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Welcome to Yellow Springs! These accounts began

more than 20 years ago as my attempt to exercise a part of my mind that sat idle during most of the work-year. In the earliest years, the Christmas story themes were singularly Christian in nature, but soon I began Yellow Springs a kaleidoscope of diversity and inclusion that reflects a variety of viewpoints, faiths, and non-faiths.

If you like the stories, you can find all of the look for “Yellow Springs Stories,” and click on any of the awkward-looking links to connect to a story.

“Yellow Springs” is not for everyone. If you like legal thrillers or hard-boiled plot-twisters, the simplicity of Yellow Springs may disappoint you. If you are touched by mystical romances or complex family relationships, Yellow Springs might seem superficial. And if you like fictional towns like Garrison Keillor’s “Lake Wobegon,” you’ll soon understand why he makes money getting published, while I push my stories for free on Facebook. My use of cheap alliteration and awkward, invented surnames may come off as cartoonish, especially for those characters whose names, when pronounced, constitute a bad pun. And some of the themes, particularly in the early years, can feel a bit saccharine. Still, Yellow Springs has evolved over the years. The characters are more grounded in the kind of realities that most of us experience. Most of the folks there are just trying to make sense of it all. So am I. Thanks for taking a look.

- Bill Kennedy (wdkennedy415@gmail.com)© 2015 William D. Kennedy

Shortly after dusk one night in the heart of

December’s holiday season, a current-year rental car with out-of-state plates passed through the Turnpike slip ramp and turned left onto the four-lane surface road leading down the valley towards the village of Yellow Springs.

The driver leaned forward towards the windshield, looking left and right, surprised by all that he saw. There were construction cranes bedecked in red-and-green holiday lights soaring above the partially-constructed office building being added to Conestoga County Corporate Corners, out by the old quarry. Then the driver passed the twinkling lights, inflated Christmas creatures, and animatronic Santas near the Stedmans’ SuperDuperStore in the sprawling “Downton Alley,” an artificial, single story “down town” shopping district which bore facades to look like a 1940’s main street.

Next the driver saw signs directing left-turn traffic into RecWorld, a former warehouse that had been converted into an indoor recreational center for soccer, rock climbing, tennis, and a dozen other sports. Had he turned right, the driver would have headed into the endless orange rows of the self-storage units about which a flashing sign boasted of access “24/7/365.” Floodlights illuminated a corner of the parking lot where the Boy Scouts had a bustling business selling Christmas trees.

The only thing the driver didn’t see amidst the visual cacophony was the red light at the corner of Conestoga Boulevard and Yellow Springs Road.

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Which is why, just a few moments later, the driver was startled to see more flashing lights – the red and blue kind – in his rearview mirror.

A young officer from the County Police asked for his license and registration. Officer Nathan Wright asked “Do you know why I stopped you, Mister,” he looked again at the license, “Mr. Lyman?”

“I’m sorry,” he answered, “I realize I just ran through a red light. I got distracted by all the otherlights!”

Nate issued a ticket and formally explained the visitor’s due process right to contest it.

“I’m embarrassed I missed the traffic light. It feels like the Vegas strip out here with all the lights flashing. I expected Yellow Springs to be rural, but, wow, look at all this!”

Nate nodded. “The village of Yellow Springs is still pretty much the way it’s always been – one square mile of yesteryear. But the rest of Conestoga County has really changed in my lifetime, growing from farms-and-fields and some old, heavy industry to offices, neighborhoods, schools, the IT sector, and malls.”

Lyle said, “My sister moved here 20 years ago, but I’ve never gotten to visit until now. From the way she talks about Yellow Springs, I always thought it was stuck in the 1910’s or something like that. Say, can you give me directions? I’m trying to get to the place my sister works at, but it’s not coming up on my GPS.”

“It’s tough to find Conestoga County on a GPS. Where are you headed?”

“A place called ‘Harry C’s.’ It’s a restaurant; my sister and her boyfriend run the place.”

Nate’s expression brightened. “Oh! Hold it -- your name is Lyman -- I should have guessed. You must be Liza Lyman’s brother?”

“You know my sister?”

“Sure! Everyone knows Harry C’s!” the policeman exclaimed. Lyle wasn’t sure that it was good thing for his sister’s pub to be well known to the local constabulary, but Nate continued. “I know your sister real well. She’s super. She and Harry run a real nice place – they built it out of one of the old, stone structures still standing from Colonial times. It’s only a few minutes from here.”

Lyle shook his head. “You know, I really always thought of this place as old-fashioned, but everything is pretty modern,” he said, nodding to all the development surrounding him.

“Yeah, and here’s another ‘modern invention,’” Nate grinned as he tapped into his county-issued smart phone. “I just canceled your ticket. Consider this just a ‘warning.’ Just try to be more aware as you drive. Now, to get to Harry C’s, you head straight to the next light, then ….”

It would have been surprising if Lyle Lyman hadn’t been overwhelmed by the holiday decorations, especially as he drove closer to the village. All over the county, neighborhoods had

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staged decorating contests, churches had crèches, and the village storefronts were all adorned in lights, wreaths, and holiday bunting, and Bing Crosby’s warbling baritone seemed omnipresent.

Over at the Fallow Farm retirement community, the residents don’t have front yards and driveways to electrify, but each of the hundreds of apartment doorways has a small alcove with a small shelf. Originally intended as a place to set down a bag of groceries while you fished in your pocket for the door key, the entrance nooks have become prime decorating venues. Throughout the year, residents hang photos on the alcove walls and place knickknacks on the shelf; for some residents, the entrances have become miniature shrines to a spouse who has passed.

There was, however, one exception. Few folks noticed it, but Mary McGregor’s apartment, all the way at the end of the farthest hallway, was lit only by the red glow of the nearby emergency exit sign. Were anyone to be invited inside, they would have seen that the small apartment was neat and tidy … and entirely devoid of any expression of holiday spirit. No tree, no stockings, no music, no candy canes, no … anything.

It is during this time of year when daylight is most scarce and moods can turn dark that the staff at Fallow Farm makes a point to look in on everyone. It fell to the part-time Director of Resident Affairs, the former Rev. Dr. Godfrey Swench – now

just plain Godfrey – to assign each resident a staff member to look in on them.

When he got to Mary McGregor’s name, Godfrey paused. He knew she was a new resident, and just as so many other Fallow Farmers had been forced to do, she was adjusting to being alone. This was her first Christmas without Mickey, to whom she had been married for almost twenty years. They were both widowed, and they both had kids and grandchildren. Mickey had been Mary’s ever-present best friend, the man who had somehow managed to knock down the walls that she had raised around her heart after her first husband died.

Godfrey knew that Mrs. McGregor was surrounded by the large clan of McGregorsscattered throughout the county. Still, he knew Mary McGregor’s children and grandchildren lived far away, and he wondered if they would visit her at Christmas. Godfrey had gone to see Mrs. McGregor several times, but she seemed reserved and aloof –always “Mrs. McGregor” to him, rather than on a first-name basis the way he was with most other residents.

Mary McGregor’s aloofness was unusual for Godfrey. Since coming to the Fallow Farm staff a few years ago after he left the pulpit at Yellow Springs Methodist, Godfrey had enjoyed a popularity that he had never known in his former life. People of faith seemed to accredit his decades of church-work, even if it wasn’t in their particular branch of the faith, while the ‘faithless’ seemed to

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find him more approachable now that he wasn’t wearing a collar and would have Happy Hour with them every now and then.

During a staff meeting, Godfrey distributed lists of residents for each of selected Fallow Field department directors and social workers to touch base with. Executive Director Rhonda Glock, noticed that Mrs. McGregor had not yet been assigned.

“She’s reclusive,” noted social worker Phil Former. “She hasn’t joined any clubs or gone on any of our outings. I’ve only seen her on the shuttle to St. Wensies for Mass. Why not ask Father Magnus to pay her a call?”

Godfrey sent an email to his Catholic colleague, describing the situation. Fr. Opus Magnus invited him to meet at the Coffee Grinder to talk it over.

“So I hear that as Christmas approaches, you’re making a list and checking it twice. Aren’t you a little too thin for that?”

“Finally,” Godfrey smiled. “Thanks to that lettuce-and-yogurt diet that you told me about, I am no longer Saint Nick-sized. And my list has nothing to do with which resident is ‘naughty’ or ‘nice.’ We just touch base with everyone to see how they’re doing and find out if there’s something we can do to serve them better.”

“Good idea.”

“Can’t claim credit,” Godfrey said as he stirred the non-fat whipped foam on top of his mug. “My boss sent out a directive that ….”

“ ‘that all the world should be enrolled,’” Opus interrupted, quoting from an old English translation of St. Luke’s familiar second chapter.

Godfrey rolled his eyes. “We’re a little concerned about Mrs. McGregor, and we thought maybe you could look in on her.”

Fr. Opus did not know Mary McGregor particularly well, but she was a member of his parish at St. Wenceslas, and he was happy to pay her a call. When he telephoned, she invited him to come by that afternoon. Ever the perfect hostess, Mrs. McGregor offered hot chocolate and freshly baked tollhouse cookies when the priest arrived.

After a bit of small talk, Fr. Opus admitted the reason for his visit. “It’s been noticed that you don’t have any Christmas decorations up. I thought thismust be a hard season for you.”

Mrs. McGregor acknowledged that this first year without Mickey was the most challenging season of her life. “You don’t spend all those decades being in love with someone without missing them when they’re gone. Mick and I certainly had our share of squabbles, and Lord knows, he had enough traits that annoyed me no end. But through it all, we loved each other. I could never imagine life without him, and yet here …” she paused; words failed to express the void in her life.

Fr. Opus asked how she would spend Christmas Day; he was pleased to hear that she had a full agenda. Although her children and grandchildren were all at their in-laws for Christmas, so she would go to her sister-in-law Maggie McGregor’s

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sprawling farmhouse for Christmas Eve surrounded by grand-nephews and nieces. “We’ll have dinner before coming over to Mass, and then I’ll stay overnight, and,” she added with just a vague hint of playfulness, “we’ll wake up on Christmas morning to see what Santa has left under the tree.”

Fr. Opus smiled, “I bet there will be packages everywhere!”

“Oh my, yes,” Mrs. McGregor smiled. “There always were with Mickey and me. A few years ago, when all the grandchildren were with us for Christmas, I left it to Mickey to do all of the wrapping, and he was so very proud of how neatly each gift was wrapped and how beautiful each bow was tied. But there was a problem.”

“What was that?”

“He didn’t put any labels on the gifts!”

“You mean he didn’t put on any tags saying ‘to so-and-so’?”

“Exactly!” Mrs. McGregor laughed. “Everyone went looking to find their name on the packages, but there weren’t any labels! They kept looking at the packages, thinking maybe their name was written really small somewhere. Oh, Father, you should have seen it! It was the funniest Christmas I have ever seen! Poor Mickey had no idea what gift was in which wrapping! And at the time, I was angry – I was furious with him for his screw up! The poor man, he was absolutely mortified, so what we told them was that Santa wanted us to do was for

us to open the gifts ‘as a family,’ and then decide who should get what.”

“How did it work out?”

“Wonderfully!” Mrs. McGregor recalled. “We made it so that when you opened a gift, you had to try to guess who it should really have been given to. I don’t think any of them opened up their own gift that morning!”

“It sounds chaotic,” Fr. Opus thought aloud.

“Oh, it was, Father, it was! But it was wonderful, too. And you know, to this day, even this year at my sister-in-law’s house, we still celebrate Christmas without any labels. You open a gift, and then we try to guess who it’s from and who it was supposed to go to.”

“It sounds like a lot of fun, and I’m glad you will be with family.”

“Yes,” Mrs. McGregor reassured him, “you needn’t worry about me, Father. I know that my apartment must look awfully plain without any holiday decorations, but this is the way I want it. I don’t have the energy to get tree and put out the old decorations. To put out the holiday items that Mickey and I accumulated and made over the years – well, it just feels like too much this year. Maybe next year I will feel better but I think this year, I just want to take a pause from ‘Santa Claus’ and all the hullabaloo of Christmas.”

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Later, Fr. Opus called Godfrey to report that he thought Mrs. McGregor was alright. “From what did I interrupt you?” Fr. Opus asked.

“I’m over at the Oxthorn-Fallow Center,” Godfrey responded. “They’re filming part of that documentary today.”

“Oh, I forgot,” Fr. Opus admitted. “What is it, again? Some kind of program on diversity?”

“I think so. WYSR,” Godfrey said, referring to local public broadcasting affiliate, “is making a documentary about different folks from different cultures getting along. With all the political rhetoric these days, I think they’re trying to show that there’s another way. Today is one of those audience-participation events; you should come over. I’ll save you a seat.”

When Fr. Opus arrived at the Center, Godfrey waved him to the empty seat next to he and Trudyhad saved for him in the packed auditorium. The television producer told folks to just “be yourselves,” and then the red lights came on atop the TV cameras.

Yellow Springers listened as the black-haired, chiseled-jaw, ultra-serious TV host Furman Ernest explained, “We selected Conestoga County because it celebrates a prototypical American Christmas.”

Waldo Weiss raised a hand. “A proto-what?!?”

Furman Ernest continued, “Our show will explore how people of different faiths and cultures can live together peacefully, without the kind of mistrust and suspicion that seems so common

these days. Here in Yellow Springs, have all sorts of community Christmas events – the Olde Fashioned Christmas celebration in the village, choir cantatas, caroling at the Mall, and even cookie-exchanges –and yet there are more people who don’t practice the Christian faith than there are in church pews every week.”

With exaggerated emphasis, Furman Ernest walked up an aisle asking, “How do you have Christmas in a pluralistic town?” He thrust his microphone towards Sanjit Singh. With a clippedaccent unfaded by over two decades in the county, Mr. Singh said, “Not all of us consider Christmas to be just a holiday for Christians.”

Bart Bergstein agreed. “It may have started as a Christian holiday, but it’s more of holiday for everyone now. I might not have a tree or crèche in my house anymore than some of these folks will light a menorah, but as a Jew, I kind of like that so many of you bow in homage to a Jewish baby!” he laughed.

Furman Ernest noted, “Many of the village holiday events focus on secular values like peace and good will, rather than the birth of the Christ Child.” He saw Fr. Magnus, and asked him and asked, “Does the secular sentiment dilute your Catholic Christmas?”

Fr. Opus was caught unprepared for being on-camera. He blinked a few times then answered, “Idon’t think so. At St. Wensies, we have plenty of opportunity for the faithful to focus on the birth of our Lord.”

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Furman Ernest turned to Godfrey. “Rev. Swench, you spent decades as a protestant pastor here in Yellow Springs. Does all the Santa-stuff of Christmas detract from the religious significance of the day?”

Godfrey pursed his lips for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. All of the ‘Santa-stuff’ just gives us a chance to share more of the Christmas spirit with others.”

Professor Murat Abdul from the Oxthorn U. Mathematics Department said, “I knew very little about ‘Christmas’ when I first came here,” he said, “but in my faith, Isa Ibn Maryam – Jesus, son of Mary – is a sacred prophet, and I welcome the celebrations of his birth.”

“Is ‘Santa Claus’ a religious symbol?” the TV host asked.

Indira Chandra answered happily, “Santa Claus is for everyone, not just Christians.”

Hiroshi Hakamoto asked. “Does not Santa delivergifts to children all over the world, and not just to Americans or Christians?”

Boris Belyakov remarked, “Christmas is ‘peace-on-earth-good-will-towards-men.’”

Mikembe Magombo added, “And it means good will to all men, not just white men.”

“And not just men,” challenged Chelsey Charger, “but good-will to everyone.” The audience erupted in supportive applause.

Furman Ernest asked, “So is Christmas in Yellow Springs open to everyone, including those who

often are told that they are not welcome in some churches?”

Godfrey thought about his son Jacob and his husband Kirk, both of whom had left his denomination after it punished him for conducting their wedding. Would they join him and Trudy at the church on Christmas Eve? Fr. Opus thought of his sister, whose divorce from a loveless marriage had cast her outside of his spiritual jurisdiction. Was there no pew from which she could pray?

Furman Ernest asked, “And what about for those who choose not to go to any house of worship?”

Agnes Stickley spoke up, “For me, Christmas is a break from work. It’s about family – and having a few days off to realize that I’ve survived before going out to face the world again in the New Year.”

Lenny Whitebrook spoke up. “Long before there was a Bethlehem baby to celebrate, the people who lived in these lands paused during the bleak mid-winter, when the days grew shortest. They gathered around fires in longhouses and thanks to the Power that had created and sustained them. Winters were harsh; mere survival was worth acknowledging.”

Zoran Zlotko added, “In my family, we still light a Yule Log, just as my Serbian ancestors did, with the oldest male laying the log and saying a prayer for family and crops. We keep it burning all through the coldest, darkest days; it’s a reminder that we have made it this far.”

Alicia Anthopoulos from Oxthorn’s Anthropology Department interjected that people in all of the

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civilizations are believed to have had a mid-winter pause.

“Kind of like the Romans did with Saturnalia,” remarked Cletus from the municipal maintenance department. “They’d go to the Temple of Saturn then have banquets and feasts, complete with gift-giving and music and parties -- kind of like Christmas today,” he laughed.

Fr. Opus mentioned that when the Church fathers appointed a day for the Mass to commemorate the birth of Christ, they chose December 25th in an effort to supplant Saturnalia and other such celebrations. “Saturnalia was a celebration for all of the people, be they Roman citizens or not – rich and poor, master and servant, faithful and faithless. Which,” he reflected, “seems like what we have here in Conestoga County these days.”

Agreement rang from all corners around the auditorium, including Reese Ripzenhort, the retired Army Sergeant Major who, in prior years, stridently held a number of exclusionary opinions. “Christmas in Conestoga County isn’t just for Christians anymore.”

Furman Ernest attempted to summarize. “So a Yellow Springs Christmas is …”

“For everyone!” cried out a nameless voice from the furthest reach of the auditorium.

“For different reasons,” called a second voice.

“Regardless of your race,” declared a third.

“Or what you believe,” concurred a fourth.

“Or who you love,” added a fifth.

The final word came from a woman whom no one had even seen enter the auditorium, Stolucia Stolzfus, the mystically aloof cleric who succeeded Godfrey in the Methodist pulpit: “Christmas is for everyone – without labels.”

Mary McGregor had been in the crowded auditorium that day, and she thought a great deal about what had been said. For her, Christmas this year was a painful challenge, a poignant reminder that her best friend and life-mate was gone. Celebrating the Christ Child gave her hope. For her, Christmas was a season to pause and reflect on merely surviving, on making it this far, when some days you weren’t even sure how you’d make it through the next hour.

And so on Christmas morning, when a gaggle of McGregor grandchildren gathered around the Christmas tree, they looked upon the array of gifts, and once again celebrated Christmas … without labels.

For more tales, go to Facebook and search for “Yellow Springs Stories.”

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“The author is you, and the sentence is your life.” Visit www.projectsemicolon.org for more information.