Category Archives: Holidays

The Little Drummer Girl from Bridgeport Connecticut

December 16, 2015HolidaysBridgeport Connecticut, Saint Ambrose, The Little Drummer GirlTeri

I spent a couple of hours yesterday reading through a creative writing fellowship application, and came to the following question:

What was the first piece of creative writing you ever produced?

Since I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, I really had to go far back into the past for the answer.

And since my response is required as part of the fellowship application (should I decide to even apply), I figured I could practice up with this blog entry. You know, write it down and then see if it has any legs.

It was December, and I was in the third grade at Saint Ambrose Catholic School. I will never forget that it was right before Christmas, because our teacher, Sister Regina Mary, placed a small figurine of the baby Jesus in His manger on a table in our classroom and gave us an assignment.

Each one of us was to bring a gift for the baby Jesus on or prior to the last day before the holiday break. It could be a monetary donation for the St. Ambrose School or church, a wrapped gift that would be passed out at a local orphanage on Christmas day, or some canned or jarred goods that would be donated to a food kitchen.

My classmates were beyond excited. Me? Not so much. What kind of gift could I possibly round-up for the baby Jesus?

Because we wore school uniforms, there was hardly anything to tip off my fellow classmates to the fact that I was dirt poor.

I say hardly because my shoes were always the giveaway.

While others were shopping at the local department stores, I was supplied with clothes from the Salvation Army. And since my feet were huge, the only footwear appropriate for my age and fit me, were boy’s shoes.

The old adage “You can judge a person by their shoes,” didn’t work so well for me back then.

Anyway, after school that day, I walked home defeated and depressed. Heck, we couldn’t even afford shoes so my thoughts came back to the same dilemma.

How was I supposed to muster up an impressive gift for the baby Jesus?

My grandmother, always the optimist, sat me down at the kitchen table to “put our heads together.” But try as we could, the bottom line? I had no gift to give.

And then it hit me. I had no gift to give!

Neither did the little drummer boy, I told my grandmother. And then we went to work.

Days before the holiday break, the kids were bringing in envelopes of all sizes and colors, beautifully wrapped Christmas gifts, canned soups, hams, jars of jellies and jams, other non-perishable goodies, and decorative tins of that God awful fruit cake.

For several nights before the “deadline” I would sit at the kitchen table with my grandmother. While I vigorously wrote away, she created a masterful drum for me. She meticulously adorned a Quaker Oats container in gold foil wrapping paper saved from the year before. Then she rummaged around in her sewing kit and found some red piping to further enhance the look of the drum.

As she glued, I wrote.

On the last day before the holiday break, I was a nervous wreck and started to regret my whole simpleminded drummer girl storyline.

My grandmother lent me two of her wooden crochet hooks for drumsticks, shoved them, the drum, and my hand-written story into a brown paper grocery bag, and sent me on my way.

As I dragged myself to school, I rehearsed aloud and prayed that I wouldn’t let my nerves get the best of me and screw up my baby Jesus gift.

As the school bell rang, I squirmed nervously at my desk, with the paper bag carefully resting on my tapping ugly boy shoes.

When Sister Regina Mary asked if anyone had any last-minute gifts for the baby Jesus, I warily and shyly raised my hand. She looked at me with disdain.

Another back story I should mention.

Because I was raised in a home with all women (my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother) and no father, the nuns didn’t take too kindly to me. I was from a “broken home,” and as such, a second-hand sinner.

The Sister indifferently asked me to come up to the front of the class.

I took a deep breath, grabbed the paper bag, and walked over to the baby Jesus.

I pulled out my story, silently told myself I could do this and recited it to the class.

The story was about a poor girl from Bridgeport Connecticut, who was supposed to give a gift to the baby Jesus. But she had no money, and so she had no gift. And then she came up with an idea with her grandmother. A simple gift that she prayed the baby Jesus would like.

The whole class was whispering and asking each other what this stupid girl wearing boy’s shoes was talking about.

Sister Regina Mary stood by the blackboard with her arms crossed waiting for the baby Jesus gift.

I reached into the paper bag, pulled out the contents, and began to sing — Little Drummer Boy style…

Little baby Pa rum pum pum pum
I am a poor girl too Pa rum pum pum pum
I have no gift to bring Pa rum pum pum pum
That’s fit to give our King Pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum
Shall I play for you? Pa rum pum pum pum
On my drum

Mary nodded Pa rum pum pum pum
The ox and lamb kept time Pa rum pum pum pum
I played my drum for Him Pa rum pum pum pum
I played my best for Him Pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum
Then He smiled at me Pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum

Tears filled Sister Regina Mary’s eyes but to be honest, I could care less. Sister Regina Mary was of no importance to me.

What was of import, was that I was proud of myself and mostly relieved the whole stressful ordeal was over.

The bottom line? I had given my all for the baby Jesus.

But most importantly, and what I will never forget for as long as I live…

As I turned around to go back to my seat, I caught a fleeting glimpse of my grandmother slipping quietly away from the classroom door.

The Holiday Blues

December 12, 2015HolidaysTeri

Joy to the world? Not for everyone.

For many, the holiday season, starting with Thanksgiving and ending on New Year’s Day serves as a reminder of lost loved ones and a happier, simpler time.

Me? I need to find me a river and skate away…

Joy to the world, the holidays are here
no joy for me, just sadness and fear.
I try to remember the things that meant so much
like my grandmother’s smile, my mother’s touch.
But year after year I can’t seem to let go
of the saddest moments, I will ever know.
During this season, I wish the pain would go away
so I can enjoy just one lousy peaceful day.
For once I want to feel alive and whole
and not let a few weeks take such a personal toll.
I somehow need to figure out a way
to find the light and keep the darkness at bay.

Memorial Day: Something to Think About Between the Barbeque and the Beer

May 25, 2015HolidaysFirst Decoration Day, Francis Miles Finch, Friendship Cemetery, Friendship Cemetery Columbus, Friendship Cemetery in Columbus, Hampton Park, John Brown's Body, Martyrs of the Race Course, Memorial Day, Mississippi, Poem The Blue and the Gray, S.C., The Blue and the Gray, We'll Rally around the FlagTeri

On May 1, 1865, Memorial Day was started by former slaves in Charleston, S.C., to honor 257 dead Union soldiers who had been hastily buried in a mass grave in an upscale race track converted into a Confederate prison camp. After the Confederate evacuation of Charleston, black workmen went to the site, dug up the bodies, and worked for two weeks to give them a proper burial as gratitude for fighting for their freedom.

The freedmen cleaned up and landscaped the burial ground, building an enclosure and an arch labeled, “Martyrs of the Race Course.” Then, nearly ten thousand people, mostly freedmen in cooperation with white missionaries and teachers, staged an unforgettable parade of 10,000 people on the slaveholders’ racecourse. At 9am, the procession began and was led by about 3,000 black schoolchildren carrying armloads of roses and singing “John Brown’s Body.”

Several hundred black women then followed with baskets of flowers, wreaths, and crosses. Then came the black men, marching in cadence, followed by contingents of Union infantry and other black and white citizens. As many as possible gathered in the cemetery enclosure; the children sang “We’ll Rally around the Flag,” the “Star-Spangled Banner,” and several other spiritual songs before several black ministers read from scripture. Years later, the celebration would come to be called the “First Decoration Day” in the North.

The old racetrack is gone, but an oval roadway survives on the site in Hampton Park, named for Wade Hampton, former Confederate general and the governor of South Carolina after the end of Reconstruction. The old gravesite of the Martyrs of the Race Course is gone too; they were reinterred in the 1880s at a national cemetery in Beaufort, S.C.

Another touching and unforgettable early Memorial Day celebration happened on April 25, 1866, at Friendship Cemetery in Columbus, Mississippi, where four women met to decorate the graves of fallen Confederate soldiers. Forty Union soldiers were also buried in that same ground, and the women, in a spirit of generosity, decorated those graves as well.

The Columbus event made national headlines. A lawyer in Ithaca, New York, Francis Miles Finch, upon reading about the incident, wrote the following poem, which was published on September 1867 in The Atlantic Monthly.

The Blue and the Gray
By the flow of the inland river,
Where the fleet of iron has fled,
Where the blades of the grave grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead.
Under the sod and the dew
Waiting the Judgement Day,
Under the one the Blue,
Under the other the Gray.

Those in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat;
All with the battle blood gory,
In the dusk of Eternity meet.
Under the sod and the dew
Waiting the Judgement Day,
Under the laurel the Blue,
Under the willow the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours,
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers,
Alike for the friends and the foe.
Under the sod and the dew
Waiting the Judgement Day,
Under the roses the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,
The morning sunrays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all.
Under the sod and the dew
Waiting the Judgement Day,
Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth,
The cooling drip of the rain.
Under the sod and the dew
Waiting the Judgement Day,
Wet with the rain, the Blue.
Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done,
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won.
Under the sod and the dew
Waiting the Judgement Day,
Under the blossoms, the Blue,
Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever,
When they laurel the graves of our dead.
Under the sod and the dew
Waiting the Judgement Day,
Love and tears for the Blue.
Tears and love for the Gray.

****

When you throw back that beer today, don’t forget to make a toast to all the military men, women, and their families for their incredible sacrifice. And never forget that we’re free because so many warriors fought and died to protect our country. And so many are dying and protecting our country at this very moment. All of them are heroes, including their families. Now I’ll drink to that.