It's been six months since I decided to look into the current Bariatric weight loss program. What a difference between the way it was done thirty years ago and today.

In 1981 the potential patient needed to meet two criteria to be accepted for surgery. The first, they had to be a minimum of 100 pounds overweight. The second, their insurance had to agree they were morbidly obese and would therefore die if they didn't lose those 100 or more pounds.

After both of the two criteria were met, the surgeon would schedule surgery. This took about eight weeks from the day you walked into the surgeon's office. Weighing 410 pounds, my approval came back within two weeks and I was scheduled for surgery the following week.

That was it. There wasn't prior mental health or nutritional counseling. No group discussions or mentor connections. You wanted it... you got it. Six very long days passed and I was on my way into surgery. The operation took about two hours and I left surgery with an eight inch incision from sternum to navel. Oh, and a blessing from my surgeon, "Go forth my child and be skinny!"

Since the procedure was still relatively new, I spent the first 24 hours in the Intensive Care Unit. When they were sure there weren't going to be any complications, I was sent to the surgical floor where I spent the next five days learning to exist on hot spearmint tea.

Within a month I'd lost 40 pounds and consumed enough mint tea to look green around the edges and attract all the bees in northern Nevada. The one thing that I remember most about the hospitalization is the number of food related commercials on television.

I was into day five with nothing to eat but water. Right then a morsel of anything would've been great. No, I wasn't hungry, I just wanted to eat something. So I figured I'd watch television to get my mind off of food. At four in the morning most of the stations had either signed off (remember this was 1981) or were running crazy infomercials so I thought I'd be safe.

The first commercial had a man running across the screen singing about Dr. Pepper. "I'm a Pepper! You're a Pepper! Wouldn't you like to be a Pepper too?" Personally feeling that God invented Dr. Pepper just so I wouldn't have to drink water, I knew this wasn't the station to be watching.

The next channel had an old black and white movie playing, so I settled in until Sara Lee decided I needed to know all about her new frozen cheesecake. "So light and fluffy you'll think you're in heaven," the angels sang. I never did find out how the movie ended.

How much trouble could I get into watching the US Farm and Agricultural Report? Being that it was August, the corn commodities were the number one topic of discussion. Yes, technically corn is a food item but they didn't talk about cooking or eating it. "At last, I'm safe," I sighed. Well until the commercial. "Are you kidding me," I yelled. "A Twinkies commercial with the US Farm and Agricultural Report?" "Is nothing sacred?" I screamed. The doctor felt it was time for me to go home.

I needed to see my surgeon once a month for the first three months and then it was a six and 12 month check up and you're out the door. Within three months I'd lost seventy pounds and had graduated to newborn baby food eaten in one ounce containers five times a day. I was now cleared to try Cream of Wheat cereal and if my new stomach could tolerate eating something the consistency of wallpaper paste, I could move up to one smashed soft boiled egg.

My six month visit showed a one hundred pound weight loss. One year after surgery, I tipped the scales at 260 pounds and two years brought me down to 165 pounds. I was one of my surgeon's greatest success stories. He gave me a big hug and pat on the back. "Call me if you have any problems," he said.

I'd lost the equivalent of two full grown adults in 24 months. No one recognized me... including myself. I'd see my reflection in a store window and think I was looking at another person. I didn't know where to buy clothing because for 33 of my 34 years I'd been wearing clothes that were made for someone much older than my size. I couldn't go out to eat because there wasn't a restaurant that served either the food I could eat or would allow me to order a child's size portion.

My life became isolated and unfamiliar. My stomach had 150 small surgical staples in it making it impossible for me to turn to food as my drug of choice. I was different on the inside and outside, but the rest of the world was the same and I didn't know how to cope. Back then the medical community thought that if you took away a fat person's ability to overeat, they'd be just fine. That would work if hunger was only a biological response. They stapled my stomach and forgot all about my brain.

"Tell them to hurry, I'm going to die," it's been four years this week since our eldest grandchild said those words... her last words.

Somewhere along the road of life I think it's written that parents aren't suppose to bury their children. It's meant for the grandparents to go first because we've had our time in the sun. Our time to live a life filled with happy memories and opportunities or regrets and disappointments. Our chance to live a life that was either a glass half full or half empty.

I guess that road sign was missing on the day Kayla Marie Christian was called to come home.

Kayla was our first grandchild and from the moment she popped her head into this world, you knew this healthy and perfectly beautiful baby girl had a purpose. Reflecting back now I can see that Kayla's purpose changed over the course of her sixteen years.

As a newborn, I think Kayla was sent to help center her young mother. A young mother that needed to feel the unconditional and never ending love, warmth and joy a baby can bring to life. A mother who willingly took her responsibility to heart and changed to become a focused and dedicated parent, all the while learning from her mistakes and building upon her accomplishments. A woman that would take that collective experience of being a young single parent and build a career by helping hundreds of teenage girls attain their GEDs and become better parents.

As a child, I think Kayla was sent to help her collective family understand that you're only young once, so take some time to enjoy life's spontaneous moments. Family moments that would help each other grow stronger in our sad times and closer in our good times. Family moments that would embrace change and wonder while laughing at ourselves by not being afraid to enjoy the silliness that makes each of us sparkle.

As a teenager, I think Kayla was sent to be that once-in-a-lifetime friend that helps make sense from chaos. A friend who never missed a chance to help, listen and make the lives of those around her better for the experience. A friend who helped others realize how important it is to not only believe in yourself while standing tall on your convictions but also to stop and reflect upon your choices and be willing to select a different path.

As a statistic, I think Kayla was sent to be one more voice to say that human beings weren't meant to smoke cigarettes. Having been an asthmatic for most of her life, smoking was not a choice she should've made. As do millions of other people each year, she'd made a New Year's resolution to stop smoking and hadn't had a cigarette for almost five weeks. On the evening of February 2, 2008, she made a choice to have just one puff from a cigarette. Within minutes her asthma was out of control and her emergency inhaler couldn't stop the attack. She ran outside hoping the cold winter air would once again open her lungs. "Call 911," she yelled running out the front door. Struggling on the porch she turned and said, "tell them to hurry, I'm going to die."

Before the ambulance could arrive she had stopped breathing and even though CPR was started immediately, they couldn't keep her heart going on its own. Three days later the doctors called us into a special conference room in the pediatric intensive care unit to tell us that her brain had started swelling almost from the moment she'd lost consciousness and the damage had been so significant, there was no hope.

As an organ donor, I think Kayla was sent to give hope. Eleven people have a small part of Kayla living within them today. As a donor she helped save a young father with a new heart and a child with a new liver. Months later some of the donors sent letters through the New England organ bank to let us know what her donation had meant to them. We read them on this day to remind us that even though she may have only walked on this earth for a small moment in time, her legacy of sparkle had a purpose that none of us could've known when she was born.

As the angel that inspired me to write today's column, I think Kayla was sent to give a message to others that human lungs weren't meant to inhale toxic chemicals mixed with tobacco. A message to give the gift of life and become an organ donor. A message that every life has a purpose no matter how short or well lived so take some time to make it a glass full of sparkle.

Ask me how old I was when I completed the sixth grade and I'd have to do the math starting with the age I was when I graduated from high school and work backwards. The same for my first marriage, first child, etc. Now, ask me what I weighed and I can respond without having to do any math because those numbers stay in my mind like a never ending nightmare.

On my first birthday I weighed 26 pounds and my baby book reflects the comments that I have heard almost every day for the rest of my life. "Patient is significantly overweight and has been put on a diet of skim milk."

Within days of starting kindergarten in 1955, my mother got a note from the school nurse. "Your daughter weighs 120 pounds and needs to go on a diet," the note read. In 1954, the world was introduced to the first weight loss surgery by Dr. A. J. Kremen. He did what he called an “intestinal bypass.” As the name implies, a section of the intestine was bypassed by connecting upper and lower areas of the intestines.

His surgery took out a good part of the middle section of the intestines and the hope was to reduce the amount of food absorbed. It worked, but encountered many complications such as electrolyte imbalances, dehydration, bypass enteritis, diarrhea, long-term liver problems, and various vitamin and mineral deficiencies. The problems were so significant that there was a 50 percent mortality rate.

The reason they experimented in this way with the digestive system was because of medical observations of patients that had short-bowel syndrome. People with this condition had a tendency to lose weight due to inadequate nutrient absorption. Based on these observations, surgeon A.J. Kremen, MD, started the medical field of bariatric surgery (although it was not named that until later).

At about the same time in Sweden, a physician did a similar procedure, but he removed the redundant portion of the small intestine. Throughout the 50s and 60s, many experimental operations were tested by physicians on morbidly obese patients. Eventually, intestinal modification was abandoned for the most part, and weight loss surgeries involving the stomach in some form or fashion became more prevalent.

In 1966, Dr. Edward E. Mason of the University of Iowa began work on developing an innovative bariatric surgery known as gastric bypass, also called stomach stapling or vertical banded gastroplasty. In the gastric bypass surgery, he isolated a section of the upper stomach by using staples to partition the stomach and decreasing the volume of food it can hold.

In effect, he was creating a smaller pouch of a stomach for the stomach that satiated the obese person faster during meals, therefore decreasing food consumption.

By 1966 I was in the tenth grade and had consumed enough calories to tip the scale at 254 pounds. I had also been put on the grapefruit diet, tea diet, Metrical (precursor to Slimfast). I had also survived the grapefruit, cabbage, lemon, water, no-water, bribery, and the six-meals-a-day diets, hypnosis, pills, powdered concoctions from Jack LaLane and the shots from the urine of a pregnant woman programs.

All of them started out with great determination and I lost weight; 104 pounds with the shots. However, as soon as I stopped the shots, pills, drinks and powders, the weight slowly returned and gathered extra friends along the way.

I do have to admit though that my 9th grade home economics teacher, Miss Brown, had a rather novel approach that had never been tried before. "You have such a beautiful face that I know you could be Miss Nevada so you're going on a diet," she said. "Every day you're going to weigh in front of the class and if you gain weight, you have to clean up the kitchens all by yourself."

When that didn't work, I had to sit on a dunce chair in the middle of class with a sign that read, "don't feed the animal." She was so sure of the embarrassment/shame diet that she filled out an entire packet of detention slips with my name on them. She ran out of slips about the same time as I ran out of excuses for why I needed to be at the school nurses office.

As with any new medical innovation, there were improvements that had to be made to refine the process following the initial procedures. As time went by, the complications became less and less (although even today there are chances of morbidity) There were more refinements, such as reducing the pouch size and eventually changing from metal staples to elastic bands. The main problem with elastic was that he bands began to stretch after a few years. This particular surgery is currently not done very much.

The next improvement brought the Proximal Gastric Bypass form which is by far the most commonly used gastric bypass technique today in the United States and around the world. This form of weight loss is the least likely to have nutritional problems occur. The small intestine at the base of the stomach is cut and rerouted in a Y shape connecting to the upper pouch created in the stomach through what is referred to as a Roux limb. The Roux limb is a section of 30-60 inches of the upper intestine, which still allows for plenty of nutrient absorption. Due to fewer complications, it is one of the most common weight loss surgery procedures of today.

Today, there are about eight different variations of bariatric surgery performed in most state-of-the-art hospitals across the United States. Next time I'll share the differences from having the surgery in 1981 and 2012.  

Movin' along in the fat lane--

Have you ever really thought about the definition of "normal"?

If we use it as an adjective, "normal" means conforming to a type or group, common, standard, or regular pattern. The synonyms are average, natural, ordinary, regular, typical and usual.

If we use it as a noun, "normal" means anything that is normal or usual, the expected state, form, amount, or degree.  The synonyms are sane, stable and rational.

According to the Oxford Dictionary, the origin of normal began about 1520–30 A.D. and came from the Latin word: normālis -  made according to a carpenter's square.

According to a severely obese person, "normal" is a condition that many of us strive to attain and more often than not die, never fully understanding or achieving.

There isn't a time in my life that I've felt "normal" or that I belonged to a common or conforming group of people. Please don't misunderstand what I'm trying to say. This isn't a pity party and I absolutely don't want anyone to feel sorry for me. I've had a life packed with more adventure and unusual experiences than most anyone I know. And believe it or not, I am thankful for the many blessings and opportunities that I've received. In the 61 years that I've been on this planet, I've done okay.

It's just that I'd like to see bullying of all types stopped.

So what does this have to do with being normal?

When you weigh 410 pounds you are anything but normal. When you've been fat your entire life - not just your adult life - you have no idea what being normal is all about. But I find it odd that with 33.8 percent of the U.S. adult population and additional 17 percent or 12.5 million children and adolescents ages 3-19 being considered obese, how can anyone look as people of size as anything but normal?

There are any number of laws and established policies preventing discrimination based on color, race, ethnicity, age, medical conditions and sexual orientation. However it's open season on fat people. I've been told I couldn't have a job because I was too fat. When I was eight years-old I wanted to join a Brownie troop. I got to attend one meeting and the leader told me I couldn't come back because I was too fat and would take up too much space in the meetings.

That was more than fifty years ago and I became a Brownie Scout, I also went on to become a Junior, Cadet, Senior Scout and ultimately a leader, you'd think that by now hurtful remarks like that were a thing of the past. But unfortunately, they're not.

Last week the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance (NAAFA), a California based non-profit civil rights organization whose goal is to end size discrimination based on body size, reported that one of our nation's right wing political leader and former presidential candidate said hateful slurs and disparaging remarks about First Lady Michelle Obama's body.

One of our nation's lawmakers made a remark about the size of the posterior of the First Lady of the United States of America in a public place where it could be overheard and reported. A former presidential hopeful, once a fat person himself, called the First Lady "Mooochelle" on public radio. Taunting is a form of bullying.

Our nation is spending millions of taxpayer dollars on campaigns to end bullying in our schools while the leaders of our country openly and publicly bully our First Lady. This has to stop! If these individuals cannot set good examples for the children of our nation, they do not deserve to be leaders.

NAAFA calls upon these individuals to grow up. Act like adults. Apologize to First Lady, Michelle Obama, and to the people of this nation. Tell our children NOT to follow your example but to learn to accept one another and treat everyone with respect and dignity without regard to body size or shape.

Founded in 1969, NAAFA is a non-profit civil rights organization dedicated to improving the quality of life for fat people. NAAFA works to eliminate discrimination based on body size and provide fat people with the tools for self-empowerment through public education, advocacy, and member support.

I've struggled with writing today's column for several months.

Do I share this story with a sense of humor, even though for some the subject matter might not seem very funny? Conversely, if I focus only on the serious or dramatic will the readers get lost in the painful emotions instead of enjoying the journey?

Well, I've decided to write it as I've lived it; a mixture of both as there certainly have been some incredibly funny moments while others have rocked the very fiber of my being and quite honestly, traveling down those roads again is not an experience that I necessarily cherish.

However, as many of us know, in life we don't always get to choose the road we are destined to travel or whether the experience will bring laughter or tears. More importantly though, we do get to choose if the moment destroyed the journey or made it a trip to remember.

With that said, I wish to acknowledge that I'm thankful for my moments as the trip has been one to remember. But not for the reason that you might think.

Most people would've finished that statement with:"for it has made me the person I am today." Seriously? How do we know that? Is there a way to compare? Is there a Staples Easy-Life Button somewhere that I didn't know about? I for one would like to live a stress-free life that was completely filled with joy and happiness first before I make that statement.

So while my journey may or may not have made me the person I am today, it has most definitely made me thankful, for it was anything but dull and boring. So when, and hopefully not if, I get to stand before God I can honestly say, "Thank you God, that was one wild ride on the roller coaster of life!"

Hmmm, wait a minute. Since I'm already talking to Him that seems redundant. Perhaps it would be better to say "Thank yourself"? No that seems a bit awkward. Just plain "Thanks" or 'Thank you" seems insincere. How much time will I have for this conversation? I need to know these things before I get there. What if we're not allowed to talk to God when we get to Heaven? I wonder if He has a cell phone with unlimited texting? I'll ask my family to quickly send this message, OMG TY!, before I get there.

But that's getting ahead of the story.

Some of you may have noticed that I'm not writing as many stories as I used to these past couple of weeks. Well, rest assured it's not because I'm at a loss for words. That would be a cold day in Hell. Wait another minute... How does someone know when the weather is going to change in Hell? Do they have meteorologists? If so, how does one go to school to learn about the weather in Hell?

I bet the forecast would go something like this: "The weekend shows a cooling trend as we'll be lucky to reach 225 degrees on Saturday which as you old-timers know, is unseasonably cold for this time of year," they'd probably say. "But Sunday you'll need a jacket as it's going to drop down to a chilly 175 degrees." If Earth has "Global Warming" does Hell have "Pital Cooling"?

Okay Ginger, refocus as that's another story for another time.

So if I haven't been writing and there's nothing to do in the garden, what have I been doing to keep out of trouble? I'm in the Bariatric program with the Reliant Medical Group.

Since the word "Bariatric" may not be familiar to everyone, let me explain. Bariatrics is the branch of medicine that deals with the causes, prevention, and treatment of obesity. The term bariatrics was created around 1965. The field encompasses dieting, exercise and behavioral therapy approaches to weight loss, as well as pharmacotherapy and surgery.

That brings us back to why I haven't been writing. Since October, I've been actively involved in the pre-surgical program. With each step, the requirements and expectations become more time consuming and often enlightening.

So what does this have to do with the rest of the population? With increasing prevalence in both adults and children, obesity is the leading preventable cause of death worldwide and one of the most serious public health problems of the 21st century. Therefore, my editor, Barbara Van Reed, and the collective membership of my weight loss group have asked me to share this journey. Not only to help others to learn more about the program but also about how a person can reach this crossroads and possibly avoid the trip.

During the next several months I plan to document this process here within my column. However, since this is an election year there may be an occasional thought that must take priority over my fat journey. So please don't think I've taken a detour, it's just that right now it's difficult to stay quiet when there's such a target rich political environment.

So let's start with this thought... Obesity is stigmatized in much of the modern world (particularly in the Western world), though it was widely perceived as a symbol of wealth and fertility at other times in history, and still is in some parts of the world. Therefore, I'm either living in the wrong country or time since I honestly can't remember a single event in my life that wasn't overshadowed by my weight. I can even go one step further and say that I'm 61 years-old and have been on a diet for 60 of those years.

Let the journey begin...

One of the more humbling aspects of my retirement as a former executive director has been the realization that the huddled masses no longer gather before me anxiously awaiting my daily commandment.

Okay, I know that's a slight exaggeration but it's my column and my story so I get to write it with my creative memory.

Since I no longer have a handful of people who not only think every idea I have is incredibly brilliant but also eagerly take every new concept to heart and instantly make it their life's mission... still can't quite accept that one either?

Alright, if you combine the fact that not only am I no longer able to send memos and give directives to my staff with the realization that my four children remind me on a daily basis that they've indeed "grown up" (relatively speaking) you can see why this Christmas had a rather bittersweet moment for me.

Being a thoroughly modern woman, I thought it would be a great idea to give our two year-old grandson a cute but gender neutral kitchen for Christmas. He loves to play with his little Playdough oven so I was positive he'd love to have an all inclusive kitchen with an oven, microwave, stove top, refrigerator, cupboard and sink.

When I brought this idea to my daughter, you would've thought I'd told her that I was going to start dressing him up in little girl clothes. "He's a boy!" she yelled when I mentioned the idea in October. "I know that, but this is the 21st century and every boy needs to learn how to cook," I explained.

Trying to provide the logic behind the concept (it always seemed to work with the huddled masses) I reminded her that since neither his mother nor his father knew the first thing about cooking and that their collective idea of fresh food meant immediately eating the burger and fries they'd just ordered at the drive-through, this baby needed to know how to cook.

Her response led me to believe that my explanations had fallen on deaf ears. Furthermore, her passing comments about losing my grandparent privileges helped me to realize that I'd better not push the envelope, or in this case, the oven timer.

However, never one to pass up a great bargain, after Christmas I found the perfect combo kitchen marked down from $76 to $30. Now seriously, who could pass up a bargain like that? I figured I'd let the box sit around for a while so she could get used to the idea. But just like during those glorious executive days, that idea didn't work.

So I went to the next level and approached the concept with the help of the boss - my grandson.

First, with all the cunning of a covert CIA operative, I put the unopened box in the middle of the playroom after his mother had left for work. Within seconds his attention was keenly focused on this new box.

I gingerly opened it (sorry I couldn't resist) so not to make my plan (or was it guilt) too obvious. I pulled out the pieces and casually laid them on the floor. It took all of two seconds before I had him right where I wanted him - excited about the kitchen.

Knowing that I would probably have to prove my case (is there a good grandparent lawyer out there?) and document his excitement with each step of the process, I decided to grab my camera when we went to get the screwdriver from the tool box.

Thinking back on it now, I should've seen the writing on the wall when I opened his grandfather's tool box. "OOOOO," and "AHHHHH" seemed to excitedly come from the depths of his little being. With hands and fingers faster than a starving man at a Saint Joseph's Church bake sale, he dove into the tool box pulling out tools like they were freshly made  pierogies. Not to lose the momentum, I redirected his attention and grabbed the first screwdriver I could find.

Knowing that my plan could fall apart as soon as his grandfather heard the tool box open, I went straight to work. The parts were skillfully laid out on the floor and directions dutifully studied.  Quickly putting part A with part B, the kitchen began to take shape. Next, I added the facet to the sink and the burner to the stovetop.

Looking back now I should have realized my mission was doomed for failure when I heard the him squeal, "car" when I laid the two joined pieces down together on the floor. No matter how many pieces I assembled or stickers I lovingly placed, the kitchen had now become yet another moving object. It mattered not that there weren't tires or a steering wheel. What did matter was, in his cute adorable brown eyes, it was a car.

Every now and again grandmother can stand the kitchen up and we pretend to make pies and cakes in the "trunk" (that's really the oven) and we can microwave Playdough food in the "glovebox." I can even get him to fry an occasional plastic egg on the "radio." However, when the moment fades the kitchen once again returns to its intended purpose, the two year-old's minivan.

He sits in the window which has a curved back making it the perfect bucket seat. He turns the control knobs from the oven to change the radio station and puts his toy trucks and friends in the trunk/oven when he drives away.  His toy keys turn the engine on via the drain in the sink and he skillfully turns the faucet as he heads off to the store to buy eggs, cheese and spinach to make an omelet.

I guess there's hope after all.

If you have a Sagittarian in your life than you already know that one of our most positive (and sometimes irritating) characteristics is that of being an eternal optimist. Our row boat can be full of holes and the water level is rapidly approaching the top of our head, but somehow we just know that we're going to make it to shore. When life hands us a lemon we'll invent a hundred different ways to use it.

Conversely, if you have a Capricorn in your life then you know they can be doggedly pessimistic. Not only does their row boat have holes, it's on fire, they've lost the oars and they're in shark infested water. When life hands them a lemon, they'll think of all the reasons why their lemon won't have any juice and a lime would've been a better option.

Welcome to my world.

So you can understand why this entire Mayan 2012 doomsday thing is not making for a happy home environment here on Lakeside Ave. in Webster.

What is the Mayan 2012 doomsday?

Well, historically and neutrally speaking, December 21, 2012, is the date the early Mayans marked as the end of their 5,125-year cycle calendar and consequently the world’s transition date into a new era. Some believe this transition will be peaceful while others warn it will be nothing short of explosive.

As the optimistic Sagittarian, I'm thinking we should stop paying all of our bills and take the money we'd be sending to the mortgage company, credit cards, car payments, taxes etc. and go on a vacation. If the world is going to end why not make the most of it and take the next fifty weeks and spend the kids’ inheritance by traveling all over America and ending with the entire family enjoying a month at Disney World?

No more dieting or worrying about who to elect as our next president. No housework, grocery shopping or arguing with the neighbors over who's responsible for raking up the leaves or shoveling snow off the sidewalk. Life can be one big chocolate filled party.

Maybe I'll get really wild and crazy by removing all the "do not remove" tags off the furniture and bedding.

Let's see what my pessimistic Capricorn hubby thinks.

Oh wait he's probably busy checking the U.S. Geological Survey website to see if there's been any earthquake or volcanic activity in the past 24 hours. After that he'll check in with the space observatories, global and local weather channels to see if there are unusual changes in the jet stream.

He'll probably call the National Audubon Society to see if migratory birds have been moving at lower altitudes or if there's a report of any animals going awry. Lastly, he'll need to check our own weather station and plot the daily variances with the same period last year. He'll also have to take the cars down to check their fluids and fill up the tanks. I bet he's also just about done enlarging our own underground safety shelter.

Maybe he'll get really wild and crazy by changing his mind and vote a Republican ticket.

You've got the idea.

I'd be interested in knowing how many of our readers believe in the December 21, 2012, predictions--

As I enter into the 62nd year of my life, I find it marked not so much by the predictable changes to my body, but by the way I see the world. Simple pleasures that once escaped me now effortlessly grab my attention and fill my life with everyday miracles.

I love to linger as the late fall sunsets splash their vibrant colors across the smooth surface of Webster Lake. I like to drive the speed limit  -- well most of the time -- and pity those drivers who dash from lane to lane only to end up at the red light just ahead of me. I bet they didn't see the fiery fall display along the French River or the impeccable summer flower garden on Route 131 in West Dudley.

"Why is everyone in such a hurry? I mumble to myself driving along Route 16 in the Douglas woods or on White's Highway in the spring time. "They don't see all of the wild mountain laurel bushes blooming."

These days I'm not surprised when a new season rolls around. Not long ago it seems that each season ambushed me. "Summer already?" "When did Winter get here?" I was so busy living for the future that I missed when it arrived.

Now, though, I take the time to prepare a spread of sunflower seeds, peanuts in the shell, and millet for the birds migrating through our neighborhood and study my field book for identification. If I had busied myself with the usual chores several months ago I might not have heard the commotion coming from our apple tree.

A flock of cedar waxwings were engaged in a unique feeding ritual when they passed a tiny apple back and forth, one to the other, until one bird finally ate it and they started the ritual again. If I'd been diligently dusting or vacuuming, I'd have missed it.

To fully appreciate this new perspective, I think you have to attain a certain age. For example, a few years ago, when the kids were still at home I forced them to look at the Hale-Bopp comet every night. "Can you imagine," I asked, passing the binoculars, "how lucky we are to be living right now?"

At first the kids uttered appropriate responses: "Wow! That tail is so long!" But soon the novelty wore off, "Just a minute," they'd say to their friends on the phone. "Mom says I have to look at some comet, I'll be back in a second."

After a couple of weeks, the kids perfected their timing as the Hale-Bopp appeared, they disappeared. But I was awestruck each evening and still wonder where in the universe that megalithic snowball came from and where it went - and will still be going long after we're gone. Maybe that's when the truth hit me; my life span really is infinite and I'm on the shorter end of the equation.

Nowadays, it doesn't take a universe-size event to amaze me. Little things that I've been too busy to notice now seem wondrous... such as cutting up fruits and vegetables. If my grown kids are visiting, I yell, "Come look at this!" They rush into the kitchen only to find me peering into a ripe cantaloupe or a green pepper. "Have you ever seen such a color?" I ask.

"No one has ever seen the inside of this melon but us!" I exclaim. "Look at the pepper's architecture!"

Even though the eldest is rapidly approaching her forties, the four of them are still too young to understand. "Mom wants us to look at another piece of fruit," she yells back to her siblings. "That's nothing," the next one remarks. "Last week she made me look at the inside of a hard-boiled egg."

Frustrated, I agree to no more eggs or peppers. But I've got a real surprise for them. Last week I bought a star fruit at the market. I might have to call the entire neighborhood in for this one.

Better yet, now that the two year-old grandchild has moved in with us, I'm looking forward to a new audience for my everyday miracles.

There are a few Christmas traditions in our home that surprisingly never seem to grow old with each new generation. The weekend before Christmas I make the first of our three big holiday family meals with a giant dish of five-cheese, veggie and Italian sausage lasagna, green salad and garlic bread. The family gathers together for a double-feature movie night starting with Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed in "It's A Wonderful Life" and followed with Chevy Chase in "Christmas Vacation" after the little ones are asleep.

I look forward to the time when the older grandkids have reached the age that they can better understand and appreciate the true meaning and importance behind the old Bailey Savings and Loan. I also love to relive my own personal enlightenment moment with Jimmy Stewart's character, George Bailey, as he struggles to find happiness and satisfaction living in the small town of Bedford Falls. There's nothing so mentally liberating as learning to "bloom where you are planted."

I equally look forward to hearing the grown children tease their father about how much he reminds them of Chevy Chase's character, Clark Griswald. My favorite moment is when Clark Griswald has had all of the family bickering he can stand and yells, "We're going to have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap danced with Danny #@*?%$& Kaye!"

However, since writing for our local newspaper I've started another Christmas tradition.

I like to tell the story of how we got one of the most famous phrases in the world of journalism, "Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Claus."

In September 1897 Francis Pharcellus Church, a former Civil War correspondent and editor at the New York Sun, received a letter from the then 8-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon.

In her letter, young Virginia wrote:

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

Church’s then anonymous editorial page reply eventually became, and remains, a perennial favorite. Translated into dozens of languages (including Latin), Church’s testament to the spirit of Christmas has the notable distinction of being the "most reprinted newspaper editorial." (http://www.newseum.org/yesvirginia/)

Responding to Virginia's letter, Church celebrates the innocence of childhood and the power of faith:

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.

Virginia was raised on the Upper West Side and was the daughter of a Manhattan physician. As an adult, she went on to pursue a career in education, eventually earning a PhD from Fordham University. According to The New York Times, she was the assistant principal of PS 31 and PS 401, a Brooklyn school “with classes held in ten hospitals and other institutions for chronically ill children.” Throughout her life, Virginia often received inquiries from those curious about her own letter and invitations to read Church’s reply. In 2006 Virginia’s great-granddaughter brought the original letter to the Antiques Roadshow, where it was appraised at a value of $20,000 - $30,000.

I better make sure I have enough lasagna left over to leave a plate for Santa. Merry Christmas!

December 12, 2011

Last week I was reading a story about the contents of a time capsule that had been encased in the cornerstone of a building for more than 100 years. The story made me wonder when we, as a country, started using time capsules to preserve a bit of history and, if I had the opportunity, what would I put in mine.

According to the World Book Encyclopedia website, the phrase "time capsule" first described a container buried by the Westinghouse Company in 1938 at the New York World's Fair. The capsule is scheduled to be opened in the year 6939. Since I probably won't still be writing for the Patriot when that happens, one of the younger reporters will have to cover that story.

The first known container with a fixed retrieval date was the Century Safe, sealed at the Philadelphia Exposition in 1876 and opened in 1976. The largest capsule is the 2,000-cubic-foot Crypt of Civilization located in Atlanta, Ga. It holds thousands of items including a windmill, books, tools, motion pictures, toys and much more. Sealed in 1940, it's scheduled to be opened in 8113. If Al Gore is right, no one will be left on the planet to open that one.

Since I can't wait for my family to open their Christmas or birthday presents, I doubt any one with my DNA will wait very long to open the Ginger capsule. So I'm going to make it easier on my family and have our first born great-great grandchild open it on their 16th birthday.

So now that I know who, when and why, what shall I place in the Ginger Capsule?

First, since music seems to have the ability to live well beyond the margins of time, I'd like to have a variety from all generations and genres. I'd include one of my mother's old 78 rpm records by Glenn Miller. (For those born after 1970, rpm is the acronym for revolutions per minute.) I'd pick something to reflect the feelings of a generation when being an American meant believing in freedom and our duty to defend that God-given right from a man who killed millions of people just because he didn't like their religion.

I'd also include one of my old vinyl LPs (long playing), a 45 rpm record with the funny plastic disc in the middle, an 8-track and cassette tape, CDs and finally an iPod just so they could see the incredible American ingenuity that made this country dare to dream and reach beyond the limits of our imaginations.

I'd want to be sure and include something from the Beach Boys so my family could better understand a time when teenagers only had to worry about the next school dance, sneaking a beer or a cigarette, graduating from high school and falling in love. A time when the word "Columbine" meant a wildflower and not the reason metal detectors and full time police officers are in almost every junior and senior high school across this country.

There'd also be Bob Dylan, The Beatles and The Eagles records, just to be sure my family understood I came from a generation that believed one voice combined with others, no matter how far apart, could change the collective conscious of an almost civilized world.

Next, just to show how much Americans love to laugh at our own shortcomings, I'd include VHS tapes of the I Love Lucy, Dick Van Dyke, Laugh-In, Smothers Brothers, All in the Family, Cosby and The Golden Girls shows.

Since almost anyone will do anything for 15 minutes of fame and some money, I'd include DVDs and Blue-rays of the unbelievably popular reality shows The Great Race, Fear Factor, Survivor, The Bachelor, America's Got Talent and The Apprentice.

To be sure they knew the value of honesty, I'd include newspaper stories about Richard Nixon, Jim Baker, MCI, Enron, Tyco, Bernie Madoff, Wall Street and the housing crisis.

 Just to help them understand how we sometimes had a twisted sense of humor, I'd be sure to put in a Rubik’s Cube, the programming directions for a new DVD player or television remote control, "simplified" federal tax forms and the granddaddy of all irritating modern inventions... the recorded message from an automated customer service phone call.

There'd be books about Martin Luther King, Abraham Lincoln and John Kennedy to help my family appreciate the sacrifices others have made so that we all could live in a world that rewards hard work and believes that no one has the right to deny another human being the right to live free and speak their own mind.

However, if I was limited to just one thing I'd write them a letter. I'd tell them how much I loved my family, believed in my country and stood by my faith in God.

I'd tell them that after all these years I've learned that no matter which generation you're from, there's no conflict so great, battle so violent, pain so devastating or burden so heavy that it cannot be overcome with a strong faith in God, respect for yourself and all other living creatures.

I think I'll put that letter under the Christmas tree instead.