Aid. Do you know how to call 9-1-1 – for me?"

We had a combination of DVD and real life practice, plus the usual book work. I did the book work really well; most books aren't too gory. The DVD probably had some lame acting. I can't say that for sure: Everytime the gore started to pour, I took a coffee break. I've never had so much coffee in my life. By the end of the day, I needed my own CPR – Coffee Pot Restriction. I know they probably used ketchup to simulate the blood, but it sure looked real to me. Needless to say, I had a tough time drinking my tomato soup at lunch. It made me feel like a wannabe vampire.

The practice time with the dummies was a bit of a stretch, too. When the instructor told us to place the dummies on the floor, I misunderstood and lay down immediately. Strangely enough, no one wanted to do mouth-to-mouth with me. It was probably the fact that my cherry-red lipstick was running.

I just hate gore. (Well, I don't really hate Gore, I just think he is horribly misguided, and probably needs his mouth bandaged up. But I digress.) It's one think to butcher cows and pigs and chickens, and I have done lots of all of them. But gore, guts, and gashes in humans seems different.

We have been designed (I think I can say that still in Canada) to bleed and breathe. In fact, we are bleeding, breathing mechanisms, and any significant change in how that happens becomes an emergency. How we respond to that is literally a matter of life or death. That's why the other day's workshop should be mandatory for every employer, every farmer, and every person who spends time around people.

I still find it miraculous how the body functions on an involuntary basis, day in and day out. Actually, it's second in, second out. Like most normal operations in life, we don't really appreciate what it does until it doesn't function – just like power, water, food, and money. Being prepared for an emergency in any of these spheres is not negativism; rather, it is pro-activism.

I am grateful for organizations like St. John's Ambulance and the Red Cross. They are present at every game and event (their words) where the public gathers. I would think that a fight in the stands or on the ice would likely be out of their jurisdiction, but at anything in between you would find them bandaging, attending, and soothing.

But it's not everyone's call. First call to the stands to tend a casualty would be my cue to grab a burger and fries. And I would probably ask them to hold the ketchup.

Remembering

"In Flander's Fields" must be one of the most popular poems in Canadian history. It is likely the only poem I remember from my elementary school days, not including Robert Service's gems, of course. I'm sure I am not the only one who can say that. If there was ever an inspired poem, this is it.

As you celebrate Remembrance Day this year, I wonder if you will let the words of this classic poem sink in. And once you do that, let the hidden message of the words sink in. You see, there have been hundreds of wars since this was written, with millions of men and women slaughtered in the name of freedom and liberty. I wonder if Dr. McCrae would be devastated to realize that the so-called war to end all wars was really a mere warm-up act for ongoing national and international fisticuffs.

I suppose I could go into a rant -- and I wouldn't be the first -- and decry the horrible lack of appreciation for those men and women who gave their lives in the name of freedom. But it would be akin to asking people of my generation to appreciate those who didn't have running water, or those of my kids' generation to appreciate those who didn't have computers.

In other words, what we really need is to be without water for a week, then we would really have a sense of what a previous generation has gone through. Or, using the computer argument, we have only dial-up at our place and my kids desperately want high speed. What they actually need is a week without computers at all, then they would appreciate what our generation did without until recently.

My point? It would be easier for all of us to appreciate what these men and women of the uniform have done for us if we experienced a little of it. A little blood here, a little gore here, would go a long way to a greater understanding.

You might think that I am suggesting that we have a war on our own land to understand the terrors of war. Obviously, that is absurd logic, so let's dismiss it. But the question still begs: How do we teach ourselves and successive generations the value of those who gave their lives for our freedom?

Let me try to illustrate again: I never really understood how much my parents did for me until

-- you guessed it -- I became a parent. I find myself, sounding like my own dad more and more, telling my own kids who are now starting to leave the nest the same thing.

Like so many institutions (eg., marriage, church, business) war is most effectively felt, rather than "telt" (a strange variation of the word "told"). Thus, it is crucial that as leaders of our jurisdiction -- be it a family, a class, or even our peers – we make a concentrated effort to re-visit World War I, World War II, the Korean and Vietnam Wars, plus other global skirmishes that Canadians were involved in.

How can that be carried out? Rent a war DVD, but make sure that is an accurate portrayal. Use discretion, but there are few teenagers that are squeamish about gore anymore. Get books out of your local library and spend a few nights reading and connecting with the emotions and encounters of each battle. Read a war poem, especially those written by people who were there. You could even invite a war vet to your home, your club, your school.

No matter what side of the military machine you come down on, the reality is that many, many young people have given their lives for your liberty. The many freedoms that you enjoy came at the ultimate cost, the gift of life.

War may be glorified (dumb) or vilified (dumber), and even modified (dumbest). Get beyond the boardroom decisions, the political maneuverings, the patriotic hype, and simply think of the men and women who put their lives on the line.

After all, we want this to be a day of remembering, not forgetting.