Red, White, and Claus-A Christmas Story

From Thanksgiving to December 25^th, they are all over the place. A bright red triangle with white tassel ball at the point and matching trim at the base. For years now the fuzzy wool has been replaced by synthetic fibers, and they are made in countries that don’t celebrate Christmas except for the commercial export potential. The Santa hat.

I own such a hat, and it crowns my head during my Christmas day air travels. And every year as I climb into my father-in-law’s pickup truck, my wife will look up and grimace, give a less-than-Santa-stare, and mumble something about getting rid of that hat. And every year I will completely ignore her suggestion.

In November of 1996, my mother was diagnosed with cancer—probably fatal within a year. Seeking more aggressive treatment, she underwent her second day-long surgery within a month at a different hospital. All of a sudden Christmas day was upon us, and with little time to think about presents, my brother had hurriedly picked up two Santa hats on the way to visiting our mother. And so it came to pass that my brother and I, he a few inches taller than my six-foot frame, ambled down the cancer hospital’s corridors looking like absurd over-sized elves.

Yet for all the sadness we had gone through recently, it struck me how lucky we were. Despite our mother’s desperate condition, we passed by patients who were, and this was hard to believe, in far worse shape. Men and women hunched over in their wheelchairs slowly made their way around, a forest of tubes and IV’s attached all over their bodies. Relatives followed nearby, trying vainly to keep a brave face for the sake of their sick family members as well as themselves. It was a scene to which I had become accustomed, but this Christmas day was different. Looking at us, the patients gave a little smile. The family members first mimicked that grin and then let out a hearty “Merry Christmas” our way. Nurses and doctors gave a passing nod of approval. The pall of sadness had, for a brief moment, lifted.

That was my moment of Christmas meaning. It was the little glimmer of hope that a hat could give. The little humor. A little laugh. A little sign that things could be alright. This was a place at the cutting edge of modern medicine, yet death always had good chance to notch another victory. My own search for the meaning of Christmas had gone through any number of phases—working retail and hating endless repeats of the season’s songs, enjoying the material benefits of a good year’s gift giving, and even an annual appearance at church. Suffice it to say I was much more Charlie Brown looking for a decent tree than spiritual reckoning with the gift of Jesus on this world. But what my brother and I had stumbled into was giving just a little hope to those lacking it. Wasn’t that what Christmas was all about?

I can’t say what happen to those folks we passed that day 23 years ago, but for our mother, it was, as Churchill might have put it, the end of the beginning. Her survival was by no means assured, and it took months of treatment for her to recover and restart her life. But that day, unlike the days and weeks before, there was a little laughter in her room, a few presents exchanged, a little food eaten after weeks of liquid nutrients. Our gift that Christmas was hope.

And so as a reminder of that hope, on Wednesday this 54 year-old man will be wandering the airports of America, Santa cap on, his hair greyer than 23 years ago but not quite Kris Kringle white. My fellow travelers will smile and flight crews on the short end of the scheduling stick will tell me my reindeer are parked outside for refueling.  Even a few small kids might point at my hat and ask their parents why even Santa has to change in Atlanta to deliver his presents. And as I climb into my father-in-law’s pickup truck, my wife will look up and grimace, give a less-than-Santa-stare, and mumble something about getting rid of that hat. And I will, once again, completely ignore her suggestion.

May you all find your particular meaning to Christmas, a message of hope, a message of peace. If you aren’t sure how to start that journey, you could do a lot worse that put on a Santa hat.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Morning In Marinette

Only if you haven’t turned on a TV lately could you have missed Mike Bloomberg. In a lack of subtlety brazen even by political standards, Mayor Mike bought ad time across the country like a sailor on shore leave discovering dollar happy hour at the bar across from his ship. In this case, Bloomberg bought a $30 million round proclaiming, in sepia-toned still photos, his grand accomplishments and self-described ability to defeat President Trump. 

Reagan’s “Morning in America” spot it was not.

Of course that 1984 ad, while shot in California, was more of a mythic place for invoking overarching themes of American pride and prosperity. What most people don’t realize is that the ad’s title is actually “Prouder, Stronger, Better." All of which begs the question, is there a place in the country that feels prouder, stronger, and better? It turns out there is, and I got the chance to spend a few days there.

Marinette, Wisconsin is on the Michigan border, some 45 minutes north of Green Bay. Home to Fincantieri Marinette Marine, builders of the Navy’s LCS ships, the factory started as a WWII dirt floor plant and, after a $100 million remodel (and plenty of concrete for hard floors), now produces decidedly 21^st hardware. The LCS class is a low-draft vessel that, through a modular design, can change its mission with a few fork lifts and properly-equipped storage boxes. From launching surface-to-air missiles, amphibious Marine assaults, and probably a whole bunch of classified things they didn’t tell me, the ship is a force to be reckoned with. At $400 million a copy it might not break Bloomberg’s billionaire bank account, but the 100,000 gallons of fuel oil to make it go might give him pause. Then again, with his Napoleonic fervor about eliminating fossil fuels, Mike would be too busy trying to put in solar panels to turn on the ignition.

What made visiting the factory so interesting was the people. This wasn’t just a factory, this was a heavy industrial plant. The workmen (and a few workwomen) had dirty overalls, clothes soiled with steel dust, grease, and other muck that just doesn’t wash out. They carried heavy tools. They were focused on their dangerous work. They were strong.

Once a ship is floated into the water, a factory civilian takes over as the officer in charge. Nothing moves on or off, no change made, no bolt tightened without his sign off. Such an officer was Big Tom. While his name isn’t actually Tom, he is big. 6’3” and probably some 280 pounds, Big Tom owned the boat, and probably 75 pounds of extra heft from a Wisconsin diet of bratwurst, cheese curds, and beer. But get him talking about the ship and he was like a teenager in puppy love. He purred about the inspections of every system, x-raying individual welds, and presenting the results to the Navy. In the pilot house he pointed out how every computer cable had to tested, making his point by separating a strand from its bundle, his thick fingers working with the delicacy of a flower collector taking off an individual petal for pressing into a book. This is a man who is proud, very proud, of his labor.

And then there was Maryanne (not her real name) who ran public relations and events for the boat yard. Lithe with a long mane of red hair (and about a third of Big Tom’s body mass), she made her steel-toe work boots seem more of a fashion statement than a factory floor requirement. By coincidence I happen to have pictures on my phone of the LCS ships made by a rival in Mobile, Alabama. Glancing at them her faced puckered and she simply said, “Oh, the tri-hulls [a difference in the competitor’s design]. Ours are better.”

Prouder, Stronger, Better. In the complicated mix of union politics, conservative culture, and economic hope, it is this kind of town where the candidates will target their resources to pick up every last swing vote. We will find out who wins that election in November. But one thing is for sure—when the sun rises tomorrow it will be morning in Marinette.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.