Spontaneous Christmas Joy

Once when I was young, about 8 years old, I went along with a spontaneous gang of kids through the streets in my neighborhood.  It was an ad hoc collection of kids ranging from my age to high schoolers.  We went house to house knocking on doors up and down several streets, and sang Christmas carols.

I don't know how it happened, exactly, or how I was able to wander around after dark at that age.  I was playing outside with kids on my street.  In those days and on my street, if the wrong mix of kids were out and had nothing to do, I could end up having a lousy time.  My parents mostly kept me off the street through activities and playing organized sports.  When I did join the kids outside on my street there seemed to be a lot of fights.

But this night I was drawn out by my own boredom and desire to hang out with other kids, and it was the holidays.  I couldn't have expected what that night would promise, or that I'd remember it 40 years later.

I recall there were 10 or 15 kids in this gang and we started knocking on doors, going to the nearest neighbors with kids that were familiar.  We sang Christmas songs, half joking and looking for laughs.  It was cheeky.  Then we went to another house and sang.  Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.  Frosty the Snowman.  Santa Clause is Coming to Town.  Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  The ones we all knew, often jumbling the words.  This was not an organized choir.

I remember being in the rear of this group as we knocked on doors.  People started giving us money, which one of our group collected.  Soon there was a wad of cash.

We finished my street and went further down another and then another.  We stopped at a house where many of the older kids had a friend.  We conspired in the event that the friend opened the door, and when he answered we began to sing "Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen, a contemporary hit at the time.  The friend got a big kick out of it and we all laughed.

Then he had a request.  "Sing something for my mom," he asked.  "Something nice."

His mother appeared at the door.  We were arrayed below on the steps leading up to the door.  The gang got quiet for a moment then conferred to choose a song.

We began tentatively to sing "Silent Night."  We were encouraged by the words and picked up some volume and confidence.  We sang all the verses we could remember.  No one would ever confuse this rabble with the Vienna Boys Choir, but it was heartfelt, and surprising considering the singers.  A true serenade.

Now after dark, I wondered what kind of trouble I'd be in when I got home.

The group discussed what to do with the funds we collected.  There was talk of taking it to a church or hospital.  Then we realized that Marion Manor Nursing Home, a retirement home run by Catholic nuns, was located at the end of our street.  It was decided that the nuns would get the cash.

I vividly recall this scene from 40 years ago.  A dozen or more kids knocked on the door after dark at a nursing home.  One of the sisters opened the door halfway and leaned out, surveying the gang.

"What do you want?" she asked pointedly.  It took courage for her to open the door.  As an 8 year old, I was struck by the fear in her tone of voice and movements.  I was in this group and I knew our intentions were genuine, but clearly she did not.

The gang's spokesman pulled out the wad of cash and offered it to her.

"Where did you get this money?" she asked.

The spokesman replied: "We collected it from the neighborhood."

We then sang "Silent Night."  As we sang a few other sisters came to the door, marveling at this unexpected scene.

We sang a few more songs for the nuns and then the gang splintered into smaller factions and we made our way home.  I walked up the street to my house and my parents didn't blink when I entered.  The TV was on, my mother was in the kitchen.  I told them what we'd done and they were surprised to hear about it.  But the event was never repeated, and it faded from memory.

Today it seems more like a dream.  I recall this spontaneous act of giving and marvel at the simplicity of what happened.  A bunch of kids with nothing to do, used a few hours to make a meaningful expression of Christmas cheer.  And I like to think that we all experienced joy that night.

Merry Christmas!

Songs of Loudest Praise

Listening to Sufjan Stevens’ Christmas double album is one of my personal favorite things to do during the holidays. Christmas music can do many things to the heart and the mind. Bring back memories. Six years ago I shared the first stanza of Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing in a CaringBridge post. It was a quick post to update our followers on the great and miraculous news that I’d had a clear brain mri. 

I had been listening to the Christmas singalong music. I was a fan of Stevens before and discovered the Christmas album many years ago. 

His approach to the message of Christmas is so unique. Folly and contemporary at the same time. But make no mistake the message of Christmas is the star of the show. It shines down unmistakably through the gloomy clouds of night, dismissing darkness and doubt. The primo side of Emanuel. Gif with us. Grace and forgiveness for all. 

Today I listens to the album. And the words and music flowed over me like the peace and comfort of the best news the world can receive. 

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
  Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
  Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
  Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount, I’m fixed upon it,
  Mount of Thy redeeming love.

It was written in 1758 by a man named Robert Robinson when he was 22 years old. 

Centuries later, we have the song from Stevens. And the powerful words brought to our ears to turn our hearts. And sing God's praise. 

My Name is Daniel

I went to first grade in summer 1978. St. Margaret’s school would be my school for the next 8 years, in good times and bad.

My name is Daniel but I was not used to being called that. My kindergarten teacher Mrs Popovich called me Danny because that’s who I was. That was my name and the only name I went by at that time whether it was with family or school. My preschool teacher Mrs Lightoff called me Danny. I remember her fondly mostly because she let me play the cymbals during our class concert. I stood on my own at stage left and crashed them together with glee.

My first day at St. Margaret’s I knew this was going to be different. It was a small class and girls seemed to out number boys by nearly 3 to 1. Great numbers for a college classroom but icky for grade school. 

Mrs Reddinger was the teacher. She was tall, larger than life as I remember, and had long straight dark hair. She wore a long skirt and long sleeve blouse. She had a sister that also taught in the school who was a sister, indeed. The feature I recall most was her teeth. They were large and protruded especially the top teeth when she smiled - a smile that made me smile back guardedly.  Soon I’d learn what those teeth would look like in a disapproving face.

She called out all the student names that first day after she’d introduced herself. Apparently she’s been on maternity leave or something for the last year, and was coming back to teach first grade with gusto because we spent a lot of time taking attendance that first day. 

I am a Z last name. This has mostly been a curse especially when in any school environment. Last for everything. Alphabetical order was my adversary. I have fought alphabetical order my whole life and still fight it today, with glimmers of success with my children. One notable success was baseball tryouts in 2018 when I lobbied for reverse alphabetical order and both boys successfully made the higher tier league. I was convinced of an alphabetical bias. And the data though a small sample proves me right. 

So I was last to be called by Mrs Reddinger. And she called me, “Daniel Zappa.” I raised my hand and nodded. One of the curses of alphabetical order is that Zs nearly always sit in the very last seat in the last row of the classroom. Especially in 1978. Now a days there are small groups of students at small desks of a handful of kids. Seemingly seated at random or according to like ability in some cases. We have come a long way!

Mrs Reddinger asked about me and I told her. I mentioned the only extracurricular activity that I took part in at the time was competitive swimming. I was the only swimmer in that class and would find out that nonconformity of any sort was generally considered heresy and cause for ridicule among my peers.

Gathering boldness at the sound of my own voice in a strange environment I told her that my name is Danny and I’d like to be called Danny. 

“Your name is Daniel. And that is what you will be called in my classroom.” And the teeth were prominent. I nodded breathlessly and the boldness was gone. This was the first case in a series repeating over many times in that school in the coming years. Looking back if I’d been able to read the signs that day I’d have petitioned hard to my parents to send me somewhere else. But it would not happen. I was already coming to grips with my sentence: 8 years of hard labor at St. Margaret’s.

“My shield is God most high who saves the upright in heart. God is a righteous judge. A God who shows his wrath every day.”

That is Psalm 7, verses 10-11. A plaque with those verses emblazoned with “Daniel. God Is Judge” hung in my bedroom from my earliest memory. I don’t know where it came from or who gave it to me or when. It was either a baptism or first holy communion gift from a family member or friend. Either way it was in my room from the get go. It hangs in my office today alongside framed pictures and some select memorabilia from my career as a Marine officer.

I treasure that plaque as an early artifact from my upbringing. And a talisman of sorts. 

My name is Daniel. I was given that name at birth by my parents. When I call home my father greets me as Daniel. Or Danny. Today I go by Dan, as it is less formal and more familiar. My family and close friends call me Danny. I love that. I was Danny from a young age and there is a closeness, a dear and knowingness, a familiarity with it. Once you get to know me, I am Danny.

But my name is Daniel and it has great meaning to me. A biblical name that comes along paired with a powerful message that God is a righteous judge. But verse 10 is so uplifting and inspiring. My shield is God most high who saves the upright in heart!

I know and appreciate the significance of my name. The upright heart is one that is forever rejoicing and looking forward and upward to higher and higher places. An upright heart both basks in the beauty and passion of the present, and strives for high and worthy goals. It remains upright through trials and times of uncertainty  because it know that fear and temporary pain and suffering are merely bit players in the journey and serve to test but cannot conquer.

With great reluctance and deference to my young self I will yield that Mrs Reddinger had a point, though her delivery to a newly minted six year old landed awkwardly. My name is indeed Daniel. But if you want to be my friend then you can call me Danny.