Of Fathers to Sons…Is There a Santa Claus? (repost)

Leonard Bishop, the inspiration for this blog, was one of the best fibbers I have ever met.  He could make up stories so fast, you felt they HAD to be true.  He once confided about an old story, “I’ve told it so many times, I can’t remember if it is real or not!”

But when it came to his family, Leonard was true as a knight.  He couldn’t lie, even when his son Luke, five years old at the time, asked the inevitable question: “Dad, Is there a Santa Claus?”  His loving answer is a grand reminder for the holiday season.

by Leonard Bishop, Author of Dare To Be A Great Writer

He dared us to write well!

He dared us to write well!

My son, Luke, asked me, “Dad, is there a Santa Claus?”  I sat fixed in a painful decision. Five-year-old children must have a sense of fantasy and fable. But when a well-intended lie sneaks into love, the lie remains and the love is changed. The heart carries a soiled shadow. Children must soon learn the truth and the truth is not always cruel.

I told him, “I’m sorry, Luke.  There is no Santa Claus. He’s just a chubby fella someone made up a long, long time ago. When you get presents on Christmas, your family and friends give them to you. Because they know you’re special, and they love you.”

His gentle blue eyes clouded with sorrow and I held him and stroked him and hushed my voice near his face. “Would you like me to tell you about all the marvelous gifts you already have? Gifts you’ll be getting? Gifts which that ‘let’s pretend’ fella, Santa Claus, could never bring you?” He pouted sadly, and nodded.

“Your mother is a miraculous gift,” I told him.”She brings you into life as a gift to the world. She feels you from her deepest self. She tends you with kisses and secret whispers and giggly games and she is the first one you love. She never goes away to a far, far place while you wait for so long you begin forgetting her. She is always there, holding you, guarding you, giving to you. She is a celebration of love and never tires of being with you. And one day, very suddenly, you are all grown up and anxious to leave and she watches you go, but you are still softly hugged in her heart.

“Candy canes crumble and popcorn dries and yummies are quickly swallowed and gone. But the sun always rises to spread its glory over the land like warm caramel. Christmas trees wilt and tassels tear, but the moon forever slides into the dark sky to dangle like a glowing bulb wreathed in a cloak of glittering stars. The decorated stockings frazzle and bright gift wrappings are thrown away but the gift of the earth is always before you, with forests and hills and oceans and lanes leading you to curious places you have never been before. Greeting cards are lost and visitors drift away, but the festival of seasons keep changing in the world, year after year. They bring their different smells and feels and tastes and startling colors–and remember that morning you saw your first rainbow? It was such a lovely ribbon wrapped around the world.

“There is the gift of playing and being studious and the times of learning given by your school teachers who care for your heart and mind. They teach you true stories and numbers and the endowment of astonishment and wonder. They read books to you until you can read. You learn about men and women who opened the darkness of the world, and shaped the nations of freedom and light. Instead of plastic and tin cheapies that soon break or are stepped on, your teachers present you with the human adventure and guide you in your rush to the dreams that never wear out.

“When you awaken you think about the wonderful gift of friends, and they think about you: ‘Hey, let’s wrestle, let’s hide in the yard, wanna go fishing? Look at what I colored–good, huh? Oooooh, you flopped in the mud and your mom will get mad; did you see that lightning last night? Wow, I was scared. Let’s strip to our skivvies in’a rain.’

“Friends are funful, playing and brave and sometimes they cry but you never wait a long lonely year for them to come over and mess your room and tell you jokes your folks are not supposed to hear. The fire engines and fierce robots get broken, but your friends are right there when you need them and their laughing is not some ho-ho-ho make-believe.

“And tomorrow, Luke, isn’t that another wondrous gift that life gives you every day? Don’t bother to count all your tomorrows, Luke–will you run out of numbers. Tomorrow is a greater expectation, a better hope, a longer time of laughing. A strong ambition, a fuller reaching out to grasp more of life. One day tomorrow you’ll play baseball and study the eye of a frog; you’ll read history and tinker with machines and put on serious clothes for a school dance. You’ll drive a car and begin a joyous search to find your own precious love. Sometimes todays are dark–especially when Daddy says there is no Santa Claus–and there are some hurts and a little fear–but joy always comes in the morning of tomorrow which is polished and glossy and waiting for you to hurry into it.

“The finest gift your mother and father give you is your awareness of God. You can’t see God and you can’t always understand God; for God is not pretend. If you could reach your hand into your heart, then you would know where God lives. And if I take away your Santa Claus and bring you the joy of God, then I am your friend. And here’s a marvelous truth, Luke–the One who created the entire world and all the heavens, knows your personal name and dearly loves you. Wow, Luke, that is such a magnificent gift.

“You can give presents at Christmas because you love someone–and you can receive presents at Christmas because you are loved. All happiness comes from loving and being loved. And if I say there is no Santa Claus it’s only because we don’t need him to know the truth of love–we only need each other.”

My son Luke sat in silence, and I waited. He slowly put his arms around my neck and whispered, “Dad, I love you,” and I thought whatever I give my son, God first gave to me, and Christmas is just another day of loving.

©Copyright Leonard Bishop/ www.leonardbishop.com 

(first published Sunday, December 2, 1984 the Manhattan Mercury)

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Overcoming Kryptonite…Francie Dillon

Overcoming Kryptonite…Francie Dillon.

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Touching Eternity: A Teacher’s Dream

Touching Eternity: A Teacher’s Dream.

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Overcoming Kryptonite…Francie Dillon

 By Catherine Hedge

Francie at Fairy Tale Town, 2006

My Little Sister Francie isn’t someone you meet.  She’s someone you experience.  Even shorter than I am, Francie has always been the family dynamo, like the center of a tornado…No, a hurricane whirling into your environment and blowing all your pretensions and glums away.

I’ve always thought of myself as fairly shy and quiet.  In fact, the quietest member of my family.  But that’s because I’ve compared myself to Francie.  That’s like thinking you are clumsy because you’re dancing for Dame Margot Fonteyn or unmusical because you’re playing along with Rachmaninoff.

I once saw Francie, a professional children’s entertainer , transform a rowdy community Thanksgiving crowd from chaos to quiet within thirty seconds of her walking on stage.  I watched over 200 teachers huff and puff along with Francie and the nasty old wolf.  Whole auditoriums full of cynical middle schoolers melted into her hands.  At Fort Riley Middle School, they clamored for autographs when she finished.  We made copies of her PR photo and autograph and handed them out.  Five years later, we learned, a high school senior still had one hung over his desk. After one pre-school performance, a 4-year-old told her, “When it’s time, I think I’ll hire you for my wedding.”  I swear that no one, not even Dick Clark could get a crowd to hokey-pokey like Francie.

But now, my favorite Tasmanian Devil is in the fight of her life.  After a two decades long career of professional story-telling and singing, of accolades including regional Emmy nominations,  Parent’s Choice Approval awards, California State awards, and Sacramento Arts Educator of the Year Award, she is being robbed.  A thief, an undiagnosed neurological disorder is stealing her strength.  She says, “I feel like I’m Superman, suddenly surrounded by Kryptonite.” ( Ed Goldman, Sacramento Business Journal  )

A woman who once played competitive tennis, rode her bike in 50 mile day trips, and MC’d  California State Fair stages in 100 plus degrees, Francie now struggles to  walk unaided, must sit to finish a sentence,  and has had to say good-bye to the career that has sustained her and my two nieces.  She continues to teach children’s literature part time at Sacramento State, which provides health insurance and a small income.  But she can do little else.

What she has not lost, however, is her indomitable spirit.

I remember when she was about six, Francie was sleep-walking.  Dressed in a t-shirt and underpants, she held her arms in front of her like a prize-fighter.  Her chin was jutted out and she was mumbling something like, “Get ‘em! Get ‘em!”  Though I was in seventh grade at the time, I remember stepping back from this fierce little being and yelling for my mom to come wake her up.  I knew absolutely I wasn’t going to tangle with her.  I’d lose!

This is the same pugnacious, persistent approach Francie has toward her current situation.  She does have difficult days, but shares them with few.  She’s frustrated about not having a diagnosis, though the options, ALS,  Muscular Dystrophy, among others, are pretty scary, but she turns her doctors and counselors into advocates and they are fighting alongside her.

Her community fights for her, too.  Despite her initial reservations, friends organized a huge benefit for her at Fairytale Town, a regional park with Mother Goose characters dating back to the  1950’s.  You know…the kind where you turn a key in a story box and hear a song that matches the surrounding.  Well, Francie inhabits those boxes with her songs and stories…she is truly the voice of Fairytale Town.  On November 2, a huge crowd gathered to “Celebrate Francie.

The organizer, Terry Foley, stated:  “Francie touches people’s hearts and particularly the hearts of children…It was a no-brainer that people would want to come together for her. If you had to choose a person for which you were going to do something, you might as well choose someone that everybody loves, and everybody loves Francie.” (Corrie Pelc, Valley Community News)

Suddenly a woman who is very private when offstage, Francie has become the center of a media whirlwind.   Newspaper interviews, radio spots, flyers, huge signs, the whole community of Sacramento knows of Francie’s troubles and of her struggle to overcome them.   What they may not have counted on, however, is how deeply touched they would be by the woman they describe as “Perennially perky”.

I would like to share with you both some excerpts written by Francie and by writers for The Sacramento Bee and other regional publications.

They will show you why I am so thankful to have this resilient woman in my life:

“‘I have come to realize that it is not all about this,’ she [Francie]  said, gesturing to her lower body. ‘I’m not sure the kids care so much about it.’ She has signed on for a couple of small events at Fairytale Town in the coming year. She will bring her stool, she said, and perform with every ounce of energy she has left. In the future, her performance venues will be more intimate, her acts less dynamic, but her commitment to children will continue until her body gives out. ‘I want them to know that I didn’t choose to stop performing,’ she said. ‘I loved every minute of it. It was glorious.'” (Cynthia Hubert, Sacramento Bee)

“For 22 years, Francie Dillon has entertained children and families with her mix of music and storytelling, everywhere from Fairytale Town to area schools to hospital bedsides.

“[Of the benefit] Dillon says the money raised will allow her to take the steps she needs to adapt her past career as a children’s entertainer to a new one that works within her current situation, as she knows she still has more to give.

“‘I can’t believe that the universe is willing to let me just dissolve without making further contributions, I cannot believe that is the plan,’ Dillon says. ‘I believe I’ve got something to give that will benefit and be of service, and now it’s my job to discover that. This benefit will give me the breathing room to make that happen, and to me the greatest gift of all is the room to discover it.'”    (Corrie Pelc)

“While I’ve heard Francie Dillon’s work as a singer, songwriter and storyteller many times (I am, after all, a daddy), I never met her until she was given the award for Arts Educator of the Year …I’m president its volunteer board). And while I realize this is a town known for giving standing ovations at the opening of envelopes, I can report that the one Dillon received here was one of the most heartfelt, teary-eyed salutes I’ve ever seen. Dillon almost missed it — she was paying attention to climbing down the stage steps after delivering a touching, hopeful and spontaneous acceptance speech, and didn’t realize the audience was standing up for her. ‘Wasn’t that something?’ she says, her eyes misting and her voice growing husky.

“Dillon has hazel eyes, an impish blonde hairdo and a solid, once-athletic body that she still propels heroically, using forearm braces. The ‘monkey arms,’ as she’s chirpily dubbed them, were suggested to her by former Sacramento Mayor Heather Fargo, who was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis a few years ago. “Heather told me that there were two things to keep in mind when I came down with whatever this is,” Dillon recalls: ‘Keep your sense of humor and don’t let your body define you.’”…. (Ed Goldman)

He continues the following week after Francie had written him a heart felt thank you for his strong arm, when she needed it so desperately:  “I’m going to remember this email, or try to, every time I get annoyed because it’s raining, my car won’t start or my server is down. I wish you a wonderful weekend in the kindest of universes.”

And Finally, the letter Francie wrote to her benefactors after her Celebration:

“…here is a …YouTube link to a Rascal Flatts song that I play every time I get in the car.  http://youtu.be/R_q84a86LIA Because the truth is… I do love my life…every part of it…and  truthfully the life lessons I’ve learned, the love you have all extended to me,  may never have had the opportunity to be fully expressed if I wasn’t HERE…right now with WHAT IS…and I wouldn’t trade that feeling and life awareness for anything in the world.  If possible, I might have asked the universe to find another way of teaching me this…but….Being what it is….I am eternally grateful!! Love You all.

Thank you for bringing me back to life.

Francie”

And thank you, Francie, for bringing your life to me.

Love,

Your Big Sis.

Cathy

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My Wife’s High School Reunions: The Devil Strikes Twice

By Bill Borel

I have waited a long time to write this history about myself.

My wife came from a small lumber town not far from Seattle. I met her while we were attending the University of Washington in the early 60’s and we were married after graduation. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think ten year high school reunions should be eliminated. I believe God takes a pass and leaves the night to the Devil.

There is simply too much drinking, flirting, bragging and too many inflated egos.Meanwhile the unfortunate spouses can either be bored, or they can choose to be obnoxious. And that would be me.

Unfortunately, I knew some of my wife’s friends and met with them for drinks before the reunion began. I’m sure I was okay until dinner. My wife and I sat at a round table with five couples who were friends of hers. Since she and I lived in “the big city of Seattle,” I thought the funniest thing in the world would be to make fun of the towns’ annual Forest Festival weekend.

Despite my wife kicking my leg until it bruised, I proceeded to make fun of the parade describing it as having a four piece marching band, two logging trucks, and kids marching with dogs; I also described in embarrassing detail the Indians coming out of the hills to watch the parade. Somehow the conversation changed at that point leaving me alone and neglected.

It was only after dinner that my wife told me the sobering fact that the husband of one of her friends at the table was a full blooded Indian. It was uncharacteristic of me to be unkind about anything, let alone to be offensive. The only thing I could do was to find the guy, Wendell, and apologize.

I found him alone in a hall and did my best in my most humble way to apologize. After I was done Wendell, with a sly grin told me a bunch of his brothers were on the way over to scalp me. After I had a nervous chuckle, we actually continued to have a pleasant talk.

He was a great guy, told me about living on the reservation, actually in a tent, and that he was the only one in his family to graduate from college: Oregon State University. We shook hands and I made a promise I would not embarrass my wife or myself at her next reunion.

I was true to my word at her twenty year reunion and had no drinks before dinner.  I was determined to be the perfect gentleman. The dining arrangement was different this time with long tables placed in rows along the walls. We sat near the end of one table and I only had a glass of wine with dinner. There were close to 200 people there.

After dinner my wife joined a group of her friends, leaving me alone and bored. There was a no host bar at the end of the room.  I wandered down to it and bought some kind of drink. Then I roamed up the other side of the room until I found a table with a view of where my wife was still talking.

As I sat there, I noticed a woman sitting on the corner of the table next to me.  She was also looking at the same group. So, being on good behavior I casually turned to her and said, “Excuse me but I notice you looking at that group and was wondering if your husband is a friend of my wife?”

She hesitated for a moment and then said, “No, but my wife is.” Although the room was dark, I suddenly realized he was a guy. He was sitting down, had long 70’s style hair, and a designer shirt…not a dress.

Oh No, not again! I said to myself. The Devil had struck. Although I have to admit I was quietly laughing inside, I quickly apologized. And to prove I was an idiot, I proceeded to tell him what had happened at the ten year reunion exactly the way I described it above. I left nothing out. After I finished I said to him, “You can’t imagine how foolish I feel! I just cannot seem to get through these reunions without embarrassing myself.”

He turned to me and said, “Actually, Bill, I can. I am the Indian you were talking about.”

I got up, didn’t say a word, and left to find a secluded place. He found me, sort of laughed about it, and he said he could hardly wait for the next reunion.

And just so you know, at the next reunion he found me first before I could do anything else. We sat and shared stories for most of an hour. Since then we have corresponded and he and his wife even invited us to their 49th wedding anniversary dinner not long ago. There were two other couples and they insisted I tell this story. A little embarrassed, I did and everyone shared a good laugh. Also I have ordered a carving from him. He is retired and does beautiful wood carvings of birds and fish as a hobby.

There is a lesson here somewhere, but maybe you just have to live through it to find it. I have.

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Attending a Writing Conference? A Risk Worth Taking!

Attending a Writing Conference? A Risk Worth Taking!.

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Attending a Writing Conference? A Risk Worth Taking!

By Catherine Hedge

A Great Conference! http://www.kansas-scbwi.org/

When I was getting reading for my first writing conference in Salina, Kansas, many years ago, I was terribly nervous.  I figured there would be critics lurking about with long noses and red pens in hand.  They’d stand around in little circles and scoff, “Oh, so like SHE thinks she can write, Poor Thing!”

When I started reading my lead to an agent, I was so nervous that my tongue felt like a sand dune.  I spent my life talking in front of middle schoolers, but something about this pinch-faced woman terrified me.  She started out with, “You write really well, BUT…”  Then she told me that no one was interested in my time period, The Dawn of the Viking Age in England.  I should switch to King Arthur or Ancient Rome.  I was devastated.

Thank goodness my writing mentor, Leonard Bishop was at the conference.  When I told him what she had said, he growled, “Don’t listen to her! You are the one who will make them interested!”  The great part was that for the rest of the conference, he was the star, the darling that every struggling author wanted to talk to.  The one the agents and editors invited to lunch.  And I was the one he asked to join him!

That agent incident is the only uncomfortable memory of my conference life (Well, there were the toothless Klingons at a Con in Kansas City, but that’s another universe.) Since that time, I have attended more conferences to my great delight.

I don’t have an agent and editors aren’t clawing through my front door…yet.  So why am I willing to squander two scarce resources, Time and Money, to spend a weekend with strangers?  Why would I recommend it to you?

You just might…

Be Surrounded by Dreamers…How often do you get to be in a room with hundreds of people who have the same creative life as you?  We think it’s great to sit alone, scowling and scribbling.  We treasure moments we can laugh out loud at our own jokes or tear up at poignant scenes.  Some call that madness. Writers call it fun.

Get Support…You aren’t the only one out there.  Listen to the hallway chatter and you’ll hear just what you’ve asked yourself so many times…

  • I’ve sent out a million query letters but no luck yet! What should I do now?
  • They’ve just published a book about my topic.  Have I wasted all that time?
  • My story line has hit a dead end, but my character just won’t let me stop!   (Leonard would have loved that one!  “Just put the pen down!”)
  • I just know there’s a story in me somewhere…
  • Do you think I have a chance?
  • And those in the elevator, at the table, or in line with you, offer advice, soothing stories, and sometimes answers.

Meet Specialists…Most presenters are as passionate about writing and creating as you are.  By listening to the pulse of the conference, you can tell who they are.  People talk.  “Go see him! He’s fascinating” or “I took a marketing class from her once.  She really knows her stuff.”   Or, “He’s just trying to sell his editing books.”  Watch for the presenters who have crowd gather around them AFTER they have given their talk!  Or the ones who smile when you walk in their classroom.

Hint:  The faculty usually post their websites.  With prior research, you can discover the presenter’s experience, interests, and attitudes.   (The opening lines of agents/editor’s website usually states if they are accepting new clients or open only to established writers.) Does the individual promote a sense of community, excitement…or exclusion?  Those beliefs carry into the presentation.

 Celebrate Synergy…The best part of a conference happens afterwards.  Yes, if you’re lucky, you’ll have an agent or editor who wants to see your work…or some notes from a presentation on social networking…or a business card from a future friend.  But every individual can leave with power of community.  You’re ready to take on the next day, the next weeks, of staring at that blank screen or page of doodling.  You can do that because you have discovered you are no longer alone.

At a conference, you have voluntarily surrounded yourself with creatives.  You’ve allowed yourself to be open to learning.  You’ve read your drafts to strangers, accepted their feedback, and filtered their comments through your sensibilities.  For days, you have been immersed in your craft, pondering what works, weighing every comment for its usefulness for your writing.  How can that not change you?

Go ahead.  Take the risk.  (Just stay clear of the Klingons!)

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Touching Eternity: A Teacher’s Dream

by Catherine Hedge

One of the best things about being a retired teacher is getting to watch young teachers unfold.   With all their vibrancy and youth, they are ready to take over the world, but unsure of how exactly to make it happen.  They put on a brave face, but sometimes shudder inside and wonder, “Am I really good enough?”  They don’t suffer for a lack of self confidence, but rather because they understand how crucial it is for the children.  They will touch lives, for good or ill.  They are asked to be the very best they can be…Every day, every minute, no matter what is happening in their lives outside the classroom.

This week, I had the great privilege to watch an undergraduate teach her first lesson, to talk to a new teacher looking for her first job, and to substitute for another with only a few years of teaching experience.   They are all marvelous.

As I listened to them, to their hopes and anxieties, I am transported back in time.  I am standing where they are now, worried that no one will ever know how hard I try, and fearful I’ll never help a single child.   Those old anxieties can still wake me from the deepest sleep.

But it is their turn now.

For you, Young Teachers, I have the greatest  hope.  I know that you find your courage and strength.  The children are waiting.

Eternity

By Catherine Hedge

A child kicks at  gravel beneath the swing

The crossbar above her seems high as the moon.

She shoves hard and wonders, “If I fly high enough, will I reach the stars?

Then, will I be special?

Will everyone remember me if I do?”

A boy hammers his collection of stones

Setting sparks flying off the granite edge.

He hits hard and wonders, “If I find gold, a diamond, the missing link,

Then will I be special?

Will anyone remember me if I do?”

Time slides by, the children grow, and daydreams slip away.

The child now a woman and the boy a man

Transformed to teachers, new and tense

She glares at blank slate boards, black and ominous

He clenches brittle chalk in sweaty palms

Both wonder, “If I turn now and run, will they still find me?

Will anyone remember what I do?”

After all these years the answers come

Scribbled in crayon,“Dear Techr yur mi best fren”

Shouted, “See, Teacher! I can do it now!”

Whispered in a senior’s embrace,

“I never would’a made it without you!”

Hundreds of children tell their children

“I’ll never forget, Mr____.  He was the greatest!”

Or

 “I hope you get one like her.  She was special.”

They all remember what you do

For here are your diamonds

They are your stars.

For all these years you’ve kicked hard,

Swung high, and let the young fly free

You’ve passed the stars into eternity.

© 2012 Catherine Hedge

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I Hear You, Mr. B!

I Hear You, Mr. B!.

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Family Drama…Without the Drama: Writing a Family Play

Family Drama…Without the Drama: Writing a Family Play.

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