It’s all over the news — the picture of the Pope wearing what looks awfully like a Santa Claus hat. Actually, it’s the kind of warm red and ermine winter hat that popes and kings and other nobility wore in cold climates way way back in the olden days. And, from what I understand, the pope still carries on that tradition. I’m wondering if this pope was astute enough to wear that hat as a reminder of just where the Santa hat — and the Santa legend — came from. It’s probably just the kind of hat that the European version of the original St. Nicholas, who was an actual Catholic bishop, wore.
Somehow the hat just doesn’t work without the beard.

That’s what my mother watches. Sometimes all day. The other night it was a Bing Crosby Marathon. She lasted until midnight and I taped the two that came after. I have to admit that I enjoyed the simplistic, heartwarming, idealistic stories of both Going My Way and The Bells of St. Mary. I know that I must have seen them as a young Catholic child, but I didn’t remember them. And those old movies sure do have sound tracks that are much clearer to the old ear than the newer films. I can’t help wondering how come, given all the new audio technology available now.
I also have to say that I do not use the word “god” in the title of this post in any literal way. It’s just an expression to me — like “go to hell.”
Which is why I am so delighted with that brilliant judge barring Intelligent Design from Pennsylvania’s Biology classrooms. You can read about and link to the specifics of that landmark ruling here.
And, speaking of going to hell — or heaven — the Barbara Walters special on what various people think “heaven” is was most encouraging because it showed just how much that idea is simply a matter of faith and belief — and, as far as I’m concerned, lots of entertaining brainwashing.
What is even more encouraging for me to hear is also quoted on the ABC “heaven” site:
For most people, proof of Heaven’s existence is not necessary. Faith is all they need. Dr. Dean Hamer, a geneticist at the National Institutes of Health, thinks he has figured out why this faith comes easily to some, but eludes others. “Whether a person is spiritual or not is not necessarily a matter of their will. It may be something innate about their personality,” Hamer tells Walters.
Hamer suspects spirituality might be a personality trait encoded in our genes. He began his research by asking more than 1,000 people to answer a series of questions about faith and spirituality. He then tested DNA from the study participants and found that those who scored highest on his survey had a mutation of at least one gene that seemed to affect their level of spirituality. He named it “the God gene.”
And, in response to the illusion that some people have about “near death” experiences:
British psychologist Susan Blackmore has spent decades searching for a scientific explanation: “When the oxygen levels fall in the brain … you get massive over-activity in the brain. … I think there is a true transformation, but not because you’ve been to heaven.
Ah. A “god gene.” I guess I was born without that.
Although, I did have a “near death” (sort of) experience in which I saw a white light toward which I felt I was flying. And I heard a strange buzzing in my ears, which — as an English major — made me think of Emily Dickinson’s poem that goes “I heard a fly buzz when I died.” I was sure I was dead.
I had just given (breech) birth to my daughter, and had gone through excruciating pain before anyone believed me enough to give me enough drugs to knock me out cold.
And so I felt myself flying toward a bright light in the center of my vision, listening to the fly buzz, sure that I was dead and regretting terribly that I would never even have a chance to see my baby.
Slowly the buzz became the voices of the doctors and nurses, and the light focused into the lights on the celing as they were wheeling me to wherever they were wheeling me.
So much for my “near death” experience.
But I have had transcendent feelings while meditating — a phenomenon also explained in Walters’ report:
Hamer also notes that researchers have been able to detect changes in the brain when people are in the midst of intense prayer or meditation.
Dr. Andrew Newberg, a neuroradiologist at the University of Pennsylvania, is one of those researchers. Newberg says his research shows a marked increase in brain activity in the frontal regions of the brain. “At the same time,” he adds, “the parts of the brain that monitor our sense of time and space became less active.”
Newberg says this contributes to an individual’s feeling of “losing that sense of self.” The feeling, he said, is “attributed to God, for example. And then they feel that God is providing them that energy, that feeling.”
Heaven… I’m in heaven,
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.
And I seem to find the happiness I seek,
When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.
Heaven… I’m in heaven,
And the cares that hung around me through the week,
Seem to vanish like a gambler’s lucky streak,
When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.
Oh, I love to climb a mountain,
And to reach the highest peak.
But it doesn’t thrill me half as much
As dancing cheek to cheek.
Oh, I love to go out fishing
In a river or a creek.
But I don’t enjoy it half as much
As dancing cheek to cheek.
Dance with me! I want my arms about you.
The charms about you
Will carry me through to…
Heaven… I’m in heaven,
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.
And I seem to find the happiness I seek,
When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.
I just love those Turner Classic Movies.

Go and read his clever SALTINE CRACKERS

I don’t know why I thought things would be any better with my mom after my short visit to my daughter and her family. If anything, they’re worse. I’m not sure if it’s her hearing or her mental processing, but she never seems to know what I’m asking her or saying to her. I see now that I have to get her on a regular schedule so that she doesn’t sleep until noon and then stay up until midnight.
Every ten minutes, she asks me if I’m going out. If only I were.
she has something special for you she tells you. she has a beautiful dress, she says, that you can wear when you go out. you want to remind her that you never wear dresses anymore and that you only go out to the store. but something a friend recently told you made you realize that it doesn’t do any good to be logical to someone like that. “I’m a good mother,” she says and brings out a dress that you never liked on her when she wore it. “I never wore it,” she says. so you take it and tell her that you’ll hang it in your closet and it will be there if you ever need to wear it. that seems to satisfy her, as she continues to extoll the beauty of the dress and how you will look beautiful in it.
I wish with all my heart that things were different in this little picture in which I live.
And in the big picture? Well, Dean Landsman has the right idea, as he shares this hope for the future:

The moon shining through my grandson’s window is almost full. We turn off the ceiling light and watch it slowly move through the shadowy tree branches.
It’s been a day of hard playing — we march through the house playing pretend instruments, throw pillows at each other, sit on the floor and play construction site. HIs mom uses boxes from recent deliveries to build a connected series of tunnels and towers with window flaps that open and close. It’s his big rig cab; then it’s his secret bed; then it’s the wizard’s tower and he’s the Boy Wizard and I’m the Mommy Wizard.
Grammy, Grammy, he calls. Come and play.
Tomorrow I leave my full heart behind with an overabundance of toys to be opened on Christmas Eve.
I’ve already opened the gift to me from my daughter. It couldn’t be more perfect, and when I can take a photo of it, I will post it here.
Tomorrow I leave.

bIX finished my weblog redesign. There are still a few little tinkerings I want him to do, and my New Year’s Resolution is to update my sidebar stuff. Please let me know what you think, especially if it’s easier to read for those of us whose eyesight is not what it used to be.
I’m blogging from western Massachusetts, where I’m having fun playing pretend firefighter with my grandson.

SNOW SNOWPLOWS.
No mere snowmen for my grandson. If it’s not a truck, it’s not worth bothering with. I’m bringing my heavy duty boots.

They got buried where I’m heading tomorrow — off to see the little wizard who knows how to make me forget the stress I live with every day.
I’m packing the car with holiday presents, including a really nice cable stitched afghan I made for my daughter and son-in-law.
On may way out, I’m stopping at Sam’s Club and stocking up on bread baking supplies which I will split with my daughter, since we both have new bread baking machines. There’s nothing like a home made loaf of oatmeal and honey bread made from scratch, not a mix.
Baking bread and knitting. So much for my dance club days.
I bought myself a new mini digital camera that can also record video and voice. I’m hoping that b!X will explain how to upload that stuff so that I can post an actual “moving picture.” Of course, first I have to figure out how to use the camera; my daughter is usually a big help when it comes to that.
My sibling will be left to take care of my mother. If previous history is any indication, that means she will be calling me every day asking when I’m coming home.
But I’m going, come hell, high water, or even another snow storm.

From Randi Rhodes e-newsletter — a chance to see “BUSH WOMEN” in action.

This one’s my bible-belcher favorite. I hope that you can get to the video. It’s really scary.
Then, of course, There’s Ann Coulter. Seeing and hearing her on video , makes it hard to believe that there are people who actually think she’s not just a wacked-out self-serving publicity hound. I’m glad to hear that she got a booing reception at UConn.
On the other hand, as Rhodes also points out, there are down-to-earth women like Representative Cynthia McKinney, who embarassed the hell out of Rumsford with her direct questions about Dyncorp Sex Rings, Missing Pentagon Trillions, and 9/11 Wargames.

You just never know about families. I mean, who would have ever thought that I would give up my “golden years” to take care of my mother.
Then there’s what’s happening to the venerable doctor that I used to go to, back when I lived a lot closer to his office. Not too long ago, I got a letter in the mail from the young doctor with whom he was sharing a practice saying that Dr. Skiff had retired. Come to find out (from another patient of his who had spoken to the venerable doctor, who is 77 years old) that it’s far from the whole story. Apparently Dr. Skiff’s children from his first marriage (one of whose spouses works in the office) did some maneuvering to get him “fired,” after first slowly siphoning off his patients to the other doctor. I’m sure there’s a whole lot of resentment over the second marriage and second batch of children and a whole lot of other relative things going on, but it still sounds like a rotton deal for my ol’ GP.
In actuality, Dr. John Skiff, is a board certified internist who comes from a medical lineage. His father, Dr. J. Victor Skiff has a golf course named after him in Saratoga Springs. The Dr. John Skiff whose patients I and my family were for more than 30 years proved to be an excellent diagnostician, figuring out — after I had been to several specialists for a swollen knee that kept me on crutches for a month — that the swelling was due to salmonella poisoning from a bout of food poisoning I had several days before the swelling appeared. A dose of the right antibiotic, and the swelling immediately disappeared. Before I went to Dr Skiff, the specialists had coritsone-shot me, MRId me, tried to fluid-drain me, and finally gave up. Dr. Skiff was like a medical sleuth — he would keep investigating until he found the culprit.
Dr. Skiff’s patients either hated him or loved him. As he was diagnosing and treating, he would expound on what he was finding, why he thought it was what he thought it was, other similar cases he had had — or the lack of similar cases –, what the various options were for treating, etc. etc. etc. He also loved to try out new therapies and was always up on the latest.
My kids never had a pediatrician. I never had a separate gynocologist. We all went to Dr. Skiff for everything, and he never failed us. Except once, when I was switching birth control pills and he never mentioned that I needed to use additional birth control because I might become fertile until the new dosage took hold. And that’s how theonetrue b!X came about. So I guess he didn’t fail me after all.
It’s one thing to be able to continue to choose your own life’s path as you get older. It’s another to be manipulated by family.
And sometimes it’s hard to know whether you’re choosing or being manipulated.
you sit at the dinner table and she talks non-stop. she says that she remembers the first time she met you. you and some of your women friends were having dinner in her apartment. you have no idea what she’s talking about. you ask her if she knows who you are. she changes the subject. talks to you as though you were a childhood friend of hers, or maybe her sister. the characters from her life are all confused, confusing. are you my mother, she asks. no, I’m your daughter, you say. yes, she says and talks about the pretty dress you wore when you crowned the Virgin Mary in the May procession. she wants you to be that girl again, and you know that you were never the girl she thought you were to begin with.