My Saint Nick

No-one was turned away if they hadn't a family to sup with on Christmas Day. For our Jewish friends, there was Manischevitz and a great deal of party food, flowers and song.* He sailed home to my Mother with enormous pots of blooms, because he, himself , loved flowers, having been raised on a truck market flower garden until he was sixteen.

I remember his taste and humility as he tried to gift each member of our family in such a way that we had something very special- even if he couldn't afford it. Although he had been raised Russian Orthodox,and, at one point had wished to be a priest; he had turned away from religion after seven years of warfare in WW2.

We were raised in shattered post-war England, and our family was on rationed food until I was eight years old.

That year, even though my Dad was privileged to be paid an engineers' wage, we hadn't money for a tree or fun food, and I could feel my young Dad so tenderly suppressing the tears he felt in his heart, worried that we little ones would be so disappointed.

He asked for a large vase, and he placed the scented boughs into some water in a corner of the room.

"Well, go to it, girls" he called, delighted with the day - " The decorations are all yours!".

We placed the small glass globes and cones onto the boughs, sprinkling huge cards of tinsel icicles upon the pine, until it sparkled with what we knew, even at our tiny ages, was love.

There were horrors in the world about which I knew very little; I was a sheltered young person.

I would like to tell you what he "willed" to me post partum. As an amateur crystallographer, my Father had offered his services to some of the most esoteric of explorers of religious archeological history.

In Saint Marys' church in Carleton Place, Ontario, there was a huge rock which was being lovingly sculpted by Artist David Lajeunesse.

It was meant to be a baptismal font, and held actual gem images from space of the curved, high rooved stable in Bethlehem, Mother Mary and Child, and of a shepherd on the outskirts.

It also had a life-sized image of one of the early women of the period configured in many natural green garnets.

To my knowledge, after I had meditated on the sight and sound of this phenomenal relic, I could see that the bear had seen a small, flying light craft crashland and settle to the rich Canadian forest of the period.

Two people had manned that paper dart-shaped, white craft, a young man and a small woman in pale lilac silk brocade. I believe that she survived and met with indigenous people of the area, though the sight of their misfortune was very sad.

Somehow, those people who taught us how to relate after earth trauma during a millenium cycle, had left to us the image of Christs' birth, and then of themselves, in the fossil remains of this landed glider.

"And they moved from town to town in a large cloud" I remember reading: something like that- I often repeated this to myself in wondering at the mysteries of the past.

I heard a person translate the captains' message- he was recently in the belief that there was only one God.

It was new, and he was iffy about it. He wore Egyptian cosmetics under his eyes- the bright coloured gem pastes were not for vanity, but to help him catch the stars pattern in his navigation strategy.

And he looked like a Cohen! It had been some time surviving on his own when he spoke aloud, to have unwittingly recorded the comment for posterity.

A Star to Steer Me By

Sea Fever

BY JOHN MASEFIELD

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

This is what my Dad came to point out, even though he had died that year. His memory told me that the captain had even found the proverbial "star to steer me by" of poetic fame ("I will go down to the tall ships, to the lonelyships and the sky").

That 'star' surely guided the man to safety and life in this new land. My Fathers memory made my discovery very special, and I gave the gem to a special scientist, so that the early Pilot would be honoured.

Yes, he was a humble man, and he did very much of this work without ever telling a soul.

Without scientists like Nick, so many of the more mysterious events recorded in the world would go unsung. And that work was just his hobby. So my discovery of the flight craft and the rich records was my most fabulous gift from "Our Saint Nick".

It's Christmas again, and his spirit lives in my eternal Jewish soul*¹ to love and gift others, and to cherish the experience.
This story is my gift to you, the reader, especially those Doctors and Nurses whose vision and expertise has uncovered so much in World Health, to bring us close to health enlightenment. Cheers, and Happy Holidays to everyone!

And, I love you, Dad.

Love from Sue

*¹The Freedom to Evolve

My Father made a point of surprising and gifting everyone he could think of during both Christmas and Hanukkah. He was the most generous, unspoiled person I've ever known. No-one was turned away if they hadn't a family to sup with on Christmas Day. For our Jewish friends, there was Manischevitz and a great deal of party food, flowers and song.