Christmas, 2014.

BY KENNETH KUNZ

My mom reached 87 this year. God bless her. Sure hope she gave me some of her genes!

Mom also taught me how to laugh.

For much of her life, even before I was born, she could be cold and stubborn, gracious but rude, liberal and conservative, accepting and very judgmental, controlling and demanding, submissive and coy. All with an extremely, self-centered, strong ego and vanity second to none. Your mom too? I sometimes refer to her as a drama queen/diva. She is also one of the more intelligent people I know, and can be extremely generous. Much more than I could ever hope to be. I really do love her. And beneath all of this, she is quite sentimental and emotional. I remember when I was a teen laughing and teasing her as she teared up watching what seemed, at the time, a corny scene in an Elvis Presley movie, of all things. I’ve witnessed her shedding tears many a time at similar instances, which I thought to be trivial, both in movies or real life.

Now some of you may be familiar with the late Jimmy Valvano, a college basketball coach who founded the V Foundation for Cancer Research. Shortly before he passed on, at the first ESPN Espy Awards, he received the Arthur Ashe Courage and Humanitarian Award. During his acceptance speech (which you should all Google and experience), he mentioned three things we should do every day: laugh, think, and have your emotions moved to tears (for happiness or joy). I surely think a lot. I try to laugh whenever possible, but boy oh boy can I be moved to tears every single day, even over the most trivial sentiment (except any part of any Elvis movie — never liked any of them). It is, by far, the easiest thing to do.

So many things to bring out our emotions — the fragility of our existence; a child struggling with cancer; the innate goodness of man moved to a selfless act; the beauty of nature; a truly corny Hallmark movie (some real good ones lately); a certain hymn at Mass; a firefighter who perishes attempting to save someone; a daughter hugging her “Poppy” returning from war. So many things. So many things. I’ve shed more of these tears than all those I’ve seen coming from my mom’s eyes. Such a sentimental fool am I. Truly, truly thankful I have those genes from my mom. Truly.

This is a most emotional, sentimental time of the year is it not? Of our life on this orb, yes? Love is the word.

Peace and Merry Christmas. God bless us … everyone.

Bryce having pre-Christmas fun with Dad.

Dear Bryce:

So, at the age of 10 months, you may have noticed a great deal of unusual activity recently. Your parents have probably been spending more time in stores. When they come home, they wrap colored paper around what they bought.

“What’s up with that?” you may ask.

In your first visit to New York City you probably were wondering why your mother and father took you to see a big tree full of colored lights. And you probably have noticed that your neighborhood also has a lot of these same colored lights around. And you may have seen some people wearing a lot of red, particularly fat men with big white beards.

“What’s the story, grandpa?” you may ask.

OK, here’s the skinny. It’s called “Christmas” and it comes every year at this time. It’s sort of a big deal, particularly for kids like you because — and you better sit down for this — it’s a day that people give you lots of neat stuff to play with and to eat. They even ask you to make a list of what you want and then — and here’s the best part — they get it for you!!

And you know all that colored paper — you get to rip it off and you get to play with it and the box too. You may even want to play with what’s inside. (Although this year it’s probably gonna be mostly things to keep you warm through your first winter in Vermont.)

Now you may be thinking, what’s so special about this Christmas day that makes people act so strangely?

Well, it started out as a celebration to mark the day a really nice man named Jesus Christ was born a really long time ago. It’s called a birthday. You’ll get your own celebration in a couple of months. We’ll call yours “Brycemass” if you want.  Anyway, people liked this guy so much that when he was born, strangers traveled great distances to bring him presents. And we continue that tradition today. Only now we give presents to each other. Neat, huh?

Well if getting stuff from your mom and dad and your grandparents, aunts and uncles wasn’t good enough, there’s someone else who brings things to you at Christmas. He lives up at the North Pole. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. Maybe he likes snow. Anyway, this guy is old and fat and always dresses in a red and white suit. His name is Nicholas but everyone calls him Santa Claus. He has a bunch of reindeer and a sled and every Christmas he packs it up with all the toys that boys and girls want and he delivers them while you’re asleep — sort of like the UPS man only without having to sign anything.

But just like the NSA, Santa sees you when you’re sleeping and knows when you’re awake. He has a database of who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. You have to be on the “nice” list to get presents. Word is that you can get presents even if you’re naughty sometimes, just as long as you’re mostly nice. Santa knows that no one’s perfect.

It’s an imperfect world and so people sometimes act naughty. But the thing about Christmas is that people make an effort to be nice. They’re not always successful, but most people try. That’s what really makes Christmas special.

About 50 years ago, when I was a kid, people were worrying about how people had forgotten why we celebrate Christmas and instead were focused on buying things. So a wise doctor named Seuss gave us a story about a Grinch who found out that people could celebrate Christmas without “things.” And an artist named Schulz gave us a story about some kids who get so wrapped up in decorations and Christmas plays that they forget the reason for the season. A boy named Linus reminded them.

Well if Christmas was too much about “things” 50 years ago, the years since have only given us more of the same. We now start “celebrating” Christmas beginning in October. We have a shopping day after Thanksgiving that is so crazy they call it “Black Friday.” What’s worse, storekeepers have come to rely on people buying stuff to excess in the last three months of the year as part of their business plans, and the media makes it almost un-American and certainly anti-capitalist to resist this command to buy.

But we can resist the urge to make Christmas about “things” and I hope that you will. Oh, I know how great it is to get new toys, and you will certainly have your share in the Christmases ahead. But always remember the lesson that Linus and the Grinch tried to teach us many years ago. The spirit of Christmas is not in the decorations, the presents, the trees or even the songs. It is in what you can do at Christmas and every day to assure that there is “peace on earth and good will to all men.”

Love always,
Grandpa Frank

P.S. I hear that if you leave some cookies for Santa, he can be extra generous. Even Santa works for tips.

BY BOB SMITH

When I was in junior high school, we looked up to, and generally feared, the upperclassmen who were in tenth grade or higher — all between 15 and 17 years old. Some of them were shaving already, some driving, and if you believed their stories, all were having rampant sex with every hot girl in town.

And to demonstrate their dominance over the pimply horde that comprised the seventh grade, the nastier ones among them would administer “wedgies” to any unsuspecting kid they caught near the railroad tracks on the way home. It worked like this: you got behind the victim, reached inside the back of his pants, and grabbed the waistband of his underwear. This was the late sixties, long before the “homeboy” look, when you’d actually have to reach inside someone’s pants to find underwear.

It was also before kids started wearing boxer shorts or designer underwear in exotic patterns and colors — most, if not all, the boys in junior high were wearing tightie whities. So you’d reach in, grab the elastic waistband, and yank up as high and hard as you could, causing the victim’s underwear to lodge firmly in his butt crack. Thus the name “wedgie.”

A fairly innocent (if crude) prank, you might think. But then came the “atomic wedgie,” a particularly nasty variant invented by the more sadistic upperclassmen. In the atomic wedgie, the perpetrator would yank on the waistband so persistently, and with so much force, that the elastic ripped away from the fabric of the briefs. Once critical mass was achieved and the waistband ripped off, the pressure of the wedgie subsided.

However, the victim was left not only humiliated and in pain (the wedgie put extreme pressure on the entire groin area), but he was now wearing an elastic band above his waist and saggy, ruined briefs below. And he had to puzzle-out as he walked home how he was going to explain to mom what had happened to his new BVDs without admitting that he’d been bullied, and had taken it like a wuss.

Happily, I was never on either the giving or the receiving end of a wedgie — atomic or otherwise. But I’m ashamed to admit that I witnessed a fairly brutal wedgie being adminstered to one of my classmates. The bullies — three burly wise guys — were repeatedly pulling on the waistband so hard the kid would briefly leave his feet, crying and screaming for them to stop.

But they were trying to “go atomic,” and his underwear wouldn’t rip. They must have yanked him up and down nine times, each time hoisting him off the ground and eliciting pitiful wails and cries for mercy. He’d dropped his schoolbooks, and his shoes were scuffed and dirty from being dragged across the rocks by the railroad tracks.

He looked to me once for help, but I just stood there. I rationalized my inaction — he was an acquaintance, not a friend. With three big guys against us, I couldn’t possibly make a difference. It was going to stop soon in any event. But the truth is, I was terrified of getting beaten up, or of becoming a wedgie victim myself. So I did nothing.

The older kids grew tired of the game and ran off, laughing, as quickly as they had come upon us. I helped him pick up his books, and find his glasses, and told him I was sorry I didn’t help him. He said he was all right, and that he understood — he just asked that I not tell anyone about it. We walked the rest of the way home in glum silence.

Bullies today terrorize, belittle and threaten their classmates online, or they post embarrassing pictures for the world to see. In the online context, the victim can feel utterly alone — there’s not even a sympathetic (if cowardly) friend standing by to console you, and help you clean up afterwards. There’s no way to ask anyone not to tell. The story’s out there beyond control in the blink of an eye, and it persists forever.

Bullying by schoolkids has always been brutal and disgusting. Now, however, in today’s electronically enhanced form, it’s downright dangerous.

(From left to right) Skip, Frank and Pat.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

There are a group of over-50 actors on Broadway right now in a play called “Love Letters” by A.R. Gurney. It documents the almost-lifelong correspondence between a man and a woman who come to realize that they are soulmates. But like the couple in another play “Same Time Next Year,” they always seem to be out of sync.

The play is performed entirely by actors of a certain age like Brian Dennehy, Mia Farrow, Alan Alda, Carol Burnett, Martin Sheen, Candice Bergen and others. These stars alternate in pairs over the four-month run of the show.

The format of the show is quite simple. On a stark stage with only a table and two chairs, the actors read a lifetime’s worth of letters.Slowly the relationship of the couple becomes clear, and we watch it mature as the years fly by. It’s a premise that is best appreciated by people who have lived more than half a century. Like the actors who bring the correspondents to life, we over-50s know long-term relationships for the long and winding roads they are.

The idea of a best-friend-forever (BFF) is more idealistic than realistic for most of us. BFFs are precious because they are the exception to the rule. For most of us, relationships with childhood friends, elementary school friends, high school friends and even college friends are limited to reunions every few years, if we are lucky. Most BFF relationships do not survive into the right side of 50.

Distance is most often the cause of losing touch. But changed circumstances can also contribute. For example, becoming a parent is often so demanding of our time that we lose touch with our single friends. It’s tough to get together for a drink after work when you’re rushing home to pick up a child from daycare. And even if you can get away, conversation becomes a problem when your focus is on children, and not seeing the latest movies, plays or museum exhibits.

But in rare cases, you can be so in sync with someone that the relationship stays alive. Oh sure the relationship has its peaks and valleys, but with a little effort you stay in touch. It’s actually a lot easier to do that today, what with Facebook, e-mail and instant messaging, although actual contact is still necessary.

Lifelong friends are a precious commodity needing to be nurtured. These days many young people may feel that since they have hundreds of Facebook friends, many of these will be BFFs. But being “friended” on Facebook doesn’t mean you have a friend. A friendship requires that you put yourself out to have human contact on a regular basis.These days that can be as simple as a regular Skype call. If Siri is the only friend you talk to on a regular basis, it’s time to use the phone part of your smartphone, and have a real conversation with someone you used to know.

Recently, I reconnected with an old college friend of mine. We had been in touch sporadically over the years. He lives in Maine, and so distance is a factor. He also hates cities, and so getting him to come to New York is always challenging. Most recently, we were in touch through Facebook. But I had not seen him in 10 years. So I decided that this was a relationship worth nurturing, and if Skip wouldn’t come to New York, I would go to him.

Now truth be told, going to Maine is hardly a punishment. It’s a beautiful place. But it is a LONG car ride since Skip lives near Augusta, which is still a few hours ride after you reach the Maine border. But my wife, Pat, and I chose what we thought might be a good weekend for foliage viewing, and we decided to get in the car and go. It turned out to be a great weekend and Skip and I got a chance to re-connect in a way that you just can’t do electronically.

When I talk to my stepfather about what it’s like to be 91, he tells me that the hardest thing is that all your friends are gone. You see, the forever part of BFF is not really “forever,” but only “for as long as we both shall live.”

It’s tough to lose friends to the grim reaper. But losing friends due to laziness is criminal negligence. Like plants, your friendships need attention, or they wither and die.

As we travel down the road of life after 50, it’s especially important to maintain contact with our old friends. They’ve traveled the road with us and they can bring out the best in us. At the very least, they remind us of our young selves. They remind us of a time when the road ahead seemed long and full of promise. They remind us that life can still be like that, even after 50.