We are bombing the city I long to love, Shiraz.

Extensive damage to residential and commercial areas of the metro area are reported. We have totally destroyed the emergency response center. Fifty-two casualties, including twenty deaths, have been reported in Zibashahr, a suburb of Shiraz.

Care is apparently being taken in targeting: none of Shiraz's famed mosques, the tombs of Hafez and Saadi, its world-famed gardens, the Shah Cheragh Shrine (pictured), and others of this world  UNESCO site have reported any damage. Hardly good news amongst that of the casualties and destruction of this illegal war of choice. but a glimmer of hope for recovery of the city I so long to see and love one day.

This war may seem remote, unreal, but it is brutishly real, indeed, to friends of mine (un-named until it is safe to name them,)

Saturday, Feb 28th. Another day Donald Trump failed to understand a lesson from History

Even as Senior US Diplomats and Mid-Eastern experts, aka Trump’s golfing partner and Son-in-law, held on-going negotiations over Iran’s nuclear ambitions, Netanyahu and Trump launched their own Pearl Harbor attacks on Iran. Iran claimed to have just offered terms that were better “deals” than Obama and Biden got, deals that should have appeased Trump and Netanyahu. But when Trump is fixated – in this case, on using his and Pete Hegseth’s new toys—like it or not, war is what you’re going to get.

Provoked? Some might argue so – Hamas, Hezbollah, the Beirut barracks bombings of 1983. But certainly not self-defense; no one attacks in self-defense of negotiation. On our part, a war of choice. Iran has retaliated with attacks on Bahrain, Dubai of the UAE, Egypt, Jordan, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia. Yemen threatens to strangle the Straits of Bab al-Mandab, imperiling world trade; Iran, the Strait of Hormuz, driving up oil prices. Even Turkey may be drawn in. Russia has sounded off but so far only with words. Europe remains silent.

We have started a broad, Mid-East war without authorization, without our Western once-allies, with faulty rationale and childish hopes that out of the ashes of a repressive theocracy will bloom a popular democratic republic. Oh, what a bold and visionary Mr. Trump – idiot!

What is more likely to emerge is a state only a Stephen Miller could respect – one rooted in the power of an ideologically driven, resentful, military-militia seeking revenge on Israel and her allies and determined  to dominate its Arab neighbors.

The cork isn’t likely to be put back into this bottle for years to come.

BTW: the Lesson? Don't muck about in the Middle East unless you know exactly how you will get out of the muck. (The Dardanelles. Afghanistan -- for Russia, for England, for the US. Iraq.) 

A Mockery

Today's State of the Union Address makes a mockery of responsible governance and accountability. The drafters of Article Two of the Constitution, which deals with the Presidency -- the who, what and how of him (so far) and how he is to be held accountable, probably were thinking along the lines of town halls and annual meetings. 

The Constitution reads, Article Two, Section 3,"he shall from time to time give to the Congress information on the State of the Union, and recommend to their Consideration such Measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient; . . .." 

George Washington delivered the first such "information" on January 8th, 1790, in the Federal Hall in New York City. (Congress met in New York for a year, then in Philadelphia while awaiting a new Capitol in the Federal District of Columbia.) President Washington's address of 1,089 words took about 10 minutes to deliver. 

Washington had four matters to "recommend to their Consideration": a standing army; a national University; support for and development of manufactures (by which he threw his full endorsement to Hamilton's vision of America as against Jefferson's America made up of self-sufficient farmers and plantation owners,) and -- of course -- immigration. 

Washington's concern about immigration was how to promote it and to link it with programs to integrate immigrants into their new country, something my Grandfather Halley Waller became renowned for 100 years later, as developer of the YMCA's Americanization Programs.

Isn't it interesting: 200 years, the same themes -- national defense, education, industrial development, and immigration. Whatever . . ..

Jefferson was not so hot a public speaker, so he submitted his annual report on the State of the Union in  writing. That became the precedent all the way up to Woodrow Wilson, who again delivered orally, in person what was then called The Annual Message. 

Mass media broadcasting gave an irresistible opportunity to shift from reporting to selling, to shift from Congress as audience to public as audience. Coolidge, who had so little to say, was first to use radio to say it to the nation in 1923. Television was even more irresistible; Truman latched onto it for his address in 1947 and that's when the Annual Message was reframed as The State of the Union Address.

And who turned it into a show? Why, Ronald Reagan, of course, in 1982. He called out a heroic Lenny Skutnik to stand in the gallery and be duly honored; such now de rigeur elements of the evening are called "skutniks" by the show's writers and producers. 

From 1982, year by year, in the hands of smooth-talker Clinton, good ol'boy Bush, and the Don, the state of the Union Address has become a performance, more show and less report, fewer recommendations for consideration. It is now a mockery of responsible governance.

What to do about it? I am going to send this to Adam Smith, my representative, and to my Senators Patty Murray and Maria Cantwell. And I will not tune in again until there is some indicator that changes are being made. 

This year's State of the Union Address was important for what was not addressed: an immanent and illegal attack on a sovereign nation; a dangerous build up of debt -- corporate, personal, and national; continual deficit spending; voter suppression; irresponsible trade policies; unaffordable child care; the needs of the unhoused; and growing inequities in household incomes and wealth. 

All politics have performative elements, but when performance outweighs substance, politicians beware. The public will see through empty show soon enough, and demand substance once again. Remember "Where's the beef?" ?

 

Have I the Strength? Have I Time? Have I the Wit?

Do not read this as an end-game announcement. Nor as s surrender to self-pity. I merely intend to describe what the last couple of months have been like – just so you know, as Ann so often says. I guess the more telling question is why do I want you to know? Well, whatever, I do.

Each cervical vertebrae, yeh, in the neck, has an opening called a foramen between itself and the next. Through these foramina (isn't that a lovely word?) flow lubricants, pass the spinal nerves carrying  messages to and from elsewhere in the body, activating various muscles, and cushioning the discs that pad the bones.

And when those foramina (I love new words!) get inflamed and squeezed shut all hell breaks loose. And that’s been my story of the last two months: severe neck pain and restricted range of rotation of the head (leading to my having given up the car keys;) sharp pain in the rib cage, fiery torso, painful hip, a constant cramp in the butt, a tendency to walk haltingly and to stoop. To straighten up and to walk briskly, even with my cane, are acts of will as Ann regularly reminds me.

And my time (and Ann’s since she must drive) has been dominated by a parade of appointments: multiple CT-scans, multiple MRI’s, Dr. consultations, cardiac-watch on anti-coagulant levels and blood density, and on and on. Tomorrow: a Spect scan. Never heard of it? Neither had I.

Earlier this week I acknowledged to my Hamilton class President and the college alumni office the troubles I have been having fulfilling my responsibilities as class secretary. I resigned that role: simplification.

I now will focus on two projects (plus daily journaling, from which this is derived): seeing Making Music with My Friends through to publication and Constantine’s Flame to installation, I hope at Horizon House.

Have I strength to wrestle stone? Have I time to finish the manuscript? Have I wit to be interesting in both formats? Well, that's my intent -- to make time, to build strength, and to nourish the wit. Cheer me on. I need your energy. 

 

PS At one place in this piece I place punctuation inside a parenthesis; in another, outside the parenthesis. The hell with it; just hedge the bet.

Wallers Formed My Political Values and Views

 

Dear Clan:

As some of you know, I have been journaling since last Sept 12^th  (the opening gun of my 92nd lap)and have kept at it quite religiously. Also, quite satisfyingly. What the regimen has done is make me more aware, more observant, more willing to open myself to memories and reflection which I note and describe. Someday, when I’m gone, you can read it – maybe.

My reflections have touched on family history and that, in turn, has touched on material suitable for a One Small Step engagement. What’s One Small Step? This is an initiative of NPR’s StoryCorps designed to bring Americans with different political views into a single, respectful, 50‑minute conversation—not to debate, but to recognize each other’s shared humanity and to search for shared values or views. It’s framed as an antidote to polarization, grounded in listening rather than argument. The structured conversation probes how one’s political views and values have developed; what and who influenced one’s adoption of a political philosophy, belief, or viewpoint. In the last year, I have had three such One Small Step encounters and seek more. We locally, from Wider Horizons and/or Braver Angels, who wish to participate find conservatives generally reluctant to take part; many more blues than reds are willing to partake. StoryCorps reports that this is the case nationally, as well.

An acquaintance of mine, who holds diametrically opposite political views from mine (i.e., a MAGA Trump loyalist) turned down my invitation to do a One Small Step, saying something along the lines of it would be useless, you’re too far gone in your close-minded liberalism. This shows I failed to convince him that I wanted no debate, no proselytizing, no Road to Damascus conversion, just an exchange of histories of how our political values and views were established. Apparently, he distrusts me.

So, here’s what I might tell him about my history if given the chance. I know some of you of the Holmquist/Waller Clan will find of interest my version of our Waller family history. Adrien may have a different take and I hope she will share that. But, for most of you from the Holmquist side, this will be more than you really want to know and I will not be offended if you bail out from here.

            For One Small Step:

My strongly liberal political values were forged from those of Grandfather Halley Templeton Waller and his son, Fletcher Charles Waller. Halley was one of four brothers between ages 1 and 8 orphaned in 1880 by the death of Henry Curtis Waller, killed by measles. The brothers’ mother, Josephine Martha Bogue, followed Henry four months later, dying of a broken heart people said. They lived in Enosburgh and Barton Landing, VT. Percy, at 13 months, was adopted by his aunt and uncle Templeton; the other three were raised by the Bogues.

Grandfather Halley was a Baptist. His grandfather had turned away from the Congregationalists and founded a Baptist Church in Royalton, VT at the start of the 19thC over the issue of baptism: he was said to prefer to worship “with people bathed in the spirit of the Lord rather than were merely sprinkled.”

Halley was bright and ambitious. The Bogues helped Halley attend The Vermont Academy and from there he earned admittance to Brown University, class of 1901, the “noughty-ones.” He was putting himself through school by teaching elementary children in a one-room schoolhouse near Providence. He roomed with a minister and was increasingly drawn into Christian values and views and into the orbit of the local Young Men’s Christian Association. The YMCA of Providence appointed him chair of its college relations program. Halley proved an adept organizer, leader, and ambassador.

Upon graduation from Brown, Halley matriculated to the Baltimore Medical College (not a predecessor of John’s Hopkins but of the University of Maryland’s Medical School. Two of his brothers were physicians graduated from BMC.) But Halley withdrew from medical school in his 3^rd year to answer a call from the Providence Y to join its staff.

In 1905, he answered a second call from the Cambridge, MA Y to become its Secretary, what we would call its Exec Director or CEO. It was in this role that my father’s and subsequently my political values were most powerfully shaped. These were the years of max immigration from Eastern and Southern Europe. The mills and watchmakers of greater Boston were hiring. But what they wanted were laborers who could speak English and who had become comfortable with American culture. The Cambridge Y under Sect. Waller developed an effective Americanization program, including ESL; it drew strong industrial support for the Y and impressed national YMCA administrators. Sect. Waller was a comer.

His college friend, Fletcher Brockman, had gone on mission to found the Y in China. He asked Halley to join him in that work and was seconded by the International Division of YMCA. But Halley’s beloved wife, Florence Henrietta Cook, was suffering a difficult pregnancy. Her docs did not want her to take such an arduous trip across the continent and Pacific to Shanghai. So Halley put China aside. Fletcher (for the missionary) Charles (for Florence’s father) Waller was born in Cambridge in 1911, at the height of the influx of immigrants.

Meanwhile, the auto industry was booming in Michigan, Indiana, and Northern Ohio. Cars needed tires, five of them apiece. Seiberling (Goodyear), Goodrich, and Firestone needed workers in their Akron tire plants, workers who spoke English and who would become dedicated to American mores and values. At that time, Akron was the fastest growing major city in the country. Most of the immigrant arrivals in Protestant, conservative Ohio were coming from Eastern and Southern Europe – Roman Catholic Italians and Hungarians, Secular and Jewish Czechs, RC Slovaks, Orthodox Greeks, generally less well-educated than their more familiar German, Irish, English and Scandinavian predecessors. 

What the rubber industry needed was what Boston had: the Y’s Americanization programs. Sect. Waller’s programs celebrated these new citizens and encouraged pride in their national traditions blended with patriotic pride in their new homeland.  His Y taught American history, English, civics, Constitutional rights of free expression and assembly in civic associations (read unions?)

Somewhere around 1913, Halley T. Waller got a call to become Sect. of the Akron, Ohio YMCA. Akron, at that time was among the fastest growing cities in the country.

1914: the Great War. Halley Waller headed the Akron War Bond drive, established Y-based programs of war relief, and sponsored a variety of USO and veterans’ relief programs.

The war shut down migration from Europe. Asian immigration was centered on and absorbed by the US West Coast. Detroit, Chicago, Pittsburgh, and Akron began to promote migration from the South; the Great Migration of Black rural labor soon to encounter the explosive, racial animus of Northern urban citizens.

In the meantime, the Akron Y was recipient of generous capital investment for facilities and expansion of its programs from the rubber-baron families, i.e., the Sieberlings, Goodrichs, and Firestones. But it also attracted backlash, and by the early 1920s, from the Ku Klux Klan. By this time, Halley Waller was serving as elected chair of the Akron School Board, so he had two strikes against him in the eyes of Klansmen: Americanizing Catholics at the Y and running an integrated public school system. In 1922, the Klan ran school Board candidates against him and took over the school board. A cross was burned on their front lawn; Dad, ten at the time, thus received his first taste – a bitter, fearful distaste – of racial discrimination and intolerance, what Timothy Eagen called “The Fever in the Heartland.” 

The heat got too much for the rubber families, who withdrew support of the Y. In 1924, the Y board asked Halley to resign. Akron's new school board forced Halley’s resignation. Public attitudes were changing. Even Halley, in 1924, gave grudging support for the new national laws establishing quotas on immigration. I was shocked to discover a speech he gave to the Akron Chamber of Commerce expressing concern about northern European values being subsumed in the uncontrolled wave of immigration from Eastern Europe and the US South.

Dad was withdrawn from the public schools and sent to Western Reserve Academy, in Hudson, Ohio. (BTW, Rob Janes, another Ohioan, was graduated from Case Western Reserve before going to med school.) As the Klan wave receded, in the mid-20's, Halley was invited to join an advisory panel by the Akron Y but no longer served as its Secretary. He joined Northwestern Mutual as an insurance agent  worked to re-establish his civic leadership and esteem, particularly for his resistance to the Klan.

From this background came Dad’s, and through him, my political values of civic service, public courage in the face of intolerance, and liberal respect for all callings of men.

As for Fletch Waller, Sr: he went to Colgate on a football scholarship which was cancelled his sophomore year after a blown knee injury. He majored in industrial psychology and worked his way through with summer jobs as tennis coach and (armed) bodyguard to the Seiberling kid (in response to the dreadful Lindberg kidnapping, 1932). Dad worked in the sleep lab at Colgate during school. He met Eleanor Taylor, Syracuse University coed; they secretly married at Easter, 1933.

Fletch left Colgate prematurely, in May of’33, to get the jump on job hunters coming out of Eastern schools all within a three-week window of late May and early June. Through his and Grandad Halley’s contacts in Akron, B F Goodrich picked him up for their industrial relations department because of his studies in industrial psychology. But there was position budgeted. So, first, two years of 20 hours/week of night shift on a heel press line. This is where Fletch developed his respect for labor, for workers, for unions. These years of the late ‘30s impressed on him the terrible toll un- or under-employment takes upon workers and families.

He was promoted to line supervisor but argued that he should retain his union membership. The union disagreed, strongly: for his trouble, Dad was physically thrown out of the union hall and had his arm broken. Eventually, B F Goodrich moved this smart, college guy into time studies and onto the management development ladder.

December 7^th, 1941, the day that changed the direction of our lives. I had recently turned seven. That Sunday evening, Dad, borrowing Grandad’s Pontiac coupe, was taking our cousin, his Aunt Evie’s son, after a weekend visit back to the Navy’s Sandusky training station on Lake Erie. I seated between them, the radio on, and came the flash interruption announcing the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. I sensed their alarm, their outrage, but little grasped how that day was to alter forever the course of our lives.

December 8^th, 1941. Monday, my mother made me stay home from first grade in order to listen on our huge, console radio to President Roosevelt’s speech to Congress, the famous “day of infamy” speech. To be kept home upset me, for I was a good boy who had learned how important it was to attend school. I have a strong memory of that day at home and the sound of Roosevelt’s voice, but I’m not sure if that's a memory of the event or of multiple replays of the famous call-to-arms. Later that afternoon, the Senate declared war on Japan 82 - 0, and the House, 388 – 1 (Montana pacifist Jeannette Rankin dissenting.)

December 11^th, 1941. On this day, Hitler acted out his 2^nd worst decision: his declaration of war on the US. The first? to invade the USSR in June of 1941. Had Hitler and Mussolini not declared war on us in accordance with their alliance with Japan, we likely would have stayed out of the European war in order to focus entirely on the hated Japanese Emperor and his Premier Tojo. Hitler’s two decisions rang the death knell on the Drittes Reich. 

            That afternoon, the US declared war on Italy and Germany. Now, it was full-on WWII.

This was the day in’41 that Dad tried to enlist at the Akron Army Recruiting Center. Rejected:30-yrs old, married, two kids (Carol born in January of ’39,) a trick football knee, and working in a war industry, rubber: tires, tank treads, seals, boot soles & heels, essential bushings, transmission belts, and such.

Soon Dad turned to Taylor family acquaintance Larry Appley, recently appointed Advisor to Sect. of War Stimpson on civilian and personnel training. Larry arranged an interview in Washington. We, none of us save Dad, ever saw Akron again.

Fletch was assigned to the War Dept.’s Office of Civilian Manpower and posted to McDill Army Air Force base, then under construction in Tampa, Florida. Mom, Carol and I moved into a tiny little rental on a dirt road on the edge of St. Petersburg. Dad worked six days a week, essentially disappearing from Carol and my lives. Grandma and Grandpa Taylor wintered each year in St. Pete, so we were not entirely alone.

In small town Florida, I saw prejudice, discrimination, and segregation in action, while watching Mom treat all people with respect and dignity. Aside from that, my Mom imparted more personal than political values. I recall, later, her taking me, a third-grader, to get my first library card; to open a savings account; her admonitions to “look it up”, to know; her management of our Cub Scout pack. During the AEC years in Washington, it was she who taught me to drive and parallel park. Politics and public policy? Not so much; that was Dad’s province.

At McDill Field Dad forged his respect for independent contractors; his appreciation of the cruel discrimination against Negroes (we didn’t use Black back then) who had not migrated Northward. He encountered bureaucratic nonsense from the Pentagon, nonsense he castigated in colorfully irreverent telegrams north.   

Soon enough, he received a summons to appear at his boss's desk ASAP: "if you know so damn much, get your ass up here." I recall we taking him to his priority reservation out of Tampa’s tiny airport on a Lockheed Lodestar, the first commercial airliner I had ever seen. Dad went, expecting to be fired.

Ellie received his wire the next day: "Gather up the kids and meet me in Washington." He had been appointed Deputy Director of the War Department Office of Civilian Manpower. I remember the subsequent two-day drive in our '41 Oldsmobile with its wondrous Hydra-Matic transmission. (A new car? Dad had ordered it when the public learned US production of civilian automobiles was to be suspended for production of tanks, Jeeps, trucks, army staff cars, and aircraft. Our Olds was among the last that rolled out of the plant in September of ’41. We had the Olds until1953; I learned to drive in it.)

About the drive north, I remember Mom's confusion at DC addresses and the mystery of traffic circles. But most vividly, our awesome nighttime arrival with the Lincoln Memorial welcoming us from the DC end of the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Eventually, we found our way to the Bethesda house he had rented and to an anxious reunion. All in time, the next day, to register me for 3rd grade.

His experiences at MacDill Field imbued him with tolerance and a hatred of prejudice and discrimination, values he passed on to his children. He also acted out his impatience and irreverent disdain for bureaucratic impedimenta, attitudes I unfortunately have come to share.

Fletch Waller, Sr. went on to develop a remarkable career of public service at the War Department and then at the newly formed Atomic Energy Commission. He worked 6 ½ day weeks during the war, and six-day weeks until 1952 when he left government to join private industry again. 

BTW, Colgate came back during the Pentagon years and offered him his diploma – provided he pay his library overdue fines with interest. He told them to go to hell. So, no, Fletch Waller never graduated from college.

Liberalism, intolerance of intolerance, respect for work, civic courage, faith in education, skepticism of ideologies, urge for pragmatic solutions – all products of the lives of Halley Templeton Waller, of Fletcher Charles Waller, and of Eleanor Taylor Waller, of the facts of their public and private lives and of the family mythology that has grown up around them. I'm no saint, to be sure, but these are the values I aspire to live up to.

 

So, that’s what I would tell my reluctant acquaintance if given the chance. Perhaps he’ll read it here. I want to learn how his very different views developed, first out of curiosity and second because it might help build bridges to friendship. 

Our Creche

This is our creche -- proudly taking center stage in Waller household Christmas decor since 1982. 

Now, this may surprise those of you who know that I am not a Christian. Raised in a proper Christian home by a Methodist mother and a father raised in a devout, nominally Baptist home under direction of a skeptical mother who could swear like a cavalry trooper and a YMCA Secretary father, "Secretary" being the title for what you would call CEO. 

I absorbed and accepted the ethical and moral precepts of Christianity with one glaring exception: I cannot affirm a belief in the Apostle's Creed, that essential statement of Christian belief adopted by Charlemagne in early 9thC -- an affirmation that God exists, that Jesus was bodily resurrected after three days in the tomb, and risen, he shares with God responsibility for the universe. Bodily, physical resurrection? No, not I. And when it comes to God, I am an agnostic. I cannot profess belief in God, especially an interceding God; I simply don't know. And for me to affirm belief in resurrection would be dishonest. 

Millions of Christians, I am sure, share my disbeliefs. Many accept the hypocrisy; as a Sicilian might say, futtatini, fogedaboudit. Many Christians take refuge in a rationalization that the words are symbolic, not literal. That sophistry won't wash with me. The Cardinals of the 5thC and 6thC Gallic churches who developed the creed believed the words literally. Those early Christians who pegged their membership in the brotherhood of Christ to the Creed, espoused its literal truth, The oath they were taking when reciting the Apostle's Creed was binding acceptance. So, I cannot be a Christian.

Perhaps, I am Christian in form but not in substance. But, if not a Christian, why the creche? Well, first it's part of a comforting tradition; we're used to embracing it in the usual story of Christmas. Second, this creche has some special meaning for my family, which I'll tell you about. Third, it suggests some important truths about the life of Jesus of Nazareth, and about the Gospels. And last, it gives us some clues about the birth of Jesus, the Nazarene. 

The first point -- a comfortable, familiar part of Christmas -- is self-evident. Let's move on: our Creche.

In 1981, after 23 years with General Mills, I was recruited to join Marriott as Senior Vice-President of Sales and Marketing, We moved from Minneapolis to Bethesda, MD. That first year was very stressful, very intense; lots of travel, lots of difficulty explaining to my peers and my employees what I was up to as I strove to transform a  transactional, sales culture into a marketing and customer service culture. 

My wife, Barbara, was seven years along her journey, our journey, from alcohol dependency to sobriety and self-development. The damage her illness inflicted on the family was evident in our lack of confidence and in the kids' inability to engage with new people and new situations. And our relationship, hers and mine, was slowly developing but in a new and uncomfortable way. 

As we entered fall of 1982, I conceived a Christmas trip to a destination in which we could relax and enjoy one another away from ties to parents and old acquaintances, to build a new experience and new memories. I wanted to avoid a Marriott resort and the gossip it would inspire, but it was getting late for access elsewhere. My secretary told me Bill Marriott had a casita con servicio at Las Brisas and would rent it out when not in use. I checked with my friend, head of Marriott's HR; he assured me there would be no reputational repercussions about my renting the chief's get-away, and so in mid-December off we went to Acapulco.

Christmas in Mexico: we learned trees were sold in the market, mainly to ex-pats at exorbitant prices, but what about decorations? We gathered candles, flowers, and banners that proclaimed “¡Feliz Navidad" y "Próspero Año Nuevo!”

One afternoon before Christmas Day, Barbara came home with a Mexican creche featuring a black-eyed, dark-haired, brown-skinned Holy Family. We were charmed, and for the next 43 years they have taken center stage. And now it all takes on new meanings, given J D Vance's neo-Catholic genuflecting before a white, blonde, blue-eyed Mary thoroughly vetted and approved by Steve Miller.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I love our creche for its story, undoubtedly false, but with important hints about and links to historic truths. The author(s) of The Book of Mathew had to invent an apocryphal census ordered by Caesar Augustus with a mandate that families had to register at the original home of the male head of household -- Mary on an Ass and no room at the inn and all that -- in order to get Joseph and Mary to Bethlehem to fulfill Micah's prophecy that the Messiah would be born in the city of David i.e., in Bethlehem. The Book of Matthew is clearly aimed at a Jewish audience and argues that Jesus is indeed the Messiah, the Christ for which they wait. Apocryphal? There is no record, no mention in Roman or Greek chronicles of such a census, Not a trace of what would have been a pivotal event in the history of Rome's sponsorship of Herod's reign over Judea and Galilee.

Another link to probable truth: the Three Wise Guys following a star in the East. This is the best clue we have to date the birth of Jesus. A helical rising of Jupiter, i.e., a rising of a celestial body in the pre-dawn East illuminated by the sun which is still below the the horizon. This one in mid-august of 3BCE, a beaut because Jupiter was in conjunction, that is, lined up with, Regulus, the brightest star in the Constellation of Leo and at 1.4, one of the brightest stars in the night sky. Out in the desert, with the planet and star blazing away in the pre-dawn sky, this would have been impossible to ignore. Coming as it did in the Constellation of Leo, court astrologers would have said it foretold a royal birth, the birth of a King. Greek, Roman, Sumerian, and Babylonian astrologers all related Leo with royal, kingly qualities. Given Herod's tenuous hold on power and, as the scribes tell us, his paranoia, it seems to me perfectly believable that he would send counsellors to investigate (brown-skinned, semitic counsellors, as in our creche.) Ergo, the three Magi, whom we have come to call Gaspar, Balthazar, and Melchior (they are not named in the Bible.)  The celestial conjunction recures, of course, a pattern of every 71 years, then in 12; it recurred in 1873 and 1885; 1956, and 1968. The next recurrence will be in 2039. But I don't expect to be here for that one, either.

Our creche is special. You can see why. Its simple peacefulness, its balance and hand-crafted beauty, its meaningfulness make it magical. When I go, where will it go? Who will be its caretaker, its custodian for Wallers/Stoners/Janes-Wallers/Janes yet to come? Someone will, for our creche is treasured and growing more so every year.