Christmas. It’s not for everyone.

When I was five years young Bobby Aquino was my best friend. The Italian Catholic Aquino’s were also our next-door neighbors. After Thanksgiving, a pine tree would materialize in their living room.Soon thereafter ornamental baubles and glitter would sprout from its green branches. As the days went by I noticed more and more mysteriously wrapped boxes under the tree. 

I’ve always been a wonderer. So I asked Bobby.

“What’s up with the tree and all those boxes under it?” 

“Christmas is coming. Don’t you have a tree? Don’t you get Christmas presents?”

“Ahhh No...”

So I began a campaign of kvetching (Yiddish for nagging) to my father Sid. 

“Where’s my Christmas presents? Why don’t we have a tree in the house?”

Sid ignored me at first. BUT! I’m a persistent whiner. Eventually Sid had enough. He wanted peace restored in the Sambur household. He thrust a package into my skinny arms.

“Jeffy! We are Jewish! We don’t celebrate Christmas. It’s not our Holiday. This is a Hanukkah gift. Its a Jewish holiday. Understand? Now come. We will light the menorah. Your mother will fry up some potato latkes for us to eat. Later on, I’ll teach you how to play dreidel.” 

Years went by. I grew up. Somehow I managed to score a career as Northern Colorado’s only Jewish firefighter. Come Christmas time, things got awkward. 

“Jeff! What will you be doing on Christmas?”

 “I’ll try to score a shift of overtime. If not I’ll work a time trade for another day off in the summer.”

“Don’t you want to be off on Christmas?” 

“No, not really. It’s not a Jewish Holiday. It doesn’t have the same meaning to me as it does to you.” 

Sometimes I had to elaborate on this trivial factoid.

“You know there’s an Old Testament and a New Testament. Right? Well for the Jews, our story ends with the Old Testament.” 

To a few of my fellow firefighters, this was a revelation.

Maybe by now, some of you might be thinking I’m a devout Jew. I’m not. I stroll into a Temple about as often as I do a Church or Mosque. In other words, nearly never. The few times in my life I experienced anything close to religion, I was alone on a mountaintop, in a canyon or another wilderness type setting in between. 

This doesn’t mean I never got into the Holiday spirit. I did. I invented an offshoot of Seinfeld’s Festivus. I named the secular holiday Kwanhanumas. Kwanzaa, Hanukkah and Christmas. It was an instant Fort Collins, CO hit. We’d meet in a neighborhood bar the week following Thanksgiving. The invitation encouraged the participants to bring holiday knick knacks, whether it be a menorah, dreidel, Christmas tree ornament or stockings. Unfortunately, we never had anyone show up bearing Kwanzaa swag. Conversations were quite animated. There was no gift giving. There was no guilt giving either, unless the miscreant wasn’t buying a round of drinks or appetizers.  No one ever tried to convert anyone else. We told stories. We laughed a lot. At the end of our celebration of humanity, we hugged. 

Isn’t that what religion should be all about?

I now have a dream of resurrecting Kwanhanumas in my new hometown of Durango, CO. Until then, I’ll probably continue to lay low during the Holiday Season.

I hope all of my readers (including all those Russian, Polish and Ukrainian Trolls) had a joyous, safe and healthy Holiday Season regardless of how you celebrated it.

Happy 2020,

Jeff

Last photos: This is how I spent Christmas Eve. I did a fly by with Fluttering Wandering Butterflies. Two landed on me. I’ll accept that as a good omen for 2020. 

What would a John Muir...

Think?

I’ve been in the Sierra Nevada mountains of California for over a week. I wanted to spend a lot more time there in what Mr. Muir precisely called “The Range of Light.” As usual, his assessment is jaggedly correct. The Sierra Range is different. The area emits it’s own wavelength of light. It’s so unique, it could be the fourth primary color.  Even the cedars, ponderosa, and sugar pines exude a just shtupped glow. At times, the glare is so bright, it almost has me reaching for sunscreen. I love the Sierra Nevada of Eastern California.

I chose a great time to be here. The summer is on the wane. The National Park Service of Yosemite were shuttering the high country campgrounds and visitor centers. The somewhat burnt out employees seemed almost gleeful about the closure. One told me, “If you think it’s still crowded, you should have been here in August. It was nuts!” 

His job was heading west into Yosemite Valley. “There’s no off-season there anymore,” he sadly stated. 

I found the trails to be somewhat empty IF you got an early start. As usual upon my return the parking lots were full. I’d spot many unprepared visitors going in as I was coming out. I suppose it’s their way of seeing what this hiking stuff is all about. Most were carrying I-Phones though. 

In other areas, the roads were chockablock with “leaf peepers” photographing the yellows, oranges and reds of the going dormant aspen trees. The colors added to the  brightness of the scene. Fishermen and women were out in full force dipping their lines to land the last lunker of the season. The sun arrived late and disappeared early amid the canyon walls. The nights were long. I read a lot.

Mr Muir left behind a legacy of famous quotes. They aren’t as entertaining as Yogi Berra’s, but worthy just the same.

Here’s a few: 

“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity; and that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains of life.”

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine into trees.”

People are taking Mr. Muir’s suggestions to task. When Mr Muir passed away in 1914, there were less than 100 million Americans. Now there’s 326 million. Mr. Muir hiked on game trails and old Native American routes. There were probably a few miners trails as well. Now the paths are often two-lane highway widths. There’s evidence of erosion. The campgrounds are devoid of underbrush. It’s all been trampled. The land is not healing from the onslaught of all these Nature Lovers. We are hurting the very place we all love. 

This would bring a tear to John’s eyes. Like me, he was a sensitive guy.

Enjoy the photos. The Sierra is a special place on Earth. My guess is that one day, we will require a permit just to drive into Yosemite National Park.

From Bishop, California 

Jeff

I have acute Chionophobia...

From the source of all knowledge. AKA Google.

The fear of snow, or chionophobia, is often linked to other phobias. Those with fears of cold or severe weather. 

It’s safe to say I’m no fan of winter. Never was nor will I ever be.

I have my reasons. Mostly they are the close encounters of death/injuries I’ve experienced due to the icy white stuff. For me, winter has never been about making snow angels. The cold season is about avoiding snow demons.

Here’s a few frigid examples:

The first and last time I went downhill skiing was back in 1978. After a few runs on the “Bunny Slopes”, my friends  deemed me worthy of the “Black Diamond” slopes at Aspen Highlands ski area. I wasn’t ready. The mountainside was a sea of humpback whale-sized moguls. I made a lame attempt to retreat to easier grades. Alas, a ski went one way, my knee went the other way and POP! No more intact anterior cruciate ligament. My left knee has never been the same since. 

Years later, I tried cross country skiing. On one particular bad day a storm rolled in unexpectedly when me and a buddy were sliding around on Montgomery Pass in Colorado. The  snow began to fly horizontally. The visibility went opaque. The trail became obscure. The temperatures were spiraling down in an un-summer like way. We somehow managed to grope our way down through diminishing conditions and impending night to the parking lot. I kissed my jalopy. That was the last time I went cross country skiing. 

Then there was  the time I was returning from Moab, UT back to Fort Collins, CO. It was mid-November and I was heading east on I-70. My Ford Explorer hit a malevolent patch of black ice. I slid south to north across three lanes of traffic. Miraculously a 80,000 pound gross vehicle weight semi-truck took evasive action and narrowly missed me and my Ford by three feet. I doubt if I would have survived a direct hit. I had to pull off the Interstate to regain my composure after that one. It was about the last time I ventured into the mountains during winter driving conditions. 

Here’s one more Owwie. Recently, I hit the concrete after slipping on clear ice in Durango.  I mangled my elbow. This occurred over two weeks ago. I can now barely raise my right arm above my head. It takes a few double IPAs and handfuls of aspirins to dull the pain. 

Lastly Jews weren’t bred for winter. Moses and his Hebrew minions didn’t wander around the steppes of Siberia for forty years eating cold manna. They were tough and hung out in a cloudless Middle Eastern desert without the benefits of sunscreen or skin moisturizers. Jews aren’t called the “Frozen Chosen.” Which brings up the old joke. “What’s a Jewish woman’s favorite wine? Answer. “I wanna go to Miami!” 

My mental and physical injuries weren’t always centered around me. During my career as a firefighter/EMT I attended to many senior citizens who had run-ins with Jack Frost. We’d find Edna or Elmer lying supine on the cold ground. Kind citizens or caring family members would heap piles of comforting blankets upon the Old Timers. We were always extra gentle with these elderly patients. Eventually we would pull the blankets aside to access their injury. If we saw a shortened leg awkwardly rotated outward, we all sighed a silent “Oh Shit!” A probable broken hip. For these unfortunate folks the next blanket placed upon them might go up and over their heads. A fractured hip from an icy slip is a death sentence for many elderly.

https://medicalxpress.com/news/2018-06-hip-fractures-elderly-death-sentence.html

Falls weren’t the only problems seniors faced. There’s influenza, carbon monoxide poisoning and just dialing 911 because they felt isolated and alone. On wintery call outs where we didn’t require all hands on deck, I’d grab a snow shovel and clear their steps, sidewalks and doorways. It was my preventative maintenance program to keep these Oldsters out of the morgue. I knew one day I too would grow old.

For these reasons and so many others, (IE: long shadows, short days) I fear the harsh season. 

Am I happy about this? Absolutely not. Being a snow and cold weenie makes life complicated. It’s expensive too. (I’m now paying rent in Durango as well as in Snobsdale, AZ.) i never wanted to leave Durango, just winter. 

I don’t want to slip and break my hip! 

Cheers from Snobsdale where nobody knows your name,

Jeff

PS. You know another thing I don’t like about winter? There are no flowers or baseball.