Holiday Gifts & Gift Baskets Blog

Archive for December, 2007

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 buy Hanukkah gifts and 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 a wilted bouquet of 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 women with age 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 sports gift 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, the seeds placed in underground bins to keep over the winter and the fall themed gifts sent out. 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  life just like the gift of a new baby's arrival; 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.