I think Mannheim Steamroller was the first orchestral group to perform Christmas songs with an edge that really caught my attention. Their cd, Fresh Aire Christmas, was played ad nauseum on radio stations when it first released in December of 1993. Since then, other groups have taken interpretations of holiday classics in new instrumental directions. By far, my favorite group is Trans-Siberian Orchestra. They are most famous for “Christmas Eve Sarajevo 12/24,” which released in 1996 on their debut cd, Christmas Eve and Other Stories.

It is this song, however, that will forever be linked to memories with my family and friends in winter.

Just this past March, we had a late snowstorm (really the only one last winter to “paralyze” us here in Baltimore–home of the flurry-freakouts), and we went sled-riding with Brad and his family at a local golf course that is all hills and curves–perfect for sledding.

It was at this time that I was also bitten by the video bug by some of my students (Jenna, in particular), and I was encouraged to make my first family video. True–It’s been my only video to date, although Amy is doing wonders with Madelyn’s horseback riding; still, I had a lot of fun putting together a little video of our snow ride. If you’re logged onto Facebook (I’m not sure if we have to be friends or not), then you can view this video (or should be able to!) with no problems HERE. :)

There’s something about documenting an event, though, that makes it seem even more memorable as time goes by. Even with just the passing of several months since we went sledding, I look back at that video and remember those few hours as being some of the best ever spent with our friends.

I know that’s not true. There have been many, many times when we’ve gotten together, and I know that we’ve all shared such wonderful times that would challenge our snow event as “the best” there ever was. Still, the simple documentation of the event makes every moment of it more permanent, more memorable in our minds.

Now, every time I hear this music, I think of the generic abstracts of family, having fun with friends, spending time in the snow. But most of all, I remember the smiles on the faces of our children as they battled the bigger hills, the moments spent together, the memories that they made that they will be referring back to as they get older. It’s in our efforts to document, to record, to make a statement that we were here that is most important. To freeze those moments so we may look back on them fondly and with a smile, to know that love can be captured in still frame and be preserved for a lifetime.

For me, it reminds me of sledding many years ago with my sister on our little slopey street in front of our childhood home. Not only were our friends sledding with us, but all of our parents too. It was one of those neighborhood events that just happened spontaneously with each new snow. The old traditional Flexible Flyers would sail down that snowy road, and we would be screaming just as loud as our parents who had slipped back into their own youths, remembering the days when snowfalls really did paralyze Baltimore.

I hope you can view the video. Although it is 7 minutes of two families sliding down hills having fun, I’d like to think it’s a little bit more than that. It’s a part of history that, perhaps, will rekindle memories of your own when you played in your First Snow, all those years ago.

Just last week, Bruce came to Baltimore and took requests from the audience for songs to sing. One of the few requests he accepted was this song, with which he helped bring a contemporary sound to a timeless classic.

Who doesn’t know this version of the song that was written and performed way back in November of 1934? Springsteen first did his rendition in 1975, and ever since then, just about every one of us has grown up cheering on his bantering with Clarence and the crowd.

For me, it’s memories of driving around in my first car lovingly named Deuce, a 1968 Ford Falcon that had seen so, so many better days. When I was a member of the Smile Merchants, traveling to area hospitals and day-care centers during the holidays (not one of them to be outdone by our trip to Hopkins Children’s Hospital, where we were lost for hours while trying to get home), Deuce played Bruce loud and often to and from all of our shows.

It’s that playfulness, that good spirit, that fun that he has with this song, his band, and the entire audience (as well as all of us who continue to listen) that makes me love this song so much. To love what you do (and do what you love) — that is the secret to our happiness — today, tomorrow, and all of the glorious days yet to come.

I’ve already mentioned it once in the early stages of this countdown, and undoubtedly, I will mention it several times more before we hit number 1. Christmastime is synonymous, in so many ways, with the time spent with Brad and his family all throughout the year.

Brad’s parents, Bob and Bev, were my “second set.” They provided a place where I always felt at home, secure, at peace, and happy. From 1981 to the mid-1990’s, I had a sanctuary to call home if I ever needed to get away or just feel loved in a way that had no attachments or conditions.

Now, I have to stress that there was never a problem in my own home. My parents were wonderful in every way, as were/are my brothers and my sister. There was just something about Bob and Bev’s home, though, that attracted so many of us and made us feel safe. A home away from home, even if we were just minutes away from our folks.

Perhaps more than any other time of year, though, it was Christmas that defined their love and generosity. Their Christmas celebrations were unparalleled. In fact, the lower rooms of their home were always decorated for the holidays, with lights, a tree, and tinsel. There’s something about keeping the magic of Christmas with you year-round.

Anyway, I don’t exactly know why, but this song, as sung by Burl Ives, has always reminded me of Bob and of his festive, happy, loving spirit of Christmas that he radiates each day of the year. His health has declined recently, and I continue to keep him in my thoughts and prayers as we move toward Christmas day.

For Bob, it is more about the celebration of Christ’s birth than it is about the gifts. It’s always been that way. He is such a spiritual man, and he will be the first person to tell you it is God’s love that beams through him, reaching all of us.

Maybe we all need to do that. Reach deep inside of us, whatever our beliefs, and embrace more fully the spirit that defines our happiness, our path, our origins of love. Through this deeper understanding of life, may all of our days — not just at Christmastime — be a little more jolly.

For this classic, I share with you a story I wrote in 2000 that was published in Baltimore’s Child. Enjoy!

Electric Christmas, by Rus VanWestervelt

Copyright 2000

It is the last Friday in November, just after our dinner of leftovers and well after sunset. We leave the house with food still on our plates, lights left on. We have little time left.

“Hurry,” I say to them. “Into the car! We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Did I remember the tapes? Oh no! Don’t tell me I forgot the tapes!” My wife double-checks our daughter’s booster seat belts, then double-pats her coat pocket with confidence.

“I have both of them, right here. Let’s go.”

Always a step ahead of me; thank goodness!

She slides into the seat next to Holland Grace’s booster, shuts the door tightly, and straps herself in. I turn over the motor and adjust the rearview mirror. My wife and I lock eyes.

“Ready?”

She nods, and Holland confirms our status. “Let’s Go, Daddy!”

I ease out of the driveway, synchronously getting a tape in handoff from my wife and inserting it into the player. The leader tape seems interminable.

“Daddy? Time yet?”

Just then, the leader ends, and Bing Crosby’s silky voice stills the air. “I’m dreaming, of a White Christ-mas….”

A chorus of sighs fills the car, and we are on our way.

No, we’re not the Von Trapp Family Singers fleeing our homeland; we’re just a Baltimore family continuing our own holiday tradition, taking to the streets and looking for beautiful displays of lights and seasonal celebrations while our daughter “oohs” and “aahs” as we pass by your creations.

When I was just a bit older than Holland, who is now four, I would come downstairs from my bedroom long before daybreak replaced the streetlights in Towson, and I would wake my sister–six years my elder–with a gentle nudge and a flashlight pointed in her eyes.

“Cindy, are you awake?”

“No,” she’d grumble. “I’m sound asleep. Now leave me alone before I kill you in my dream.”

“But it’s time for Christmas,” I’d whisper, nudging her again, then peeling up an exposed eyelid and shining in a beam of light in a desperate attempt to wake her.

“No,” she’d say. “It’s time to turn off the flashlight.”

“Then you’ll get up?”

“If it means you’ll stop blinding me.”

“Cindy, it’s Christmas!”

With that said, I’d run down the hall, plug in the tree lights, and kneel before the miracle.

“Wow,” I’d whisper. This was the most magical of moments, sitting alone with that illuminated tree and the multicolored wrappings, enveloped in a darkness that sealed the spirit of Christmas all around me. I could not have felt warmer, fuller of that magic.

My memory was not strengthened by what was in those boxes wrapped in the multicolored paper. In fact, I’d be hard-pressed to name you more than three or four toys I received in all of those childhood Christmas mornings. What I do remember is that first smell of brewed coffee mingling with the scent of the pine cones on the tree; the rustling of wrapping paper  as Dad finished wrapping a few last gifts; Cindy and I touching each package, shaking them gently and deciding which  we’d open first and which seemed mysterious enough to open last; our dog Toby sniffing out his own stocking filled with puppy crackers. These memories of Christmas mornings  never seemed to change because this was our tradition.

Years may pass, but traditions stand the test of time. One Christmas, my sister gave me a game called “Operation,” and we thought we were on the cutting edge of space-age technology. This year, I’d like to finally return the favor and give her a virtual surgery game that puts the scalpel in your hand and lets you know if you’ve removed the wrong organ and have sent the patient into V fib. Not that there’s anything wrong with this change in what’s under the tree. We were in as much awe with an electronic board game as we are now with a virtual computer game.  But let’s face it. Gifts break, small parts disappear, and the novelty loses its luster after the lights have been taken down and the tree has been tossed on the corner for recycling.

Traditions don’t break down or lose their parts or dull over time. That’s what makes them traditions, and they end up being the greatest gifts we can pass along to our children.

When I knelt down before that great, plastic, flame-retardant tree as a child on Christmas morning, I wasn’t thinking too consciously about what it all meant. I was too overwhelmed. Rather, I thought nothing but felt everything. It was in me, radiating as much inside as outside, an electric glow which would remain forever that, someday, I would share with my own family.

As adults, we all share these memories with the ones we love. We sit over a cup of coffee or we lie in bed a few minutes longer in the morning and ask what Christmas was like as a kid. He might say it was the memory of feeling a bit older with his dad when they would go to cut down a tree, always on the second Sunday in December. She might say it was trying to stay up all night with her older brother every Christmas Eve to hear Santa rustling through his sack downstairs and drinking the soured milk that had been sitting out for hours.

It’s that electric glow that we remember, a tradition that our parents and family either continued or created for us in childhood.

“Wow….”

I adjust the mirror in the car to look at my daughter, eyes wide open, a finger touching the window as she points out another display to her mom. “Bee-Youtiful!” she says, a duet with Crosby, both of them crooning in the back seat.

So, this is our tradition. Every night following Thanksgiving, we take a drive to look at the lights that all of you string up around your trees, your houses, your lamp posts. We look at the brilliant displays of candy canes and holly bushes and snowmen, and then we’ll head down to Baltimore’s own 34th Street, where miracles and holiday spirits (not to mention electric bills) could never be greater.

And as each night’s route becomes longer and more fulfilling than the previous evening’s drive, we hear from the back seat of our car—over and over again—that unmistakably wondrous whisper of a child experiencing yet another magical discovery, the sound of a child beaming electric inside and out, the sound from which traditions are born.

#          #            #

Number 30: Variations on the Kanon by Pachelbel, as performed by George Winston

I’ve always been a big fan of George Winston. His piano music has soothed me through the toughest of days and has given me hope and inspiration when I believed none remained. This particular piece is very special to me, as it bridges Thanksgiving with the beginning of the Christmas celebration.

Winston plays the song as softly as he does with profound intensity. The rise and fall in this music captures the ebb and flow of emotions for me during this time, the sweet celebration with family, and the melancholy of memories of those who have left us.

My friend Brad introduced me to Winston’s music when I was in my first year of teaching in the winter of 1987. I spent most of my winter break with him and his family that year, listening over and over to the sounds of December, Autumn, and other Winston works as the sweet smell of his mother’s cooking filled every corner of their home. Now, as I listen again to the familiar melody, I reflect on all that has changed since those days of innocence. Both of my parents have passed on, as has his mom (my second Mom, as she always said), and now his father lay in the hospital recovering from a heart attack.

I have much to be thankful during these ebbs and flows in my life. Our departed have left us with gifts of their own to appreciate our lives with a greater sincerity, to love more fully, to appreciate more genuinely. I would like to think that these days of celebration and contemplation enrich our lives long after our cheers of the new year have fallen silent on the quiet streets of 2010.

May each of you be blessed with good memories and reflections today. I am grateful for all that you have given me, and I will do my best to pass on your kindness and love to others along the way. <3

I don’t know what it is about November and the Muse, but I wish I had the magic potion to hold on to it long after Thanksgiving. I’m not sure if November’s creativity is triggered by my love affair with NanoWrimo (National Novel Writing Month), or if it has anything to do with most of my deadlines and launches with school publications wrapping up in late October. If I look back to my daybooks from the 80’s and 90’s, though, I think I’ll find that, historically, my words have flowed more easily in these 30 days than in any other stretch during the year.

I came across three incidents yesterday that, for each, lasted no more than 15 seconds. In that brief time, my overactive muse created scenarios of each of those incidents. What follows are the three things I saw and the stories that my muse spun almost instantly. Which do you think has the most potential for a longer story? If I get more than 10 votes for any one of them, I’ll develop it fully and post it here before the end of the month….

1. 6:57 a.m. After I drop off Holland at the gym for her morning practice, I head home along the back roads through Lutherville to Towson, when I see three girls walking along the road, toward me in the oncoming lane.

The sleepover had not gone as they had planned, not by a long shot. When Kristin and the others decided yesterday afternoon to invite Ryanne and her friend from Roland Park, Elyse, they knew the night would not be a typical movies-till-3 a.m. event. Ryanne and Elyse always pushed the party beyond the typical teen boundaries. Sometimes they brought a flask of Southern Comfort to share, and other nights they brought along a few other “guests” who would wait in the woods until after Kristin’s parents were asleep. But now, as they walked in silence along Ridgely Avenue, the rising sun stealing what little edge there was to the early chill, each wondered if Ryanne and Elyse would ever be seen again–dead or alive.

2. 5:23 p.m. On our way to Cafe Hon (but still in our own neighborhood), we see a tall, 20-something gentleman running at a fast pace through the gates of Goucher College’s campus, across our street, and along the sidewalks until he reaches Goucher Boulevard. He stops, looks behind him, and rests his hands on his knees to catch his breath. It seems like he has been running for some time.

Seth glanced over his shoulder as he took a moment to breathe. Had the traffic not been so busy along Goucher Boulevard, he undoubtedly would have kept running, straight across the street and up along the quiet street on the other side until he passed out. Were they still close behind? Had they given up? Or had they not seen him at all? He couldn’t get her eyes out of his mind–eyes struck with terror as she pleaded for her life on the very trail he walked nearly every day. Two older girls had stood over the other, their backs to Seth. His natural instinct was to help, of course. To break up whatever little ritual was going on and save the girl. But the sun seeped through the thinning trees and found the knife’s blade. The taller of the two played with it behind her back, balancing it loosely between two fingers as if it were nothing more than a twig picked up along the way. Seth had gasped, and when the pleading girl’s eyes dropped to his, he ran. Now, as he looked back along Squires Road to the gates at Goucher’s back entrance, he wondered if it was too late to save her. He turned back to the busy boulevard. The traffic had ceased between lights, and he had a clean shot of making it to the other side. His life or hers? He took a deep breath, stood tall, and acted on his decision–one that ultimately would change his life forever.

3. 7:31 p.m. We have just left Cafe Hon and are on our way to Fell’s Point. We exit 83 South and sit at the traffic light, waiting to turn left on to Eastern Avenue. On the far left corner is an office building, dark with just two rooms on the third floor that remain dimly lit. A silhouette of a thin woman moves about, heading toward the second, adjoining room. The light turns green, and we head to our final destination, Mr. Yogato’s.

Rose lay on the couch. The cool cloth she had placed on her forehead an hour ago was now barely damp and fixed at room temperature. Her head still pounded, the anxiety never abating since she read his status update on Facebook: “Back in B-more to get what’s mine.” She did not know where to go, what to do. He would first go back to the house to find her. She was sure of that, especially with it getting dark so early. And he would most likely wait there until she came home. Probably inside. She never thought it necessary to change the locks. Now, inside the office where she was a corporate hero for Bergen and Brown Associates, the fear of her past finally caught up with her, and she could feel the safety of her last haven on earth slipping away, out of her control, and into the hands of a man she swore she would never see again. She slides her legs off the couch and sits up, the blood rushing from her head, and she feels dizzy. She stands and heads to the sink to cool her cloth one more time, when she hears the doorknob to the adjoining office rattle. She freezes, listens intently to the sounds through the thin walls, and hears the faint whisper. “Ro-ose. . . .” It is her ex-husband, and he has found her. Trapped in the corner office on the third floor of Bergen and Brown, she is no longer a hero to anybody. She moves toward the door, stops at the supply drawer and removes a letter opener. In many ways she feels sorry for him. His last status update on Facebook will need to be updated soon that he got what he deserved, and she can’t, to save her own life, think of what it might be. . . .

Which do YOU think I should finish?

I was talking with a very good friend of mine the other day about where each of us will be in our writing careers in 2 years. Without thinking too much about it, we defined our patterns of living that, despite some of our greatest attempts, have not really changed over many more than the 2 years we were pondering. He thought that I might return to being a vegetarian (he was surprised that I had abandoned it, but now I find myself returning to it because of several amazing events that happened throughout the day).

I guess at this age–middle 40’s–there’s a groove that’s difficult to break.

For some of us, we’re pretty happy in what we’re doing. I’ve been blessed that my zig-zag energies in teaching and writing have carried me to a pretty good place. I’m writing and publishing on a fairly frequent basis (certainly more of the writing than the publishing), and I’ve established my own press (Ravenwater) to offer more publishing opportunities to writers who want to make a difference with their words.

So I guess this is it, then. Life. As it was prescribed for me, and what I’ve managed to make of that prescription. The aglet’s already been wrapped around the end of this story, for the most part, keeping my life on track (or the possibility of such a thing) until the very end. It’s up to me how tightly I pull it all together, lace up this shoe, and keep walking.

I’ve got some other friends around my age who are in a different kind of groove. I don’t know whether it’s been more bad choices or more bad breaks, but they hate their groove. Can’t find a way to break loose and make some pretty big changes, no matter how many figurative tools–hammers, screwdrivers, saws–I and others might give them to break free.

This is it for them as well. Sometimes, the journey’s no more comfortable than a ride on a dromedary that’s got a little too much on his mind this morning. Slow, bumpy, and downright stinky at times.

We have to embrace who we are, where we are, and where we tend to go. For me, the zig-zag is all about putting my energies into THIS for a few weeks, then THAT for another few, all the while being a Dad to my kids. It’s a tough juggle, and sometimes I drop a few of the balls. But this IS it, and I know that. I have to keep these boots moving as if I had diamonds in their soles.

I know that the photosynthesis of my soul will not shift in its arrangement suddenly and without warning, any more than our planets might re-align with Jupiter and Saturn deciding to switch it up a bit on nothing more than an astral whim…

I wish it weren’t “It” sometimes. You know, that this were a dress rehearsal for the real thing. I’ve done a good job with the blocking, my lines are fairly memorized, and I’m gearing up for a tech rehearsal. But I’ll take a few more dress-rehearsal run-thrus, thank you very much, so I can get it just exactly perfect.

Hardly.

It’s tough, but we have to constantly remind ourselves of where we are right now–and be happy with that and have the courage to refine with each rising sun.

*This entry is dedicated to Courtney, Mark, Theresa, and Brad, all giving me some pretty interesting words on a recent Facebook challenge to sprinkle into tonight’s entry. Can you guess which words I was told to add?