First Lessons

I'm trying to spend more time writing and reflecting these days. I've been getting lazy about writing since it is no longer part of my day to day work. So here's to getting started. I'm going to work on a story a week (and perhaps this week, two).

My earliest memory is something of a Christmas story. So though it is out of season, I want to commit it to paper.

There were earlier memories... learning to whistle at my second birthday party (and forgetting again soon after). My family actually did birthday parties and organized things back then. I have tiny slide-frame memory glimpses of Santa Cruz, where I was born. Frame One: the ocean, Frame Two: the redwoods. I remember Valhalla, a cabin in the woods (Frame Three) with a conference center. A narrow bridge (Four) crossed a deep ravine (Five, Six). And the memory of Valhalla's pond full of goldfish (Seven).

My dad was a minister back then. He was one of those brilliant people who had many, many issues and imbalances. His vocation was undoubtedly the wrong one for him. The urging of his parents had sent him down this road. Without going into it more deeply, I can simply say he had good intentions and bad outcomes.

When I was two and a half, he decided to take some members of his congregation on a tour of "the holy land." (Much of the telling of this story is from my mother's frequent recounting of it - there are only a few vivid moments and memories that are truly my own.) I'm told that we all made many sacrifices in preparation for the trip. Apparently, my family motivated me with the enticing promise that I would get to see "where the baby Jesus was born." My primary sacrifice was in having multiple shots and vaccinations. There were weeks and weeks of talking about the trip, packing, saying goodbye, and finally boarding a plane (and it was truly a plane, and not a jet, back then).

We left California and headed east. From New York, we headed to our destination. We ended up landing in Iceland due to some mechanical problems which were very traumatic, I'm told. I know for me the main trauma was a bit of motion sickness and a queasy feeling. I was thrilled to deplane in Iceland. It seemed to me that we had arrived. In the airport at Reykjavik, there was a small creche scene. Try though my mother might to dissuade me, I was convinced that this was where the baby Jesus was born. "No, no, this isn't it," they softly insisted. I was confused and disappointed. We had come all this way.

We continued on and at last arrived at a hotel in Jerusalem. Again, the requisite creche scene on display - though more ornate and detailed. I was thrilled. We had made it at last to where the baby was born. "No, honey, this still isn't it. Though we are getting closer." Hopes were dashed again.

Finally, the day arrived when we would take our tour to the spot where people said Jesus was really born. I suppose the anticipation was at some sort of peak for all these pilgrims, who had come from far away. We boarded our transportation with the tour group, our earnest guide pointing out significant bits of history along the way. At last we arrived at the structure, the church.

We followed the guide and went downstairs. Each place we stopped, the tour-folk asked detailed questions. "When was this discovered?" "How can they be sure?" "How many feet deep is the excavation around here?" and so on. In the midst of all the questions, I apparently found my way through legs and sat down at the little manger scene and began to sing. My mother's voice would break at this point in retelling the story. "Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head." The adults hushed and then grew silent. I finished the song I knew so well (for heaven's sake, people had been singing it to me for weeks). My mother would finish the story, saying, "There was not a dry eye in the place."

I always loved to hear her tell that story. Unfortunately, the bright glimpses of that trip which remain with me to this day are: the gifts people gave me and the restroom facilities we encountered at each place. I remember a kind, smiling man giving me a yellow plastic purse filled with chocolate coins. I remember a kind woman who took care of me and let me eat peanut butter (there were many things we were not allowed to eat on that trip), and someone with a Hershey bar. And I remember slanted dirt floors, a dirt backyard, giant (to a two-year-old) holes in the ground over which we were supposed to stand and pee. I'm surprised I didn't get a bladder infection, because most places I simply refused even to try. But I do always have a warm and fuzzy feeling when we sing, "Away in a Manger."