by Fred Moleck
Seasonal Culture Shock
The art and environment committee of the liturgical commission of my home diocese sponsored two hands-on workshops on decorating for the Christmas season. There was also a demonstration on how to do a spiffy Advent wreath.
It was successful and happily received by the attendees to the point that they were asking for a whole day workshop for next year. The success was achieved by the competency of the two women who were the presenters.
They could take two Popsicle sticks, wrap a sprig of rosemary around it and have a masterpiece.
Floral geniuses!
What was going through my mind was how fixed our regional church is on what constitutes winter. In the northeastern part of the country, Advent wouldn’t be Advent without the Advent wreath of green boughs and green Christmas trees and green swatches of pine.
With green boughs, trees, and swatches, you switch into the Currier-an-Ives mode and see idyllic snow-covered trees, “a one-horse open sleigh” and “winter wonderlands.”
For me, I see useless winter treads on the car that would slide on the ice-encrusted roads, which become especially icy right after Midnight Mass.
Returning home after a Midnight Mass spectacular, I discovered a dead furnace and no oil in the oil tanks.
(It was at this point I destroyed my video of Bing Crosby’s White
Christmas.)
Part of the demonstration by the floral queens was on how to construct a green window-piece for the church windows. The surprise came when they included magnolia leaves.
Magnolia leaves. Isn’t that what encrusted the O’Hara’s house, Tara? Doesn’t one find magnolias blooming along the Chattahoochee rivuh? Isn’t the magnolia tree the state tree for some state south of the Mason-Dixon line?
Soon after I suspended disbelief, my vision cleared up and saw that the women had created a happy combination of New England spruce and Virginian magnolia. It was a lovely setting.
The long, smooth Magnolia leaves resting against the multipointed spruce branches were successful. The brown underside of the Magnolias enhanced the textures of the branches.
The experience was not a culture shock, but it did cause me to reflect on what other biases are lodged in my psyche.
I am writing this piece on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving Day. I fully expect some surprises will surface on Thanksgiving Day—I’ll be in Florida, and already I’m worried about the menu.
Will there be turkey or will it be grilled swordfish?
Will “avocado surprise” replace cranberry sauce? Is there a key lime
pie in my future?
What will be the colors of the parasols stuck in our piña coladas at poolside?
I have further trepidation. Four days after the first Sunday in Lent next year, I’ll be in Anaheim, California, in a convention center within walking distance to Disneyland.
I’m disciplining myself to prohibit terrifying thoughts on how the rite of election will be translated into Disney-ese.
Going back to the origins of our traditions can also be surprising.
Maybe thirty years ago, I spent Thanksgiving Day with friends, which included a trip to Plimouth Plantation. We also drove out to Cape Cod the day after Thanksgiving Day.
I have never been so cold in my life. The wind off the bay was life-threatening. The windchill had to have been subzero.
One thought kept surfacing in my mind: Why didn’t the seventeenth-century English immigrants move southward in 1621 and negotiate with the Spanish colonists?
So, what’s wrong with grilled swordfish?
You can reach Fred Moleck via email at fmoleck@earthlink.net