Welcome to this Sunday’s Third Degree: Weekly Interrogations on matters public and private that force thinking and response. Today we target: Tradition
Why begin with Tevje, the good people of Anatevka, and Fiddler on the Roof?
Is it acknowledgement of world events but more…Tradition?
Does the rousing “Tradition” beginning Fiddler bring an affirmation and a joy that, now outbound on Lille Jul Aften, headed west, creates its own special joy?
Every other year, Christmas in Arizona…Tradition?
Is the charm of Little Christmas Eve, the Scandinavian celebration delight of 23 December, aided by Norwegian, pronunciation mellifluence (Lill-leh Youl Ahf-ten)? Tradition?
To honor multiple requests and tradition this Christmas Eve, must we harken back to a long ago and far away and a gift of words, mildly modified over the years, but retaining meaning and more…”The Other Christmas?”
‘Twas the night before Christmas, on a base at alert,
Not a creature was stirring, the pad seemed inert,
Pilots and crew chiefs in bunk rooms asleep,
Toss fitful awaiting the klaxon to leap,
And off in the corner, dark evergreen tree,
It’s Christmas again, in the land of the free.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, out over the pond,
Where a Globemaster strains for far Europe beyond,
The drone of its engines an ole carol say,
Ramstein tomorrow, middle east next day,
Instrument panel, dull red all aglow,
Back home at McGuire, it’s starting to snow.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, so far out at sea,
Be it cruiser, destroyer, or giant CV,
Up forward the lookout marks tolling of bell
No church steeples here, just salt spray and gound swell.
An on watch from the bridge, OOD doth roam
The Captain’s Chair empty, here and at home.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, up over the pole,
There’s a B52 on atomic patrol,
With peace part profession, its crew doth attend,
Their fortress of strength to deter and defend,
Strange, all electronics of this modern day,
Show nary a sign of old Santa and sleigh.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, a deployment call comes,
So goodbye little children who dream sugar plums,
Tomorrow they’ll wake, young eyes all alight,
Then come the tears, daddy left in the night,
Now far from the hearth where each stocking is hung,
Cross cold, lonely skies, a small aircraft is flung.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, down deep in the pad,
A minuteman stands ere the world should go mad,
Its cold chimney silo hath no warming place,
Nor rooftop awaiting a swift courser’s pace,
And what yuletide missal from crews waiting still,
Though strange it may seem, “Peace on earth and Good Will.”
‘Twas the night before Christmas, mud up to the knee,
There’s a lone foxhole dug by a young PFC,
He’s only 18, Christmas Eve seems to close,
But ready he stands to fight threatening foes,
He’s scared, but he’ll do the gim job that he must,
In him, have we placed our defense and our trust.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, all over this earth
There are troops serving, no mistletoe mirth,
Army and Navy, Air and Space Forces, Coast Guard and Marines,
If asked they could tell you how much Christmas means,
You don’t know their names, waiting family or wife,
But for you, if need be, they will offer their life.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and then Christmas Day.
And just maybe, you’ll think of those troops far away,
And just maybe, take out a moment or two,
Say a short prayer for them, the family and you,
Small price indeed for your bright green tree,
It’s Christmas again, in the land of the free.
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Socrates reminds: “The unexamined life is not worth living. The actions and answers are yours. But for now, an earned and traditional “Merry Christmas”.