In praise of being ordinary

Peaceful, stately, plump, playful, sociable and magnificent creatures. These were my first impressions, on seeing a humpback whale in the wild.

Last weekend I went on a whale-watching cruise, off the northern coast of NSW. The crew offered passengers tea and biscuits and free sea-sick pills; There was plenty of space for twenty passengers – tourists, families and amateur photographers - inside and outside the cabin, and rails to hang onto in a tossing open sea. Comfortable seats and tables inside the cabin, in case nature decided to give the hunters a touch of wind or rain. Quite unlike the morbid conditions for crew I’d read of in the whale-chasing book ‘Moby Dick’.

Twenty minutes out from the harbour heads we saw, and heard, a whale blowing to the surface. There was a pod of four humpbacks within a few metres of the boat, coasting north for the winter. There’s little wonder our first whales seemed so easy to find ; perhaps they found us. The ship’s captain said he’d had a hundred percent success rate in spotting whales each cruise. He said there were an estimated 10,000 whales migrating north along the coast this season.

This pod was enjoying a lazy day in sun stroked water. They idled along, a few minutes near the surface, then made a dive for about six minute, then back to the surface. They weren’t interested in performing spectacular tricks you see in tourist brochures, no spectacular leaps to break into the air; no rolling, no waving of their fins.

There was a healthy swell running, water rising about two metres, and the whales seemed determined to keep at least one swell between themselves and the boat. This gave them some privacy, they were down one dip in the ocean, we were in another, and a wall of water between us.

The swell meant some of the passengers on the vessel weren’t all that interested in the water or its whales; they tried to avoid eye contact with the swell. They had their faces buried in paper sea-sick bags, or were queued for a turn in the toilets. Some hung over rails, looking green and grey down into the blue sea.

I can say, with some luck, I didn’t fall victim to a churning stomach.

The boat followed the pod for 90 minutes. I assume it was the same pod all the way; sometimes we lost contact and waited till we saw more slicks on the surface of the water, and headed just north of that spot.

Photography was difficult. I didn’t know if the whales would surface one side of the boat, or the other., If I would be setting the exposure to shoot into the sun, or with the sun at my back. The sea moved, the boat bobbed up and down in the swell, the whales were moved up and down the swell, appearing and diving in seconds, and I hung grimly onto my camera, and the side rail, trying to focus. Of 250 shots, I accept three as OK.

On the return to harbour there was time to think about what I’d seen.

There’s nothing special about eating whale meat, that justifies slaughtering them. There’s nothing special about their blubber, except for their own survival. We humans can always find alternative sources to whale blubber products.

In my time I have seen whale skeletons in museums. I’ve seen a whale skeleton on the beach at Bicheno, in Tasmania. I’ve seen whalebones in corsets and carved bones in scrimshaws.. I’ve seen little whales in commercial aquaria.

I’ve read Moby Dick, and seen TV news of their carcasses being hauled onto modern whaling boats. But none of these second hand encounters prepared me for their size, and grace.

My brief meeting with the humpbacks, living, breathing and caring for each other was an unusual but also an ordinary experience;

More than just a nice afternoon’s amusement; this was nature behaving normally. I saw these whales as every-day creatures as ordinary as oxygen and as probably just as essential. The sooner they are recognised for not being alien, the better

Enough already of alpha males, managers, team leaders, committee chairwomen, gurus, captains, advisers, consultants and positive thinkers leading us all up the garden path.

There are too many aspirational chiefs paid too much money, and too few Indians. There’s too many bullying-cooks in the kitchen claiming credit for all of a restaurant’s stars, too little recognition of kitchen hands or dishwashers who make the stars shine.

I’m told that in the biblical beatitudes there’s a promise that the ‘Meek shall inherit the earth’. I can’t see that happening anytime soon.

There’s too much scoffing at the idea of anyone with a meek attitude inheriting anything of value. For example, writers James Joyce and William Blake condemned the meek philosophy, for advocating a “life without striving”.

I reckon its time for power-hoarders at the head table and those sitting on thrones on the top floor to share a balance of their powers. Time the silent majority were given a fair go.

With that in mind, I’d like to say a word or two in favour of the meek and mild amongst us. I’d especially ike to say a special word or two in favour of a particular branch of the meek – the wimps.

I don’t know how or why the word ‘wimp’ came to be a derogatory term. It is generally thrown about by some bully, as an insult to suggest an unmanly person.

But in a fair world a wimp is a soft spoken, generally conservative person who doesn’t rise to the bait of being dared to do stupid stuff. A Barney Rubble, rather than a Fred Flintstone.

A wimp is someone who might sit on the fence, seeing green grass on both sides. A wimp might own a small dog, or wear zinc cream in the sun. A wimp won’t cheat when playing. A wimp might simply be shy. A wimp is someone who takes her turn in a queue, rather than shoulder her way to the front of the line. Wimps might be found short on adrenaline, but that won’t stop them be heroes in necessary.

I didn’t find where the word was first used, but last century a couple of famous characters were Wimps with a capital.

J. Wellington Wimpy, generally referred to as Wimpy, was a character in the long-running comic strip Popeye, He was meek, peaceful, and a staunch friend to the Popeye family. This Wimpy really liked hamburgers, wore a bowler hat, and usually had gravy stains on his tie. He was my favourite character in the comic, and I hoped that I would grow up to be just like him.

Well before I was old enough to listen to old time radio, there was a popular comedy program called Fibber McGee and Molly. Sometimes I got to hear later episodes in Australia

One enduring character was Wallace Wimple, nicknamed “Wimp” by McGee. Wimple was a timid birdwatcher, who lived in constant terror of his “big old wife” named “Sweetie Face”

WIMPS also stands for “Where Is My Public Servant”, a project for little people with big ideas.  It is a project run by and for young people. Iin particular it is to  help young people to influence decision-makers.

In today’s creative science and technology fields, there’s a lot of important wimps.

In space there are the super physics heroes, Weakly Interactive Massive Particles, known as “Dark Matter”

Wimps were responsible for making computers accessible to non-technical people, in the late 1980s, with four contraptions called Windows, Icons, Menus and Pointers

Who knows what can be achieved for the prestige of wimps. if we can =together= bring wimps back into popular favour, we might see the annual tennis tournament in London renamed as Wimpeldon

I can walk for miles, I can march in step, but when it comes to dancing, I disown my feet.

These days, rather than make a fool of myself, I don’t dance. Firm rule, never an exception. At weddings I sit over in the darkened corner at the back, hoping none of my relatives will make a scene telling me that I have to get up on the dance floor.

I haven’t always been like this. As a young buck I went to all the church dances, to the Saturday night dances at the Wonderland Ballroom, and often served as dancing partner with pretty young debutantes.

I didn’t have two left feet, and was pretty light in the moves for a waltz, two step, tango, foxtrot, and barn dance. I could keep my dance partners reasonably happy with swing, jive and boogie.

The secret was: Couples touched when they danced. I was holding a dancing partner, and could sense what move they wanted to do next.

This good life started to fall apart though, in the 60’s and 70’s. I began to feel incompetent when the Twist and the Limbo started.

At the time I was friends with a lithesome professional TV dancer. She could out-dance Syd Charisse. When she took to the floor, everyone else, including me, sat down to watch the beauty grace and skill while she danced in a world of her own making.

Then the world went crazy with dances where touching your partner was considered uncool. I blame women’s lib for that. The music industry peppered Saturday nights with ridiculous dance fads such as Mashed Potato, The Hitchhiker, Walking the Dog and the Harlem Shuffle. Look up clips of them on YouTube. People ‘did their own thing’ on the dance floor.

Then John Travolta did his thing in Saturday Night Fever. Dancing without touching. Not one male in a hundred could look that good on a dance floor.

The other 99 of us fell into deep depression with all these new gyrations. At any wedding or family party you can see for yourself how the men folk of my generation fell apart. No matter how hard we try to keep our dance partners happy, we look ridiculous. It has degenerated to a level of self satire.

We jerk and grimace and stomp and wave our limbs like puppets with broken strings.

I know there’s a camera waiting, ready for the next episode of ‘Funniest Home Videos’. Look on YouTube for less wary blokes who are trying to do what their women have been doing for years – freestyle on the dance floor. Geek dances , Boris Yeltsin and He feels good to be alive

What’s that? You think we could dance if we just tried?

Here’s some dance moves I have tried to choreograph, so I can get up on the floor and accommodate friends and family who are dancing fools.

• The Tin Man Walk, as in the wizard of Oz.
• Walking with a Zimmer Frame.
• On Roller Skates, Losing my Balance
• Stepping on soap in the shower.
• Old Man in Slippers Shuffle

Now matter how much I practice when I think no-one is watching, I could never be as smooth as this guy. Perhaps he is the one-in-hundred.

If you can accept for a moment the idea that ’simple is best’, I am sure you will enjoy 1000 Awesome Things.

This Blog is a view of the world celebrating discovery of simple pleasures within reach of ordinary everyday life, without being maudlin or preachy. Each awesome entry gives the same sort of pleasure a dad gets when he tells a dad joke, or when mum puts comfort food on the table for the family.

Regularly updated each weekday by Neil Pasricha, the site was launched on June 20, 2008. Pasricha now attracts 40,000 people each day to join his discussions on topics such as how to enjoy wrong coloured foods

Starting with small delight #1,000 and working towards #1, the site is now nearly half way to its goal. For each entry so far Pasricha has provided a warm, opinionated, biased, idiosyncratic take on everyday goings-on. He provides an explanation for each choice, and some of the pieces are quite detailed in their description and affects.

The illustrations are original, quirky and really add to the flavour of the blog.

The blog has good reviews from BBC, CNN, and Wired magazine. Someone on Wikipedia said their five favourite posts were:
· Ordering off the menu at fast food restaurants (#949)
· Old, dangerous playground equipment (#980)
· Smiling and thinking of good friends who are gone (#829)
· Mastering the art of the all-you-can-eat buffet (#864)
· Old, classic board games (#847)

My favourite so far is thing #565, ‘Moving forward and moving on’.

This week 200 of the best posts so far are being published in book form - The Book of Awesome. On Amazon, the book is rated highly by those who have seen a copy.

Pasricha says that he works in an office, and is just a regular guy who loves the smell of petrol, sleeping on the cool side of the pillow, and peeling an orange.

Writing these blog entries has had an effect on the man driving 1000 Awesome Things. He says:

I hope we hear lots more from this guy

I think that I’ve forgotten my share of useful facts. Mostly because they’ve been superseded by new stuff I’ve had to learn.

I forget stuff all the time. I forget to comb my hair before I leave for work. I forget where I put the car keys. I forget the names of people I met this morning, and I forget the faces of friends I haven’t seen in 20 years.

Sometimes words I want don’t jump to mind; I need to wait a few hours for the cobwebs to fall away.

Without my diary I wouldn’t remember half the jobs I am supposed to do next week. Even with a trusty organiser I’ve now booked myself to be in two different cities on the same day next month. I’ll have to tell a fib to one of my family; and we all know that a fibber has to have an excellent memory.

When I go to the grocer’s I take a written list; otherwise I come home with wrong purchases. So what’s new? I had to carry a written list when I ran to the corner shop aged ten; and when I lived with mates, aged 20; and in my thirties, when I was married. Today, in my 70s, if I don’t have a shopping list, I forget to buy tissues and toilet rolls that I need.

The most common trick the forgetting fairy plays is when I re-heat a cup of tea that’s gone cold, and ten minutes later I wander around the house looking for my cup, forgetting to look in the microwave oven.

But I have always forgotten such things, with little concern that I might have become abnormally absent-minded.

This ability of mine not to remember everything is nothing unique. There have always been normal people who get on the train with odd socks, or a with a dress tucked into knickers, because they forgot to check in the mirror.

Mostly I suspect failure to recall occurs because we get distracted, or because we are not sufficiently interested in routine tasks, of what we’re doing, and so, need to operate on auto-pilot.

Forgetfulness and distraction are a part of ordinary daily living.

I am told we can do exercise to help muscle-up our memories; there’s a game a memory training guru played, where he showed me a tray with 20 objects on it, and then I was expected to try and recall the items when the tray was removed. Most of these tricks really didn’t help in the long scheme of things.

Now, with hordes of drone-like baby boomers worried about growing old, they appear to have a deep fear of not only loosing skin elasticity, but they are being told they may, proabably, also lose an inevitable  fight with Alzheimer’s. There’s a whole new industry in researching and caring for dementia patients.

Whereas in days of yore, relatives would simply lock grandma in a home and take her for a Sunday drive once a month, now the aged care industry organises sing-songs and knees-up for their bed-bound, foggy-minded oldies.

Despite the growing industry of care and research, there is no known cure, nor way of preventing, memory loss -  yet. The best advice I’ve had in 70 years was from my grandmother, in days before the I-phone apps, who said if I had to remember something, to tie a knot of string around my finger. That would give me a clue that I had to remember something.  

I believe they – the professional care support industry - mean well, and they believe they are essential to the welfare of oldies and their families, but a full house of empty-headed geriatrics is bread and butter to this industry. Every day, especially in Twitter, I see new research warning of an increase in memory loss. And demands for higher wages for helpers in the old folks home.

How can I know if my forgetfulness is unusual, a result of memory fading like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland, or the onset of progressing senility and dementia.

Perhaps I am loosing my marbles and I am in their target ( what’s the word, I’ve forgotten, its on the tip of my tongue) – a yes, target demographic.
 
Despite all the proclaimed tests for early warnings of loss off mental facilities, if my grey cells die and memory fades, it will fade away imperceptibly, like hearing loss or receding hair lines. I probably won’t notice anything other than my frustration because the crossword puzzles seem to be getting harder to solve.

Perhaps there should be a dash of cold reality from the Aged Care industry. Reality about what the aging baby boomers, their parents and children can expect, without scaring them stupid. What is ordinary memory loss, and what is tragic debilitation.
 
I searched Google and other web search machines for answers. Incidentally, one of the suggestions from a serious scientist said that use of web search engines was likely to cause us to lose the power to remember; well they said that, centuries ago, about the evil of printed books, didn’t they. But I digress. In the search I found a useful web blog: geriatric care management , with advice to “Help Manage the Care of an Older Adult”. Assuming, of course, this is an adult who has passed over to another dimension, and needs help from family or the helping industry.
 
“Alzheimer’s is not forgetting your keys. It’s forgetting what your keys are for.”
 
This was an “Ah Ha” moment. Its OK, and normal, to forget where I put my keys.
 
If I am strapped to a chair, and fed mush, I probably won’t care what the keys are used for.

Abuse is frequent on the web, it isn’t normal on-line behavior.

Some say the lash should be used in response to rude and offensive name-calling on the internet, but I am persuaded this could simply make the miscreants’ behaviour even worse.

When I was a kid, adults threatened to wash my mouth out with soap when I was a potty mouth. They did it to me twice. Soap in the mouth is a truly effective form of aversion therapy, which I recommend to all moderators of internet service platforms and social networking media. The after-taste, the foam around my lips, from Palmolive and Pears soap, made me sure that I watched my ‘Ps’ and ‘Qs’ before I let rage reach my tongue.

In the early days of web conversations, typing ALL IN CAPITALS was considered the depth of archaic bad web-manners, akin to SHOUTING in face-to-face conversations, to drown out other points-of-view. Frequent application of virtual softsoap replies from normal web users almost eradicated use of capital offence.

Then came Flame Wars 1.0, especially in group forums on the internet. The normal wisdom of crowds on the web turned into an online lynch mob screaming virtual tirades. Posts from immature web junkies degenerate from polite logical arguments into invective. Disputes raged as if conversation was a game of Aliens Vs. Predator, (”Mankind’s two ultimate nightmares come together in mortal combat, and whoever wins - we lose.”)

Occasionally, innocent bystanders like me still stumble upon a new flare-up of a flame war. It seems that this sort of ungentle conduct is today directed more against scientists than any other group. For example, read some of the posts from climate change deniers.

Just this week, there’s been a wild response to an innocent message from eminent scientist Richard Dawkins. In case you haven’t caught up to the fracas, Dawkins is now being described in the press as the most hated man in Britain today – in terms usually directed at unpopular politicians.

Dawkins mistake was to update his website with a letter politely explaining a few planned changes to the “community” bulletin board, where more than 85,000 enthusiasts come to air their views.
Read Richard Dawkins Message here, and a summary of the reactions. You can smell the blood, as if instead of being a web discussion the site had turned into a cage fight.

Dawkins must have thought he had been transported a back alley.

When tempers flare, and insults are hurled with impunity like this, the web resembles the underground inhabited by droogies from A Clockwork Orange

It’s time to bring ‘nice’ back into popular use in web culture.

The word ‘nice’ has many meanings. Back in the 12^th century it meant foolish and stupid. Nice. Then it became a cliché, lacking qualities of precision and intensity in its synonyms. The normal meaning today is accepted as: being pleasant; and kind.

In a difference of opinion on the web or in real life, it’s possible to press your case as hard as you can, and still behave in a friendly civilised manner; That doesn’t mean you need to be friends.

Nor does it mean you rebut your opponent with language like that found in Clockwork Orange “You twitching, gelatinous yolk of rancid effluvia”. That’s not nice.

Last night in Sydney the local  Chinese community gave Sydney a priceless cultural present to celebrate Chinese New Year.
This was a Twilight Parade, with elaborate floats, magnificent costumes, dancing, drums and dragons. Lots of dragons. It was reported as the largest Chinese celebration for New Year, outside of China. Who knows if that is true or not. It certainly felt true, as the parade worked its way through the centre of the city.
This has become a major event on the summer calender, for those who know that it is on. But The Chinese New Year doesn’t get a quarter of media promotion that is given to other festivals on in Sydney during summer.
More than 3 000 Chinese-Australians gave of their time energy and talent to make this parade happen. Ordinary people; mums, dads, kids, tradesmen, bankers, shopkeepers, chefs and clerks.
There were a few poobahs up the front of the parade, councilors, politicans and glamorous movie stars, soaking up glory. But the rest of the paraders were our neighbours and schoolmates.
About 100 000 people came into town to enjoy the spectacle as spectators. But that means about 4 million people didn’t get to see this magnificent cultural celebration.
And how did the media bring this massive event into our homes. About 7 seconds viewing on the TV news, photographed in the dark. A small paragraph in the paper; with no photos. A story about a picnic in the park earlier in the day got more media coverage.
All those people who spent months rehearsing, training, practicing, making costumes, raising funds really add quality and depth to life in Sydney.
As I walked around Hyde park earlier in the afternoon I was constantly greeted with smiles, laughter, people pleased for a chance to show off their costumes and show me how they brought dragons to life during the Twilight Parade.

For more images of the costumes in the parade, have a look at my Flickr gallery

My grandmother was buried in an unmarked grave. Her choice.
I wouldn’t mind following her example. My choice.
If my grandchildren need some scratches on a slab of marble in order to remember me, then I have probably wasted too much of my time here on earth.
There are many paupers’ graves marked in pencil, with a number written on a piece of wood that’s been stuck into the grass. O tempore. O mores.
Something grander is needed for all the forgotten people.
The British tomb of The Unknown Warrior in Westminster Abbey holds an unidentified British soldier killed on a European battlefield during the First World War. This everyday battle-body is buried in splendour amongst Kings, and Princes of the church.
The idea for the British national monument was spawned by a rough grave on the western front, marked by a rough cross which bore the pencil-written legend ‘An Unknown British Soldier’.
The anonymity of the entombed soldier is key to the symbolism of the monument: since his or her identity is unknown, it could theoretically be the tomb of anyone who fell in service of the nation, and therefore serves as a monument to all of their sacrifices. My father died in the war, and his body was never recovered. I never knew the man, but by all the war memorials, I can know his deeds.
Now many nations have similar memorials, more frequently recognising unknown soldiers, sailors and airmen, rather than an ‘unknown warrior’.
I wonder why we can’t also have a magnificent public tomb for all the unknown citizens who may not have family or friends to see the good they have done passed on through time, rather than have that good interred with their bones.
I think of all the unknown and unrecognized citizens who are alive today who, when they die, may never be remembered. They haven’t been a burden on the state, there is no record of them having been a trouble.
They are everyman, the faceless neighbour down the street, the forgotten relative, the quiet unassuming stranger whom you pass in the city without a glance; Joe Public or Edna Average.
They go about their lives unseen, unsung and uncelebrated, living a life swimming with the tide.
These are people who are solid, hard working independent citizens. But forgotten. Death, as in life, really does mean oblivion for them. Sometimes their words and ideals might live on, quoted by millions, but recognized only as being from ‘anonymous’.
My idea is that the house of debate in every democratic parliament should have a magnificent memorial to the Unknown Citizen, built in a central position in the lower house. The remains of the Unknown Citizen would be firmly positioned between the leader of the government and the leader of the loyal opposition, so that every issue of debate would have ‘every citizen’ at its core. No politician in the chamber couldn’t avoid this symbolic memorial to constituents they never took the time to get to know.

Charles Wolfe. 1791–1823

Comfort foods are familiar, simple foods that are home-cooked or eaten at informal restaurants. Peasant food, in other words, with some sentimental appeal.

Comfort foods have a lot of power to settle a trouble day, a bit like the orange Madeleine cake in Proust’s In Search of Lost Time or Remembrance of Things Past

Comfort food is made from common ingredients, down-to-earth, and easy to prepare. Many people eat comfort food because it is generally easily digestible, is in their memory tasty and flavorful, or carries a promise of reward, like mum used to offer.

Often you can’t buy this stuff in restaurants, except some hip places which charge a fortune for being so up market, snooty and trend setting.

Foodstuffs that can nearly always be certain to bring me a feeling of childish security include:

Meat loaf

Mushrooms on toast

Tripe and onions

Lamb sandwich with pickles

Ploughman’s lunch for picnics

Corned beef cooked in a pressure cooker

Fish and chips on a Friday night

Chile con carne, not from a can

Lumpy custard

Christmas pudding with coins in it

Home grown figs, plums and almonds

In later life, when I started a new family, we found security in new comfort foods:

Spaghetti bolognaise

Shepherd’s pie

Any Chinese food

Grilled cheese on toast

Bubble and squeak

Pancakes

Home made biscuits

Birthday cakes

I wonder what my grandkids generation will consider to be comfort food, when they have had a hard day at the nuclear plant. They have had so many meals in McDonalds, so many pizzas, so many restaurant brunches.

Of course they eat well at home, but their houses are full of coffee table cook books from Jamie and Nigella. Their parents are so busy there isn’t time for them to spend a day cooking slowly and filling their houses with wonderful aromas.

One house which I believe would have wonderful memories of magical comfort foods is described in the One Ordinary Day blog, written by Michele. Wonderful food, good photography

http://oneordinaryday.wordpress.com/page/2/

There are about two hours on Christmas day that I really enjoy.

There’s the time early in the morning when kids first wake, trembling with excitement to see if Santa Claus has been to their house. There’s their pure joy when they open a few gifts. This Christmas spirit takes hold of the house for about an hour. Then the day returns to normal.

There’s an hour or so it takes to eat Christmas lunch - or dinner - together. That presupposes it is a simple meal, with a few special treats. Not an excuse for greed, envy, glut and surplus. If you are really lucky, you might get to share a second meal with another family, or friends. Then that hour is an added bonus. But as soon as your meal is over, don’t hang around to wash the dishes as a gang. That’s when the rot starts. Dish washing is never magic at the best of times, and Christmas day can’t change that. Just leave the table, and draw a curtain over the magic till next year. Life is back to normal.

In the Charles Dickens stories of Christmas, People knock off from work an hour early on Christmas day, to go home to have their meal together. Bob Cratchitt returns to work on Boxing day.

Compare his pleasure to expectations today. We expect to be allowed to leave work at lunch time the day before Christmas. What on earth for?

The day after Christmas is expected to be a holiday, to give us a chance to recover from our excess consumption on Christmas day. If Boxing day falls, say on Saturday as it did this year, we expect a replacement holiday two days later on the Monday. Bah, humbug.

In the old Christmas poem The Night before Christmas, we hear “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” Today the pre Christmas house is pandemonium, wrapping too many cheap gifts to make them look not-cheap, rushing down to the mall at 11.45 pm to see if shops run by people of non-christian faith might still be open and have some more wrapping paper that we forgot to buy in the six week shopping season before Christmas day.

Christmas decorations and gift catalogues start to appear in Woolworths and Target aisles as early as late August/early September, and the majority of shoppers do not even seem to notice anything out of the ordinary in this.

There are so many office and business Christmas parties that we can’t schedule them all in the month of December. So invitations start to arrive with RSVP for early November.

I can’t even begin to think of the stupid Christmas ‘traditions’ in Australia, without getting a headache, obligatory greeting cards decorated with fake snow and songs about sleigh rides, and mistletoe where Aussie bush flowers should hang, and images of fat people wearing heavy fur coats in the middle of our summer heat.

Excess in December has become an eighth deadly sin, up there for grossness with greed, envy, sloth, pride, gluttony, lust and anger. Summer celebration of Christmas is a constant demand for “more”, “bigger”, “sooner” and “holier than thou”.

Commercial Christmas has become too much.