In The Cigar Box

Since the Christmas of 1980, we've turned Christmas cards into a family project.  My part has been to write a poem that tried to say something about our family while capturing a sense of the season in the mood of the times.  Sometimes the poem told a story or simply reflected on the constant blessings that have come our way.  Sometimes the words tried to give voice to the peace that reflection can bring.  In the years when we were granted grandsons, now four of them, there was a poem welcoming each new member of the clan.  Those poems and a few others were published in a small volume titled The Conductor's Call . Some of you have noticed the signature on the posts in the Cigar Box (--td) and wondered about the email address attached to it (tdpoet@gmail.com) because poems have not previously found their way here.  Well, the Christmas poems for over 30 years have been signed the same way.  Today's entry in the Cigar Box is our Christmas card for 2012....

There are phrases constructed of words that do not belong together.  For days, one of those phrases has been and will be broadcast over every television and radio station in America.  “Today another six year old was laid to rest.”  The last thing that a six year old should be doing is resting.  Six years old is the time of life of perpetual motion at full speed.  Words are completely inadequate to the task of describing a lifeless six year old body – laid to rest isn’t close.  At 9:30 this morning bells tolled and voices stilled.  In groups or sitting alone, people remembered the lives of twenty children and the 6 adults who perished while using every ounce of their being to protect children from malevolence.  Newtown knows that it is not alone in its grief.  Pain remains unabated. In the search for explanations, some have blamed the easy access to guns as the linchpin that set events in motion.  Others have leapt upon the pres...

Sometimes even simple plans go awry.  With Toys and One December , I was on my way to filling the December Cigar Box with stories connected to Christmas joys.  Those plans were cast aside by a young man I never met nor probably ever would have - a person who perpetrated the most despicable act a normal mind can conceive. Twenty six families had their simple plans, normal expectations of normal lives for children, thrown into the cauldron of endless torment when, in one short hour, the currents in one young man’s life crashed together in a monstrous act.  His life’s currents appear to include mental illness and easily available guns.  His name will not be recorded here.  We must not feed, fuel nor abet the next troubled soul or evil mind to emulate his actions for infamy or fulfillment of some twisted purpose.  Those who can muster the strength will pray for his soul but his final act shall endure as unforgivable. Christmas is a time for childre...

Frieda was pretty old for a dachshund.    The day came when the decision had to be made for her and it was my decision to make.   Jack was too young.   Gerry was away at college.   Frieda was our responsibility and had been our little sister for about a decade.   Getting old didn’t seem like something that could ever slow the unbounded energy of our auburn colored, happy little pal. Weiner dogs run like a slinky with little stubby legs and the breeze can spread their ears as though running was the prelude to flight.   Looking a dachshund in the eye makes them smile and the front part of their body seems to wag a bit before the tail gets the message. Frieda was smart.   Dad did most of the training because we were all less than 10 when Frieda became part of the family.    He taught her boundaries in the house – she never set paw on a carpeted surface.   Outside she learned our property lines without the benef...

Photos, baby book entries, plaster of paris casts of kindergarten aged hands, greeting cards made of glitter, crayon and white paste, and water color paintings of houses, yards and family members, grade cards, ribbons won and tear stained jerseys when a loss was hard – markers of childhood.  Lucky kids are presented a box of such memorabilia when they hit their fourth or fifth decade of life. Flipping through grade cards, merit badges, newspaper clippings, and school projects would have brought back happy times filled with pride for mom and dad but, for me, going through the box felt more like an archeological dig than getting lost in the reverie of long dormant memories.  But some things saved – last. Sepia toned photos were the way to preserve moments in the growth of kids. Gerry and I were dressed in sport coats and bow ties – ages 6 and 3.   Mom liked to say that the photo was entered into, or perhaps won, a photo contest of some description.  Pare...