Tonight I got in the car, turned on the radio and the Christmas music was gone. In its place was who knows what. Every station was playing a different version of who knows what. I switched to AM instead of FM and found one lone station playing Christmas music. I will listen to it until it too, abandons Christmas.
When my uncles were in World War 11, one of them--I'm sorry to say I'm not sure it was Uncle Joe but for the ease of this blog I'm going to use his name--it could have been Uncle Bob or Uncle Diz. Anyway one of them was lucky enough to be in an audience of men who were entertained by the USO. The program was almost over and the singer--again, the memory of Mom telling me this part of the story is fuzzy, but I think it was Bing Crosby--asked the men what song they would like him to conclude with.
"I'll be home for Christmas," one of them yelled.
"Yah, I'll be home for Christmas," was chorused by many men in the audience.
"Oh, boys," Bing said, rubbing his hand across his face. "Not that one. Anything but that one." He looked out at them with a stricken countenance.
"How about..." he named a bunch of other Christmas songs. Each suggestion was greeted with a resounding, "No, no, I'll be home for Christmas."
There was silence while Bing stood looking at the men who would not be home for Christmas. Maybe not next Christmas either. Some would not go home, ever.
"I'll be home for Christmas," one lone soldier said in a clear voice. The audience waited, as if every man were holding his breath.
Finally Bing sighed, hung his head and in a quiet voice said, "'All right."
He sang. As you probably know, the lyrics mention traditional Christmas things: Snow and mistletoe and presents on the tree.
Then he sang, "Christmas Eve will find me," his voice faltered for a moment. "Where the love light beams. I'll be home for Christmas, If only in my dreams."
He could hardly finish the last line. The tears dropped, one by one, on his coat and from each soldier in the audience, it was the same. He could hardly speak. He wished the "boys" a Merry Christmas and voiced how much those at home were praying for them.
Uncle Joe never forgot it. Mom told this to me years and years ago and I have remembered it until now, maybe to write it to all of you.
We all want to be home for Christmas, even if it doesn't exist anymore. We wish to have loved ones close by. I guess that was why I was so unhappy tonight when I turned on the radio and there was no Christmas music. I wanted to keep the feeling of Christmas.
Uncle Joe is gone now, Mom is gone, Daddy is gone. They are together, perhaps watching us, loving us. Maybe they are helping us keep the feeling of Christmas alive. I intend to listen for the subtle hints more closely so I can have the feeling of home and family all year. So I won't forget my Uncles, Daddy or my birth dad and all the other men who gave years of their lives and sometimes their very lives so we could live with freedom and ease and peace.
Merry Christmas to one an all, every day, all year long. Merry Christmas.
Showing posts with label War. Show all posts
Showing posts with label War. Show all posts
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
THE WAR IN SAN DIEGO
Here is the promised dart gun story from the past.
In 1985 we took the kids to San Diego for a long anticipated vacation. We had rented a condo that overlooked a sailboat filled marina. It was beautifully decorated, the view was spectacular, everything was perfect. When we had unlocked the door, pushed it open and started to come in and Hillary actually backed up. “We don’t belong here,” she said.
“What? This is the right place. They key works. It’s paid for. What’s the matter?”
“This is too nice for us,” she said.
Right then I knew something was wrong in the Universe. My precious child, this eleven-year-old-Utah girl who was bright and happy and well adjusted, who always saw the good in life, did not think she belonged in a nice place. She was a daughter of God. He wants to give her all the good things in life but she had forgotten. She had forgotten and was not feeling worthy.
Some of the kids bustled past her and she got pushed in. When we got all the luggage in we tried to explain about why we belonged here. She wasn’t buying it.
I went into the bedroom and unpacked one of the suitcases because it contained a secret and as much as I wanted everyone to get unpacked—as much as I wanted them to unpack and not have to do it myself, I knew this was more important.
“Here,” I said to everyone, tossing them a package. “Let’s play.”
“Wow! Do you mean it?” they asked as they each grabbed and tore the wrappers off.
“Get ready,” I said. “Get set. Go!”
Darts flew everywhere. Guns were re-loaded and more darts flew. They ran to hide behind walls, peeking out to take aim and dodge darts. They ran behind couches and chairs and crouched down, loading and shooting.
Finally everyone’s dart guns were empty. They emerged like hungry locusts, running and snatching darts from all over the room. Phil was as busy gathering darts as the kids.
Another furious round of dart-gun-war began. Everyone laughed. Everyone scurried. Occasionally someone said, “Oh, you got me!” Sometimes they fell on the floor, holding their chests.
The only rule was: don’t aim for the face. Someone--you know who you are, my wicked children--didn’t listen and Phil took a dart exactly in the middle of his forehead. Play was halted long enough for me to take a picture and for the kids to scream with laughter and then the furious darts resumed, like wasps from a threatened nest.
The war lasted four hours. Four hours! Honest it did. I quit after about fifteen minutes and unloaded suitcases, put clothes away and fixed dinner. I would peek into the living room/dining room occasionally and a dart would whiz past my head.
“I’m not playing,” I’d yell.
It didn’t matter, three our four more darts would be launched in my direction. Phil was so tired by this time that he sat at the dining room table and only got up to replenish his dart supply. His shirt was wet with sweat. The kid’s hair was wet around the hairline. They will sleep good tonight, I thought.
By the time dinner was ready there was no more “I’m not worthy” thoughts. We had taken the condo by the throat and made it ours. A sack full of dart guns, a savvy mother and a good war will do that every time.
In 1985 we took the kids to San Diego for a long anticipated vacation. We had rented a condo that overlooked a sailboat filled marina. It was beautifully decorated, the view was spectacular, everything was perfect. When we had unlocked the door, pushed it open and started to come in and Hillary actually backed up. “We don’t belong here,” she said.
“What? This is the right place. They key works. It’s paid for. What’s the matter?”
“This is too nice for us,” she said.
Right then I knew something was wrong in the Universe. My precious child, this eleven-year-old-Utah girl who was bright and happy and well adjusted, who always saw the good in life, did not think she belonged in a nice place. She was a daughter of God. He wants to give her all the good things in life but she had forgotten. She had forgotten and was not feeling worthy.
Some of the kids bustled past her and she got pushed in. When we got all the luggage in we tried to explain about why we belonged here. She wasn’t buying it.
I went into the bedroom and unpacked one of the suitcases because it contained a secret and as much as I wanted everyone to get unpacked—as much as I wanted them to unpack and not have to do it myself, I knew this was more important.
“Here,” I said to everyone, tossing them a package. “Let’s play.”
“Wow! Do you mean it?” they asked as they each grabbed and tore the wrappers off.
“Get ready,” I said. “Get set. Go!”
Darts flew everywhere. Guns were re-loaded and more darts flew. They ran to hide behind walls, peeking out to take aim and dodge darts. They ran behind couches and chairs and crouched down, loading and shooting.
Finally everyone’s dart guns were empty. They emerged like hungry locusts, running and snatching darts from all over the room. Phil was as busy gathering darts as the kids.
Another furious round of dart-gun-war began. Everyone laughed. Everyone scurried. Occasionally someone said, “Oh, you got me!” Sometimes they fell on the floor, holding their chests.
The only rule was: don’t aim for the face. Someone--you know who you are, my wicked children--didn’t listen and Phil took a dart exactly in the middle of his forehead. Play was halted long enough for me to take a picture and for the kids to scream with laughter and then the furious darts resumed, like wasps from a threatened nest.
The war lasted four hours. Four hours! Honest it did. I quit after about fifteen minutes and unloaded suitcases, put clothes away and fixed dinner. I would peek into the living room/dining room occasionally and a dart would whiz past my head.
“I’m not playing,” I’d yell.
It didn’t matter, three our four more darts would be launched in my direction. Phil was so tired by this time that he sat at the dining room table and only got up to replenish his dart supply. His shirt was wet with sweat. The kid’s hair was wet around the hairline. They will sleep good tonight, I thought.
By the time dinner was ready there was no more “I’m not worthy” thoughts. We had taken the condo by the throat and made it ours. A sack full of dart guns, a savvy mother and a good war will do that every time.
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