Holiday Gift Ideas & Traditions Blog

“It is cold tonight!” said the oldest shepherd. He pulled his ragged blanket about his shoulders.

The youngest shepherd had been out gathering sticks and twigs and thorn bushes.

“Shall I build a fire for us, Grandfather?” he asked. “See, I have gathered a good bundle of firewood.”

“A fire would feel good!” shivered the middle-aged shepherd. “The wind in these hills is cruel tonight!”

The youngest shepherd worked for a long time with dry kindling and tinder. His hands were stiff with cold.

But finally he got a small fire started. “Ah!” Sighed the shepherds, holding their hands over the little flame.

The sheep on the hillsides rested quietly, lying close together to keep each other warm.

“The stars are very bright tonight,” said the middle-aged shepherd, looking up into the sky. “I don’t know that I ever saw them so bright.”

The other shepherds looked up, too.

The youngest one stopped blowing on his fire. He pointed.

“There is one which is brighter and bigger than the others,” he said. “See what strange, long beams it makes!”

“Those big bright stars in the sky make the earth seem colder,” sighed the old shepherd. “My bones are old. This frosty weather makes them ache!”

“Wolves and wildcats like this winter weather,” said the middle-aged shepherd. “They get very hungry. Their empty stomachs make them fierce and bold.”

The boy laid a thorn stick on his fire. “My fire will scare the animals away,” he laughed. “Run away, wolves and wildcats, or your whiskers will get scorched!”

“It is a strange thing,” said one of the shepherds after a while, “but the wild animals are quiet tonight. Not once have I heard a wolf howl.”

“Nor have I heard that fierce wildcat scream,” said another. “It has become very still!”

“So it has,” said the third shepherd.

“Even the wind has died down.”

The bearded old man nodded.

“There is a hushed feeling in the au, as if everything waited quietly.”

“Even my fire burns in a quiet way,” said the boy. “Thornwood usually pops and crackles. This burns like a candle in the temple!”

“The smoke has a sweet smell, too,” said the oldest shepherd. “Something about this night makes me think of a story which I have heard all my life.”

“Tell us that story, Grandfather,” said the boy in a soft voice.

The old man spoke in a low voice.

“All my life I have heard that a great king will come to the world some day. He will bring joy. He will help the poor and sad. He will set us free from the cruel kings who rule us now.”

“The world would be happy to have a kind king instead of a cruel one like Herod,” thought the boy. He looked about the frosty hillside.

Suddenly his eyes grew wide. He began to tremble.

“Grandfather! Uncle! Look. Look all around us. Do things look strange to you?”

The older shepherds looked. Their hearts beat faster.

A minute before, the world had looked cold and frosty. Now, suddenly it seemed to be springtime.

The frost had melted away, leaving soft green grass. The trees were filled with leaves and blossoms. The air was sweet with flower perfume. Bright birds sat on the trees and sang like little angels.

“It is a miracle!” whispered the shepherds. The boy looked up toward the sky. “How bright it is! Are the stars singing?”

A warm, glorious light shone all around the shepherds. I t became brighter and brighter. The shepherds hid their faces on the ground because they were frightened.

Then a voice spoke to them out of the light. It was a sweet, strong voice like music.

“Fear not!” said the voice. “Look up!” The shepherds raised their heads. It seemed that the skies had opened. In the brightness stood a great, shining angel. He spoke again:

“Fear not! I bring you tidings of great joy which shall be for all people!

“Unto you is born this day, in the city of

David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord!”

“It has happened, then,” murmured the old man. “Our promised king has come at last.”

The angel said, “Here is the sign. You will find the baby wrapped in white linen strips and lying in a manger.”

The heavens opened wider. Now there were more angels standing behind the messenger angel. They all sang, and the stars seemed to be singing, also.

“Glory to God in the highest! Peace on earth!

Good will to men!”

The glorious song rang like great silver bells in the night. It was the most beautiful song ever heard on earth. The shepherds bowed their heads and listened while they trembled with joy.

Then the sky closed. The angels disappeared. Only one great star was left shining in the dark sky.

“Come,” said the oldest shepherd in a firm voice. “Come; let us go to Bethlehem, the city of

David.”

“What of our sheep” asked the boy? His grandfather answered, “This is a holy night. The Lord will look after our sheep.”

The shepherds set out toward

Bethlehem. They were no longer tired or cold.

“The Lord visited us!” thought the boy.

“The angel of the Lord came to us-just three poor shepherds.”

“He spoke of peace, and of good will,” thought the middle-aged shepherd.

And the old man gave a prayer of thanks. “0 Lord, I am so thankful that I have lived this long. I have seen the great promise come true!”

Ahead of them the big star shone steadily. It seemed to move ahead of them, guiding their way through the night.

And so the three shepherds came to the city of Bethlehem.

“See, the star is pointing down toward that stable behind the inn,” the shepherds said to one another.

“Here is where we will find the new king,” said the old man as they entered the stable.

It was quiet and dim in the stable. Only the starlight shone down on the inside.

“Is there a new baby here?” called the old man softly.

Then the shepherds noticed brightness in a corner of the barn. It seemed to shine around a man and a woman who were sitting on some hay.

“Is there a new baby here?” called the old shepherd again.

“Look in the manger,” said Joseph softly.

In the manger was a little baby. He was wrapped all about in soft white linen. Only his head was uncovered.

“See how the light shines about him!” whispered the young shepherd. “He glows with a holy brightness.”

“Ah! He looks like a little angel,” said the middle-aged shepherd.

“He is indeed a holy child!” said the old shepherd. The three visitors knelt about the manger. A feeling of peace and happiness came over them.

“We have heard wonderful tidings,” said the old man at last.

He told of the things that had happened. Mary and Joseph listened quietly.

At last the shepherds arose. “We want everybody to know about this,” said the old man. “We are going out and tell this great news to everybody we see.”

As he went out, the old shepherd spoke to Mary and Joseph. “The Lord bless you and keep you,” he said.

The baby’s parents answered, “And the Lord makes his face to shine upon you! The Lord gives you peace.”

When they were gone Mary said:

“Give me my baby, Joseph. I want to hold him in my arms and sing to him.”

The baby opened his eyes and looked at his mother. He smiled at her. Mary’s heart was filled with love and joy.

“He smiled at me!” she cried. “He smiled like a little loving angel.”

She held the baby close and sang to him, rocking him gently back and forth:

“Sleep my little Jesus! Sleep, my blessed baby!”

On Valentine’s Day you were feeling a little lonely. I guess the commercialism of the day got to you. You told me something I found interesting: you are afraid of a romantic attachment because it would signal a loss of freedom and autonomy. Did you get this idea from watching your father and me? I certainly hope not.

Marriage does not mean the loss of autonomy.

Marriage means becoming part of a unit. With children, the size of this unit grows. It may not be run along democratic lines-indeed, ours is not-but belonging to our family unit means that there are three people who care for you more than anyone else. We expect the same in return.

So, my dear, do not fear romantic attachments. One may be the start of your own family unit. Your marriage will be completely different from mine. You will have more choices. You will also not be able to blame your husband if you make the wrong decisions. I taught you to think for yourself but not to put yourself first. I love you.

Mom

For many of us, November is the month of football-either piling on warm clothes, grabbing a thermos of hot coffee, and joining the throng on the bleachers or collapsing in a chair in front of the TV. What else is there to watch over Thanksgiving? For the Romans, November was an equally frenetic sports month in which athletes paraded their finely honed skills before crowds of cheering, avid fans shouting on their favorite team or champion. One difference is that the ancient Roman athletes performed before the gods and goddesses. Sports were a component of the religious ritual - the Ludi dedicated in November to Jupiter.

An ancient author, Dionysus of Halicarnassus, leaves us a colorful description of the parade and the athletic games. Young men, most likely of leading Roman families, led the procession, riding horseback or driving two- or four-horse chariots. Then came the competing athletes attired only in loincloths. Groups of dancers with flute and lyre players passed by next in the procession. These dancers wore red tunics with bronze belts, crested helmets, and swords and carried short spears. Behind them came other men dressed in goatskins playing the role of satyr and mimicking the warrior dancers. More groups of musicians and dancers followed, together with individuals carrying burning incense and sacred gold or silver ritual urns.

Images of the gods were then carried in procession, including the twelve Olympians as well as Saturn, Ops, Themis, the Muses, the Graces, and the semi-divine Hercules, Aesculapius, and others. Finally came the sacrificial animals. The Roman magistrates, serving as priests, officiated over the sacrifice of oxen; then the games would begin.

The events in the Circus Maximus, which could hold 150,000 people, were well attended and began with four-, three-, and two-horse chariot races. In one race, the driver had a companion riding in the chariot; as it crossed the finish line, the companion would leap from the chariot and run the track himself, competing against the other runners to win the whole race. The chariots raced for seven laps around the Circus Maximus, which is equivalent to about five miles and less than fifteen minutes. Then came boxing and wrestling matches, with the winners receiving crowns.

To the ancient Greeks and Romans, athletic skill was a gift of the gods and athletic competition was a form of worship that was taken very seriously-sport and religion were united. Athletes at the Olympic Games in
Greece traditionally offered sacrifice and prayer to Zeus/Jupiter before the events, swearing an oath against cheating, which was on par with blasphemy. It was the priest who gave the signal to start the race, while the victor officiated at the sacrifice to the god. When athletes trained hard and performed well at the games, they were hailed as heroes endowed with a divine blessing-a strong, fit body. The gods and goddesses attended the games and enjoyed a good rivalry and athletic competition; their images were carried in a parade through
Rome just behind the athletes. Who could ask for better fan support?

Athletic skill is a wonderful gift. In classical thought, it was as important to develop the body as the mind, so that there was a balance between the two. Our bodies are indeed expressions of the divine. Sacred games and sports under the auspices of the gods and goddesses were the ultimate tribute to the sanctity of the body. The combination of physical dexterity, strength, determination, and drive with hard work and hours of training shows itself in the moments of competition, whatever the sport. Those moments when the runner crosses the finish line, the charioteer pulls ahead of the rest, the wide receiver catches the touchdown pass, the striker puts the soccer ball in the net-those glorious few moments of achievement are moments of euphoria and awe. For the Greeks and Romans, these were sacred moments when the gods gave approving nods.

We honor the spirits in November by turning our attention to the passing of time and in doing so acknowledge the essential human spirit with all its frailties. Yes, we grow old, and in November we accept the process of aging. We revel in the peak moments of human achievements in art and sport, for the mind and the body. We lay back and observe the passing of the month and the end of the year. It is all good. And, most important, it will come again, with subsequent years, new playwrights, and new athletes striving to surpass the current records.

For many, especially women, confrontation through direct competition is uncomfortable and best avoided. We too quickly repress our drive to win, our aggressive and competitive side. Yet, in antiquity, there were models of competitive women who were honored and esteemed for their physical prowess. In myth, Atalanta wrestled, hunted, and required her suitors to compete against her in a foot race. In the classical world, we learn from inscriptions that “eleven priestesses of Bacchus put on a running competition.” “Tatia directed a gymnasium for women,” “My lovely sister Nikegora won the girl’s race,” and “Kyniska won the chariot race.” Every four years, at
Olympia, sixteen women together with female assistants put on the games to the goddess Hera, the Heraia. “Here is the method of running. The young women let down their hair, allow their tunic to reach just above the knee, and uncover their right shoulders as far as the breast”. They then race through the Olympic stadium. The victorious women received statues with their names inscribed and wreaths of olive leaves.

Support for women’s sports is growing with more girls actively participating.

Not only can we encourage our daughters to compete, but we also can look for ways to express our competitive side and acknowledge our aggressive and assertive nature. We too can feel the struggle to achieve, the rush at winning, and the agony of defeat, which on a lesser scale parallels the mortal agones, the cosmic struggle of life and death.

The cold winter months are upon us now. It is the season when “icicles frozen by bitter winds hang down.”

On October 3, 1931, Universal Studios finished shooting Frankenstein. Some notes about the motion picture that is continually one of the top 100 video rentals:

• After the surprising hit of Dracula earlier that year, Universal wanted another film that would feature the Hungarian actor Bela Lugosi - minus his loopy accent. They bought a theatrical adaptation of Mary Shelley’s novel. (The chief difference is a relatively mute monster; the book’s creature is a gas-bag who has monologues running for pages.)
  • The actor, who saw himself as a romantic lead, hated the makeup and the role. He said, “I was a star in my country… Anybody can moan and grunt.”
  • In the studio cafeteria, director James Whale noticed a fellow Briton: Boris Karloff. (Born William Pratt, Karloff was a black sheep from an unloving family of diplomats. His parents died when he was a child; he was raised by siblings. He took his acting name from a maternal relative.)
• Karloff’s acting, a black-and-white film that was tinted green, and a shocking story (for the time) created a hit film.
• After test screenings, Universal cut one sadistic scene in which the monster, thinking a friendly little girl will float, throws her into a lake. (Ironically, little Marilyn Harris enjoyed being chucked into the water by Karloff. In real life, her adoptive mother - who picked her out of an orphanage for her looks, motivated her acting with beatings and other sadism, writes critic Forrest Ackerman.)
• Karloff said later he got much sympathetic fan mail, especially from children, who said they understood the monster’s feelings.
• Nineteen-year-old Mary Shelley started her novel after hearing a discussion about life between her husband-to-be, Percy Shelley, and Lord Byron. Mary’s mother died 11 days after giving birth (Mary was courted on her mother’s gravestone) and she was raised by a cruel father who barely tolerated her. Critics have noted the parallel between her childhood and the monster’s life. (Sources: Behind the Scenes, The Dead That “Walk, Universal Filmscripts, news services.)

In the days gone by, when hex women and witch doctors had things their way in Pennsylvania - particularly around the Blue Mountains - there lived in those parts a farmer and his wife who loved gold more than they loved God. Sure, that farmer woman was a witch! There was no question about it, and there wasn’t a thing she wouldn’t do to add to her pile of gold. She’d short weigh butter and cheese, and she would lie about the age of her chickens; she’d fill the bottom of her apple bushels with straw and lie about the hay - she wouldn’t stop for anything to feed the clinking of money in her hands. She and her husband.

Folks soon found out which way the wind blew, and none would buy or barter with them. None would even speak to them. So they lived by themselves, and no gold was coming in.

One early morning they sat outside on the porch talking. Said Katie, the woman, ”1 miss the clinking of money in my hands.”

“I miss it too,” said her husband Ludwig. “But no one will buy anything from us or even speak to us.”

“But we fooled them for a long time, didn’t we?” said she, and both had a good laugh.

“And I’ll fool them more,” she added. “I have studied the hexing books I found in the old barn, and I have the devil’s power. Soon the yellow gold and white silver will roll again into our hands.”

“You always had a smart head on you, Katie.” “Well, good husband, I’ll show you the kind of head I really have. Before night we’ll have plenty of money again.”

She mumbled magic words and made circles.

…A wind blew up - and Ludwig, the farmer with the red beard, was a fine, fat, sleek brown ox! Sleek as if he had been fed the finest grain and hay.

Katie ran to neighbors and told everybody she had a fine, strong ox for sale. Before the sun stood in the middle of the sky, farmers and butchers came to look at the beast.

“That ox has lived on the fat of the land,” the butcher man said.

“So he has,” Katie replied.

“Where is Ludwig?” another one asked.

“Gone to
Lebanon to look for more good cattle.” A man bought the animal and started home, feeling he had struck a good bargain.

Ox and man walked on the sunny-spotted road high up in the
Blue Mountains. They reached the top, and there was a sight fit for paradise. The man stopped to see the broad valleys and the tidy farms, when a wind blew up. He turned around .. . the ox was gone!

He ran up and he ran down and he ran all around, but all his running did him little good that ox was gone. And a man was walking down the road.

He got others to help him search, but no ox could be found. In the end he went home cursing the hour he had bought the beast.

In the evening Katie and Ludwig were sitting by the candlelight, counting the good money paid for the ox.

“It was so easy to fool that fellow,” Katie said. “You are a very smart woman, and I don’t mind being an ox for a little while,” Ludwig said.

Time went by, and then these two thought they’d like to feel some nice hard money in their horny hands again.

“Ludwig, my pet, we’ll play the same little trick. I’ll use my hex and fool the fools again.”

She mumbled magic words and made circles.

…A wind blew up - and there was the sleekest, fattest white ox you ever did see. As fine an ox as ever there was in all the Blue Mountains of Pennsylvania.

Katie ran around, far and wide, and soon all knew she had a fine white ox for sale.

Men came and looked, and they said they’d never seen a finer animal. Katie asked little, and a sale was quickly made, and the man went off with his ox.

He went up the mountain.

…A wind blew up …and the ox was gone!

He searched high, he searched low, and he searched all around, but it did him little good. There was no ox to be seen. But a man was walking down the road.

He told his friends the tale, and folks shook their heads and said it was ill luck to buy anything from the hex woman on the mountain.

Weeks went by, sun and moon rolled around, and one morning Katie and Ludwig missed again the clinking of money in their horny hands.

“We’ll make more soon,” she cried. She made a circle, mumbled words …a wind blew up, and there stood a fine, fat, black ox. Then she ran everywhere and told folks she had the finest black ox for sale that was ever seen. Butchers and farmers came to see, but with wary eyes.

It truly was the finest, fattest, black ox ever seen, and a butcher man from
Lebanon bought it. He tied a rope around the animal’s head and started homeward. But this butcher was smart! He’d brought a friend with him to keep watch.

The two had gone a ways when the
Lebanon butcher man said to his friend:

“I’ll drive the ox ahead. You follow a little ways behind. Don’t take your eyes off that animal whatever happens. That ox’ll not disappear this time.”

When they got to the hill, a wild wind blew up and the ox ran off - and the butcher’s friend saw, coming from the thicket, red-bearded Ludwig. . . .

“Where did you come from?” the butcher man asked.

Ludwig hemmed and hawed and mumbled and didn’t know what to say.

Then the
Lebanon man knew the truth.

“Your wife is a hex!” he cried. “She hexed you to become an ox and then changed you back, to cheat me! I’ll have her before the judge and see her burn as a witch.”

Ludwig ran off, and the butcher man went to court. He accused Katie of hexing her husband into an ox just long enough to sell him, and then changing him back, to cheat folks out of their hard-earned money.

Well, the judge made Katie and Ludwig pay back all the money they had taken. But no one could prove that Katie was a witch, so he had to let her go free. But he warned her against ever hexing in the
Blue Mountains again.

Very soon after that, Katie and Ludwig moved away. And for all we know, Katie may still be hexing people somewhere in the mountains today.  

My parents have been married for over forty years. I cannot judge whether it has been a satisfying marriage, but it has endured through moments of crisis and great pain and so, on some level, it has been a success. In trying to come to terms with my own marriage, I find myself looking back.

From my own observations (and without the benefit of statistically significant sampling or scientific inquiry), it seems that marriages of long duration have rituals that form the fabric of the relationship. As in my parents’ case, arguing is an important one.

I often think about the scene repeated year after year in my home during the Jewish holidays. On each holiday my mother and grandmother would spend a frenzied day completing the preparations for the evening meal - cooking and baking, seasoning and tasting, and seasoning yet again. Each holiday morning, as my father left for work, my mother would admonish him to come home early. That evening my father would invariably return an hour late with wilted flowers in hand, muttering about the terrible holiday traffic (which he seemed to regard as a completely unexpected development even though holiday traffic was bad every year).

My mother, of course, would be waiting at the door and, upon my father’s arrival, burst into a litany of angry complaints about the ruined meal-how she had worked all day to prepare a wonderful dinner and now the pot roast was overcooked and the vegetables were limp and, worst of all, the family would have to rush through the meal so my father could get to synagogue on time. He would invariably throw up his hands and, in turn, complain about how hard he worked and how my mother always gave him a hard time regardless of what he did. A few minutes later we would sit down to dinner, all the while assuring my mother that the food tasted just fine.

After watching this scene year after year, I finally asked why she just did not prepare a simpler meal or start cooking later in the day, since she knew my father always came home late on the holidays. (And on every other occasion, since my father, as optimistic about travel times as he is about every other aspect of his life, always assumed there would be clear roads and strong tailwinds.) She rebuked me for interfering in an area that was none of my concern and then pointedly informed me that she and my father enjoyed having this argument.

At the time I was puzzled by her response. After all, it did not look like they were enjoying themselves. Now, after more than a decade of being married, I think I understand. The Jewish holiday fight was a safety valve for them, an opportunity to vent their frustrations safely. Since it was, after all, a holiday, they had to make up quickly. Moreover, it had become a ritual for them and gave them a sense of continuity and comfort.

In my own marriage, our arguments have essentially the same theme, which, come to think of it, is not so different from my parents’. Wife to husband: “If you really loved me, you would be more sensitive to my needs (that is, share more of the household burden, give me more emotional support, and value what is important to me).” Husband to wife: “If you really loved me, you would appreciate me for who I am, stop expecting me to change, and stop nagging me.”

With a high degree of accuracy I can predict we will have this fight (in one variation or another) not on the Jewish holidays but on the first day of any vacation, on Mother’s Day (the unnatural reversal of roles creates tension in our house), and before we go out (my husband puts on his oldest clothes, I express outrage, he tells me I am a nag and then changes into something acceptable, something he probably intended to wear all along).

Not only do our arguments have the same theme, but like many other couples, I suspect, our arguments have certain parameters. Fighting is unacceptable in front of certain people-professional associates, in-laws, acquaintances, and even certain friends-and is certainly restrained (but, for better or worse, not avoided) in front of the children.

More important, although we have never acknowledged this to each other, there are certain things we will never say, even in the heat of battle, because we know instinctively that, once said, these words can never be forgiven. The forbidden words relate to those areas the other person is most acutely and painfully sensitive about, the words that, dagger-like, quickly and sharply pierce the heart.

Reflecting on thee highly structured, repetitive nature of our arguments, it seems that they actually strengthen our marriage, rather than weaken it. We can let off steam within accepted boundaries; in ways we know will not “rend us asunder.” We can secretly mouth the other’s expected rejoinders when we begin to argue, and we know when it is time to stop.

In the end, I suppose, what makes a marriage last is not how much you love the other person but how the marriage provides structure, comfort, and predictability in a world that is chaotic, uncontrollable, and profoundly indifferent.

On May 3, 1915, about 7 A.M., it was a bright spring morning near Poperinghe, Belgium - the first spring of the First World War. The sky was deep blue, the larks were singing and circling, and a gentle east wind was blowing the poppies about. Maj. John McCrae, a 42-year-old doctor/soldier with the Canadian Field Artillery, was sitting on the rear step of an ambulance, composing poetry. In about 20 minutes, he wrote “In Flanders Fields.” Some notes:

• The previous night, Major McCrae had buried his best friend, 25-year-old Lt. Alexis Helmer, who had been a medical student at McGill University when the poet was a professor of pathology. The young man, one of the brigade’s best-liked officers, had been blown to bits by an artillery shell the previous day. (He was buried under cover of darkness for fear of attracting more enemy fire.) The barrage of The Second Battle of Ypres was in its ninth day.
• As the poet wrote, Sgt. Maj. Cyril Allinson arrived on horseback, bringing mail and supplies from the rear. “I saw (Major McCrae) sitting on the ambulance step, a pad on his knee. He looked up as I approached but continued to write,” recalled Mr. Allinson, who was the first to read the work. “His face was very tired but calm as he wrote …. The poem was almost an exact description of the scene in front of us both.”
• Major McCrae (who had been promoted to lieutenantcolonel in 1914, though the news did not reach him until June I, 1915) made several copies of “In Flanders Fields,” with slight variations, and gave them to friends. He sent a copy to Punch magazine, which ran the poem on December 18, 1915, with no byline.
• The verses were reprinted around the world, but the author’s name was not known. By the time it was, Colonel .McCrae’s “perfect war poem” was famous. It has been called the bestknown Canadian poem.
• Colonel McCrae, who had been at the front from the beginning, was made consultant physician to the British 1^st Army in January 1918. Five days later, he was dead from pneumonia and a cerebral infection.
• “In Flanders Fields” was used in the first observance of Armistice Day in 1918, and this poem and poppies have been part of the November I I ceremonies since. “It never occurred to me at the time that it would ever be published,” Mr. Allinson admitted. “It seemed to me to be just an exact description of the scene.”

The older woman is respected in many cultures as the wise woman, the one to be revered whose advice and opinion is sought out by younger women. With the emphasis on youth in our own culture, this vital dimension of the older woman is often disregarded and ignored. As we each age, we must be mindful of the gifts that an older woman can offer. She can counsel with sage advice, she can lead and guide, and she can teach many of life’s lessons. It is equally important for the older woman herself, the crone, to feel valued, appreciated and powerful.

Hold up a mirror and look closely at your face. Take your time, and take a careful look. Come to see the inner strength that you possess. Acknowledge your wisdom, your love and your beauty. You have earned this respect, from others and from yourself.

The Agony of Struggle

The word “agony” connotes extreme pain and long suffering; mortal agony is the futile struggle that comes before death. The word agony stems from the ancient Greek word meaning “struggle.” The Greek word, however, also contained the sense of competition at philosophical debates, public issues, beauty contests, literary and musical events, and especially the athletic games. These contests pitting rival against rival were called agones - fights or struggles for supremacy, for survival and conquest. The most ancient agones were sacred competitions following funerals, especially of heroes or leaders, as Homer describes in the Iliad to honor the death of Patroc1es, friend of Achilles.

November 4-17, Plebeian Games

The Plebeian Games, or “Games of the People,” were held in
Rome. They were first mentioned in 216BC and firmly established as an annual event by 220BC. The central event was the Feast of Jupiter on November 15, or the Ides.

Funeral games following religious services at the grave site were customarily held by the Etruscans, the early settlers of the
Tuscany region of
Italy, who passed on the custom to the Romans. Contest and rivalry for the prize in such events as the foot race, boxing, wrestling, long jump, javelin throwing, and chariot racing may have been a way to express and channel the strong emotions of anger, rage, and grief among the friends of the deceased. Though the origin of the games, the “Agones,” or Ludi as the Romans called them, was funereal, they grew in size and popularity as
Rome itself grew. Annual games to honor deceased heroes were instituted and even added to the religious calendars combining athletic events with competitions in poetry, drama, and music. Eventually, games were established to celebrate events not associated with a funeral, yet they always maintained their religious character, including sacrifice to a deity During November, the Plebeian Games, the “Games of the People,” offered Roman citizens two weeks of clever theatrical presentations juxtaposed with athletic competition. These games were a tribute to the best minds and bodies of the times; they were a religious ritual in November.

The Games of the People were established in the third century BC and held for several weeks in the first part of November. They marked the second most popular and impressive games held during the Roman year, the first being the Roman Games in September. The focal point of these games was the Feast of Jupiter, held on the Ides.

The first week, November 4-12, was set aside for theatrical and scenic performances. The last three days, November 15-17, were given over to the athletic games held in the Circus Maximus. The two-week event began with a solemn procession led by
Rome’s magistrates and high priests from the Capitol through the Forum along the

Sacred Way

to the Circus Maximus.

The eight days of theatrical events were a busy time for art patrons in ancient
Rome. Plays, both drama and comedy, were important aspects of Roman religion. A number of religious rites that we have already discussed were always accompanied by games: the festival of Dea Dia in May, Magna Mater in April, Apollo in July, and Jupiter in September. Both the Greeks and Etruscans held funereal games in honor of the deceased, while the regular Greek games such as those held every four years at Olympia (actually there were four or more pan-Hellenic games) were in honor of a deity. At the New Age, or saeculum, of Augustus in 17BC, very special Saecular Games were only part of the ritual for the New Order of Ages and the millennium.

November 13, Jupiter

The Feast of Jupiter was held on November 13, marking a transition point in the Games of the People from the theatrical to the athletic. There was a solemn rite to Jupiter and a banquet.

November 13, Feronia

Feronia is a most ancient goddess associated with agriculture, for she received the first fruits as her offering. Feronia was especially popular throughout central
Italy, yet she also had a sacred grove and temple in
Rome. Feronia was also seen as a patroness of freed slaves, the “Goddess of Freedom” she was called. An inscription on her temple at Terracina, where slaves were freed and given the symbolic cap of the freedman, read, “Let the deserving sit down as slaves and rise as freemen.”

November 13, Pietas

Pietas was a goddess who embodied the quality of respect and duty to the gods,
Rome, and one’s parents. The quality of devotion exemplified by a child’s piety and respect for the mother or father was honored by the Romans. Pietas was depicted as a young women often accompanied by a stork representing the loyalty of child to parent Pietas warns us to be dutiful to parents, country, and the gods.

Ancient farmers were advised to sow the fall wheat and barley and to trench around the trees. 

November has arrived. There is a chill in the air, and the hours of sunlight are noticeably shorter. Those colder gray days of winter are on their way. Perhaps the first frost has appeared or even a light dusting of snow. The green growing season is definitely over and gone for one more year. The grains have been threshed, the apples and crops picked, the grapes pressed into new wine and stored, and the seeds placed in underground bins to keep over the winter. We have journeyed through the sensual months of spring, those months of creative energy fueled by youthful hormonal exuberance. We have passed the months of fullness and ripeness, and continued on through the harvest period of endings.

In November, Roman farmers prepared for the long, hard winter rapidly approaching, stocking up plenty of fodder and wood to keep the home warm for the cold months. On a spiritual level in the Roman calendar, with the intensity of September’s and October’s rituals over, everything seems to wind down in November. There is calm in November, and we are midway through the autumn season, a good month away from the solstice and the crisis invoked by seasonal change.

The year, in many ways is a metaphor for our lives, and this is apparent as we reach these last few months. Death awaits each of us-a fact of the life cycle that we cannot change and that becomes more apparent as we age. As the dark noticeably predominates over daylight, November marks the time of acceptance and acknowledgment of the final time, the dying time. The all-encompassing bond with nature and the intimate association with the span of human life and the natural yearly cycle are evident and form a core Roman belief in this passage by Ovid, in which the tone is acceptance:

What? Don’t you see that the year follows in four phases, imitating our own lifetime? In early spring, it is youthful and full of new life just like a little baby; in spring all things green and growing are also young and fragile, bursting with life yet without strength, to fill the fanners with hopes of an abundant crop.

Then, everything is in bloom and the fertile fields burst with brightly colored flowers; still the foliage lacks strength and endurance. After spring has passed, the year has grown sturdier, and passes into summer: It becomes like a strong young man, full of life. There is no hardier time than this, none fuller of rich warm life. Then autumn comes with its first flush of youth gone; ripe and mellow midway between youth and age, with a sprinkling of gray hair at the temples. And then comes aged winter, with faltering step and shivering, the hair all gone or frosted white. 

The finality and inevitability of death is eloquently expressed in this deeply moving myth of Orpheus and his most beloved Eurydice.