Christmas Theology

After numerous readings of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas and several discussions concerning the accuracy of the title ("It should be The Grinch Who Almost Stole Christmas…,") the following conversation takes place:

Bob: Does Christmas come from a store?
Ed: (without hesitation) No way. It came from an angel.
(considers a moment)
Actually, it came from Mary.
Bob: No. It came from God.
Ed: Came out from Mary. Came down from God.

There you have it. An understanding of the Christmas story, a presence of Catholic teachings without setting off alarms in his Lutheran-raised mama, and a knowledge of basic biology. I couldn't be more proud of the way my fellas have taken on a fairly complicated miracle and come out satisfied with its truth.

Bad books

Well, not really bad, but not really good either. I spent yesterday reading dime novels published in 1823. The work began through a interesting discovery, as does most work at the AAS, and the discovery led me to explore a handful of the 37-some titles published by William Borradaile's New York publishgin operation in the early 1820s. I chose Borradaile because his re-issuing of Life, Travels, and Daring Engagements of Paul Jones. Borradaile's edition interests me for its re-inclusion of the picture of John Paul Jones shooting one of his crew in the face for striking the American colors during a battle with the British Serapis during the Revolution. Based on my reading, this Lt. Grubb misunderstood the situation on board -- he heard no response from Jones when the ship was hailed by the British captain. Assuming his leader dead, he moved to strike the colors, concede the battle, and hope for quarter rather than death. Jones, certainly no thoughtful Hamlet when in battle, turned on his lieutenant and punished him for mutiny -- at least, that's the way it seems. The jury is still out on whether a) there really was a Grubb on board the Bon Homme Richard, Jones's ship, and if he was, b) whether Jones's actions make him a strong leader or a "notorious pirate," as some advertise the naval icon.

So, I looked at the other things printed by Borradaile. Robin Hood and Robin-hood type stories, mostly. Righteous robbers and escaped slaves-turned pirate -- choosing these lives outside social and legal appropriateness only as a last resort. Thinking about circumstance defining the representation of outlaws, I'm led to think that Jones becomes heroic after a brief stint as "notorious pirate" for his ability to parlay his vengeful, violent, explosive tendencies into a celebrated military career. Not all of the outlaws were so lucky and many died a fairly violent death (one robber was murdered and then had his head cut off by a jealous associate hoping to collect the reward for taking the man's life. When the head didn't weigh enough -- reward apparently being based on head weight -- he bore a hold in the skull and filled it with lead. Good times.) Jones ends up with a glowing reputation in the nineteenth century, despite his inglorious reputation in the eighteenth, but lacks an "end story" necessary to memorialize him. The government doesn't know of Jones's burial spot in France until after the 1850s. This missing conclusion to the story differentiates the Jones story from the others -- and it shows the public's preoccupation with his story. No one can close the book until they know how it ends. And in 1823, we don't know how Jones ends yet.

Hidden Gems

My research at the AAS, for the most part, consists of looking at book illustrations, lithographs, and various pen and ink drawings from the late 18th and early 19th centuries. As a result, I've handled a lot of very delicate paper and turned pages very, very slowly. Yesterday I looked at Trumbull's "Battle of Bunker Hill" (1798), political cartoons from 1813, and a lot of currency from New Hampshire, Rhode Island, New York and Massachusetts, printed between 1771 and 1865. I was looking for images of "America" figured as female -- not to mention pictures of pirates to go with my John Paul Jones stuff. I found a lot -- and am still processing what to do with it all.

I happened to look through some sheet music from the early 19th century. The AAS catalogs its sheet music by cover illustration, in addition to other categories, of course. So, I can look for first lines and subjects relating to my research in a purely "pictorial cover" database. (An extra benefit? This collection has yet to be cataloged digitally, so I have a rare opportunity to pull out card catalogs and thumb through the entries. I'm certainly no Luddite, but every once in a while it's nice to use wood and paper in the library. But anyway…)

So sheet music. One of the pieces I looked at was titled "The Pirate's Serenade." The AAS owns six copies of the piece and the cover of one mentions that no fewer than eight editions were released. Opening the folds of one of these copies revealed a dried flower lodged in its crease. Although it could have come by any number of means, I like to think someone -- a teenage girl, perhaps? -- dreamily pressed the wildflower in the music with thoughts of her own swarthy pirate strumming a guitar at her window. She (or he, I suppose) could have chosen any number of books for pressing flowers, but chose this one. I know from experience that these things are chosen neither randomly nor lightly.

I showed the flower to one of the curators and she, while delighted, informed me sadly that she had to remove the flower and dispose of it. I understood. The flower will not be forgotten, however: years of presence makes its absence very visible within "A Pirate's Serenade." The weathered impression of the flower on the music will outlast its source. All any of can hope for in the end, I suppose.

Settled

After finishing our first full week in Massachusetts, things look pretty familiar. I am reading the paper and drinking coffee, Brian left for a run, and the boys are playing some muted version of basement soccer in the living room of our third-floor apartment. What's missing, of course, is the space outside, the neighborhood friends, and a place that is so fully home. Although we're not planning to stay in Worcester forever, I think we're starting to feel more comfortable in the space.

The trip east was great. The boys handled the long hours in the car very well and our three i-devices (iPad, iPhone, and IPass -- a automatic toll reader from the state of Illinois that worked flawlessly from Illinois through Massachusetts), let us know about traffic, showed up maps with our location as a moving "blip," and allowed us to make reservations from the road. Pretty neat.

My work at the AAS has been wonderful. The community there is collegial, the staff is incredibly helpful, and -- well -- they have really neat stuff there. I've been paging through their graphics collections -- looking at drawings and engravings from as early as 1770. As I'm looking, the staff looks over my shoulder to share my enthusiasm, and them stops by with more things, "I thought you might be interested in this, too." People there have gathered materials of things to do around Worcester for Brian and the boys, invited us over for dinner, and are working to find me a bike to ride while we're here. If the library "lived" in Minnesota, I would have my application in already. I look forward to my work there every morning and the images from the research swirl through my head every night. I don't have any more answers than when I started, but I feel like the puzzle pieces are starting to come together. I have a lot more ideas for articles, though.

We hope to go to see the LA Galaxy play the NE Revolution in Foxborough tonight. I'd like to get to the ocean soon and -- as the staff at the AAS informed me -- the John Paul Jones house in Portsmouth is hosting a birthday celebration for my favorite pirate/patriot on Sunday afternoon. There's cake.

It begins

The last day of school began the unofficial start date of the Reinhardt golfing season. Ed, Bob, and I traveled to Richfield to golf one of the finest minigolf courses the metro area has to offer. The June afternoon was warm, but not hot; the course offered plenty of shade and a lovely waterfall; and I treated the boys to DQ after the 18 holes of play — even let them order something beside a small cone or a dilly bar. Regular followers of Team Reinhardt may notice a new happening on the scorecard. Yes, I won — only after a couple of lucky "holes in one," but I'm not posting all this to brag or to "take it to" my boys. For the first time in four and one half years, Bobby beat Eddie in an organized sport. Now, Bobby wins lots of things at our house: he is "Mr. Zero" as a goalie in basement soccer, drives in many runs in wiffle ball, and beats Ed in a footrace now and again. But rarely do we pit the boys against each other and even more seldom to we challenge one to beat the other. But here we were, on neutral ground, each doing our best -- and each keeping a very accurate record of strokes taken -- and Bob soundly beat Ed by three strokes. Eddie took the defeat well -- it didn't hurt that he used too big a club for the front nine. And Bob barely mentioned that he beat Ed, mentioning only that mom won and that he came in second. But the twinkle in his eye told me that he took full notice off the occasion and squirreled the victory into a little compartment of his memory to pull out -- for his own unspoken comfort -- from time to time.

To be fair...

Scene: Dinner table in early January. Parents prompt consumption and discussion topics veer from salient issues of the day to "guess how many fingers I have behind my back" and loud noises. Seven-year old child is asked to share what Christmas presents were received by his classroom chums. We learned that many Wiis and wii-type games were gifted, and that his teacher gained a white jacket. The remaining discussion follows:

Brian: What did you say that you got, Ed?
Ed: We could only share one thing.
Brian: Okay. What was it?
Ed: I said that I got Knock Hockey.
(thoughtful shifting by Bob)
Bob: Eddie means we ... Eddie means we got knock hockey.
Anne: Of course he meant "we," Bobby.

The implication of particular, personal pronouns is not lost on young Robert. To be sure...