St. Patrick’s Day: Beyond Green Beer…Way Beyond

pThere are many ways to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Most of them involve raising a mug of beer. Below are a few images I have of the man of the hour.

Liner Notes from Sweet Burning Light, a sampler of Celtic and Celtic Christian music released in 1999: “Long ago in Ireland, on the Hill of Tara, a fire was to be lit by the High King’s druids marking the celebration of a pagan feast. The tradition was strictly enforced–anyone who was to light a fire prior to the king’s fire on that night would “be lit in the king’s palace the next day.” Yet, that same evening, on the nearby Hill of Slane, Patrick lit a fire to celebrate Easter. It not only preceded the High King’s fire, but it burned even brighter. The king call his druid priests to him only to hear them prophecy that Patrick’s fire would overcome his own fire and burn forever.”

St. Patrick in the Spirit by John Doan

Liner Notes from “the book of secrets” written by Loreena McKennitt while on tour in Italy in 1995 while reading Thomas Cahill’s “How the Irish Save Civilization” chronicling the life of Christian monks during the Western Dark Ages 500–1500 AD or CE (roughly Fall of the Roman Empire to Renaissance): “Monasteries were ofter founded in harsh, remote outposts like the Skellig Islands off Ireland’s west coast. Monks occupied themselves with the copying of religious literary and philosophical texts. Surviving manuscripts tell us much about the cultural identity and even individual characters of their creators via both the books’ beautiful ornamentation, and in the margins, the scribes’ own notations of a whimsical, personal or even racy nature.”

(I think some of the photos in the video below are from the actual Skellig Islands. Keep in mind, these islands would have been the absolute farthest western reaches of Western Civilization during the Dark Ages.)

Skellig by Loreena McKennitt

Just for the heck of it, here are Celtic Woman with “The Voice.” I love the juxtaposition of the sweet female voice and heavy drums.

And finally, a nice Irish Gaelic lullaby to help you drift off to sleep after maybe a pint too many.

Armenians and Cherokee Share ‘Trail of Tears’

Those of you with Armenian blood in you will understand why I am posting the piece below written by a Native American in The Tennessean on March 15, President Andrew Jackson’s birthday. Jackson was a Tennessean and his home is in Nashville. While I do not agree with some of the extreme language the writer uses (which was absent in the actual newspaper printed version of this column), I have long sympathized with the plight of the mostly Cherokee Native Americans who were forced out of their ancestral lands in the Southeast (mostly Tennessee and Georgia) and marched across hundreds of miles of starvation and death to “resettlement camps” in Oklahoma and further west. Their plight, known as The Trail of Tears, is remarkably similar to the fate suffered by so many Armenians approximately 100+ years later. While we all know that history is complicated and the truth is often difficult to unravel, there is no denying that there are events that need to be seen for what they are. As descendants of Armenians expelled from ancestral homelands nearing the April 24th date of the 100th Commemoration of the Armenian Massacres, we should take a moment to remember those who were sent to their death along American The Trail of Tears. 

FROM WIKIPEDIA — The Armenian Genocide (also known as the Armenian Holocaust, the Armenian Massacres and, traditionally by Armenians, as Medz Yeghern (Armenian: Մեծ Եղեռն, “Great Crime”),[9] was the Ottoman government’s systematic extermination of its minority Armenian subjects from their historic homeland within the territory constituting the present-day Republic of Turkey. The total number of people killed as a result has been estimated at between 1 and 1.5 million. The starting date is conventionally held to be 24 April 1915, the day Ottoman authorities rounded up and arrested some 250 Armenian intellectuals and community leaders in Constantinople. The genocide was carried out during and after World War I and implemented in two phases: the wholesale killing of the able-bodied male population through massacre and subjection of army conscripts to forced labour, followed by the deportation of women, children, the elderly and infirm on death marches leading to the Syrian desert. Driven forward by military escorts, the deportees were deprived of food and water and subjected to periodic robbery, rape, and massacre.[10][11][12] — END WIKIPEDIA

Albert Bender Column

http://www.tennessean.com/story/opinion/contributors/2015/03/15/andrew-jackson-infamous-anti-native-american-president/70285340/

Two Fabulous February Birthdays

smilesNOTE  FROM  DON: The middle of February is a special time for our family. Becca and Joey celebrate birthdays and, of course, there is Valentine’s Day which reminds us to pause and celebrate the romantic love in our life, which I am fortunate to do with Kathleen.

Below are two personal columns I wrote many years ago while a reporter at The Daily Herald in Columbia, Tennessee. They commemorate the birth of our children-four years and two days apart. After a day of hard labor, Rebecca Rose (whose original due date was Feb. 2) was born on Feb. 13, at 11:58 p.m., just two minutes before Valentine’s Day. The late Dr. Growdon offered to make her a Valentine’s Day baby. Everyone in the room seemed to like the idea although Kathleen was groggy at best. The decision was mine. I thought our daughter might resent having to share the day with a holiday but maybe it would be fun. Then I also considered that every Valentine’s Day, at least for the foreseeable future, would be her birthday instead of a day to pause for romance for me and Kathleen. I said no. Fast forward four years. Due to a somewhat difficult pregnancy, Dr. Growdon suggested Kathleen deliver no later than Feb. 13. We said we couldn’t do that because that was Becca’s birthday. Okay, said the doctor, then the next day. No can do, we said and reminded him that we (meaning I) had turned down the possibility of Becca being a Valentine’s baby and certainly couldn’t make Don Joseph one. Oh, yes, he remembered. Okay, then , he said, Feb. 15 and that is my final offer. Hence, our double-whammy birthdays in February.

Of course a lot has happened since I wrote these columns. Two entire adults have emerged. Daughter Becca is married to Jonathan and mother to 14-month-old Edmond. More about these two wonderful men some other time. Joey will graduate from college in the spring. And I will write more about wife Kathleen in the future. But for now, she and I could not be happier about our children and our son-in-law and grandson.

But this posting is to celebrate the two little munchkins that came into our lives so many years ago — even though such a posting cannot come close to describing the sunshine, smiles and love they have brought into our lives.

Rebecca Rose Came from a Magic Twinkle Star

When I ask my 28-month-old daughter, Rebecca Rose, “Where did you come from?” she answers, “Tennessee.” I guess that’s a perfectly fine answer for now, but there are times when she falls asleep on mommy and daddy’s “big bed” that I will lie down next to her and stare at her and still can’t believe I had any part in the creation of this incredible being.

Or sometimes, I’ll be in the living room and she’ll be by herself in her bedroom, singing away like a little bird on a spring morning, and I wonder, “Who is this singing? Where did she come from? … Tennessee?”

No…

She came from a far-off star. She had existed there as some form of celestial energy since the begining of time. And one night when I and my wife, Kathleen, were out gazing at the heavens, little Rebecca Rose’s star shined in both our eyes and twinkled a magic twinkle. At that precious instant she came to Earth where she lived inside her mother until it was time for her to reveal herself.

I was one of those goofy dads who sang to my child in her mother’s womb. We knew we would call her Rebecca Rose if she was a girl. But a boy’s name was still being debated. Kathleen said she wanted to name him after me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that. So Kathleen said jokingly, that if we had a boy, he was going to be named after a once-popular doll called Rainbow Brite.

In no time, however, we came to call our yet-to-be born child, Rainbow. And I would lie next to Kathleen’s tummy and sing a children’s song: “Rainbow, come out and play with me…”

And finally, she did.

Though I was a witness and a willing “assistant,” th ebirth experience was between my wife and daughter and itwa sn’t easy for either of them. In a different time or a different place, they both may have been in danger. But Kathleen’s spirit and modern medicine prevailed. Rebecca Rose came into the world weighing ten pounds, three oucnes, and just two minutes before Valentine’s Day, 1989.

While Kathleen lay recuperating, I held Rebecca’s hand as nurses pricked her toe for a blood sample. She howld but barely cried. She’s never been much of a crier. This may sound contrived but I truly do remember thinking to myself: “I wish that were the only pain you were going to feel in your life.”

In the 28 months Rebecca has been with us, we continue to be amazed at how fortuante we are. She is a happy child, filled with curiosity. She learns quickly and we need use only a modest amount of discipline. She is also a teacher, an organizer, and quite a performer. I know much of her personality comes from her mother who tries to make every day special. They have a very strong relationship, which I hope continues for the rest of their lives.

As for now, I’m the one who says “no” most of the time. I think I’m overly protective and try to anticipate every tumble and scrape she may encounter. And I guess I’ve always had a problem with responding to authority figures and she is always bossing around. So that’s another reason I tell her “no.”

I like it that she’s tough and independent. But she is also very sweet and loving. Soon after she was born, I initiated a three-way “group-hug” with our small family. She has now taken up that ritual as her own. That is one command of her’s I will always obey.

I also appear to be the only person who can put her to sleep at bedtime. Part of it may be because I’m her authority figure. Maybe it’s because she has so much fun with Kathleen, she wants to stay awake when Mommy tries to get her to sleep. Every day is full of excitement for her and it is very hard for her to calm down at night.

I don’t really tell her bedtime stories. I more or less talk with her. We talk about what she did all day. We talk about what she is going to do tomorrow.

Then I sing her a couple of bedtime songs that only I know and won’t share with anyone but her. I even changed the closing lines of “Rock-a-bye, baby” because the imagery of “down will come baby, cradle and all” seems too cruel.

In the morning, Rebecca Rose wakes up and summons me with a loud “Daddy!” I’m not sure why. Maybe she figures that since I’m the one who put her in the bed, I should be the one that gets her out.

But once she is out, she’s off and running again–until the day is through and it’s once more time for bed.

I’ve come to think of bedtime as our special time. As we chat I am still filled with awe. I hope it will always be so. But somewhere in my mind and my heart I know there will come a time when she won’t want or need daddy to help her fall asleep. She will experience lonely nights when everything she wants eludes her. She will experience the excitement adults feel when they realize they are on the verge of good fortune. She will wonder if she will ever find love. And when she does, she will wonder how long it will last. And when she realizes that true love is forever, she will hear her own songs as she falls asleep. And daddy’s secret lullabies will be only a faint memory.

Joey is Ours but We don’t Own Him

Originally published Feb. 24, 1994

Joe. Joey. Joseph.

We’re not sure yet which name will stick. But he’s ours, all ours. Our little bundle of 10-day-old joy.

Sleepy fellow. Sleepy. Sleepy. Sleepy. Well, except for his fifth night of life when, in desperation to get him quiet, I placed him on the floor in front of the television. He seemed to enjoy MTV. He actually seemed to be focusing in on the music videos. Once I realized the strange images on the screen might be sinking into his consciousness, I changed the channel. That upset him. Too bad. I think I may have rescued him in time. A musician–maybe. But a rocker I don’t need. By the time his hands are big enough to span a guitar bridge, I’ll be old enough to collect Social Security. Cars may be fueled by garbage. Humans may be walking on Mars. I may be nearly deaf but my bones will be brittle and my flesh soft and sagging. An MTV baby, plugged into a nuclear-powered amplifier, could produce the type of high-decibel music which would crush an old man’s frail body. Even with him in the basement and me in the attic, I doubt I would survive. I’ll try to direct Joey toward some more peaceful pursuit. Something which requires a calculator or a pencil and a T-square. Won’t really matter thought.

Children seldom become what their parents envision.

When I look at my 4-year-old daughter Becca, I am confronted with the age-old question of “nature” versus “nurture.” How important are genes to intelligence and personality? How much influence can a parent reasonably expect to have? I know the jury is still out on this one. I don’t believe a person’s life is predetermined at the moment of conception. But I am convinced children come into the world with different characteristics and abilities. And I also know television and peer pressure can turn a smart, sensitive child into a little monster. Can mom and dad compete with mutant Ninja pizza-eating reptiles? Or can we shatter sexual stereotypes when competing against fashion dolls which have a better lifestyle than we ever will?

Do I want Becca to be “Barbie–the intergalactic brain surgeon?” Do I want Joey to be a Michael Jackson-esque Supreme Court judge dispensing justice from the barrel of a high-powered squirt gun loaded with truth serum? Does it matter what I or my wife, Kathleen, want? How many times have we seen dense or untamed children grow up to become high-paid attorneys or business leaders? How many times have we seen one of the brightest kids in the school end up behind bars or behind a cash register earning minimum wage?

As parents, we can only try our best. And we must forget the bad stuff but take nothing for granted. Just try to focus on the small brightness you rock to sleep each night. Focus on that ray of hope which beams from your arms. Think about the future.

We’ve got to provide food and shelter. Love and security, too. We’ve got to chase danger out from under our children’s beds. We’ve got to mend wounds – both real and imagined . We’ve got to explain a thousand things which we often don’t understand ourselves. And once we get the children through the early years, we’ve got to prepare them for the bigger world. We’ve got to get the kids through drugs and sex and rock and roll. We’ve got to get them through college if that’s the course their lives take.

If we’re lucky, we’ll dance at their weddings. And if we’re luckier still, someday we may rock their children to sleep.

Through it all we must remember that, although they are our children, we don’t own them. And, although parents give and give and give, our children don’t owe us a thing. We want them to be the best they can be. However, they don’t have to be anything but our children.