KOFINK GENEALOGY UPDATE

This is going to be of interest to relatives of Carl Kofink of Chicago.  I have previously made some family pictures available here

http://a-pilgrims-place.blogspot.com/2008/08/kofink-family.html
 

and here

http://a-pilgrims-place.blogspot.com/search?q=Kofink

Today I am posting some documents and a bit of genealogy that I have uncovered.

Common knowledge in the family was that my great-grandfather Carl Kofink was born in Heidelberg, Germany October 8, 1858. Carl’s birth certificate has been passed down in the family to me. Here’s a copy of it.

It shows that he was born Karl Kallenberger son of Gottliebin Kallenberger. This is an indication of a birth out of wedlock.

On August 7. 1865 Karl was acknowledged as the natural son of Friedrich Kofink and was allowed to us the surname “Kofink.”  Here’s the document.

Notice that the document misstates the date of Karl’s birth as October 7, 1858. A note on the side in pencil shows the name Gottliebin Steiss. I’ll come back to that in a bit.

I have finally discovered a bit more about Gottlieben Kallenberger.  Her full name was Gottliebin Magdalena Kallenberger. She was born June 4, 1827. Her father was Johann Martin Kallenberger (known as Martin) and her mother was Maria Catharina Kraemer (know as Maria). Her parents were married August 17, 1823 in a protestant church in Klein Ingersheim, Neckarkreis, Wuerttemberg, Germany.

At some time she married Johann Theodor Steiss (known as Theodor). They had two children: Pauline Friederike Wilhelmine Steiss, born February 27, 1871, in Stuttgart, Wuertemberg, Germany and Christian Friedrich Ernst Steiss (known as Ernst) born March 23 1873 in Stuttgart, Wuertemberg, Germany. I have further information on descendants of Pauline Steiss.

Gottleibin Kallenberger Steiss died in Berg, on May 5. 1898. She was widowed at the time. Among the family papers are an accounting of her estate which was divided between Karl Kofink and Ernst Steiss. Here’s the document.

A comment on names that I may have made before. My grandfather, the son of Carl Kofink was named Johann Theodor after Carl’s step-father. I now see that several other family members take their names from this side of the family. Carl’s eldest son Paul Ernst Kofink combines the names of Carl’s step-sister and step-brother. Another son Ernst Wilhelm also takes a name from Carl’s step-brother. The name Ernst was passed on to John Kofink’s son Herbert John Ernst Kofink. I also see where the name Martin came into the family (in another of Carl’s sons Walter Jacob Martin) since that was Carl’s grandfather’s name.

Well, that’s what I have for now.

May the Lord bless you on your journey and greet you on your arrival. 

Wayne

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WHAT'S IN A NAME?

My parents named me Wayne Alan. I know there were several other combi- nations of names they consid- ered including one version with Mark after the doctor who delivered me, Samuel J. Mark. I don’t know exactly why they settled on the name they did other than my mother thought Wayne couldn’t be turned into a nickname of any kind. She was right, although no one seems to have considered that my initials spell WAK, pronounced “wack” which has all sorts of possible perversions (like wacky) so I avoided using all three initials.

Your name is your name, unless you’re someone like C. S. Lewis who didn’t like the name “Clive,” so one day he announced to his family he was to be called “Jack” and so he was.  I’m no Jack Lewis so I have remained Wayne without variation for 60 years.

If I had chosen a name, I would have liked to have been John, after my grandfather, John Theodore Kofink. I would have liked having the family connection. My grandfather was named after his step-grandfather, Johann Theodor Steis. My Uncle got John as one of his middle names, but my father, Lawrence Howard, wound up with given names that appear nowhere in our family tree. Maybe it’s a good thing that I wasn’t called John, since the next generation in the family has a John Kofink (my second cousin once removed, I think).

For a middle name, I would have chosen Martin. That name also appears in our family. Grandpa’s youngest brother was Walter Jacob Martin Kofink. My desire to have Martin as a middle name isn’t for family reasons exactly. The Martin I had in mind was Martin Luther. There is a slight family connection there. My 11-time great-grandfather had been one of Martin Luther’s students at the University of Wittenberg, but I simply have long admired Martin Luther.

Occasionally I wonder what sort of name I would have had if my mother had remained a Catholic. As I have been told on good authority, Wayne in NOT a proper Catholic name. There was no Saint Wayne, and I am unlikely to be canonized. I was born on April 21, St. Anslem’s Day, so I might have been saddled with his name. No, no, Anselm Kofink is too much to be afflicted with, although maybe I could have gotten by with an initial. The renown Lutheran Pastor Adalbert Raphael Kretzmann was always called A. R. as his brother, Otto Paul, was always O. P.

I didn’t wind up Anselm. By the time I was born my mother had become a Lutheran. That was ironic since in the 18th century my mother’s  ancestors had been given land to move to Hungary in order to provide a bulwark against Turks and to keep the territory from becoming Protestant. Maybe it’s a double irony because yours truly is not only a Protestant Pastor, but an Oblate at a Catholic Monastery, Saint Leo’s Abbey. An oblate is a sort of associate of a Benedictine community. We don’t take vows, but we are expected to say the Daily Office, read the Rule of St. Benedict, and practice lectio divina.

When we make our oblation, we take a saint's name which appears as our middle name on the certificate of oblation. Here come’s the triple irony: my saint is Martin of Tours.  So while I never had the first name of John, I did manage to become Wayne “Martin” Kofink. (Scary thing is it could have been Wayne Anselm Kofink since Anselm was a Benedictine.)

Now here come the quadruple irony.  Martin Luther was born on November 10 and baptized the next day, which happens to be, ta-da!  St. Martin’s Day. He was named Martin after Martin of Tours.

Here’s an abbreviated version of one of the legends about Martin of Tours who lived from 315 to 397.
 

One winter’s day, more severe than usual, so much that people were dying from the extreme cold, Martin, who was wearing only a cloak and military arms, happened to meet at the gate of the city of Amiens, a half-naked beggar. The man of God recognized that a being to whom others showed no pity, was, in that respect, left to him. Yet, what should he do? He had nothing except the cloak. Taking his sword, he divided his cloak into two equal parts, and gave one part to the poor man, while he again clothed himself with the remainder. The next night, when Martin was asleep, Christ appeared to him dressed in that part of his cloak with which he had dressed the poor man. As he contemplated the Lord with the greatest attention, the saint recognized the clothes Jesus was wearing. Then he heard Him cry out loudly to the multitude of angels standing round: “Martin, a simple catechumen, clothed Me with this robe.”

Last week was St. Martin’s Day which I observed in my praying of the Office. The first antiphon for the day (a verse red before and after a psalm) was this: “What a splendid man whom neither toil or death could conquer! Martin did not fear to die nor did he refuse to live.” What a great message. Don’t be afraid to die, but don’t refuse to live either.

Martin was born in Savaria, Pannonia which is now Szombathely, Hungary. My grandmother was born in Lovrin, Hungary about 275 miles away. About the same time the Austrian Habsburgs were enticing my ancestors to move to the area (to keep it Catholic) , they were also busy suppressing the Catholic Benedictine Order. They closed the great Pannonhalma Archabbey in Hungary which was dedicated to St. Martin of Tours. I’ve lost track oh how many coincidences or connections or ironies that is for this Lutheran Benedictine not-named-Martin-but-Matin-anyway.

Even though my name is plain ol’ Wayne, there is  rich tapestry of influences in my life, Lutheran and Catholic, Martin of Tours and Martin Luther. What’s in a name? Whatever you put there. And the best name is when God calls you “my child.”

May the Lord bless you on your journey and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne






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ROOTS

I have always been curious about my family history. I suppose I am typical of an immigrant family. The second generation tries to forget what the first generation knew. The third generation tries to remember what the second forgot. I guess I'm third generation, but it's complicated. My father's father was born and raised in the U.S. My father's mother was born in Germany and raised in the U.S. My mother's father was born in the U.S. and raised in Hungary (a part that later become Romania) and my mother's mother was born and raised in Hungary. You figure out what generation I am. I just know my father only knew a few words of German but my mother could pretty well understand most colloquial German. (Well, she did spend a summer living in Romania when she was 11.) Me? I'm monolingual, except that I learned to count in German first from my Great-grandmother Angner (my mother's maternal grandmother) because she was living in the U.S. when I was very young and she used to take for walks in the park. Naturally she knew no English, so I learned a few odd words here and there just to communicate, not that very young children and very old adults really need words.

Anyway, I was always intrigued by the family trees in my baby book. They only went back to my great grandparents, however. I listened to stories my Grandmother Kofink told about the family, but she didn't know anything about the ancestors in Europe. Neither did anyone else in the family. Since we lived in the house that hand belonged to my great-grandfather, we inherited the family papers, such as they were. I went through them one day after grandma died. They were hand written in German script so I had to decipher them before trying to translate them. There I discovered a family secret no one seems to have known about, or if they did wouldn't talk about. My great grand-father had been illegitimate. His birth certificate gave his name as Karl Kallenberger, son of Gottiebin Kallenberger. Another document turned out to be a legal acknowledgment of Karl as the natural son of Friedrich Kofink and authorized him to use the name Karl Kofink. Fascinating.

Kofink is an unusual German name. It is unique to southwestern Germany (Baden-Wuerttemberg). Since fink means finch, I would guess that Kofink was originally the name of a particular kind of finch. It doesn't appear in any German book of ornithology I've consulted, so it was probably a local name.

I've looked through the name Kofink in various Internet genealogical sources, but I don't think I've found the particular Friedrich Kofink who would have been my great-great-grandfather. One day I did locate a Gottlieben Kallenberger who married a man named Johann Theodor Steiss. This must be my great-great grandmother since there is a family document that refers to her as Gottlieben Steiss and my own grandfather was named Johann Theodore. However, I can't find anything about older generations of her family. That line of research is closed for now.

To investigate my mother's side of the family, I spent several hours talking to my grandmother's brother, John Angner. Uncle John was one of the most knowledgeable members of my family on almost any subject. He told what he could about ancestors, where they came from and best of all stories about various incidents back in the old country. Fortunately, I made a recording of this conversation. In the midst of the conversation, it turned out that my grandmother had a family tree that had been researched by her uncle. Suddenly I had information about my family going back to the mid eighteenth century. Then a few years back my mother's cousin had some professional research done that added even more people to the family tree, She generously had some work done on my mother's father's side as well.

I have poured over the materials, read about the area they lived in. It's an interesting story. After the Austrians had defeated the Turks and drove them from Hungary in the early eighteenth century, they wanted to settle German people in the area (Banat) as a bulwark against the Turks. But they had to beCatholicGermans, not Protestants. There was a Protestant streak among some Hungarians that the Catholic Austrians did not want to see extended into the new territories. (Besides, they had already settled a bunch of Protestant Germans in Transylvania and that was enough. So they recruited Catholic Germans from the Rhineland, and Alsace-Loraine with the promise of free land. Some of my ancestors took up the offer and made the trek to Hungary. I wonder what Austrian emperor would have thought that a good number of the descendants of those immigrants would wind up agnostic or Protestant. I don't think the colonization worked out for the poor colonists as well as they had expected. Nobody in my family wound up much better off than they had been in Germany. During the early years of the 20th century many people from the area immigrated to the U.S., some to become citizens, some to live a while and make money before returning. (That is not something new.) WWI dragged many of the men away, then the borders shifted with the towns were my family came from winding up first in Yugoslavia then Romania. My great-uncle John came to America after the war. As he put it, "I turned my back on the Old World and never looked back." My grand parents also came. I believe many grandfather came first working in Philadelphia to get enough money to bring my grandmother. After all, he was born in the U.S. and therefore a citizen. He was also the only member of my family who was not 100% ethnic German. His father's family were either Czech or Slovak or maybe even Slovene. He was never sure. His own family name, Szlavik, indicates his roots.

The family who left were the lucky ones. WWII was a disaster for the region since the Romanians sided with the Nazis and the country was overrun by the Russians. My grandfather's brother-in-law disappeared into a Soviet concentration camp. It would be decades before they ever admitted he had died there. Of course land was confiscated by the communists absolutely ruining what had been a fairly strong agricultural economy. The ethnic policies of Romanian dictator Ceausescu drove many of the Germans out of the country and back to Germany.

Back on my Father's side I was stymied. I ordered copies of my great-grand parents death certificates. One contained a clue. The name "Lukas" was given as my father's maternal grandmother's father. I didn't have a lot of hope in finding anything because her maiden name, Kuppinger (the equivalent of the English Cooper) us a very common name. I did turn up two Lukas Kuppingers, a father and son, but nothing that could have connected them to my great-grandmother. They were all from the wrong place in Germany. I knew that my great-grandmother had been born in Wildbad in the Blackforest and spoke the particular dialect of that region. Then I found another reference to the younger Lukas Kuppinger which noted he had married 9 May 1858 in Wildbad. My great-grandmother was born September 27 1859. Furthermore, her first name Luisa, was the middle name of Lukas Kuppinger's wife. There is no question in my mind that the Lukas Kuppinger I found was her father. Suddenly several genealogies were connected to mine, some stretching back to the late 1400s. There isn't much chance of going back too much farther since we start to get into times when people didn't have last names or the names changed as people moved from place to place. That happened to my mother's family when the original Ankner name was changed to Angner, probably by a government bureaucrat in the old country.

You have to be careful about the material you use from any source. Some people doing research are too quick to take any name that seems to fit into their genealogy. Be careful of sites tracing someone back to Adam and Eve (there are some). Also be wary of materials from the Latter Day Saints even when they are transcribing a record. I found one reference to my great-grandfather Karl Kofink where the first name had become Raul because they couldn't make out the clerks handwriting. Also, don't overlook the mess that government officials can make when they spoke a different language than you ancestor. My Great-Uncle John should have had some form of the German Johannes on his ship's passenger list, but being a German from Romania, he had been recorded with the Romanian Ioan instead.

I had hear a rumor that my Great-great-grandfather had been the Buergermeister (mayor) of Heidelberg. I think that highly unlikely since it I've been unable to find any Kofinks connected with that city other than my great-grandfather, and he seems to have been born there, but raised in Stuttgart. There may be a mayor of Dagersheim in the family, Magolt, but I haven't been able to connect the Hans Widmann of Dagerheim who was my ancestor to the great Widmann family, all of whom seem to be descendants of Mangolt. I haven't given up yet. I have confirmed that several of my ancestors were mayors of Ehningen. One ancestor, Conrad Stamler was mayor of Tuebingen, but the most famous of by ancestors was his son-in-law, Jacob Heerbrand,.

It took awhile for me to realize a connection to my illustrious ancestor. One of the many branches in my pedigree extended to one Jacob Heerbrand (1608-1656). I found a note in one source that he was "Pfarrer in Ehningen," a pastor in the town of Ehningen. This was the only clergyman in my family tree. One day I googled the name and was surprised to get numerous returns. But the Jacob Heerbrand I found was born in 1521 and died in 1600. I had no way to connect the two. Since the older Heerbrand was also a clergyman, I suspected a family tie. I eventually made the connection that no one else on the Internet seemed to have made. My Jacob Heerbrand was the great-grandson of the elder Jacob.

Who was this first Jacob? The son of a weaver, he attended the University of Wittenberg where he was a student of the two great reformers Martin Luther and Philip Melanchton. You might say that old Jacob (my eleven times great grandfather) was the first Lutheran in the family. Indeed, I have read of him described as the Reformer of Wuerttemberg. He was superintendent (the equivalent of a bishop) of Herrenberg, the state preacher of Pforzheim, Professor of Theology and eventually Chancellor of the University of Tuebingen. He wrote a massive theological work (which I have never seen) and was one of the participants in an exchange of letters between Lutheran theologians and the Orthodox Patriarch (I have read that exchange). Unfortunately, he was also noted for rejecting the foolish new notion that the Earth went around the sun. You should never let theologians opine on scientific matters. By the way, that's a picture of old Jacob Heerbrand at the head of this blog.

So what does all that mean? Not much. I just find it interesting to discover my own roots. It gives me a sense of where I have been before I was born. If that sounds like a Zen koan, so be it. But it is true that we are the product of those who have gone before us both genetically and culturally. That's something we take with us on the journey. Maybe what has gone before has some effect on the directions we take in life. Certainly my life would have been different if all the ancestors that I can find on my father's side had not been German Protestants. But I'm not sure how much of our path is determined by what's in the past and how much is only determined at the moment we take the next step. I guess we won't know until the journey is over.

May the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne

FA MILY PICTURES

I thought everything would return to normal. And I’d be back writings by now. No such luck. Busy, busy busy. I do have some pictures I scanned of my family, so I’ll post them.


My Great-Grandma Kofink. No idea when or where it was taken. You can see the strong features of her face that are still visible in many of her descendants. My Grandpa Kofink looked very much like her when he was in his 50s & 60s.

Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa Kofink. I know this was taken in the backyard of the Seeley Avenue House, possibly in 1931 which would have been their 50th wedding anniversary. Grandpa has a pipe in his hand and Grandma has a set of figurines of a bride and groom. I never met my great-grandparents. Could you guess that Great-grandpa was German?


The front of the Seeley Avenue house that was first owned by my great-grandparents. By the time I was born the Victorian Gingerbread was gone, but the stained-glass window was still there. Unfortunately it was removed in remodeling in the 1950s.

I have no idea when this picture was taken, but it has to be in the teens or early 20s before the dormers were added to the second floor. Pictures are my Grandma Kofink, her mother-in-law (great-grandma), her sister-in-law Aunt Minnie Wardell, and her father-in-law (great grandma.) Below is a picture of the house today.


Do you see how big the little tree in the first picture has gotten in 80 years or so.

This is my Great-Grandma & Grandpa Angner, my mother's maternal grandparents. I only know this from other pictures of them. This one isn't dated, but it had to have been taken in Louvrin, Romania where they lived. My mother met her grandparents when she went to Europe in 1937. I only got to know Great-grandma years later.


My mother as a very young child, around 1927 or so and her mother, My Grandma Szlavik. I'd recognize my grandmother anywhere. I can pick her out in a family portrait when she was a very little girl. I'd never have recognized my mother if I didn't have a portrait of her when she was a few years old.

This is Great-Grandma Angner back home in Romania in 1966. She had lived in the States for a while in the 1950s, but returned home again. I did get to spend time with her when she was here. Nana and I got along fine even though she spoke no English. I learned to count in German. This picture was taken a few years before her death. It was given to my grandmother with the inscription "Your loving old mother. For you."

That's all for now. May the Lord bless you on your journey and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne



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KOFINK FAMILY

This is a special edition temporary post for the Kofink relatives. Here's a picture of the Chicago clan around 1912 or so. (Click to make it bigger.)

Back row from left: Henry, Minnie, Ernst, Anna, Walter

Front row from left: John (my grandfather), Wilhelmine (great-grandmother), Fred, Carl (great grandfather), Paul.

I have a partial genealogy back to the late fifteenth century. Contact me at afellowpilgrim @ aol.com. (Take out the spaces around the @ sign. I do that to stop the crawlers from reading the email. )

YUM, PART 1

My mother had a fancy towel (never used) hanging in her kitchen. It showed a man being given a spoon full of something she was cooking. In his thoughts was another picture of himself with an older, grey-haired woman also giving him a spoonful of something. And underneath were the words, "Not like mother's."

Ah yes, nothing is like Mom's cooking, except maybe Grandma's. There are so many things that my grandmother's made that are lost now. Grandma Kofink always made a cherry cake–pink cake with maraschino cherries. I searched through all her recipes, but couldn't find it. My grandma Szlavik could make breaded chicken and pork chops that were out of this world. I've tried making them, but they aren't the same. Maybe she used lard. And then there were her Christmas cookies–delicious, flaky cookies. I have never discovered any recipe that is close.

Enough about what I can't do. I am about to share with you three very unusual dishes. A couple of them you might find in some form or another if you looked hard enough, the last one no one I have ever talked to has eaten unless they are relatives.

Dish One: Grandma Szlavik's Fired Noodles ala Mom's Version. This is a wonderful way to use up those left over noodles from Sunday's pot roast. What? There aren't any left over noodles? That's probably because you didn't make enough. The only way you can be sure no one's gone hungry is by making enough so that there is always some leftover. Leftovers are part of a frugal cook's planning. So what if you eat the same meal two or three times in a week (four times during Thanksgiving and Christmas week. A 40 pound turkey goes a long way.)

OK, I'll have to allow that you don't have any leftover noodles. You'll just have to make some. It's best if you do it the day before so they can develop that wonderful rubbery consistency from being left in the fridge over night, but in a pinch you can make some up and fry them the same day. Buy egg noodles–none of the reduced fat or no yolk noodles. They're yucky. Real egg noodles, extra, extra wide. Sadly, no one seems to make the really wide noodles, so you'll have to do the best you can.

First, cook the noodles in boiling water. DON'T OVER COOK THEM. If you make them too soft they'll congeal when you store them overnight or fall apart when you fry them. Next, drain the noodles very well. If you don't they'll get nasty in the fridge or they'll spatter hot oil every where when you fry them. Not a welcome experience. Heat a big ol' frying pan. My mother always used a cast iron pan. You can use one of these modern no stick pans if you want, but the finished food will lack that nice tangy flavor of rust.

Now the issue of the stuff to fry the noodles in. Mom always used Crisco, big, artery clogging lumps of the white stuff. (Grnadma probably used lard.) In the interest of health (as if frying anything could be healthy) I use canola oil. When the pan's hot, dump in the oil. How much? Enough. We never measured anything. Not just a thin film, but not so much that you could deep fry French fries. Use your head, for goodness sakes. Now I follow the frugal gourmet's advice: "Hot pan, cold oil, food won't stick." I'm not so worried about the sticking. As a matter of fact. A little sticky gets you those nice crunchy bits when it burns on to the bottom of the pan. No, I suggest using cold oil to avoid hot fat squirting in your eye when you dump the noodles in. OK, ready? One-two-three dump in the noodles. Stir them around with a spatula (a wooden or plastic one of you're using a no stick pan.) Get them nice and greasy. If there isn't enough oil, put some more in. (You see why I only make this a couple times a year. My heart couldn't stand the shock more frequently.) I can't really tell you how long to cook them. I like the noodles to have some crunchy ends and be a light golden brown here and there.

When you've got them to the right degree of doneness, add the eggs. How many? How should I know? Enough, but not too many. I think two eggs to 8 ounces of noodles is about right, but who am I to tell you how to do it. If you're the fastidious type, break the eggs into a bowl and mix them up a bit with a fork. Don't get carried away with a wire whisk or anything, for gosh sakes. You're not making souffles or any of that sissified gourmet food. This is basic peasant stuff. When did you ever see Julia Child using leftovers in a recipe? If you're more daring, just break the eggs on the side of the pan, flop them in, and them stir them around in the eggs real good. You've got to work quickly or the eggs will fry into a lump. You want them spread throughout the eggs. Add salt and pepper and when the eggs are cooked, you're done. Toss it on a plate and dig in.

Now when my grandmother made the same dish, she would add cottage cheese at some point and stir it around in the eggs and noodles. That's OK, but I prefer it cheeseless myself.

Dish two: Grandma Kofink's Pancake Soup. People look at me like I was nuts when I talk about pancake soup, but it is something well known among certain groups of German speaking people. Basically you use pancakes as if they were noodles. Here's how my father's mother did it. First, you need some pancakes. Not fresh pancakes, left over ones that have been sitting in the fridge for a day or two wrapped in waxed paper. What, you don't have any left over pancakes? You didn't make enough. Didn't you learn anything from making enough noodles?

These pancakes have to be real pancakes made from flour, eggs, milk, and a bit of baking powder, none of that Bisquick garbage. How much of each ingredient? How should I know? Grandma never measured anything. Just don't put in too much milk or they'll run all over the place. Make them nice and solid–and thick. Don't make fluffy, delectable pancakes. Make them so they stick to the ribs. In my family pancakes were not eaten for breakfast. They were eaten for supper, with syrup or jelly on them.

Back to the soup. First, get the water boiling to make a lot of bullion. How much? Do I have to even try to answer that? Enough!!!!!! We always made bullion using Wyler's Beef Bullion Cubes. No other brand would do. Yes, I know that bullion cubes are mostly salt with a little caramel coloring, but we're talking good, cheap food here. If it tastes good, it's good enough. You gonna spend all day cooking down beef stock for pancake soup? Get real.

While the bullion's simmering, cut up all the pancakes into cubes about 1/2 inch on each side. Put them into a big bowl or something.

When everything is ready, each person takes a soup bowl, puts in plenty of pancake cubes, maybe sampling a few to savor that wonderful doughy consistency. Now, mother ladles hot bullion over the pancake cubes. I suppose if you don't have a mother living with you, you'll have to do it yourself, but be careful, for goodness sakes. Don't spill any on yourself. Watch in amazement as the pancake cubes swell up in the bullion. You'd better eat it in a hurry or the pancakes will start to fall apart. Finished? Fill up another bowl and start again. Mmmmm.

Well, this has been long enough. I'll have to save the last delicious recipe for next time. Bon Appetit.

May the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne

WAR OF THE SQUIRRELS

By some quirk of evolution the squirrel (family Sciuridae) developed a long, bushy tail. Indeed, they take their name from the Greek word skiouros, which means shadow-tailed. Had it not been for their tail, they would look like the rest of their disgusting rodent relatives. Upon siting a rat, people turn to traps, poison, or shot guns to exterminate the varment. Upon siting a squirrel, people run to get nuts to feed the cute little creatures.

I learned early about these sneaky vermin. As a little tyke, I would to go to Hamlin Park with my Grandma Szlavik to feed the squirrels. They were so tame they would take food from your hand. Then one of the nasty buggers bit my finger. Never again would I trust a squirrel. I did, however, have a toy squirrel that I had a safe relationship with. I brought it to Kindergarten one day for show-and- tell, and we sang, "Gray squirrel, gray squirrel, swish your tail for me. Wrinkle up your funny nose. Hold a nut between your toes. Gray squirrel, gray squirrel, swish your tail for me."

My Grandmother Kofink would occasionally feed squirrels windmill cookies. (That's no so strange since those cookies have almonds in them.) However, after the squirrels had eaten their fill, they took to digging holes in the lawn to burry the rest. That was the end of the cookies. To compensate for the absence of treats the squirrels started digging up the tulip bulbs. That was an act of pure vengeance because they would take one bite out of the bulb, discover they didn't like the taste, discard it, and dig up another one.

For 21 years my life was relatively squirrel free since I don't recall seeing any in Miami where I lived. Then I moved to Ocala and was reintroduced to the little monsters. Now in general I am a live and let live sort of person. There are plenty of oak trees around here, and the squirrels are welcome to eat all the acorns the can hold. They can even store them up for the six weeks of winterish season we have here. Now, the Good Lord intended squirrels to live in trees and not in the ceiling of the church's narthex, but the narthex is the place they want to live. Several times the have gnawed their way through wood and stucco to get into the ceiling and raise a litter of baby squirrels. We always close their access hole making sure the squirrels are out foraging. Once a squirrel went to its eternal reward while living in the ceiling which produced an infernal stench. (Almost as bad as the time a lizard died in the cup dispenser of the water cooler.)

Some time in late spring or early summer the squirrels chewed the Holland Tunnel of holes though the fascia and the wall to get back into the ceiling. I tried patching their entrance with wood several times, but the always pulled the patches off. I wouldn't have minded their new living quarters if they hadn't been so destructive. First they started tearing the insulation out of the ceiling, then they knocked down the recessed lights by pushing the fixtures out of the ceiling.

We explained the situation to our pest control people who promised to investigate how to repel squirrels. We're still waiting for the report. In the meantime I believe we have gone through one litter of squirrels. As winter approached, the Congregation Council decided the squirrels had to be evicted. We hired someone to close their entrance permanently with cement and put aluminum shielding across and possible future entry sites. It was done humanely, waiting for them to go our foraging before shutting them out. Mission accomplished. The ceiling is now squirrel free.

The pesky creatures were quite displeased at being denied access to their residence, but they were only squatters and not legal residents. For several days they banged on the metal siding trying to remove or destroy it without success. I came outside one day to have words with them, warning one of their number to leave the siding alone or there would be dire consequences. He or she looked at me with contempt.

I thought the war of the squirrels was over, but I was wrong. The Monday after Christmas I arrived at the church to find a string of the outdoors Christmas lights chewed into two-foot lengths and left lying on the ground. The squirrels had begun to bite off individual bulbs, but decided they had done enough damage for one day.

Some church members suggested we leave the lights on overnight to fry the vengeful little monsters next time they went after the lights. I was sorely tempted, but it would have done no good. I noticed every day that the string of lights was always unplugged from the extension cord. I knew no one from the church was unplugging the lights, but couldn't work out what phenomenon of nature was producing this effect. The answer was the squirrels. I saw one siting on the extension cord that ran underneath the roof of the covered walkway. The weight of the squirrel was just enough to pull the cord free of the lights. The bushy-tailed rats had figured out how to avoid electrocution while carrying out their destruction.

I think we have a truce, but . . . Last week I hear a loud thump against the outside wall of my office. I went to see what it was, and five crows took off from the roof over my office. Are they the aerial allies of the squirrels? Are they starting their own battle against us? Crows are pretty aggressive birds. I've seen then chase off hawks. More significantly, I've seen Hitchcock's movie The Birds. I'm going to keep my eye on the situation . . . from a distance.

May the Lord bless you on your journey and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne



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GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST, PART 4

When we were very young, there was no churchgoing on Christmas eve. We went home, argued about cookies for Santa Claus, and went to bed. Later, Mom started singing in the choir. We would be brought home and placed under the care of Grandma Kofink while Mom and Dad went off to church. Something very mysterious went on at church, because I saw the evidence the next day. Two small candles, sort-of pinched in the middle like an hour glass with a circle of cardboard around it, appeared on the kitchen table. I would finger the candles trying to imagine what it was all about. Then one year I was old enough to go to church, too. I sat with Dad while Mom was in the choir-loft. I don't know whether they left my sister at home or if she just fell asleep in the pew. The church was absolutely packed. They had to put up folding chairs in the aisles. The most impressive sight was the huge, huge Christmas tree in the front of the church. Of course I had seen the tree when I was in Sunday School, but I had never seen it at night, especially when they turned down the lights for the sermon. For once in my life I had something to do while the pastor preached. There were hundreds of lights and ornaments to look at. Most of them were different from what we had at home. The tree was decorated by the LOYALs each of whom brought two ornaments to add to the tree each year. This went on until one year the Scrooges at City Hall succeeded in getting real trees banned from churches.

As spectacular as the tree was, it couldn't compare to the final ritual to the service. All the lights were turned off in the church. The pastor carried a lighted candle down to the front of the church and lit the candles of the ushers. They in turn let the candles of the first person in the pew, who then passed the light down the pew. Gradually the whole church was bathed in the glow of lighted candles. (I remember once one guy getting impatient waiting for the light to be passed down the pew, so he whipped out his Zippo lighter and lighted his candle and his wife's candle. He leaned over to pass this spurious flame over to Dad. Much to his surprise, Dad pinched-out the candle flame between his fingers. Don't ever mess with church traditions around Dad.) When the candles were lighted, the congregation sang "Silent Night." At the end of the hymn, people would quietly walk out of the church carrying this light into the dark night. It was a wonderful experience–a hundred lighted candles, a hundred voices softly singing. Unfortunately, Andy and Clyde, the ushers, decided that this would be a good time to start folding up the extra chairs to get them out of the way. These chairs were ancient, like most of the stuff in the church, and it took a lot of muscle to get the seats up, the legs in, and then to jam them in the rack. The effect was devastating: "Silent night," CRREEEK! RATTLE, RATTLE! "holy night" WHAM! CRASH! "All is calm" BANG! CLUNK! "all is bright." KABOOM! While all this was going on, a mystery was revealed to me as the small candle began to soften from the warmth of my hand. The middle began to pinch-in forming the peculiar hourglass shape of the candles I had discovered at home.

At some point we all started singing in the choir. This was probably not the best idea in Dad's case since he was somewhat tone deaf, but it was all well meant. Our Aunt Martha and cousins Adele and Darlene also sang in the choir. Dad's brother, Uncle Herb, didn't join because he was even more tone deaf than Dad. Dad just had trouble coming close to the right pitch. Uncle couldn't get the notes to go in the right direction. Anyway, this helped to make Christmas eve services a family occasion. In my mind we must have sung about a dozen anthems and carols at these services. I didn't complain, because it was a great time. A new choir director, Ruth, added her own shaping to the traditions. The tradition was that the choir continued to sing "Silent Night" as people shuffled out of the church dripping hot wax on the floor and on one another. Ruth thought we needed some variety, so at some point during the singing she would lean over a whisper to the choir, "hum." And we all hummed a stanza. Then maybe she play a verse on the chimes without any singing. Then, near the end she would whisper, "auf Deutsch," and we would sing in German, at least those who knew German did. One year I wrote the German text out on a slip of paper so I could be sure to get the words right, but I didn't realize how hard it was to read a foreign language by candlelight. It could have been written in Swahili for all the good it did me. The year Aunt Margaret came to visit we brought her to church. She was taken by the organ music since in her little town all they had was a violin and an accordion at church. Unfortunately, by this time we had a new pastor who hated whatever had been the traditions of the past, and he banished the singing of "Silent Night" at the end of the service. I found this most disappointing because I knew the only thing Aunt Margaret would be able to understand would be the German "Stille Nacht." When the service was over, I got Ruth to sing it for her. Aunt Margaret appreciated it, but it wasn't quite the same. Some things are good enough as they are and don't need changing to make them better. Singing "Silent Night" and holding lighted candles is one of them.

In this festive season of Christmas, May the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne

YUM, PART 2

As promised in the last episode, here is one more special recipe from our family's special collection, Spaghetti and Beans, or as Grandma Kofink would say, Spergehtti and Beans.

This one is easy because it requires no leftovers. Everything is made fresh. And it only has three ingredients. Spaghetti, canned pork and beans, and bacon. Think of that: one ingredient is pure carbohydrate, one is high saturated fat, and the other is reasonably nutritious.

Start by boiling some salted water, enough to make a package of spaghetti. Now we are talking plain old unadulterated spaghetti, none of this stuff with spinach or tomato or basil flavoring in it. Just plain old pasty spaghetti, the stuff real Americans ate before all this falderal of "pasta" started sneaking in. When the water is boiling, toss in the spaghetti. If your fastidious, break it in half first, but that takes the fun out of eating it.

Next, while the water is boiling, cut up some bacon into small squares. Oh, come on now, you aren't going to ask that are you? ENOUGH! That's how much. Then fry it in a small frying pan until it is crispy, but not burnt. This is a slight departure from grandma's method of cooking. Grandma believed something wasn't done until it was a little black around the edges. That applied to bacon, cake, and sometimes vegetables also. Think of it; she was making blackened fish long before it became popular. And the only spices used were salt and pepper.

Where were we? Oh yes, frying bacon. While the bacon is frying, dump a can of pork and beans in a sauce pan. Maybe use a couple of cans if you want. Mom always used Van Camp's, but I have found I prefer Campbell's. Stay away from any of those fancy-schmancy ones that have added brown sugar or molasses or barbeque sauce. You want a good-old tomato sauce base. Heat the pork and beans carefully so you don't burn them onto the bottom of the pan. It's murder to get off.

All right, we're getting close now. When the spaghetti is done, (We always tasted it to see if it was done–really done, not au dente. Some people I know throw a piece on the wall. If it sticks, it's done. We would NEVER have done that in out house.) drain the spaghetti. Spoon about a third of the fried bacon into the beans and mix well. Now the secret technique. Put the drained spaghetti in a bowl and pour the rest of the bacon and all the grease on top. I hope you're not going to waste any of that perfectly good, artery-clogging fat. Mix the bacon, grease and spaghetti. Serve everything right away because you don't want to eat the spaghetti after the bacon grease starts to congeal. It's yucky and reminds you what's going on in your heart as you eat it.

Each person piles spaghetti on their plate, spoons the beans on top, and mixes it up. No matter how much spaghetti and how much beans you make, it will never come out even. You will always run out of spaghetti before you run out of beans. I don't know why. It's a mystery of physics. My dad always like to accompany this with soft white bread spread with margarine. It was useful for pushing the beans on your fork. We NEVER ate a salad or green vegetable with this. Hey, beans are vegetables, aren't they?

That's all for today from the German-American-Eastern-European Chef. This is me saying, dig in.

May the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.


Wayne

JULIA CHILD CHANGED MY LIFE

In seventh and eighth-grade we had Home Mechanics and Home Economics. Boys and girls (in separate classes of course) learned about plumbing, electrical work, woodworking and metal working, sewing, and cooking. I never finished the apron we were supposed to make in sewing, but I always finished cooking everything we were supposed to cook. Unfortunately, after cooking whatever, we had to eat it. Believe me, I NEVER ate creamed chipped beef on toast again.

Fortunately, it was soon after this–1963–that Julia Child appeared on television as the French Chef. Several friends and I watched this extraordinary lady whipping egg whites, lining pans with the skins of eggplants, and occasionally pounding things with a mallet while shouting, "Whammy!" Now that was my kind of cooking. I have to thank Julia of blessed memory from saving me from being one of those hopeless bachelors who lives on frozen dinners and Chinese takeaway.

I am thumbing through the cookbook she wrote based on her first shows, noting how many of her recipes I still use. Harricotts Verts au Maitre d'Hotel. Actually that's only green beans with butter and parsley, but it sounds much more impressive in French. Canard a l'Orange, duck with orange sauce–my Thanksgiving meal. Ratatouille,no there are no rats in it; only eggplant, zucchini, onion, tomatoes, peppers and herbs. The famous Buche de Noel, Yule Log Cake. Daube de Boeuf a la Provencale, beef casserole, which I once had explode in the oven. (Well it does have 1 1/2 cups vermouth and a quarter cup gin in it.) Soupe a l'Oignon, but of course. Cotelettes a la Nivernaise, pork chop casserole, only I don't put any nasty artichokes in it. I am adverse to eating things with the word "choke" in their name. And finally the great show stopper of all Cherries Jubilee. (It's supposed to catch fire.)

Now I have come to experiment a bit with cooking, usually starting with some recipe and reworking and improving it. One of my successes was for turkey-bean soup. It got included in a cookbook, mind you. Also, over a number of years, I developed my own recipe for Christmas Stollen. I much prefer my stollen to any store-bought variety, even stuff from the famous Dinkel's bakery in Chicago. People used to ask me to bake them a loaf, but I stopped taking orders when I had to make nine loaves one Christmas. Recently, however, someone asked for the recipe even though they had never tried my version. So, in the interest of spreading holiday cheer the rest of the year (and because you can buy candied fruit at half-price right now), here is my recipe for stollen.

CHRISTMAS STOLLEN
Wayne Kofink's Version

Fruit mixture

1/2 cup currants
3/4 cup golden raisins
8 oz. mixed candied fruit and peel
2 tablespoons grated orange peel
1 tablespoon grated lemon peel
1/3 cup dark rum, brandy, or Triple Sec
8 oz candied cherries

Dough

5 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
3 packages active dry yeast
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamon seed*
1 1/4 cups milk
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup butter
1 slightly beaten egg

Glaze

1 cup powdered sugar
2 tablespoons hot water
½ teaspoon butter

1. Combine together currants, raisins, mixed fruit, orange peel, lemon peel, and dark rum in a bowl. (Do not add the cherries.) Cover with plastic wrap and keep refrigerated for several days, stirring occasionally. Remove from refrigerator and allow to come to room temperature before you start making dough.

2. In a large mixing bowl combine 2 cups flour, yeast, cinnamon and cardamon seed.
*Whole cardamon is often sold still in the pods. Open the pods and remove the small seeds. Then grind the seeds.

3. Combine milk, salt, sugar, and butter in a small sauce pan and heat until warm (115 to 120 degrees) and the butter is melted. Add to flour mixture. Add egg to flour mixture.

4. Beat with an electric mixer at low speed for 1/2 minute, scraping sides of bowl constantly. Then beat at high speed for 3 minutes.

5. Add fruit mixture. (Not cherries.) Stir in remaining flour either by hand or with an electric mixer with a dough hook at a low speed.

6. Either turn out onto a floured surface and knead for 5 minutes or use an electric mixer with a dough hook. When the kneading is finished, the dough should be moderately soft, smooth and elastic. If using a mixer, the dough should "clean the bowl."

7. Shape the dough into a ball and place in a large, greased bowl. Turn the dough over once, then cover the bowl with a cloth, and let it rise in a warm place for 1 3/4 hours.

8. Punch down the dough, turn out onto a lightly floured surface. Divide into thirds. Cover and let rest for 10 minutes

9. Roll one-third of the dough into 9 X 12 rectangle. Place 1/3 of the cherries (about 15 of them) in a row the length of the dough about 3 inches from the long edge. You may have to stagger the row to fit all the cherries on. (Doing the cherries this way will allow you to have whole slices of cherries when you serve the stollen. If you add them during the kneading process, they will be broken to bits.) Without stretching the dough, fold one long edge over the cherries to within one inch of the opposite side. You should have a loaf about 5 inches wide and 12 inches long with the cherries hidden inside. Place on a greased baking sheet. Repeat with the remaining dough.

10. Cover the loaves and let rise in a warm place for 1 hour. Then bake at 375 degrees for 20 to 22 minutes. The loaves should be golden brown and have a hollow sound when tapped. Let them cool on wire racks.

11. Combine powdered sugar, butter, and hot water. Brush glaze over loaves with a pastry brush.

Loaves can be frozen for future use. Wrap them in plastic wrap and then aluminum foil and place in a freezer bag.

TAKE MY WIFE, PLEASE

This isn’t new material. I wrote it a few months ago, but so many people found it funny. I’m presenting it here slightly revised.

I ran into a friend of mine at the theatre last month. In the course of conversation she asked me if I knew John, an organist at a church in a neighboring city. I do indeed know him slightly. My friend then mentioned having met him this summer. John remarked to her that he had been talking with my wife recently. My friend made sure they were talking about the right person, “Yes, the pastor at Our Saviour Lutheran.” Now the news that my wife was talking to John startled me since I don’t recall having a wife. I know I have been getting forgetful, but I’m pretty sure I would remember something like that. And why was she talking to John anyway?

I assumed there had been some sort of misunderstanding. It has happened a few times before that some unfortunate woman has been misidentified as my wife. In a similar fashion I have occasionally acquired a few children, much to their amusement. (I note that not one of these children EVER sends dear old dad a card on Father’s Day, but I’ll let that slide.) I put all of this out of my mind until a week later when I received an envelope addressed to Mr. & Mrs. Kofink. I haven’t opened it. I am afraid to. You see it’s from an insurance company, and I worry about discovering that my mysterious spouse has taken out a million dollar life insurance policy on me. I am telling people about this just in case I don’t turn up at church some Sunday, but my “grieving widow” does. Hold on to her and call the police.

Actually there is a very tiny, minuscule, microscopic possibility that I do have a wife–somewhere. I don’t know her name or even what she looks like. About ten years ago a mother of one of the children in our church school asked for an appointment to see me which I naturally agreed to. Always want to help people if I can. She came to the church, but the subject of our conversation was a marriage proposal. She asked if I would marry her sister who was in danger of being deported if she didn’t marry an American citizen. As politely as possible I declined the offer trying to explain that I felt marriage was far too important to be entered into for such flimsy reasons. (Yes, I know C. S. Lewis married Joy Davidman so she could stay in England, but at least he had known her for many years.) Besides, marrying someone just to give them American citizenship is illegal. I assumed that was the end of that, but with all the stuff I read about identity theft, I wonder how hard it would be to come up with a faked marriage certificate, especially one from another country. What if one day the Immigration Officials want me to come down to their office to discuss my wife? This is the kind of thing you just can’t anticipate happening in the ministry.

Whatever mess I have gotten into here on earth, I am reminded of the question Jesus was asked by the Sadducees about the woman who had been married to seven husbands, each of whom died before her. Finally she died. “In the resurrection whose wife will she be?” they asked. And Jesus answered: “when they rise from the dead, they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are like angels in heaven.”

There. You see, I’m just practicing being like the angels in heaven. Aren’t we supposed to be doing something like that?

May the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne

HOW'S TRIX?

Sometimes people getting on in years try something brand-new. A couple I knew in their 70s tried parasailing. This morning I did something I had never done in all my 58 years. I had a bowl of Trix for breakfast. In that lies a long story.

When I was growing up there were a limited number of cold cereals available: corn flakes, rice krispies, shredded wheat, Wheaties, Cheerios, puffed wheat and rice. Eventually there was Special K and Alphabits–my favorite. Our mother was not one to buy every new product to hit the shelves. No sugar frosted cereal of any kind entered our house, and there were only a few choices available at home at any one time.

I have continued this narrow approach to cereal. I alternate between Brand Buds and Fiber One. Actually I'd prefer raisin bran, but I'm supposed to be on a low carb diet, so these are the only ones permitted. A couple of months ago I stayed at a hotel that provided a free breakfast. They had a series of dispensers with various kinds of cereal. I avoided this area like the plague knowing I'd have a terrible time deciding between what I should have and trying some new adventure like Fruit Loops. I mentioned this fact in a sermon as an illustration of a difficulty in making choices even when there wasn't much consequence to the choice. Several weeks after this was my birthday. To my great delight one of the members of my church and her daughter gave me a variety pack of eight different General Mills cereals.

Of course this presented a dilemma: which should I eat first and how often should I eat one. Yes, I think about things like that. There has to be a plan for everything. You can't leave things to chance. After much deliberation, I decided to try one cereal each Friday–my day off. So far I have worked through four flavors–Honey Grahams, Lucky Charms, Frosted Cheerios, and Trix. Here follows a review.

Honey Grahams are the best so far. I have always been a fan of Graham crackers and milk as comfort food. And chocolate covered Graham crackers are a special treat to be rarely enjoyed. I once walked a mile with my grandmother Kofink to a drugstore to buy chocolate covered Grahams because they were on sale. Nothing like a sale to suggest the need for a special treat. I think I'll buy a box of Honey Grahams to eat on special occasions, but not too near my doctor's appointment when I have to get on that demon scale.

Lucky Charms. Yuck. I'm not sure what the cardboardy cereal itself was made of (wheat, oats, corn, barley?), but the special added feature of colored marshmallow bits was just too strange for words. Marshmallow is for toasting over a fire or putting in hot cocoa (though I prefer whipped cream), but not floating around in youe breakfast bowl.

Frosted Cheerios were good. I had eaten regular Cheerios as a kid, but the sugar coating was a new feature. I always use artificial sweetner, so I probably won't be buying them for regular consumption. Besides, every time I'd eat them I would picture a disaproving look on my mother's face.

Finally, Trix.* The first thing is the shocking colors, like a bowl full of marbles. I was fortunate that I eat a late breakfast on Friday (around 9:30 after I finish the laundry). If I had chosen them for breakfast at my usual 6:30 hour, the shock might have done me in. And then the taste. They are supposed to be fruit flavored and I suppose that is fruit flavor, but I have no idea what kind. Many years ago when I put lemon in my tea as well as sugar, the notion took me to use lemon drops and thus cover both lemon and sweetness in one small package. AUGGGUUHH! Was that awful. Well, Trix has something of the same effect. I think I might be inclined to serve it as a desert rather than a breakfast food. It does have 12 grams of sugar per serving. No wonder some little kids are so wired in the morning. A bowlful of Trix would make anyone hyperactive. For us older folks it probably causes instant diabetes.

The nice thing about receiving this variety pack (thank you) is that I have been able to sample things without buying the giant economy box and then finding out I don't like it. I am looking forward to trying the remaining four flavors.

May your life be flavored with true delights. And may the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne

*There used to be a commercial where a rabbit (the one on the Trix box) tries to get the Trix away from two little kids. It always ended with the remark, "Silly rabbit. Trix are for kids." From that commercial comes this joke. Once upon a time there lived the twins Samuel and Sadie. Every time they went to their religious school, they had to cross a bridge, and under that bridge lived a mean old troll. Every time the twins crossed the bridge, the troll leaped out and gave each one a hard kick. Samuel and Sadie soon grew tired of this treatment and complained to their rabbi. "Rabbi," they said. "A mean old troll kicks us every time we cross his bridge and we're tired of being kicked." "He kicks, you, does he?" said the rabbi. "Don't worry, I'll handle this." So the rabbi went out to the bridge where he shouted, "Come out right now, you mean old troll." And the troll said, "Who are you?" And the rabbi said in a loud voice, " I am the rabbi." "What do you want rabbi" the troll growled." I want you to stop kick kicking the twins, Samuel and Sadie." "I won't," said the troll. "I'll make a bargain with you, " said the rabbi. "If you stop kicking the twins, you can kick me instead." And the troll replied, "Silly rabbi. Kicks are for twins."

It's Still Christmas

The Eighth Day of Christmas

I was talking with someone the day after Christmas. He person asked if I was glad Christmas was over. I was shocked. First of all, in my calendar Christmas wasn't over. It runs for twelve days until the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6. But technicalities aside, I was shocked because I love Christmas. I don't want it to be over. There isn't a time of year I like better.

I suppose I obsess about Christmas. Ever since I've been living on my own I've tried to reproduce the wonderful Christmases I remember from my childhood. That's a rather precarious thing to do, because memory plays tricks on us. It can take the good bits from a dozen Christmases and string them together making you think they were all the same Christmas.

I suppose my experience of Christmas was partly enhanced because there was never a disappointment. I don't recall my parents ever asking me what I wanted for Christmas. They just gave me things. Everything was a surprise and therefore never a disappointment. Well, there were scratchy wool sweaters and sometimes underwear, but that was always a gift from one of my more practical grandmothers.

My attempts to reproduce the Christmases of memory have always failed. It was the people who made Christmas, but so many of them are gone now and the rest of us are scattered. The picture at the top of this blog is from Christmas 1951–my gosh, more than half a century ago. That's me, my mother and father. I figure my dad must have used a timer to click the shutter on the camera. He's almost never in Christmas pictures because he was always taking them. My father would have been 29 and my mother 25 and me a few months shy of three.

Now here comes a good one from 1955 where we're all gathered in my grandparents' home.

We all seem to be enjoying ourselves, but are Mom and Grandma showing off new pairs of bloomers they got for Christmas?


A few years after this my parents and grandparents changed apartments. That meant my mother inherited the Christmas dinner. I don't know the date for the next pictures, but there are probably the early 70s. My father's mother doesn't appear in the pictures, but my mother's parents do.



First are pictures from Christmas morning. I'm dressed up in a sweater and tie, so I have been to St. Luke's church with my aunt and uncle and cousins. I'm back home and the immediate family are opening presents. The were very understanding about my desire to go to church on Christmas Day. That's my sister Karen on the left and a much thinner version of me.


Ah, Mom got a present. If these were motion pictures, you'd see her carefully unwrap the paper so it could be used again next year.


Now it's Christmas night, drinks before dinner. From the right my cousins Adele, Darlene and Darlene's husband-to-be Jim.


And from the left me, Granpa Szlavik and Grandma Szlavik. Grandpa appears to be watch television. He never joined in conversations being a very quiet person. Grandma did all the talking. She seems to be inspecting her drink which is probably my father's infamous punch. Now at the table having finished Christmas Dinner.


Aunt Martha and Uncle Herb.


Grandma and Grandpa, Jim and Darlene's head.


Mom and Dad. I must have taken this picture because Dad is leaning way in not trusting me to have framed the picture properly to include him. In one aspect I still try to duplicate my memories–the Christmas Tree, I still purchase a real tree every year and decorate it. Here's my parent's tree in the 70s.



And my tree in 2007.

Most of the ornaments I have purchased one at a time fro my tree from places like Bloomingdales and Macy's. All of the ones I buy are made in Europe–Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia. The top of my tree always has a spire rather than a star or angel. The tree my parents had when I was very little was also a spire. It broke one Christmas and was replaced with the lighted star.



Next come the pink, plastic cherubs by mother bought for my parents first Christmas tree. She always hung them herself near the top of the tree, and so do I.



Then some angel musicians she bought years later at Hoffings Department Store, six angels for 77 cents.


And some blown glass angels I bought. There were eight in all, but I gave four away as gifts to friends. I wonder if any of them still have them?

Now my pride and joy are my birds. My Grandma Kofink always had birds on her trees, and my mother, and so do I.




I like the red humming bird. There's a blue one also. Then comes every kind of ornament that strikes my fancy. Two of the oldest ones are a pink fish and a church that I bought in a set from the Smithsonian Institute 31 years ago.




And two of the newest, A Harry Potter ornament that was a gift from Tyler.




And a flamingo (I think he looks drunk) from my sister this year straight from the Lincoln Park Zoo.




A Happy Christmas to you.

May the Lord bless you on your journey and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne





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