Bill Kennedy

Welcome to Yellow Springs, a bucolic borough with characters caught in the crossroads of rural and suburban, somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow. For two decades, fictional Conestoga County has been a platform from which to evolve and share my thoughts about the ever-elusive, ‘true meaning of Christmas.’ My stories build on a recognizable, but not necessarily orthodox, Christian base, and yet I have always hoped to be suitably inclusive so that my friends with different views would also enjoy reading these tales. You can find yesteryear’s tales on Facebook; just search for “Yellow Springs Stories,” and then scroll down the page to see links to pdf copies of previous year’s stories that you can open to read or print. Here’s to a good Holiday season!

- Bill Kennedy(kennedyw@whiteandwilliams.com)©2014 William D. Kennedy

Last Child in Line: Can Santa bring what the final child asks for?Last Gift at the Manger: What did the pastor’s preschooler do now?Wee Three Kings: A rabbi instructs about Christmas and Hanukkah.

Angus & the Lost Retriever: A runaway pet returns an unexpected bonus.Silent Knight: Help comes from an unlikely source.

Call Waiting: A Christmas call gives new life.Focus on the Felony: Is there a Christmas criminal on the loose?

The Enlightened Blackout: A blizzard causes an evacuation.Special Delivery: Christmas brings an unusual arrival.

Treasure Hunt: A Christmas visit to seniors brings unwrapped rewards.Pillow Talk: A grandmother’s leaves a legacy in her gifts.

Two Close For Comfort: Yellow Springs, post 9/11.The Undeserved Gift: What becomes of a white collar crook at Christmas?

OB Joyful: A Christmas pregnancy challenges a divided family.Felix Navidad: Can an injured widower find faith, hope, or love?

Santa Time: The Santa space-time continuum is revealed.Walden Ponders: Christmas gives a man much to contemplate.Advent Chores: The pastor is changed by a leave of absence.

Habitate Humanity: A civil protest group invades Yellow Springs.Weary Whirled: Storm recovery unites diverse Conestoga Countians.

Oliver & the Advent Adoption: An only-child resists a growing family.

On the day after Thanksgiving -- Black Friday, the Holiest Day

of Retail – the former Rev. Dr. Godfrey Oxthorn Swench reveled in a rare day off from his latest career as the Director of Resident Life at Fallow Farm, Conestoga County’s only retirement campus, out on the edge of the Yellow Springs valley. Gertrude had asked her husband to hang the holiday lights on the blue spruce next to the back deck. Godfrey went to the garage and hauled out the ladder that Jacob had given him for Father’s Day. As he climbed to nearly twice his height, Godfrey quietly murmured to the tune of We Are Climbing Jacob’s Ladder. Reaching the verse that goes, “Every step is higher, higher,” Godfrey felt a disquieting tremor. His hands and feet were firmly intact with the rungs, but he was no longer quite as high off the ground as they had been had been just a moment ago. A split second later, Godfrey realized that the base of the ladder feet was slipping backwards. In an instant, Godfrey fell victim to the law of gravity, landing face down on the deck with a sickening thud.

Orthopedists call it the “Terrible Triad” when you combine displaced fractures of the two forearm bones with the ripping of the related ligaments. Still, it was nothing that several hours of surgery, several weeks of splinting, and several months of physical therapy wouldn’t fix. In the meantime, Godfrey was learning to do everything with his left hand. Buttons and zippers proved to be particularly problematic.

Godfrey could hardly let the injury slow him down from his daily duties at Fallow Farm. The December schedule was chock full of activities for which he was responsible -- everything from a resident’s production of “A Christmas Carol,” to cookie bake-offs, concerts from visiting choirs and bands, Pollyanna parties on every floor, bus trips to see the nighttime lights at Shortwater Gardens, the Yellow Springs Winter Carnival, and everything in between.

“I checked the calendar, and there are extra activities on every single day!” Godfrey exclaimed.

“Tell me about it,” Gertrude commiserated. Thinking about her catering business, she added, “I’ve got nearly twice the number of

events this month compared to last year! I know I say it every year, but the Conestoga County calendar has never been busier.”

Godfrey agreed. “And you have to wonder what they were thinking by combining the Olde Fashioned Christmas with the Variety Show on December 24th?!?”

The Olde Fashioned Christmas was a downtown-based winter carnival and retail open-house that was traditionally held on the weekend after Thanksgiving. The Variety Show was added a few years ago after the closed-Wanabaker’s department store was converted into a municipal auditorium. In order to draw more shoppers to the struggling Main Street corridor, the town sponsored an all-day event of entertainment acts in the auditorium, something that non-shoppers could pop in and out of while shopper drove the wheels of Conestoga County commerce.

The Show consisted of a series of acts, something for everyone, if you stayed the whole time, including the high school choirs, the middle school flute ensemble, and the college a cappella group. And there were some skits -- a few rough renditions of the nativity or scripts that ended with fully-anticipated ‘Christmas miracles.’ Also scheduled were some sing-alongs, and this year they added a PowerPoint-aided book-reading of a children’s book co-authored by Father Opus Magnus’ niece, Molly, a student at Oxthorn University. Molly’s professor had written a 400-page text book about women breaking into the chief executive ranks in corporate America. Molly helped convert the graduate level textbook into an inspiring picture book for pre-adolescents entitled, “Unsealing the Ceiling: Women Who Paved The Way”.

In previous years at the Variety Show, the interludes between acts consisted of piped-in holiday tunes. This year, however, a long-overdue sense of social awareness had overtaken the organizers. They decided that the segue between acts would be a short skit, song, or poem aimed at eliminating all forms of violence toward women and children. The idea was being driven by Fern Flegelhoffer, granddaughter of the Fair Value hardware store founder, Felix Flegelhoffer. Fern had pitched the idea to her principal at Millard

Fillmore High School, but the topic was too important to limit to just that small audience

Looking at a list of the upcoming Christmas Eve day activities Godfrey Swench snorted small-mindedly, “What does the prevention of violence towards women and children have to do with Christmas??”

Gertrude eyed him over her reading glasses. “Oh, gee, Godfrey, I don’t know,” she said sarcastically, “How about the Biblical Christmas story’s reference to the massacre of all the Bethlehem children under two years old? Didn’t you use that as a springboard for a sermon against domestic and relationship violence about six or seven years ago?”

Godfrey stared at her. He had preached thousands of sermons in his day, but Gertrude had never let on that she had listened to any of them. “But what that other new act in the Variety Show? They hired a hypnotist! A hypnotist!! ‘Ooh,’” he mimicked, “’you’re getting sleepy. Let’s see how you behave when you’re sleeping.’”

“Hold it – aren’t you the man who once preached four Advent sermons on how God issued warnings and directions to poor ol’ St. Joseph in ‘dreams’ in St. Matthew’s gospel?”

Duly chastened, Godfrey conceded, “I’m just grumpy because there’s so much to do in such little time! Hey, are you catering the Christmas day brunch for the Hospital workers this year?” Godfrey checked with Gertrude

“Yes, and the mid-day dinner at Municipal Hall for the ‘lights and sirens’ crews. You know, when you stop and think about it, there are a lot of people who have to work on Christmas Day.”

“I know,” Godfrey agreed. “We’re fully-staffed at Fallow Farm that day – we even had to pull in extra help for the Christmas dinner crowd.”

“Hospitals, hotels, road crews, utilities – look at all the people who don’t get to have a Christmas day with their families! Speaking of which, how ‘bout you? Did Fallow Farm schedule you for Christmas day again?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. It wasn't anything new for Godfrey. After all, back when he was a pastor, he always worked on Christmas Day.

“But I don’t know that I’ll notice that it’s Christmas-- with everything on the calendar, I don't think we have time for Christmas!”

The Swenches were not alone in feeling that Christmas just didn't fit within the seasonal plans this year. All throughout Conestoga County, crowded calendars were cramping Christmas. Over at Oxford University, for example, head football coach Philo Phogg barely thought about the holiday. December 24th and 25th would be travel days for his undefeated team as they prepared for the Small University Pupil’s Recreation Association (SUPRA) bowl championship game on December 27th in Lake Wobegon, Minnesota. For the previous 50 years, the SUPRA football champion had been voted upon by a handful of university professors who had watched two or more games. This year, however, the Association had yielded to public pressure by creating a round robin playoff system. After winning games in early December, the Oxthorn Oxen would play in the title game against the Granite State Growlers. Between the Oxthorn coaches and players, the marching band, boosters, fans and family, a sizable sector of Yellow Springs would be heading to Ava Ashoen’s Airstrip to Begin the long trip to Minnesota. For all of them, Christmas will be a long day of cramped quarters and connections.

Coach Phogg felt a little badly about leaving his father at the holidays. Philo is the son of “Fuzzy” Phogg, the legendary two-sport coach at Oxthorn U. Back in the 1970’s. Fuzzy Phogg’s gridiron and curling squads had won a record number of highly competitive Rhodesscholarships.

Philo had been his father’s assistant, and he was promoted when the quiet, elegant legend retired in the 1990’s. After his mother’s death and his own divorce, Philo bought the old family homestead from his father. Together, they converted the barn into a spacious cottage for Fuzzy, while Philo and the kids spread out in the main house.

The kids are all grown gone now, and a few years ago, when Fuzzy began to slow down, Philo moved him back to the main house, where Mrs. Livingston -- a combination live-in housekeeper/LPN --helped the retired coach.

At first, Fuzzy had just the usual troubles associated with aging –the sensory losses, aches, and pains that form the broad boundary between “old” and “elderly.” But over the past two years, and increasingly lately, Fuzzy was having more trouble. His body doesn’t quite work the way it’s supposed to all the time, which can be annoying, uncomfortable, and/or embarrassing. Fuzzy can’t quite speak as well as he used to, either. It started with names and faces, but he soon graduated to more vexing vocabulary problems. Thoughts were no longer quite as free-flowing as before, and they sometimes had to be manufactured with considerable effort.

Ever since he turned over the coaching reins to his son, Fuzzy remained a loyal and omnipresent fan of the Oxthorn Oxen, but due to the kind of physical issues that are common among dementia patients, he hasn’t been able to watch from the press box anymore. Instead, the University hooked up a video feed via the Internet. Early in this past season, Fuzzy was still pretty animated when he watched games, but pretty soon, Mrs. Livingston reported that he was getting a bit confused. Fuzzy could no longer remember which team was which, and by the time Philo and the Oxen had won the playoff games that sent them to the SUPRA Bowl, Fuzzy couldn’t recognize the name or face of the Coach anymore, even when the Coach came home at night and met him in the kitchen.

Philo was concerned about leaving his father for the big road tripto Minnesota. Mrs. Livingston reassured him that she had things under control.

“I know, “ the coach concurred, “but I just hate to miss Christmas with him. You, know, for years – decades, really, Dad was the lectionary reader at St. Wensies for Advent. He had memorized every line. But now, I don’t think he recognizes the stories when he hears them.”

Softly, and sagaciously, Mrs. Livingston pointed out, “You know, I’ve cared for an awful lot of patients like your father, and there usually comes a point where they’re just no longer able to perceive events like Christmas or other holidays.”

Philo nodded. One way or the other, even though the calendar isn’t crowded anymore for Fuzzy Phogg, it seems he, too, might just miss Christmas this year.

Another group of people who were likely to miss the holiday were the lawyers involved in the legal wrangling surrounding whether the Small University Pupils Recreational Association championship game would be played at all. Apparently, the name “SUPRA Bowl” sounds very similar to the name associated with another football organization’s championship game played in February. That other football organization filed suit in the Conestoga County Court of Common Pleas asking Judge Ned Knott to enjoin Oxthorn University from participating in the game. Both SUPRA and the other football organization had lawyered up, each side working 12 hour days, 7 days a week, deposing coaches, executives, and fans, and inundating their indecisive jurist with mountains of motions and briefs.

Judge Knott was paralyzed by the number of decisions awaiting his judicial determination. He went to Mass at St. Wenceslas’ every week, but Father Opus’ homilies about ‘peace on earth’ and ‘good will towards all people’ seemed dissonant to the field of litigation, which, like the sport underlying the lawsuit he was to adjudicate, is a win-lose game. There is little room for ‘peace’ or ‘good will’ in the trenches of adversarial trial law. After all, one side wanted him to prevent the SUPRA Bowl altogether, and the other side wanted him to pave the way for the game by enjoining the professional league from seeking any more injunctions. Each side had several layers of confident-looking, earnest advocates, each of whose opposing arguments and precedents seemed equally impressed to Judge Knott.

On the morning of December 24th, the Olde Fashioned Christmas drew hundreds of people into the village of Yellow Springs. Godfrey led a convoy of Fallow Farm buses and vans into town. He spent much of the day at the gift-wrapping station outside the Variety Show – a donation-based enterprise that allowed shoppers to go into the auditorium for the show while volunteers wrapped their gifts.

Mrs. Livingston had not planned to bring Fuzzy into town that day. Nevertheless, after she helped him with his morning constitutionals, Fuzzy seemed unusually alert. Mrs. Livingston offered to take him on a short stroll from the house out to the Cottage, but as

they walked past the van, Fuzzy reached and opened the passenger side door.

“Can we go somewhere?” he asked tentatively.

Mrs. Livingston knew Fuzzy hadn’t been off the property for anything other than a doctor’s visit in months, but she was unfazed. She always kept a travel bag ready at all times so that she could accommodate Fuzzy whenever and however he might need her.

As she drove a short distance into the Village, Mrs. Livingston quietly reminded Fuzzy that it was Christmastime. The reminder was necessary, in part, because the Phogg home had no holiday decorations, mostly because Coach Philo was working such long hours that he hadn’t had time to get a tree or put lights on the evergreens outside.

“The village will be full of people,” Mrs. Livingston spoke to Fuzzy. She prepared him for the likelihood that they would run into someone whose name Fuzzy wouldn’t remember. She hated to see Fuzzy grow frustrated at such encounters. Fuzzy listened to Mrs. Livingston. With a gentle smile, he asked, “I think I was popular once, wasn’t I?”

Mrs. Livingston laughed, “Mr. Phogg: you still are!”

When they arrived at the Wanabaker’s building, Mrs. Livingston helped Fuzzy into a wheelchair that he really didn’t need, but which made it much easier for him to get around. They went into the Variety Show just in time to see a duo dressed like Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye acting out a scene from “White Christmas.” Fuzzy had seen the movie when it first came out in 1954, and it had caught his eye on television a dozen or more times over the years, but it didn’t seem to ring any bells this time. Although Fuzzy’s eyes were open and even occasionally blinking, Mrs. Livingston couldn’t tell where his mind may have wandered to.

During the segue to the next act, Mrs. Livingston suggested that they drive back home, but Fuzzy just sat there. He nodded slightly when she asked if he wanted to stay. During the performances, Fuzzy nodded in response to Mrs. Livingston’s periodic question, but he didn’t seem to have any words to share when she asked whether he liked some of the other acts, like Molly Magnus’ reading of her

children’s book, or Fern Flegelhoffer’s skits about treating people properly.

Coach Philo called Mrs. Livingston cell phone throughout the day. He was concerned that they were gone from the house so long. “How is he doing?”

“We’re fine. It’s a good show,” Mrs. Livingston told him. “But I don’t think that your father really knows where we are or what day tomorrow is.”

“Sorry to hear it.” When Mrs. Livingston first reported that they were going downtown, Philo had hoped that perhaps some of thefestivities would remind his father about Christmas.

The next act in the Show was a nativity story written by Godfrey Swench’s successor at Yellow Springs Methodist, Rev. Stolucia Stolzfus, set back in the time 250 years ago, when her native Leni-Lenape people were still the dominant culture in Conestoga County. Fuzzy Phogg sat there, occasionally blinking, but not really reacting to anything that he saw or heard.

Mrs. Livingston again asked about going home, bur Fuzzy shook his head. The next act was the hypnotist, “The Amazing Harry Hypnini,” whom some in the audience remembered is the former Ichabod Ichthorp who went to Conestoga County schools 20 years ago. Since then, Ichabod developed a magic/hypnotist show, travelling the country and visiting countless indistinguishable minor league venues.

“Some hypnotists meet with patients in private therapy sessions,” explained Hypnini to his dubious audience, “But I use the ancient art of hypnosis to entertain and delight!” Hypnini cautioned that he could not hypnotize anyone who did not want to be hypnotized. “Hypnosis doesn’t restore lost memories,” he explained, “but sometimes, hypnosis can allow us to focus our attention and eliminate distractions so that our minds are clear to focus.”

When Hypnini asked for a volunteer to come on stage for the demonstration, Durwood Dauerditter’s hand shot straight up. The fifteen-year old wore a sheepish grin as he went forward. Hypnini lowered the house lights and asked Durwood to shut his eyes. For afew minutes, Hypnini’s microphone amplified his soft-spoken

suggestions that Durwood should relax, breathe deeply, and let his mind become blank.

To everyone in the audience, Hypnini’s soothing instructions were a series of soft, short sentences, but to Durwood, his mind slipped into a rare state. When Hypnini counted one, two, three, Durwood opened his eyes and could see where he was, but somehow, it didn’t seem real.

What did seem real was what Hypnini suggested. “You are Santa, heavy with a white beard and a full bag of toys for the children.” Durwood responded by emitting a gregarious ‘ho ho ho’ while acting as if he were slinging a sack onto his back. For the next several minutes, Durwood acted out Hypnini’s suggestion that he deliver gifts to people who would come up onto the stage and sit on the thin, young man’s lap. The audience howled as Durwood followed Hypnini’s suggestion to greet Herbert Harper, a heavy-set middle-aged man, by asking ‘What do you want for Christmas, little girl?”

After twenty minutes, Hypnini counted to three and snapped his fingers. Durwood blinked, shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs, and announced, “that was weird!”

Hypnini asked what it had felt like, and Durwood explained that although he could see the audience and he knew he was in an auditorium, the suggested-reality seemed more real to him than the real-reality.

“And wouldn’t that be nice,” Hypnini asked as Durwood returned to his seat, “if we could do that – if we could replace the harshest realities of our lives with the kind of good will and peace that we hear about at Christmas? Let’s try this – I want all of you to slowly shut your eyes….”

Over the years, Hypnini had honed his Christmastime act by having the audience pretend to be shepherds, and then he would recite the angelic Christmas announcement. Then he’d snap his fingers to awaken the audience, and everyone applaud in stunned amazement, having just experienced what each of them thought the Christmas shepherds might have felt.

Hypnini began by suggesting, “You are all shepherds, tending your flocks by night,” and around the auditorium, you could hear audience members speaking the way they imagined a shepherd might act, calling things like, “here, little sheep – here, sheep, sheep, sheep.”

Hypnini kept it up for a few minutes, until everyone who wanted to be a part of the experiment had enough time to relax and clear their mind.

“You’re all shepherds,” Hypnini repeated, “and it’s a bleak, midwinter’s night – a midnight clear, cold, with a gentle breeze wafting by. For a moment, your sheep are safely accounted for.”

This was the part of his act where Hypnini would become overly dramatic, acting the part of the Angel Gabriel. He had arranged for a spotlight to shine on him as he recited with crescendo, “And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them! And they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them,…”

And just, then, Fuzzy Phogg startled Mrs. Livingston and the rest of the audience by interrupting, loudly and boldly, just as he had proclaimed all those years as the Advent lectionary reader:

“Fear not! For, behold, I bring you tidings to great joy, which shall be to all my people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ, the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”

If the former Ichabod Ichthorp were thrown off by the unexpected intrusion, he sure didn’t show it. Instead, he picked up at the next line, suggesting to his audience that they were now angels. “You are part of the multitude of the heavenly host,” he suggested, “and you are praising God and saying….”

Instinctively, Fuzzy Phogg declared with the same deep, bellowing voice that used to call to players from the football sidelines,

“Glory to God in the Highest, and on Earth peace, and good will toward men!

Throughout the Wanabaker’s auditorium, several hundred people began a cacophony of off-key, tuneless repetitions of that ancient phrase, “peace on earth, good will toward men….” Then the Amazing Harry Hypnini corralled everyone’s attention when he authoritatively counted, “one, Two, THREE!” and snapped his fingers.

And in that instant, reality again descended on Fuzzy Phogg. Mrs. Livingston asked him if he was alright, but the bright glimmer of vim

and vigor that had filled his Biblical recitation was gone. “Do you want to go home now,” she asked quietly, and this time, Fuzzy agreed.

The rest of the day and all of the next was a blur for most Conestoga Countians. Those who celebrate Christmas had celebratory dinners, went to church, and listened for reindeer on the roof, and opened presents. The Oxthorn Oxen and their loyal fans took charter flights out of Yellow Springs, beginning the journey to Minnesota. The lawyers for both SUPRA and the professional league grew both weary of and wary of Judge Knott’s indecisiveness, so they negotiated a resolution that neither side liked, but which allowed the SUPRA Bowl to be played. Godfrey, Gertrude, and countless others went to work on Christmas, providing the services that the rest of the County needed. Philo Phogg Skyped with Fuzzy on Christmas Day, but the retired coach had no recollection of his energetic participation in a hypnotic Christmas pageant the day before.

But that’s what Christmas is like in Yellow Springs this year. We are all so busy just trying to keep up, just trying to finish the year and get through the difficulties, and we’re lucky – very lucky -- if we have more than a brief moment to experience the wonder and joy of Santa, or the love of the Christ child in the manger. And yet even if Christmas is merely a suggested-reality that lasts only until the next finger-snap, we are grateful for that brief, tantalizing, hypnotizing glimpse of grace.

and vigor that had filled his Biblical recitation was gone. “Do you she asked quietly, and this time, Fuzzy agreed.

The rest of the day and all of the next was a blur for most Conestoga Countians. Those who celebrate Christmas had celebratory dinners, went to church, and listened for reindeer on the roof, and

presents. The Oxthorn Oxen and their loyal fans took charter flights out of Yellow Springs, beginning the journey to Minnesota. The lawyers for both SUPRA and the professional league grew both weary

tiated a resolution that neither side liked, but which allowed the SUPRA Bowl to be played. Godfrey, Gertrude, and countless others went to work on Christmas, providing the services that the rest of the County needed.

tmas Day, but the retired coach had no recollection of his energetic participation in a hypnotic

But that’s what Christmas is like in Yellow Springs this year. We ish the year and

if we have more than a brief moment to experience the wonder and joy of Santa,

lity that lasts only until the next snap, we are grateful for that brief, tantalizing, hypnotizing

Acknowledgements

Godfrey Swench’s injuries mirror the ones I caused myself with a ladder fall in November. A tip of my Christmas cap to my daughter Maggie, whose commitment to a public program aimed at reducing the risk of campus violence against women is a schoolas she completes high school. Thanks also to my son, Dyson, whose participation in a hypnotist’s show gave me a literary vehicle to share the challenges of the fading of someone’s facilities. My daughter Abby’s collaboration on the newly-published “Madam PresidentWomen Who Paved the Way” is quite exciting. You can order it on Amazon.

injuries mirror the ones I caused myself with a ladder fall in November. A tip of my Christmas cap to my daughter Maggie, whose commitment to a public program aimed at reducing the risk of campus violence against women is a school-year long quest

ompletes high school. Thanks also to my son, Dyson, whose participation in a hypnotist’s show gave me a literary vehicle to share the challenges of the fading of someone’s facilities. My daughter

published “Madam President: Five Women Who Paved the Way” is quite exciting. You can order it on