Bells of St. Mary...and a theory of education...

I come from a family of educators...you know the type...PHD's in education...whew...hard to live with that kind of monkey on your back. Well...even my mother holds a Masters Degree in Education..Special Educator, I needed a little of that "special education". I digress.

Each Christmas we would gather around the TV set...no matter who was hosting the Christmas festivities and watch the film...Bells of St. Mary.

What's that? You never heard of the movie? My God...well, that is why I am here...my purpose in life...to help you with those things...

Bells of St. Mary...

The Bells of St. Mary's is a 1945 film which tells the story of a priest and a nun at a school who set out, despite their good-natured rivalry, to save the school from being shut down. It stars Bing Crosby, Ingrid Bergman, Henry Travers, William Gargan, Ruth Donnelly, Joan Carroll, Martha Sleeper, Rhys Williams, Richard Tyler and Una O'Connor.

The movie follows St. Mary's new pastor, Father Chuck O'Malley (Bing Crosby), who often finds himself at odds with Sister Benedict (Ingrid Bergman), the nun who oversees and teaches at the school. Their ups and downs play out in relation to two students: a boy (Dickie Tyler) who is being bullied (Sister Benedict teaches him how to box and defend himself), and a troubled girl (Joan Carroll) whose parents long ago separated (Father O'Malley attempts to reconcile the parents). The rundown school is in need of a new building--in fact, the school is fighting to stay open--and the nuns have their eyes on a modern new office building going up next door, hoping its owner, the crotchety Horace P. Bogardus (Henry Travers), will see the light and donate it as their new teaching facility. Meanwhile, Sister Benedict's deteriorating health leads to complications between her and O'Malley.

Now a little prank was played during the movie production...

The production was overseen by a Catholic priest who served as an advisor during the shooting. While the final farewell sequence was being filmed, Bing Crosby and Ingrid Bergman decided to play a prank on him. They asked director Leo McCarey to allow one more take, and, as "Father O'Malley" and "Sister Benedict" said their last goodbyes, they embraced in a passionate kiss, while the off screen priest-advisor jumped up roaring in protest.

Another fact...Leo McCarey was inspired to write the original story in tribute to his own aunt and childhood counselor Sister Mary Benedict, one of the Sisters who helped to build the Immaculate Heart Convent in Hollywood and who died in a typhoid fever epidemic.

So what does this have to do with theories of education? Thought I forgot, didn't you...

Well, like I was saying...my family is made up of educators...and when we gathered around the TV to view this wonderful Christmas movie...my grandfather would cringe...knowing the arguments would ensue...on the good Father's theory of education vs. the Sister's...now...me being me...well, can you guess whose side I took in the debate?


The Debate....



Well, I am not going to tell you...for that, well you would have to just come over, and sit and watch the movie with me....I do have my standards...and quite honestly it would be worth it...just to find out whose side I took...

The Lass...

Longfellow...and meanings...suffering and hope...

Though written 139 years ago, “Christmas Bells” has particular meaning. It is an expression of reborn faith in God during a period of doubt and dismay about a great war.

Longfellow - America’s first, great poet - was a devout Unitarian, a dedicated anti-slavery abolitionist and a devoted family man. Tragedies involving loved ones shook these foundations upon which the poet had built his life.

Tragedy

Early in 1861, Longfellow’s wife, Fanny, burned to death when she dropped a lighted match on her long dress. She was melting sealing wax onto envelopes for relatives.
The envelopes contained locks of “golden” hair from their youngest child -- five-year-old Edith.

Longfellow’s second son, Ernest, in later years rLelated how the five children were the inspiration of his father’s popular poem “The Children’s Hour.”

“While walking up an down with baby Edith in his arms, my father composed - and often sang to her - the lines sometimes attributed to Mother Goose.”

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was ve-ry good,
But when she was bad
She was horrid.

Longfellow rushed to the aid of his screaming wife and tried to smother the flames by throwing his arms around her.
It was no use. Fanny died three hours later. Henry was badly burned and could not attend her funeral the next day. His face was so scarred after the ordeal he could not shave and so grew a beard.

Civil War

While still grieving his wife’s death, the Civil War started - and with it, Longfellow’s fervent hope for abolition of slavery by peaceful means.
Seventeen-year-old Charles Longfellow – oldest son of the famous poet - slipped away from home to join the Union Army.

He had shot off his left thumb in a hunting accident. This kept him out of the infantry which was his first choice. Instead, he was inducted as a Private and assigned to the First Massachusetts Artillery.

Charles proved to be a capable soldier and soon was commissioned a Second Lieutenant in the First Massachusetts Cavalry.

In this capacity he fought in the Mine Run Campaign at New Hope Church, Virginia, on Nov. 27, 1863. He was severely injured with a bullet wound in his shoulders, near his spine, and was evacuated to a hospital near Washington, D.C.
When father Longfellow was informed of this, he and son Ernest went to the hospital and was given permission to take Charles home to recuperate.

Faith Tested

During the long days and nights that his son hovered between life and death, Longfellow’s faith in God wavered. It seemed that his family was wasted, the war useless and God was dead..

In short, he suffered the same torment many folks do today when the birth of Jesus – Son of God – is challenged, and the conduct of the Iraq War doubted.
As Longfellow sat nursing his son through a long Christmas Eve, he reflected upon the meaning of life. At daybreak he was roused from his inner search by the sound of church bells announcing Christmas Day.

It was a symbolic call to Longfellow. He responded with the following poem in which you, too, may find inspiration for carrying on another Year.

---Lindsey Williams--

CHRISTMAS BELLS
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!
And thought how, as day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, goodwill to men.
Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent.
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
“And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, goodwill to men.”
Then pealed the bells loud and deep:
“God is not dead; nor doeth He sleep!
“The Wrong shall fail,
“The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, goodwill to men!”

Not many can suffer so much...and in response offer so much hope to others...but of course that is something for you to ponder while drinking your egg nog...me...well I think I do understand.


and...one more thing...



And now you know the rest of the story...you see...there is always the rest of the story...or I just think there is...

Love the Lass...

Oh...and one more thing...his first wife died during a miscarriage...Now ponder that...

Yes Virginia...there is a Santa Claus...and Quantum proves it...

I just love quantum theory. I do...it is a fact. And so it is that on this winter night...I went searching for proof that Santa is indeed alive and well...Why? Why you ask...how could you? Because silly...a little girl asked this question many years ago...

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old. "Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. "Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.' "Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?"VIRGINIA O'HANLON."115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET.

"VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Well...here would be the response from a scientist...and a little theory of quantum thrown in...

Dear Virginia,
There is a Santa and Quantum mechanics proves that fact. The analysis about the death of Santa Claus, based on classical physics, is seriously flawed owing to its neglect of quantum phenomena that become significant in his particular case. As it happens, the terminal velocity of a reindeer in dry December air over the Northern Hemisphere (for example) is known with tremendous precision. The mass of Santa and his sleigh (since the number of children and their gifts is also known precisely, ahead of time, and the reindeer must weigh in minutes before the flight) is also known with tremendous precision. His direction of flight is, as you say, essentially east to west. All of that, when taken together, means that the momentum vector of Mr Claus and his cargo is known with incredible precision. An elementary application of Heisenberg's uncertainty principle yields the result that Santa's location, at any given moment on Christmas Eve, is highly imprecise. In other words, he is "smeared out" over the surface of the earth, analogous to the manner in which an electron is "smeared out" within a certain distance from the nucleus in an atom. Thus he can, quite literally, be everywhere at any given moment. In addition, the relativistic velocities which his reindeer can attain for brief moments make it possible for him, in certain cases, to arrive at some locations shortly before he left the North Pole. Santa, in other words, assumes for brief periods the characteristics of tachyons. I will admit that tachyons remain hypothetical, but then so do black holes, and who really doubts their existence anymore?

Now for those doubting Thomas' and you know who you are...here is one more irrefutable proof...




Virginia...now just let's think about this. Would the United States Government spend money on tracking Santa? Don't be silly.

Oh...and just in case you still don't believe...



In God We Trust...you see Virginia...faith alone...tells me there is a Santa...I hope that answers your question...

Santa Does Exist!!!! Whew...my work is done.

Love, Joy, and Peace on Earth...

The Lass...

My favorite Christmas story...thanks to O.Henry...

Of all the stories that really exemplify the love between a man and a woman...this little story tells the tale. I think it is because to me it represents how tenderly love can and does make for us a feast of little sacrifices...to give our love meaning...not in grand ways...but simple ones. In a day and age when sex seems to define relationships...I rather like to think about this story...one that truly makes sense of our earnest hope for happiness of those we love.

Thanks O. Henry...and there is this...

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI
by O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"
At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.


Now...you may think this story is a Western invention...Really? Well, I think this little story transends our Borders...and this is the reason...



You don't need to understand the language...to understand the meaning...

Oh....and Merry Christmas...and may your little gifts be born of such love and tenderness...

The Lass

A little Christmas story...from the Lass

When I remember Christmas past, vision of sugar plums do not dance in my head...but warm memories do. Today I discussed this with a man who purchased a bike for his son. He was so concerned about it being a surprise...how to wrap it...how to insure that the boy would open a gift...but how to disguise it....there was no box big enough...so we hatched a plan...but that is for later.

As we discussed the importance of the bike to the boy and the boy to the father...I mentioned the importance of certain things in life. I told him about my big wish...for a Pink Lady bike. This bike took on such meaning to me...that each night I would sit and look at a picture of it, torn from some magazine. I would envision myself riding this splendorous thing....pink...feminine...and just what I wanted. I could have wanted many things in my youth...but that bike just meant freedom...and a wonderful ride...something to transport me on my adventures....and I just knew...that my life would be made better by the bike.

Now my parents were not wealthy and truth be told...this bike was pricey...and I didn't really think that it would be possible. My mother kept telling me that there were children who were poor that would have no Christmas...so the bike should not represent too much...and not to be disappointed if I got a pair of jeans...Ok...so, I understood the poor children logic...and I understood the plight of my parents financial position at the time. I even understood that the Pink Lady was perhaps a little over the top...but one can dream.

So it was on Christmas morning that I awoke...very early. The house was bitter cold...and I put on my robe...slipped my feet into my fuzzy slippers and tip toed out into the living room. No box for a bike...but a nice little box under the tree...with my name...Jeans no doubt. I had a sudden tinge of disappointment...and then remembered what my mother had said...poor children would not have a Christmas at all...so...I decided to be grateful for whatever was in the box...and the Pink Lady...well that would still be a dream...

Then in the kitchen I heard my mother's voice singing softly...a Christmas tune...and my father finally woke up...and we were joined in the kitchen by my brother Tom...sis Jannine...still in the cabbage patch waiting for her turn at life...

Tom and I pleaded for the gift opening to begin...so we all went to the livingroom...to open gifts. I already had an idea of what mine was...so Tom opened his...no kidding folks...a BB gun...how Hollywood...Then it was my turn...so I gently unwrapped the paper making sure not to tear the paper...mom liked to recycle even then. I opened the box...and there was nothing there...but a picture...of a bike...Yikes...a picture? Then mom said..."Diana, looks like Santa was playing a joke..." What??? No gift??? Were we the poor children? No...Tom got a BB gun...

Then mom smiled and said...look outside...I think he left it there. And there it was in the driveway...a beautiful, shimmering, glorious...Pink Lady Bike...and it was all mine...I rushed outside...looked to heaven and for a moment felt a tinge of guilt for having so little faith in dreams...

Then I looked at my mother and knew...I will never know exactly what sacrifices she made to make this such a memorable Christmas...and if I am honest...I don't remember her having anything new that Christmas...but I do know this...whatever the sacrifice was...I am certain that she knew that I would be eternally grateful for the bike...and I was.

So it was that I told my little story to the man who was purchasing his son a bike...he smiled and said...I also got a BB gun...and a bike...and truth is...they both were important to me.

And how did we resolve the box thing? Well you are so smart...he took a page from the history of the Lass...and said...my son will be so surprised when he looks out the window...Yep...and as I walked the man out of the door of the store...I smiled and said...he will remember this you know...the man smiled back and said...you bet he will.

Merry Christmas everyone...and may you have a "bike" under the tree this year.










Modern version of the Pink Lady...and oh what adventures she and I shared...and a great memory of Christmas so long ago.