Two weeks ago I happened upon a used bookstore that was going out of business. I stopped, entered with a full wallet, and walked out with a giant box of books and no money for dinner. Among the treasures I discovered, all for a mere $1 a pop, was an 1880 edition of The History of England, written by Charles Dickens.
This is a good season for Dickens, as the old master had a tradition of writing a Christmas story every year . . . most of which were published in London newspapers as serial-originals. Dickens isn't necessarily a mentor (I find his novels too plodding, far too expansive, and mostly too depressing) but I have attempted to follow his tradition by writing my own Christmas tales every year.
When my kids were younger, I often wrote (or created on the spot) various Christmas tales for their bedtime enjoyment and nightmares. I enjoyed troubling my kids, striking Christmas fear into their hearts, suggesting they learn to sleep with the lights on. To this day they can't wait for Christmas to pass so they can get some rest. They don't worry about gifts, trees, eggnog, or gingerbread . . . they just want Dad to leave them alone and stop pestering them with tales of mayhem and madness.
Dickens knew all about ghosts and spirits. Most of his Christmas tales were loaded with sinister undertones, warnings, voices, and visions . . . I feel I'm just following in the footsteps of the master.
One of these days I hope to write the perfect Christmas story. But not this year. My kids still need to sleep with the lights on.
I don't want to count Billy out, but Nearing Home is very likely his final book. He seems to think so, too. But the book isn't morbid, gentrified, or maudlin in any way . . . it's rather a practical book for younger and older alike, and Billy Graham takes on everything from youthful learning experiences to building a financial future to preparing for life's final passage--whatever that may be.
It is obvious that Billy misses his wife, Ruth. Approaching his mid-90's, Billy has been subdued by Parkinsons and other physical maladies, but he's still witty and insightful in print. Even if a person isn't nearing home, it's a good title. And Billy sets out to help everyone create a better home in the "here and now" also.
I like Billy. And I wonder what the world will do without him now that we have to face the often odd and stilted opinions of his son, Franklin, and a bevy of warped and wilted televangelist preachers who seem to crave the personal attention of the camera and whose followers are more enlightened by charisma than by common sense? I won't see another Billy in my lifetime, and God save me, I hope not to see any more of Pat Robertson or Robert Tilton, either. The gamma rays from all of that television exposure has fried their brains. But, as long as there's a buck from TV, there will be TV preachers, I guess. Too bad most of them don't have actual congregations. But they probably couldn't hold a job.
All of this talk about Billy also makes me pine for The Wittenburg Door . . . a religious satire magazine that I contributed to for nearly two decades. I miss these pages dearly, and if Joe Bob Briggs or Ole Anthony or Bob Darden ever want to revive the magazine . . . give me a call, boys! I'm in. I'll be the first in line for a ten year subscription and you can count on me for a curt and sassy contribution every month. I miss bashing the wild and wacky world of the church or, as Woody Allen once wrote into the script of Hannah and Her Sisters: "If Jesus Christ returned to earth today and saw all of the things that Christians do in his name, He would never stop throwing up!"
Amen! Thanks, Billy, for staying above it all.
Some months back, when I purchased my Kindle, I converted several of my Christmas stories to Kindle format . . . and they are now available on Amazon (all for a whopping 99 cents). Some good ones for the taking: "The Peddler", "Apartment 218", "The Memory and the Dream", and "Charlie's Chip"--probably my best. I also have a novel on Kindle, too: A Christmas for Joey. Anyway, loved writing these . . . a few that were originally published in magazines and a few others that should have been.
Still, I do get my seasons mixed up.
Yesterday, on the first Sunday of Advent, I found myself writing an Easter story, and I spent the better part of the afternoon and evening editing/rewriting an array of poems that I hope to send off to publishers in the new year.
It will take me some weeks yet to "get into" the Christmas spirit. We have no plans yet for a tree, decorations, food, cookies, gifts, or shopping . . . and all of these will probably be done last minute (and some, perhaps, not at all). One of the benefits, I suppose, of moving past the young child-rearing years into that hazy world of "baby don't care, so daddy don't either."
Any cookies I eat this year will be sponged off the goodwill and grace of others.
As for my Christmas stories, I've got notebooks filled with them . . . outlines, first chapters, dialogue. All I have to do is get into this Christmas spirit and write a few of them before we hit Easter.
That, or I'll find myself in the Christmas spirit next summer, just as soon as the sun shines.
Later today Becky and I will be making a trek to Louisville, KY. We will be leaving our kids in charge of the Christmas shopping, while we will be in charge of taking along interesting reading material.
I don't always read in the car, but with eight hours round-trip drive time staring me in the face, I've got to have something to peruse. I'm taking along a couple of New Yorker magazines, a history book, a newspaper, and perhaps a classic novel. I'll also have an atlas . . . I have a GPS, too, but I've never figured out how to use it (though everybody tells me, "It's easy, just plug it in.")
Actually, my biggest worry on a trip of this distance is getting car sick. I hope I can get some reading accomplished.
And I hope I don't toss my cookies in the ash tray.
The following is a humorous piece I wrote two years ago, but which has never been published . . . so I publish it here for your enjoyment (or anguish).
Thanksgiving: A History
1621
The American Thanksgiving hearkens back to this year, when the colonists at the Plymouth Plantation ate a feast with the Wampanoag Indians—who brought yams and diet sodas. Later that afternoon, the first “football” game was played on the lawn, with the Indians pounding the colonists by a final score of 18-0 (this was before the innovation of “extra points”).
By tradition, this first Thanksgiving meal was a whopper, and several of the colonists complained of bloating and gas, including one woman who later died of diarrhea due to eating too much corn on the cob. However, there are many traditions and ideas surrounding this first Thanksgiving that are simply old wives’ tales: including the notion that Governor William Bradford had a thing for Squanto and that turkeys were sacrificed in some sort of bizarre ritual that featured a powder horn and five musket balls.
Historians have ascertained, however, that many of our most sacred traditions are true. There was turkey at this feast and a large green bean casserole shared by all. It is also true that the women made pumpkin pies and later, the men watched the women folk clear the table and did made snide comments about the Indians.
Of course, we really don’t know where this plantation was located, exactly, nor what it looked like, and some of these colonists were no doubt very homely. But we can thank these colonists for giving us the first doggie bags, and it was Myles Standish who later coined the word “leftovers.”
1863
Nearly 250 years later, President Abraham Lincoln issued the proclamation that a “National Day of Thanksgiving would be observed.” However, Lincoln picked the wrong day, and set Thanksgiving on October 3, which really screwed up the football schedule. A few teams had not even practiced yet and, what with the war and all, some players never made it to training camp.
Lincoln did have good intentions, and a few people followed his advice and cooked hams. One woman in Boston sent him a cream pie.
Historians have since come to the conclusion that Lincoln was actually giving thanks that he was able to send Ulysses S. Grant to the front and be shed of his rancid cigar smoke. And William H. Seward, the Secretary of State, wrote in his diary that Lincoln had gone “off his nut” and was reducing the country to little more than a nation of “tater-lovers.”
Fortunately for us all, Lincoln stuck to his guns and didn’t listen to his cabinet, which was then staffed with southern sympathizers and several underweight advisers who couldn’t eat a chicken liver without getting sick. Mary Todd also baked a pecan pie for the occasion and word has it that Lincoln himself gained three pounds and ate his weight in cranberry sauce.
Later that night, the first lady had a premonition and pleaded with Lincoln not to have second helpings. Seward noted in his diary, however, that Lincoln frequently disregarded his wife’s visions and ate radishes. But the old lawyer from Illinois had grown up on venison and wanted a good excuse to bring meat into the White House.
Lincoln’s final prayer was that “everyone would enjoy the meal and get a little exercise the following day.”
1941
It’s a little-known fact that the current date for our American Thanksgiving—the fourth Thursday of November—was not fixed until President Franklin D. Roosevelt issued his decree on December 26th, 1941. Roosevelt, an avid football fan, understood the implications and wanted to do something with radio. He considered the fourth Thursday an optimal choice for the whole nation—given that many businesses would close down on Friday, too, thereby creating the first “four day weekend”—but a few of his political adversaries considered his mandate presumptuous and opportunistic.
Roosevelt, of course, loved to eat, and Eleanor was known for her apple pie and hot rolls—which were also the pet names that Roosevelt used in the bedroom. White House staff at the time also make mention of overhearing the terms “hot beans and rice”, “savory goose” and “sweet juicy plumbs” emanating from the walls of the Rose bedroom.
In essence, our modern day Thanksgiving traditions were established at this time, and we have FDR to thank. Without a fixed date on the calendar, Thanksgiving would have become a wild assortment of varying traditions and times, with some Americans observing the day on April 19 and others on October 3 or even December 30, when it would be too cold to cut the pie.
Likewise, our American Thanksgiving traditions might have remained back there in Plymouth, and we would have been stuck eating partridge and swan, which those first Pilgrims likely consumed by the gross. No one would be eating the right foods, and it is likely that the TV remote would never have been invented.
THE END
Word selection is everything. Paramount in shorter written works. And especially in love.
Take the word "cute" for instance. I hear women using this word all the time to describe an outfit, a piece of home decor, or even a hairstyle. "That's a cute coat," they'll say. Or, "Oh, your hair looks so cute!" Other expressions I've heard recently are "adorable", "striking", or "becoming."
What these women are "becoming" I'm not sure. But according to the plethora of TV shows and movies on the subject, there are plenty of people becoming zombies.
One of the reasons I write so much love poetry is because I'm still trying to convince my wife that I love her. I tell her this every day, as in "I love you" or "can you bring me another banana!" but she doesn't always hear the love behind the words. That's why I carry a thesaurus. I can use other words and expressions at a moment's notice. As in, "you look delicious this morning," or "you're more scrumptious than a big ol' bag of fresh licorice."
I've tried using the word "cute", but evidently this is a woman's word. I used it once in a women's shoe store while my wife was trying on a pair of sandals, telling the clerk that she had cute eyelashes, but my wife didn't get the discount. When I tell my wife that her new outfit is "cute", she seems miffed, and asks, "Can't you come up with a better word than that?"
"How does humdinger, strike you?" I'll say. "How about jiggy? Arousing? Shakalaka-bing-bong?
Cute never cuts it. And if I don't come up with a fresh vocabulary very soon, my marriage may be in trouble.
I'm running out of words.
Sooner or later published authors run into the queasy questions about rights, and a publishing contract might be regarded as a type of prenuptial agreement. Most publishing contracts read like: "You get this . . . and I get that . . . if this happens."
Years ago, a seasoned writer once told me, "Never sell all your rights to a publisher." I've tried to live by that code, but it's not always possible. Not now. Not with the growing and dizzying array of publishing options available to writers these days.
In more recent years, I've found myself selling all rights to my work. Instances include writing curriculum, writing certain columns, and on occasion, even creative work like essays and poems. I've even written several books for publishing houses--most of which do not have my name on the cover--under this type of arrangement. Although writing these books would add to my total "book count", I don't count them among my twenty-two legit titles, as the publisher owns all the rights, and I was basically a work-for-hire writer cranking out material that could add the publisher's coffers. No royalties.
Not that I mind. Not at all. If a publisher called me today and said, "We've got a book in mind, we want you to write it, and we'll pay you a flat rate to produce it," I'd probably jump if the price was right. And I'd be very willing to do it if I knew I could crank the book out in a week or two (as I have been known to do in the past). A few long evenings, maybe a couple of all-nighters, and Shazam...I'd have a book done.
In the past few months I've also sold all rights to a number of shorter essays and poems. My reasoning (though it could be faulty) is simple: I feel I can always write more of them, like a well that never runs dry. A publisher wants to buy a poem or essay (instead of giving me a subscription or sample copy), I'm usually game for a paycheck instead of another magazine to add to my piles of tear sheets and closeted history.
One caveat, however. There have been times when I've wanted to use an essay or a poem in another book. And then I find that (sometimes) I am writing a check to the publisher to purchase my own work.
Makes me understand what the work of redemption is all about. It's buying back the very thing I created.
Writing and pastoring are a lot alike in that way. Both can be works of redemption.
