Holiday Half Book

Macomb Community College Student Publication

Holiday Half Book

December 2009 Edition

Electronic Post of Print Publication (with some format alterations)

Featured Artists
Jenifer DeBellis, Vice President & Publisher
Professor Clark Iverson, Academic Advisor
Cathy Plum, President
Nancy Washburn, Secretary
Stella (Wilfinger) Rothe, Public Relations
Neil Kilgore
Katrina Rucker
Ize Spielman
Helen Tackle
Sarah Sinnaur

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What Do the Holidays Mean to Us?

A collaboration of thoughts by the Writing Club

Here comes Santa Claus in a myriad of forms
                                              A dichotomy of quirky personalities
Overplayed music that never seems to change
                               Dealing with countless customers’ complaints
The never-ending search for the perfect gift
                                            Wrong size, wrong style, wrong color
December birthdays swept under the rug
                                               Is Jesus the reason for the season?
The presence of silence just after a snow
                                        For the feast, the family comes together
The best pumpkin pie that money can’t buy
                                Lighted Christmas trees and sitting by the fire
I’ll drink to getting lit! Or how ‘bout
                                     Those guests that just don’t seem to leave
Decorations all aglow lighting up the night
                                      I can see my neighbor’s house from space,
Jack Frost roasting on an open fire,
                                                       Chestnuts nipping at your nose

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Reflections on a Snowy Balcony

By Stella Rothe (Wilfinger)

Mind: be blank

like the pristine snow.

Be still. Be silent

like the world below.

There is a place

where the Wild Thoughts go …

Go now, be swift

like the falling snow.

Mind: be hushed

like the wintry breath

of wind and angels

not demons, nor death.

There is a place

where our pain is kept …

go now, leave me

in one hurried breath.

Mind: be pure

like the crystal ice

that melts off my rooftop

in self-sacrifice.

There is a place

far-removed from Paradise …

go now, be gone

like the melting ice.

Go now, be gone

with your avarice.

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How Do You Celebrate Christmas?

Like Polly Perfection or Patty Poinsettia?

By Nancy Washburn

POLLY PERFECTION starts in November, and instructs the gardener to lay 40 strings of white lights on the shrubs and Japanese maple trees, in the court yard. A smiling Santa is sitting in a gigantic hand painted red wooden sleigh, filled with exactly 40 huge presents evenly stacked in the back. The illuminated reindeer are methodically hitched to the front of the sleigh, for all the neighbors to enjoy. The attached four car garage has a 20 foot ceramic snowman in front of it, guarding the BMW’s. The 200 watt spotlight glows on the leaded glass front door. A perfectly shaped wide burgundy bow is adorning the sweet scented pine wreath.

Polly is excited about the holidays. She loves Victorian style décor for Christmas, and had special ordered all of it from Italy. Holly and lace garland is strategically strung along the railing of the oak stairway, in the foyer of the two story mansion. One thousand gold miniature lights twinkle from the tops of the cathedral shaped windows. She is vigilant about telling Roberto, the handyman, to arrange the golden collector’s angels in groups of ten, in every niche. She carefully plans which chandeliers should be wrapped with dazzling crystals.

All three of the freshly cut ten foot spruce trees are decorated alike. They are in the dining room, living room and the den. Each tree looks elegant, with one hundred hunter green and burgundy velvet ribbons, and ten strings of gold lights. Under the trees are gold circular tracks, with hunter green trains whistling as they go around. The gorgeous presents are placed in alphabetical order, to each member of the family. The children, Bobby and Bridget, will be at their grandmother’s until after dinner, so that the house won’t get out of order.

On Christmas Day, Polly will wear an Armani burgundy gown and her husband, Paul, will wear a black tuxedo. They make a beautiful couple, with their dark hair and blue eyes. Dinner will be served promptly at 6:00 p.m. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” will be playing the background. The formal dining room table has been set with an ivory tablecloth, gold candlesticks and ivory candles, oval burgundy plates, gold flatware & champagne glasses edged with gold. Polly and Paul, will have their cook, Gina, prepare dinner for 12 adults. The menu consists of shrimp hors d’oeuvres, prime roast beef, candied sweet potatoes, Waldorf salad and raspberry trifle. It will be another perfectly Polly Christmas.

OR

PATTY POINSETTA rushes to the $1 store, on Christmas Eve, looking for a few decorations to make her one bedroom apartment sparkle. In the clearance section, she finds a red shiny wooden wreath, a cute three foot spindly, green aluminum tree, some miniature, red, green and silver bulbs, and twenty strands of shiny tinsel. She picked out some gifts to put under the tree. She bought some books and toys for the kids, 3 pairs of socks for her boyfriend, Pokey, and a Christmas Carol DVD. Patty loves Christmas, and she sings “Jingle Bells” all the way home.

When she pulls up to her parking spot on the gravel, in her rusty Chevy pickup, she unloads her packages, and throws the crooked wreath on a rusty nail by the squeaky side door.

The mood is Christmas. She gets out the cardboard box with the Nativity set in it, and gently places it on the TV stand, surrounded by white cotton. Patty is smiling, as she puts the tree on an orange crate and haphazardly hangs the bulbs on it. She stands near her dad’s rocking chair, and tosses the tangled tinsel at the tree, missing most of it. She cuts out a big Santa from red construction paper, and Scotch tapes him to the foggy window. Whew. The decorating is done.

She wraps the presents in red tissue and newspaper, and then ties them with white shoelaces. They looked super. She enjoys being thrifty and last week, found some red material on sale, and sewed special outfits for Susie and Sammy to wear for Christmas. They will look adorable with their sandy hair and brown eyes. Patty will wear her favorite green polyester dress, and a flower in her dishwater blond hair. They are going to bake chocolate chip cookies for Santa.

On Christmas day, the kids are all excited. They will wait for Pokey to show up on his motorcycle, and then all open their presents together. Patty is anxious to pull out her mother’s old checkered tablecloth. The kids help her set the table with red plastic plates and worn, but scrubbed clean silverware. Great! There is enough for four people. She has decided to cook the family recipes of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and sponge cake, topped with strawberries and whipped cream. Patty says a “Thank you” prayer for their family being together. Supper is ready. They will have to hurry, before the electricity starts flickering on and off in their neighborhood again.

They always have fun being together, singing songs and unwrapping presents. Pokey and the kids gave Patty a loving card, some home made pot holders, and a new calendar. It is another Patty Poinsettia Christmas.

Moral: No matter what the circumstances, we can make our own happiness.

***

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Season Out of Focus

By Jenifer DeBellis

‘Tis the season,

it comes like a thief in the night

Robbing the cradle

of peace, joy, and focused sight

How it sends us rushing

every which way but right

Long forgotten is the reason,

the heart of it all

We’ll race past the red bucket,

annoyed by the bell

And shove past the cattle line

entering the mall

Our focus on finding

the perfect gift to give

While people go hungry

and have no place to live

All the while in our pride

we claim we’re proactive

We shift the focus

debating over belief

While at the root of it all

births doctrinal grief

heart for the oppressed

should focus on relief

One closing thought:

How will you ignite the spirit?

Will you turn deaf ears

and pretend not to hear it?

Or can you receive the message

and revere it?

 _____________________________________________

______________________________
December of ‘82

By Katrina Rucker

I remember December of ‘82; it was a snowing night in the city of Detroit. I was only five years old, and I had enjoyed watching the snow raining in like the pieces of the cloud have just falling off. Around eight o'clock at night, my parents were driving me to see all of the neighborhood decorations. We went from every block, and some of the houses had the most award-winning colorful lights ever. My eyes were opened to the amazement. As I loved to see every colored light bulb sparkled. It was speaking to my soul as I filled with the excitement. I cracked a smile, as any other five year old would do. I knew that it was that time again. 

We went from house to house, and each one was even better than the first one. They were all decked up with decorations, but this time, they were more than just the lights. They had the Snowman, the sled with reindeers. The one with the beautiful red glowing nose, I did not know what his name was at the time. I thought it started with an "R.”

The real holiday for me was that I got to spend time with my family. Going on these trips to see all of the colorful lights and the awesome decorations was a real treat for me. This trip back to December of ‘82 makes me wish I were five years old again.

***

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YES, CHRISTIMAS

By Nancy Washburn

CHRISTMAS reminds us of why we are here

To help each other, while God is so near

Have faith and forgiveness - follow His son

Bringing hope, joy and peace to everyone

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THE TWELVE DAYS OF GRANDKIDS 

 By Nancy Washburn 

On the first day of Grandkids, Alexa, 16,

Gave to me, a lesson on how to drive a car

On the second day of Grandkids, Kyla, 13,

Pitched to me, two fastballs that I didn’t see coming

On the third day of Grandkids, Keaton, 13,

Gave to me, three soccer balls and a pair of spikes

On the fourth day of Grandkids, Kiana, 12,

Helped me up four times, after showing me the splits

On the fifth day of Grandkids, Brenna, 11,

Performed for me, five new tap dance routines

On the sixth day of Grandkids, Cassidy, 11,

Played for me, six new songs on her flute

On the seventh day of Grandkids, Carson, 9,

Batted for me, seven runs in the last inning

On the eighth day of Grandkids, Makenna, 9,

Played for me, eight nursery rhymes on the piano

On the ninth day of Grandkids, Madison, 9,

Sang for me, nine lovely songs with a smile

On the tenth day of Grandkids, Mason, 9,

Showed to me, ten pop-a-wheelies on his scooter

On the eleventh day of Grandkids, Ava, 7,

Read to me, eleven stories that she wrote

On the twelfth day of Grandkids, Kami, 6,

Drew for me, twelve horses standing in the snow

What a blessing these children are to me

And being together is the joy of Christmas

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Nothing New

By Ize Spielman

“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” I yelled as loud as possible while I jumped as hard as I could on my parents’ bed. This was my favorite day of the entire year. How could they still be sleeping?

“Ugh, we’re awake… go on, we’ll meet you there,” my half-awake mother mumbled as she and my father slowly forced themselves out of bed.

I tore through our home and out the front door into the hallway to join the quickly growing tide of people. Everywhere around me was a mass of frantic people. Kids ran and pushed past other each other or dragged parents behind them. Their enthusiasm didn’t diminish even when we all crammed into the elevator that would take us to the gargantuan meeting hall on C deck. When the lift finally came to a stop, and without even waiting for the doors to fully open, we came forth like a torrent of water unleashed from a burst damn.

I stepped to the side of the lift to wait for my parents. I could not help but admire the meeting hall. Simply calling it big would be the single greatest understatement in human history since it was able to hold the entirety of our ship’s eighty-four thousand people and still leave loads of space. They had dimmed the powerful, sterile white lights that normally filled the room, so that you could better see the strands of haphazardly strung colored lights and the stars that zipped past the large windows. Out of everything in this room though, it was the people gathered here, happily mingling, that made me so love this holiday. On the last week in the last month of the year nobody cared whom you where, how you dressed, or whether your father was the ship’s captain or the septic tank cleaner.

I was lost in the sights and sounds of everything until someone behind me laughed. I spun around to see my friend Gem tapping his foot with mock impatience and smiling slightly. “So Keyda, are you planning to join us, or are you going to just stand there and keep spacing out?”

I followed Gem over to where my other friend Lisa and all of our families were sitting. Our parents were getting ready to give each of us our gift. I sat down with them and smiled politely, but to be honest I was never much into the whole gift-giving thing. It always struck me as pointless since we were on a ship that has been in flight for nearly two and a half centuries. There hasn’t been anything new given in generations and it all ends up getting re-gifted the next year anyway. I’m even less interested this time since my parents are in charge of the gift-giving this year. They are both maintenance people so their idea of a good gift is anything interesting they find while cleaning.

Lisa got her gift first. It was a hairbrush and a jacket in surprisingly good condition, you could still guess the original color and it had only been patched twice. Gem was next; he ended up with a few beaten up, dusty books and a pair of socks.

Father gave me my gift last, a large heavy wooden box. All manner flowers and swirling patterns had been lovingly carved into every surface and the whole thing was kept closed by a dulled brass lock. Around the edges where it opened, if you looked closely you could see an airtight rubber seal. It was old of course; everything was, but it was a different kind of old. Where everything else on this ship has been patched, worn, patched again, and repainted at least a dozen times this box of mine looked as if it had never been touched.

“We found it shoved in an air duct of all places,” my mother told me. “We didn’t look inside though; didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“You going to open it?” my father asked, and handed me the key.

I placed it down on the floor, unlocked it and lifted the lid carefully. Inside was a photograph of a smiling, dark-haired woman laid on top of something wrapped in plastic. I removed the photo and peeled back the protective plastic, revealing something soft and folded.

“Take it out Keyda,” my father whispered.

I did as my father said and as I stood there the whole room became silent, save for a few hushed whispers. People all around fought to see and all who could see stared at me and my gift, stared at something that no one had ever seen in their lifetime. All their attention was focused on me. Me and my brand new, centuries old, perfectly clean flowing white dress.

***

____________________________________________

Kissy-face Santa

By Jenifer DeBellis

Dedicated to Ricky and Suzie Young,
wherever life ended up taking you both.

I shall never forget the night before Christmas...

It’s not every day Santa makes special house trips to visit little girls and boys during wakeful hours. So the Christmas Eve Mr. Claus paid me and my baby sister a special visit was one I shall never forget. Of course, it was Santa’s peculiar behavior that has stuck with me for all of these years.

Being an Air Force brat stationed in Germany is a lot for a four and a half year-old little girl to wrap her always thinking mind around. As the holiday season neared the big day, my anxious areas of concern were how was Santa supposed to find us, and more importantly, how would he get into our apartment if we didn’t have a fireplace?

This is most likely the reason he showed up in our doorway that Christmas Eve in ’77. In the spirit of keeping the magic alive, someone must have made arrangements for this private little gathering. Perhaps it was my mom’s best friend, Suzie, who was with us when the doorbell rang.

At the sound of the bell, she bolted for that door like her life depended on it. After a moment of silence, Santa’s chanted, “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas!” could be heard from around the corner where we all sat in the living room. Well, nothing sends young and old alike scrambling to the scene of action like a familiar sound from distant lands. “Could that be who it sounds like?” was the common awed response.

As I rounded the corner leading to the front door, I caught the most profound sight: Santa had Suzie dipped back and was quite passionately kissing her. I tried to make sense of this, while I drowned out my mom’s scolding in the background as she insisted that her friend knock it off already.

Upon seeing my bewildered expression, and unexpected presence (I was sure), Santa returned Suzie to her upright position. From the embarrassment of this awkward moment, his face was the darkest shade of red. Suzie’s expression, on the other hand, appeared to be more victorious and completely void of any shame. I took this all in with my quizzical stare.

My mom began pulling me back into the other room, and encouraged Santa and Suzie to follow us. I stole one more peak over my shoulder as we walked the short distance. When what to my wondering eye should appear? But Suzie smack-groping ‘ole Santa’s rear!

What was I supposed to do with this horrible secret? Didn’t Santa know Mrs. Claus was watching over the North Pole while he was gone, and she could see who was being naughty or nice? Or how about poor Ricky, my favorite pal; what would he think of this behavior? I guess even Santa Claus acted like a bad little boy at times. This was the only reference of peace I could draw from this moment.

My daydreams were interrupted by the small pile of presents sitting next to me with my name on them. The first present was from my granny and papa all the way in Florida. I sighed inward, withholding my disappointment at the sight of footed pajamas. Didn’t they know those things suffocated you? I smiled for the picture my mom was snapping with her new camera, mostly because I knew if I acted how I felt at the moment, it would not be good for me!

Without waiting, I snatched up the next gift. I didn’t need help reading the tag because I recognized the name Jimmy on it (as this is also my father’s name that I had seen so many times, it was committed to my memory). I guessed correctly that it was from Aunt Jane and Uncle Jimmy in Minnesota. Wow, I thought, Santa really had to work hard chasing these down for us. Maybe the guy in red wasn’t such a bad man after all. I ripped the paper off of that gift with lightning speed; I knew if it was from Aunt Jane, it was going to be spectacular! And it was. I now held a giant Raggedy Ann doll. A brand new one, not a hand-me-down, or knock-off version; but the REAL DEAL!

I sat squeezing my beloved new doll to my chest for the remainder of the night. From the cozy little spot on the sofa where I was curled up, I watched Suzie and Santa through slitted eyes. Can you believe Suzie sat on that man’s lap the rest of the night, giggling like a little schoolgirl the whole time?

***

____________________________________________

HAPPY SANTA

By Nancy Washburn

Santa rolled out of his comfy bed at dawn

Grabbed his list and red suit, and gave a big yawn

The elves helped him pack up the huge empty sleigh,

Hitched up old Rudolph and his team for the day

The GPS showed them where to bring the toys

Over the mounds of snow, to all girls and boys

Had some milk and cookies, near the fireplace

Then back up the chimney, with soot on his face

He flew to the North Pole with two tired feet

To rest, and tell Grandma about all the treats

They fell asleep dreaming of joy and the smiles

Of families together, who traveled for miles

____________________________________________

Winter Wonder
Luisa Zavich

Just as the sky brings snow,
The sales bring shoppers,
Fill parking lots,
and verbally abuse
the overworked employees
Hanging off the ladder,
Reaching for the large,
and two hours late for their break
In this, the most wonderful time of the year
____________________________________________

One day I sat and wondered
If all could be revealed
In a letter to dear Santa
Signed in red, and kissed and sealed
My letter’s full of wishes
For others, not just me and
Although they might need miracles
I know Santa personally.

“Dear Santa”

For Mark and the two Meagans

Please reduce the National Debt

And for the rest of us, an A

In economics, you can bet

But we would trade those wishes

For a wish you cannot see

It’s not a wish for one of us

It’s one for Mr. Ali

For Mrs. Ali, the gift of health

Send a cure for diabetes

For that matters much more to us now

Than GDP, and trade and treaties

And while I studied Sun and stars

And the properties of light

Tom Woodside also taught me

About doing what is right

He might wish for Night Sight shades

Or a shiny telescope

But you can bet he’d trade it in

For a glimpse of faith and hope

He goes each year to Africa

A saint in teacher’s clothes

He spreads the wealth, and health and joy

To folks he barely knows

Again we’d trade our wishes

For material things and grades

To cure those orphaned children

In Africa with AIDS

Chelsea wants a Ford Escape

For Alex – something WILD

But again we’ll trade those wishes

For a special little child

For Mrs. Borner’s grandchild

Just a few weeks old

Please give this child happiness

And shelter from the cold

And at the end, the final wish

To you from me, so please

Give yourself a great big kiss

And a thank you straight from me

Cathy Plum

____________________________________________

A Foreign View

By Luisa Zavich

      We put up the tree every year, my brother and I. It takes us a good two hours but we do it anyway. John’s only seven, but he musters all of his strength to put together the tree I bought a few years ago. It’s one of those do-it-yourself trees; the branches are color coded, so you know that the branches with the blue ribbon go at the bottom.  While I stand up the metal tree trunk, my brother spreads out the bristles on each branch and we attach them together.

      When he was only three, I can remember John coming up to ask me, “How can Santa come to our house if we don’t have a tree?” I spent two paychecks on the damn thing, but it’s something I will never regret.

      At that moment, I was speechless. His doe-like eyes brought me back to when I was a child first being presented with the notion of Santa. It was a delight beyond measure. I was six, much older than John, but that was when I began speaking English (however broken). As soon as I told my parents, they said, in Serbian, that Santa didn’t bring presents to foreign boys and girls. I remember crying, but as soon as my dad threatened to take off his belt, I stopped. I didn’t want my brother to be so crushed at such a young age.

      So I bought the tree, and every year we spent the day after Thanksgiving (another American holiday my parents shunned) putting it together, covering it in homemade ornaments and lights I bought with another paycheck. My mom would never fail to walk by and look at is disapprovingly, muttering under her breath about how we set up a shrine to a fictitious American icon and, (in Serbian of course) “ignore our own saint from our culture.” One year we put an ornament with a picture of Sveti Nikola on the tree, but my mom ripped it off with irritation.

      My dad has started to enjoy this tradition my brother and I now uphold, and is my sort-of buffer when my mother starts to complain about our immersion into western ways. It didn’t happen overnight, though. For a couple of years, I hated Christmas. I got suspended twice for getting in fights over other kids’ belief in Santa. But after a while, I cursed my parents and their inability to put up a damn tree like the other kids’ parents. I didn’t know which culture to project, to love, to live. My heart still loved my heritage, but my mind was growing in the American culture and society in which I lived.

     After putting up the tree for a few years, leaving gifts for John from Santa, and still associating myself with my culture, I have grown to realize that I don’t have to choose. I can have both; I can love both. I have learned how to balance both the Serbian and American in me. This year, my dad even helped us, which made my brother explode with joy. I can’t lie; I was thrilled as well. My dad told me he would buy Santa’s present this year, and to check under the tree for my name. He said, to make my mom feel better, he would leave them on the seventh of January, on our holiday. I will never forget when he hung the picture of Sveti Nikola on the top of our tree and told my mom if she even thought about taking it down she would get it.

***
____________________________________________


Winter is my Plainsong
A vignette by Stella (Wilfinger) Rothe

(Part of a diary entry; and in part inspired by the Benedictine monks of Santo Domingo de Silos.)

O, sweet and miraculous night! Sleeping souls are tenderly roused, not knowing why that, in the heart of night, their rest has been disrupted. The earth’s steady rotation nudges us out of dreamland, leading us into a solitude that not even sleep can replicate. We awaken because we know, instinctively, that the world has changed overnight becoming calmer . . . quieter. Everything but the wind is muffled by a thickening snow. The ground is white; the snow is unstained, unspoiled. Many lives have come and gone upon this ground; but, tonight, history is swept clean and old memories are buried beneath spotless snowdrifts.

There is plainsong in the falling snowflakes and the whirling wind. There is chant in winter’s steady rhythm. The sounds of nature’s hushed symphony are in a cacophony of earthly delight. The low moan of the breeze is composed of matchless beauty, skimming the ground as a layer of snow swirls, unfettered, in a crystalline and misty dance. This is when ancient lore and phenomena collide with modern minds, forcing us to understand the world as a child would. Oh, so many questions and each one replaced with: wonder! Delight! Sweetness! Pleasure laced with frost and pierced with icicles!

There is a muted pause, as if the earth ceased breathing just long enough to wake our tired bodies and call us to our windows. We reach sleepy fingers out and touch soft lace, slipping back curtains to see a world of white stillness. Here is an escape from the rushed pace of life.

There has to be some rectitude in the world

or what use is life?

Dare we venture into this place our souls have been led? Step outside and the night is as vivid as the afternoon; the snow makes everything bright. And then, those first few steps into the fresh frosty mounds. We retrace our steps to avoid spoiling the pristine beauty. The sun begins to rise and the mind reverts to a place of innocence and purity - a sanctuary where thoughts resist demons and settle into silence.

                                                                                    I awaken. 

There is nothing stirring in my house: no sound to draw me out of dreamland and no light to crawl inside my eyes. There are no nightmares to escape from, nor no fiends in my head. I wake because a Spirit beckons me ~ the Spirit of Snow. I crawl out of linen sheets and glide out into the winter. My feet touch ice. My face is greeted by a frosty breeze. For just long enough, I stand in awe of the creative Muse of nature. My feet grow numb as my mind is enlightened, and in a meditative state I return to where humanity belongs:                                                             

                                               Peace!
Eleison. *

*Eleison is a Latin term meaning “Mercy” in the fullest and deepest human sense: a complete and compassionate extension of divine love. Plainsong is a simple melody primarily used in Gregorian Chants.
***
____________________________________________

Winter Walk by Luisa Zavich

Foggy Morning, 6 a.m. by Stella (Wilfinger) Rothe

Back cover art by Ize Spielman