walsh’s wonderings

Dangers of Early Spring

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on March 8, 2012, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)

There are dangers in hoping for an early spring, chief among them the fact that it might actually occur. While it’s perfectly natural to wish for the life-giving renewal promised by this change of season, some things just need to stay dead—and like zombies, no one’s going to rest easy until they do.

By the time President’s Day comes around, I’m usually done with winter. I’m sick of shoveling snow and peeling my frozen wipers off the windshield each morning. There’s something about going to work before the sun comes up, only to drive home from work in more darkness, that screams “Seasonal affective disorder!” The short days and long nights make me feel as if work is the only thing I have time to do. That, and watch The Housewives of Orange County—both of which are depressing upon further reflection.

That’s why I greet each February day above 50 degrees like a long-lost friend. Unfortunately, when I’m under the sway of the sunshine streaming through my office window, I forget all the things I never liked about that long-lost friend, like why that friend was “lost” to begin with. Let’s face it—we live in Connecticut, and we get to enjoy the full range of the four seasons. (Those who don’t tend to winter in Florida until the brutal humidity of June sends them scurrying back to us.) The gift of this is that we are never more than a few months away from starting the next season.

People who live in consistent climates will never know the joys of busting out the short-sleeved shirts and swimming trunks for the first time in months, nor will they revel in the newfound warmth of a sweatshirt pulled out of the attic as the first fallen leaves crunch under their feet. They will never experience the absurdity that finds someone scrambling for a jacket to escape the chill in autumn when the thermometer drops to 60, only to see that same person toss away that jacket to “enjoy the fresh air” the first time it rises to 60 in the spring. We are a population with multiple personalities—personalities we change along with the clothes we pull out of mothballs. Our seasonal short-term memory allows us to be surprised and delighted at each change in the weather even as we forget the negatives that accompany them.

I forget that spring is rainy, for instance. Really, really rainy. By mid-April, I find myself longing for the calming effect of snowfall as opposed to the withering fear about whether my gutters will hold up under the next downpour. While we can simply brush the snow off our coats, rain soaks us like drowned rats—there’s no choice but to peel off the layers and hope they dry before summer. In the words of poet E.E. Cummings, spring is “mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.

Gardeners understand this best of all. We study the Farmer’s Almanac for months, planning for the earliest possible moment to plant the seedlings we’ve nurtured all winter in the kitchen window. Understandably, we live in healthy fear of the killing frost that accompanies false hope. We remember the glistening sheen of ice atop fragile bulbs, a botanical infanticide that results in barren, brown patches that blight our gardens until the summer plantings take hold. Now, before the lilies get a chance to poke through the ground in their leafy show of rebirth, we shovel some extra snow on the ground where they lie dormant, reminding them that winter’s still here.

It’s in the space between these seasons, this perennial purgatory, where the real danger lies sleeping. Lulled into a false sense of security, it’s easy to react to the sun on our faces by opening up the storm windows or burying the scarf and gloves in the back of the closet. Kids put away their sleds just as their parents start to sign up for morning Zumba classes, both secure in the knowledge that school cancellations are no longer an issue. All too soon, however, we find ourselves regretting the decisions that led us to put the patio furniture out or hold off on that last oil delivery for the furnace. Spring is a liar—look no further than last year’s snowfall on March 21, the first day of the season. Dumping the snow out of our loafers while digging the car out of a snowdrift makes it easier to remember what we should never forget: we can’t trust the change in seasons.

Instead, be careful what you wish for, especially if you’re hoping for an early spring. That’s not a long-lost friend walking toward you—it’s a zombie, and sometimes it doesn’t know whether it’s dead or alive. Keep your jackets on and your shovels handy.

Continue ReadingDangers of Early Spring

The Toilet Roll War

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on February 23, 2012, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)

I noticed it as soon as I walked in the room, balanced precariously on the edge of the valance.

Amateur, I thought, taking it down and tossing it into the garbage. Why not just string Christmas lights around it next time?

Married couples develop odd little games after a while, and Kristen and I are no different. These games are never stated as such, and very rarely acknowledged. It might be a game of, “Who’s Letting the Dogs Out Before Bedtime?” or “Who Will Empty the Dishwasher?” My favorites are, “Who Will Break Down and Find That Smell?” and “Who is Gonna Answer The Damn Phone!

Nothing, however, trumps the Toilet Roll War. Ours started innocently enough, as these games usually do. My wife crawled into bed and bonked me on the head with an empty toilet paper roll.

“You didn’t replace the roll again,” she said, settling into her pillow.

“Yes, I did.” I replied, putting my book down. “I just put a new one in there this afternoon.”

“No, you just threw a new roll on top of the toilet.”

“Like I said,” I replied. “New roll.”

Some consider the source of marital friction to be an indication of that marriage’s overall health. My wife and I are lucky in that we never argue over the important things like love, respect, or the general direction of our lives. Instead, we can major in minor things like how to properly replace bathroom tissue. Every couple has its own bathroom battles, of course—some argue about whether or not to roll up the toothpaste from the bottom, others over the failure to wipe the mirror after brushing one’s teeth. For my wife, an empty toilet paper roll is like a raised middle finger.

As a man, if toilet paper is within my reach, it’s where it’s supposed to be. Even the inventor of modern toilet paper, Joseph Gayetty, thought so little of it that he had no problem watermarking his name onto each sheet. It makes no difference to me whether the paper is on the roller or resting comfortably on the shelf of the toilet. In fact, the very idea that toilet paper would require a holder at all seems ludicrous. I would not have included the unfurling of tissue paper on my list of required assistive technology, yet no bathroom in America is complete without a toilet paper roller. Instead, I would argue that it’s done more harm than good. As anyone who’s ever been in a rush can attest, a hastily pulled handful of toilet paper can spin the rest of the roll into a heap on the floor. Our efforts to re-roll the paper onto the holder look like a child’s attempt at mummification, and the paper rips at every subsequent turn of the roll. This is progress

Any visit to a public restroom reveals the ludicrous extremes to which this can be taken. Large metal contraptions encase the toilet paper and turn this delicate moment into an exercise in fly-fishing as we carefully pull just hard enough to hook the paper without ripping it in the process. I’ve seen Rube Goldberg machines that were less complicated. There’s even a protocol for how the paper should be unrolled, as a recent Cottonelle poll showed that 72% of respondents prefer the paper to pulled over the roll as opposed to under. My mom takes it a step further, pointing out that the paper must be folded to a point on top of the roll for guests. However, if my guests need an arrowpoint to show them the direction to pull the toilet paper, I doubt I can trust them to flush the toilet afterward.

To highlight my cavalier attitude toward the proper disposal of empty toilet paper rolls, my wife took to placing them on top of my toothbrush. I would then place the roll on her bedside table until it magically appeared under my pillow later that night. So began an escalating series of attempts to hide the rolls in odd places: in briefcases, jewelry boxes, cereal boxes or freezers. The game-within-a-game became a contest to see which of us could use up just enough toilet paper without taking that very last sheet, as the person using that last sheet has to replace and dispose of it properly

Lest you think my refusal to dispose of used rolls is inconsiderate, know that I’ve maintained the moral high ground here because my wife has trumped my lack of bathroom etiquette: she leaves the toilet seat up. Oh, she won’t admit it—in fact, she claims I am the one who always forgets to put the seat down. She clings to the idea that the toilet seat should always be put down, but not the lid. I try to explain that the toilet seat and lid are actually two parts of the same mechanism: both parts should be down when leaving the bathroom, and both of us should have to lift something before every use. What she’s really asking me to do is to optimize her toilet experience, to keep it in the “ready” position for women at all times. How dare she, how dare all women, demand such special treatment!

And so I poured my energy into more and more extravagant ways to hide the empty rolls. I strung several from our bedroom ceiling, even taped some together into a makeshift sailboat. Still, it’s getting harder to keep topping ourselves, to search for clever and increasingly flamboyant ways to get out points across. If I was single, I’d probably just leave it at, “Let’s make sure we replace these rolls when they’re done.”

But I’m not; I’m married, and I’m currently attempting to construct a mini Eiffel Tower out of the empty rolls I’ve been collecting for months…

Continue ReadingThe Toilet Roll War

Short, Gray Locks of Love

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on February 9, 2012, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)

“No, you’re not.” My wife said it so quickly, and with such authority, that I was stunned into silence. I had tossed my comment out casually, delicately, as one would a Nerf ball to a small child.

“It shouldn’t take that long,” I replied. “You said so yourself—it grows so quickly.

“You know you’re going to look ridiculous,” she sighed, using her time-tested strategy of allowing me just enough rope to hang myself. Or, more appropriately, enough hair to embarrass myself—which in this case would be a minimum of ten inches. That’s the shortest length for a donation to Locks of Love, a non-profit charity that accepts donations of human hair and money to make wigs for needy children who’ve lost their hair due to medical conditions.

The idea had come to me while thinking of new ways to get my eighth grade language arts classes excited about community service. Middle school students are terrific at raising money for various causes, but I wanted to challenge them to stretch their wings and find additional, novel ways to give. What better way to advertise this than having their middle-aged, follicle-challenged teacher attempt to grow out his hair for the first time since college? After all, almost 80% of all hair donations are made by kids to help other kids.

To appreciate the sheer absurdity of it, one must realize that I’ve maintained a Beetle Bailey buzz cut for the last twenty years. My wife had never seen my hair touch my eyebrows, much less go past my shoulders. Telling her that I planned on growing a ponytail was like telling her I planned to fly to the moon… only more embarrassing. This way, she’d have this wild gray mane accompanying her to every wedding or funeral until I was allowed to cut it.

At the time of my announcement, I hadn’t cut my hair in almost four months. It was with great excitement that I pulled out the measuring tape, thinking the length would probably fall somewhere between Moses and a teenage Andre Agassi.  For someone who’d learned how to shear my own hair because I didn’t think my wife cut it short enough, it felt like my Jim Morrison period. Alas, it turned out to be closer to the retired Agassi—two inches at its longest.

It was time to acknowledge that my hair had long passed its expiration date—my hairline has receded to the point where my forehead has become a five-head. Even I realize that the best I could hope to accomplish was the dreaded Garfunkel, a hairstyle that can best be described as patches of thinning hair clinging desperately to the top and rear of one’s head. Much like Garfunkel’s similarly challenged partner, Paul Simon, my head was never meant to permanently host hair.

Still, I harbored hope that I had one last run in me. I don’t have the money to buy a fire-engine red Porsche, so this seemed like the best option for my mid-life crisis. I looked up the requirements and found that donor hair must be ten inches or longer, clean, devoid of curls, and bundled into a ponytail. The hair cannot be bleached or colored. So far, so good. I figured I’d gut it out for the rest of the school year and cut it in June, maybe at school, and maybe at the hands of my students.

The dream died when I looked into how fast hair can grow—turns out it grows at a rate of around six inches per year. Outside of amazing advances in hair growth technology, the process would take me until late April, 2013. There’s no guarantee my wife wouldn’t strangle me with it long before then

Ironically, the good folks at Locks of Love took the decision off my hands. While they do accept donations of gray hair, they don’t use it in their hairpieces—they sell it to offset their manufacturing costs. Because they only provide hairpieces to children, and mostly young girls at that, they don’t want to send them out looking like Phil Donahue.  It’s a charity, not a wig manufacturer, and the organization shells out $1,000 for each custom-made hairpiece.

So gone are the hoped-for comparisons between me and Russell Crowe, who donated his hair after filming Robin Hood a few years ago. Instead, my goal has become as short as my hair: I’m gunning for hair just long enough to cut and bundle into a short tail. It looks like I might be able to pull off about five inches by the end of the school year. Not exactly rock star length, but long enough to serve a great charity in their efforts to help kids.

On the other hand, if I can find the time to painstakingly glue each strand together, I just might have enough to create my very own Donahue for my old age.

Continue ReadingShort, Gray Locks of Love

Warning: Graphic Nudity

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on January 26, 2012, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)

I heard it while taking my shoes off in the airport security checkpoint: “We’re in the backscatter line—we should refuse to let ‘em search us!” It was the same drunken voice that had been complaining about SOPA, marijuana laws, and American foreign policy for the last twenty minutes as I stood behind him in the interminable lines of Orlando International. It’s hard to take someone seriously when he’s wearing a white Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and smells of onions and stale Budweiser. It was all I could do not to ask him to set down his Red Bull long enough to read the many signs we’d passed stating that backscatter imaging was, in fact, optional.

Don’t get me wrong: I get as worried as the next guy when it seems the government wants to infringe on my rights (see SOPA—the Stop Online Piracy Act), but I don’t understand the furor over these scanners. In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that I could care less about things like facts or justice or even human decency if I get to spend less time at the airport. I’ve had root canals that were more pleasant than my time at LaGuardia.  If these things get me through security faster, then do that voodoo that you do so well.

While not yet as advanced as the X-ray tube in the 1990 Arnold Schwarzenegger film Total Recall, the Transportation Safety Administration (TSA) has installed these body-imaging machines at airports across the country.  They scan passengers and create images of each body (without clothing) for a TSA agent seated in a separate area. It’s supposed to identify hidden metals, chemicals, or explosive materials, but it mostly seems to identify nipple rings or forgotten sets of car keys.

Many are concerned about the radiation and accompanying cancer risk these scanners represent, but the TSA claims it’s less than a typical cell phone transmission. They go on to explain, more distressingly, that backscatter technology produces less radiation than two minutes of actual flight time on an airplane. Someone should let them know that’s not exactly reassuring. Instead, they should tout the Food and Drug Administration’s finding that the potassium ingested from eating one banana produces the same radiation dose as these scanners. Someone needs to warn Curious George, not frequent fliers.

While we can still choose the old metal detector and a mandatory patdown, I’ll gladly put up with a little extra radiation if it means I can avoid that awkward groping. After I’d forgotten I was wearing suspenders last week, I was asked to wait in a holding pen for someone to feel me up. The sight of another man, without a medical degree, snapping on rubber gloves and telling me how he was about to touch my privates is reason enough to opt out. “I’ll only go over your sensitive areas with the back of my hands,” he said, as if that really made a difference. I’d already had to take off my jacket, my shoes, my watch, and my wedding ring in addition to removing my cell phone, keys, laptop computer, and any change I had in my pockets. What made me think they’d let me keep my dignity?

Still, it was inevitable that the thing that makes backscatter scanning so effective, seeing through our clothes, would also make it so controversial. Many privacy groups are outraged at the thought of strangers viewing what is essentially a crude charcoal drawing of blurry naked people holding their arms up. Despite the fact that these images are about as titillating as an Oscar statue, the TSA has had to install additional software that further obscures human features. A company called Rocky Flats even created radiation-shielding underwear (appropriately adorned with a fig leaf) to keep the prying eyes of the TSA away from your shadowy nether regions.

In another nod to privacy concerns, the TSA has had to swear on a stack of Bibles that no backscatter images would be printed or scanned, ensuring Playboy will never get to publish those x-ray images of my mom when she flew up to visit last Christmas. Her hair was a mess, so it all worked out for the best. If they want to keep my images, however, I say have at it! Pin ‘em up on the wall, Photoshop me onto a unicorn, I could care less. Besides—and I hope this doesn’t sound conceited—I think there is a real need for more naked x-ray pictures of my body in this world.

Let’s face it: Americans are a target around the globe. Airport security is a necessary evil, so if checking my dental records or determining whether I’ve been circumcised will get my plane to leave the gate on time, then let’s just get this over with. In the meantime, I’ll hope that the lugnut in the lead-proof undies will still be waiting in the patdown line as I cram my overstuffed carry-on bag into the bin over his seat.

Continue ReadingWarning: Graphic Nudity

The Dead Zone

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on January 12, 2012, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)

The final verse of James Watson’s 1711 lyrics for what we know as “Auld Lang Syne” perfectly captures the sentiments of football fanatics the world over at this time of year:

Since thoughts of thee doth banish grief, when from thee I am gone;
will not thy presence yield relief, to this sad Heart of mine.
Why doth thy presence me defeat, with excellence divine?
Especially when I reflect on auld lang syne.

Football widows might notice the dead eyes of their spouses as fantasy football players mourn the loss of the beloved game-day buffet known as the NFL Red Zone channel. While some might not be familiar with the real-time highlight show that rivets their loved ones to their TVs for seven straight hours each Sunday, they’ll probably notice the sad, restless clicking of remote controls from the living room couch. If lucky, they might even notice some chores getting done.

What began in 2005 as part of DIRECTV’s NFL Sunday Ticket package became available to other cable subscribers in 2009, mostly as part of an additional tier (Public service announcement: time to cancel that tier until next season, guys). The channel cuts back and forth between games each time a team enters the “red zone” inside its opponent’s 20-yard line. It’s as if a Jedi master has taken your remote: no commercials, no timeouts, no “down time.” The channel often splits the screen to show two or even four games at once in a dizzying ballet of violence. It’s a game even soccer fans from across the Pond could appreciate.

What really catapulted the popularity of the channel is the abundance of real-time statistics and injury information throughout the afternoon. While unabashedly perfect for the gambler, it’s taken root among fantasy footballers everywhere. Fantasy football leagues allow an “owner” to “draft” players and tally up their statistics each week while squaring off against another owner. As a result, those active in fantasy football leagues are like hobbits every Sunday, huddled in front of whatever statistics they can cobble together from web sites or highlight shows. The Red Zone channel saves them from the agony of having to wait that extra one or two minutes for information on the latest scoring play.

Anyone who’s ever run a fantasy football team knows it’s like having a second job, and keeping up with your players’ stats is akin to tracking the stock market just before the closing bell. Because there are no commercials, no promos, no breaks in the action before switching to the next game, a seven-hour slate of games can easily steal the most productive hours of the day from the unwitting viewer. Like many vices, it becomes addictive; as more and more cable companies offer their packages for streaming to cell phones, no fall wedding will ever be safe from covert updates again. Not since Ronald Reagan decided to leave Bonzo and enter politics has fantasy had such an impact on reality

Of course, this type of immediate gratification comes at a cost. In giving us the television equivalent of a sandwich with the crusts cut off, it encourages the celebration of individual players rather than the fostering of loyalty to any one team. A die-hard Miami Dolphin fan since birth, even I found myself clicking away from their latest blowout loss in order to catch the more competitive games on Red Zone. Growing up, I was often inconsolable after a loss; now, I simply move on to check out whether my fantasy team is winning. In short, it takes the fanaticism out of being a fan, and that just might signal the eventual decline of America’s most popular sport.

Still, it’s hard to fight progress without seeming like an old codger. I try to explain to my students how, before the age of ESPN and endless highlight shows, we actually had to watch the games to find out if our favorite team won. They look upon me with pity, as if I were extolling the virtues of rural electrification or disco. In an age where I can get email notifications of breaking news from around the world moments after it occurs, I might have to forget my outdated notions of the game I’ve always loved. Maybe I should more fully embrace James Watson’s advice from a time even before leather helmets:

Should Old Acquaintance be forgot, and never thought upon;
The flames of Love extinguished, and fully past and gone.

May happiness and health knock on the door of your home in 2012. As for me, I’ll have to remember to keep the volume down if the games are on.

Continue ReadingThe Dead Zone

Tis the Reason for the Season

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on December 22, 2011, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)

Christmas, with its message of “Peace on earth and goodwill toward man,” has always been my favorite holiday. Unfortunately, it can sometimes bring out the worst in people who forget the reason the holiday exists in the first place.

This ugliness often arises out of minor things like the lighting of Christmas trees or the placement of nativity scenes and menorahs on town property. You’ll read about it in the choice of songs for the middle school chorale concert. You’ll see it in the billboard wars about the authenticity of religion itself between atheist groups and religious organizations. You’ll hear it in the whispered conversations at the water cooler: “I hate when people say, ‘Happy holidays,’ just because they’re too afraid to wish me a Merry Christmas.”

This last one represents a popular refrain from many conservative Christian groups who claim that “they” (whoever “they” are) are “trying to take Christ out of Christmas.” This is a flawed argument at best, mainly because it represents the same ideals of Manifest Destiny that history has come to look upon as both ignorant and arrogant.

To begin with, the Church did not decree the official date of Christmas until the middle of the fourth century, adding another holiday to an already-crowded slate. If anyone should feel their holiday was co-opted, it would be the adherents of Brumalia, an ancient Roman solstice festival honoring the god Bacchus generally held for a month and ending December 25. Gheimhridh was celebrated by Druids and Proto-Celtic tribes at Newgrange as early as 3,200 BCE. Babylonians held an annual renewal celebration, the Zagmuk Festival, that lasted 10 days to observe the sun god Marduk’s battle over darkness. Saturnalia, a Roman feast commemorating the dedication of the temple of Saturn, lasted from December 17 – 23. The Buddhist celebration of Sanghamitta, honoring the Buddhist nun who brought a branch of the Bodhi tree to Sri Lanka, has been held around the winter solstice for over 2,000 years. Polytheistic European tribes celebrated Midvinterblot, a mid-winter-sacrifice, while the Zuni and the Hopitu Indians celebrated Soyal, the winter solstice ceremony held on December 21, the shortest day of the year.

Put simply, Christianity was late to the party. In fact, many customs from pagan Scandinavian and Germanic celebrations of “Yule” in northern Europe (which started on December 25) are present in Christmas traditions. Items like the Christmas tree, the Christmas wreath, holly, mistletoe, and the Yule log were taken right from Yule customs. It’s interesting to note that the Puritans, the very people who colonized America, banned the celebration of Christmas in England before coming here. The crime of observing Christmas was punishable by a fine in the thirteen colonies, and was still not widely celebrated by the time of the Declaration of Independence.

What’s so disappointing is that in almost every culture, this was meant as a time for renewal and hope, a way to connect the community to that which was most important to them. That was the hope of Maulana Karenga, a key figure in the Black Power movement of the 1960’s and 1970’s, when he created the Kwanzaa festival in 1966 as a week-long celebration of African-American heritage and culture. Each night is dedicated to one of the seven principles of African heritage: Unity (Umoja), Self-Determination (Kujichagulia), Collective Work and Responsibility (Ujima), Cooperative Economics (Ujamaa), Purpose (Nia), Creativity (Kuumba), and Faith (Imani).

Twenty-two centuries earlier, Yehuda HaMakabi (“Judah the Hammer”) led a successful revolt against the Seleucid king Antiochus IV. During the re-dedication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem, Judah ordered the Temple cleansed, the altar rebuilt, and the lighting of a menorah—a gold candelabrum whose seven branches (representing knowledge and creation) were to be kept burning each night. Because the Greeks had defiled all the oils, they were left with only enough to burn for a day. Somehow it burned for eight days, long enough to prepare a fresh supply. The Sages of that generation decreed that the 25th of Kislev would begin eight days rejoicing in commemoration of this event, and that the lights be lit in the entrance to their homes to publicize the miracle.

According to the Bible, Jesus’ birth itself was the ultimate expression of God’s love, a testament to His capacity for forgiveness.  How ironic, then, that the celebration of this birth is often accompanied by such rancor. Trivializing the true meaning behind these holidays is bad enough; we’ve managed to do a great job of obscuring the poignancy of the celebrations through crass commercialization and willful ignorance.  Even worse, however, is that we use this distorted lens to create even more divisions between “the others” and ourselves. When we allow ourselves to be blinded by the twinkling lights atop the candles or the trees, we fail to connect with the purpose of any of these holidays.

A full expression of one’s religious beliefs need not include the condemnation of other schools of thought. Instead, this energy should be poured into fully celebrating that which we hold dear. When we reach out to help others in need during this holiday season, the symbols we wear around our necks don’t matter half as much as the generosity with which we open our hearts. The differences between the methods of expressing our faith mean little compared to importance of the expression itself.

Therefore, it is with the utmost respect and sincerity that I offer you this Irish holiday blessing: “May peace and plenty be the first to lift the latch on your door, and happiness be guided to your home by the candle of Christmas.” I wish you all a happy and healthy holiday season… that is, with the exception of those who are easily offended—they probably won’t have a particularly happy holiday, anyway.

Continue ReadingTis the Reason for the Season

Jesus vs. Santa (A Young Catholic’s Struggle)

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on December 15, 2011, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)

As the Salvation Army Santa rang his bell for donations in front of the Stop ‘n’ Shop last week, I couldn’t help but think that this really improves his image. Like many kids, I had thought of Santa as my “go-to guy” for years, writing more letters to him than to all my relatives combined. Unfortunately, he’s only human. Or mostly human. Either way, he can only be trusted up to a point.

My Sunday School teachers always tried to put the holiday season in perspective: “Christmas is more about the birth of Jesus than the appearance of Santa Claus,” they’d say. That was always a tough sell. The end of the calendar year was like a holiday clearinghouse: Halloween, All Saints Day, Thanksgiving, the Immaculate Conception, Christmas, and the Feast of the Solemnity of Mary (New Year’s Day) all fell within two months of each other. In this crucible of holiday craziness, young Catholics like me were told we should turn to Jesus, not Santa Claus, for all we needed. However, material concerns often outweigh their spiritual counterparts when you’re eight and you’d trade your immortal soul for a new GI Joe with the Kung-Fu grip.

It was a delicate dance. How could we manage to keep both of them happy so as to maximize our Christmas haul while still keeping a door open for future salvation? After all, this wasn’t Jesus vs. the Easter Bunny. All the Easter Bunny did was hop around and hide eggs—he didn’t even have an opposable thumb. Santa, on the other hand, was famous for making a list and checking it twice. Whereas Jesus did not appear to retain a written record of my past transgressions, Santa seemed to hold a grudge.

Santa also provided children with a clear list of what not to do, and everyone knows it’s easier to be told what not to do than to be told what you should do. Don’t pout… check. Don’t cry… check. Jesus, on the other hand, was fond of saying things like, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” I mean, how do you know when you’re doing that right? It was easier to follow the things like the Ten Commandments, which seemed to have been written by Santa. He also made it clear that there would be immediate consequences if we didn’t do what he told us to do. He saw me when I was sleeping, and he saw me when I was awake. If I screwed up, he’d keep my presents and put a lump of coal in my stocking. Coal. I might as well have woken up to the bloody, severed head of a horse in the bed next to me. Santa dealt in black and white. With Jesus, I figured I’d always get a second chance.

Santa had immediacy: we could sit on his lap in the shopping mall and put the screws to him about that new bicycle we wanted. One time when I was eight years old, I jumped on his lap and begged for a new Lionel engine train.  Santa leaned into my ear where my mom couldn’t see and whispered, “You’ll have your train.” I was elated. I had backed a winner! I was still very fond of Jesus, but he had never looked me in the eye and promised to deliver like Santa. Jesus was fond of cryptic messages and fuzzy promises of rewards later on, but Santa was as subtle as an oncoming bullet. “You’ll have your train.”

On Christmas Eve, I went to midnight Mass with my family and tried to smooth things over with Jesus. I wished Him a happy birthday and hoped He understood. The next morning I ran downstairs to clear a spot in the basement for the train tracks. Santa was known to have somewhat questionable taste at times, and my impatience grew with every unwrapped pair of socks or knitted sweater. It wasn’t until the last present was opened that I began to doubt Santa. Surely he was on his way back, I thought, secretly putting out the fire in the fireplace so he wouldn’t hurt himself. The train set must have gotten stuck in his bag.

And that’s the rub with Santa. I learned that sometimes he couldn’t help himself, making promises he couldn’t keep. After all, if he’d had any restraint, he probably wouldn’t be so morbidly obese. We forget that he moved off the grid, setting up shop in the middle of nowhere like the Unabomber or Abe Vigoda. How could I expect him to remember the important things like my train set when he didn’t even have the foresight to install fog lights on his sleigh?

So ended my crisis of faith. It was fine to believe in Santa up to a point—as my mom would say, he was only doing the best he could. However, much like the Easter Bunny, I couldn’t put all my eggs in that basket.

Continue ReadingJesus vs. Santa (A Young Catholic’s Struggle)

Bathed in Controversy

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on December 1, 2011, and in the Fairfield Sun on December 8, 2011, both in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)

Some say bath towels, like milk, have an expiration date. Regardless of race, creed, or nationality, there are really only two kinds of people in this world: Those who change bath towels after every shower, and those who don’t.

Towels matter. Because we use them while we are most exposed, this decision speaks to who we really are. If you don’t believe me, ask around. I had a friend in high school that recoiled in horror when I shared that my family only switched towels once a week. “That’s disgusting—how can you dry yourself with a dirty towel?” In his eyes, it was as if I was drying myself with a used diaper, but my mother was washing laundry for nine people each week. Unless a root system was actively growing on the towel, we used it.

The Turks, who first popularized today’s bath towel in the 18th century, never had to deal with this: They bathed weekly at best.  I was once a Turk myself, spending most of my pre-teenage years trying to convince my mom of the wisdom of minimal bathing. Alas, she clung stubbornly to the Western tradition of bathing several times a week. Each of her kids was assigned a worn bath towel, large enough to do the job but small enough to be useless as a cape. We would toss them in the hamper each weekend and grab another, usually while soaking wet.

There were inherent flaws in this system, of course. As anyone with brothers can attest, teenage boys are required to wipe any number of unspeakable things on their younger brother’s bath towel. Whether you need to stem the blood from a shaving cut, cover a sneeze, or wipe the excess oil off your bike chain, a little brother’s towel does it all. It only gets worse at summer camp or college—without a blood bond, things are wiped on towels that would curl the toes of even the most experienced portable toilet cleaner. Small wonder that some won’t trust a towel that doesn’t come right out of the wash. Believers in the “All Need Antiseptic Linen” school of thought (I wish I could think of a good acronym for this) therefore insist that towels are automatically “unclean” after one use.

However, the “Did I Replace Towels Yesterday?” school of thought (I know—I need an acronym, but what?) seems to be gaining momentum. Even hotels, once a playground stocked with innumerable clean towels, are beginning to embrace my mom’s philosophy. Bathroom cards read, “Save our planet: Every day, countless gallons of water are used to wash towels that have only been used once. A towel on the rack means, ‘I will use again.’ A towel on the floor means, ‘Please replace.’ Thank your for helping us conserve the Earth’s vital resources.” While trying to guilt us into helping them save on their laundry bill (and who knew Tide was a vital resource), they manage to paint the “All Need Antiseptic Linen” folks as wasteful rather than “clean.” Hoisted by their own petard!

A simpler way to end the controversy is to ask the obvious question to those still clinging to the “All Need Antiseptic Linen” group (I know, I know—they need a shorter name). In short, what the heck are you doing to that poor towel? It’s meant to dry the water off freshly showered skin; if we’re not clean after a shower, when are we? True, there are areas of the body that might require stringent sanitary attention—places my mom, a former nurse, used to put thermometers to see if her kids were really sick. But this problem is remedied in the shower, not with a towel. Each of us made a fateful choice the first time we bathed alone: When we came to that fork in the road, we became either top-to-bottom towelers, or bottom-to-top towelers, and that has made all the difference.

A unique logic is employed in this crucial decision. I won’t use the towel after I finish drying my feet, for example. However, I’ll put it on the shower rack and use it the next day as if the Towel Fairies had been hard at work all night, dry cleaning. When I take two showers in a day, I won’t dry myself with the towel if it’s still damp; that’s what my wife’s towel is for. Only if hers is damp will I make that long walk to the linen closet for another towel. It’s almost as if I can hear my mom saying, “Starving kids in China would kill for a moist towel, and here you are asking for a new one!” as I reach around the guest towels for a spare. Guest towels are always off-limits, like foldable fine china. Our guest towels can spend entire presidential administrations in the closet until a guest appears, but we’ll dry ourselves with the bath mat or hand towels before we touch them.

Like most of the truly important questions in the universe, there is no simple answer as to how often to change a bath towel. If you change every day, you’ll either destroy the planet or run out and have to use the hand towel. If you keep your towel a few days, expect someone else’s toothpaste in your hair. On the other hand, if we’re honest, we can come to an agreement on one thing: there really isn’t a choice at that “fork in the road.” To be anything other than a top-to-bottom toweler is barbaric and wrong, and if you come to any other conclusion, you’re all wet.

Continue ReadingBathed in Controversy