The crucified body impacting the suffering spirit of Jesus that did not refuse death but embraced it as a gateway to eternity, having been made (for a time) mortal, descended into the final confrontations of the soul.

In this state, revealed were all of the atrocities that were committed in the name of his teachings. He was shown the persecution of Jews. The tortures of inquisitions were displayed for him. The misguided horrors of the crusades were paraded in front of his spiritual eye. The endless rape of children, the Magdalena laundries, the pomposity of Rome, the wars, the slaughters, the misogyny- all of them were revealed to him in the hell of Jesus. He was shown the weaponry that was created in his name. The seemingly endless wars fought over the details of his teaching. Those who were slaughtered were revealed to him

His final challenge was to rise anyway. To find hope in resurrection after knowing all of this. To affirm that what he put forth was more powerful than that which sapped it.

This isn’t the easiest thought with which to wrestle. I mean, suppose Jesus knew it all and rose anyway?

It was the promise and the consequences of eternity. Simple and direct, with certainty instead of temptation.

It is akin to the dilemma of The Grand Inquisitor that Dostoyevsky created but not exactly. He says that the Inquisitor had no choice but to execute the risen Christ. But what was the hell from which he ascended?

The last temptation must be that eternity itself is fragile, that it depends upon belief.

Comically with tears, it is “clap if you believe in fairies.”

Does eternity depend upon belief?

Do we try to combat chaos with an organizational plan? Does the plan depend upon the belief?

After someone creates, don’t we have to sit back and see what becomes of creation?

And so Jesus ascended with the added burden of that which time creates. Can you imagine that ascension? What strength would it take? What immense assuredness?

I had a professor who taught in graduate school a class called The Trial of Jesus. This diminutive, old man believed that what Jesus was saying was that God was also “Daddy.” He was Abba, the familiar form of father. He taught that this is why he was killed and that the miracle was that he hadn’t been killed earlier.

The Christian scripture now reads that he descended into the land of the dead. I don’t know where  the Christians believe that is. Was it the limbo of unbaptized innocents? Did Jesus say that those little children should come unto Him? Or was it actually, as it used to be termed, Hell.

Did love cause him to rise? What was it love of?

Even if you only believe this a myth, what was the repository of strength and faith? Was it the perspective of the immortal?

Joan Tucker is a fine person and a loving educator. Here is a small anecdote about her Christmas tree. She was with her first grandchild. She showed him the tree and said, “There’s an angel on top that looks over me.”

The boy who was just 4 years old, said, “I can’t see the angel.”

Joan lifted him and showed him that at the top of the tree was his picture. Then she said, kind of casually, which is her way, “you are my angel.”

That was at least fifteen years ago, but somehow that little boy lives at the top of a Christmas tree forever his grandmother’s angel. I know that even if she has no tree or something different at the top of her present tree that somewhere in her heart will always be that experience.

We favor a children’s kind of tree in our home. Each ornament holds history. There is the golden guitar, the glass balls that were carried from Italy, the whittled face of a Santa done by a man who was once a priest. There is the name and dates of my daughter as she grew. There are ceramic ornaments that were created by people who have now gone but leave these expressions of faith in Christmas for us to appreciate.

Back when tinsel was obligatory, my Aunt Dottie coated her tree in spun glass that was called angel’s hair. It was fluffy white and looked like clouds but you weren’t allowed to touch it and she wore heavy gloves when she put it on the tree. It created the feeling of a snow storm that muted her lights which were always white.

We always had a big tree, a ceiling scraper. It usually needed to be pared back to fit into that base room apartment where we lived. I can’t recall the ornaments but I remember the nativity so clearly. There was a cardboard manger that had room at the top for the insertion of a white light that was supposed to be the star of Bethlehem. There were ceramic camels and cattle and sheep and Wiseman and shepherds. They reminded me of toy soldiers but I wasn’t allowed to play with them.

I have celebrated with people who light candles on their trees, but that takes vigilance and a respect for flame. I’ve spent the holiday with Jewish families who danced around an unadorned tree. I’ve marveled at the beauty of the tree that my mom created later in her life that was all mauve and gold and glass. Reflection with elegant pieces that seemed to have some kind of monochromatic signature.

Hardly anyone hangs popcorn or cranberry garland on trees now, but that was the American tradition. The corn was popped and allowed to go stale and then it and the cranberries were strung onto fishing line. The Germans started bringing trees into the house in the 17^th century. They used paper roses and lighted candles. The English liked to use lace. Sometimes cookies were hidden in the branches of Christmas trees but it was not until the 19^th century that German glass blowers got into the act. They created elaborate scenes inside of light, blown glass. Tinsel was once made of actual, thin silver strands. People in seaside communities decorate their trees with shells with holes drilled into them and scenes painted on both sides of the shells often by children.

Sometimes you appreciate a tree even more when you are poor. I remember one Christmas when I was first living with my girlfriend, and we had spent all of our money on presents only to remember that we had no tree. We trudged up the street with a fat $10 between us and came back holding hands with this small tree slung over my shoulder. We decorated it by cutting up pictures from Christmas cards that had been sent to us.

Historically, it began as days of giving thanks through prayer rather than days of feasting. It was not until 1863 that President Lincoln established a standard national date for the country’s Thanksgiving.

My earliest recollection was as a very young boy living with my mom and great-grandmother in this two room, basement apartment. My mother’s boyfriend took me to see a high school football game. I remember how I shivered under a blanket as I saw big guys who seemed to not feel the cold. I wanted to be one of them.

Later that day, people crowded into that basement apartment, and my mom served up dinner for family mixed with those who had nowhere else to go. It was always warm because the heat was not under our control and there was the oven and all the people.  My mom would open the windows and that breeze was sweet and warm.

It was difficult to move around because the space was so cramped. People claimed portions of the makeshift table that filled the room as their own. My Aunt Dottie’s spot was always crumbless and immaculate. My mom saved the fanciest glass in her cupboard for my great aunt.  That one day, I remember challenging some customer at the diner where my mom waitressed to an eating contest. I devoured my first entire turkey leg, and stuffing and potatoes and gravy. I got sick. I had never eaten that much before and the guy who bested me said that next time I would know better.

I spent a lot of time in basements in those years. One Thanksgiving when my mom had to work, my Aunt Dottie had dinner in the hallway outside of her basement apartment and any of the people who lived in the building, where she and my Uncle John were superintendents, were invited. I remember Mr. McCrary the best. He had a tube in his throat and could not eat in front of other people. I watched him smile and talk and feel warm because he had somewhere to go that day. Even Mrs. Conroy and her war damaged son, who had undergone electroshock therapy and never spoke to anyone, were there. The tradition of extending yourself to someone that needed a touch of familial warmth seemed to go on forever. It became the essence of Thanksgiving.

I brought many guests to the table. My mom brought more. She was dedicated to the holiday and had to go out and drive the streets and looking for women with shopping carts and giving them warm clothes and inviting them home. I went on many of those trips and I cannot say that I was the most enthusiastic participant.

My mom was a true believer and a church goer and so there were many ministers and ministers’ wives and children invited to our thanksgiving table. One of them was with the now disgraced Millard Fuller who founded Habitat for Humanity, and we engaged in a lively debate about faith, politics and justice. My stepfather lacked good conversational skills and my mother always insisted that I carry that ball. These were lively and sometimes tense dinners and I remember the conversations with The American Leprosy Foundation Directors and the man who collected movie star’s autographs and served at a funeral home as a pall bearer.

As the meal was concluding, and the apple, mince and pumpkin pies covered the table, along with whipped cream, fruit and nuts, my mom would ask the people there to say something for which they were thankful. She would go first and you could tell that she had been thinking carefully about her response. The people who were more private usually said that they were thankful for the meal and the company. This was acceptable but one had to be thankful for something at my mother’s table

For a while, I attended multiple Thanksgiving meals. We lived communally, and after we had the obligatory family dinners, we gathered in kind of a tribal celebration. The people at the table had intense and intimate relationships in a variety of ways. Some were sexual and some artistic and some were combinations of emotion, desire and a new kind of what I thought was devotion. As a friend of mine once wrote to me, “these were our salad days.” The participants would begin the meal by saying that they could not possibly eat any more, but we would. Conviviality breeds that.

They were glorious celebrations although I’m not sure that we knew it at the time. They started around midnight. There were burning fireplaces and wonderful music and sinks stacked absurdly high with dishes. Windows opened and gave warmth to the cold night in exchange for that sweet breeze. There was wine.

Coaching football made Thanksgiving a work day. My mom started dinner later than she would have liked, but that was not a problem because I had to work. People who had to work on Thanksgiving always deserved accommodation.

After the game, we coaches would collect equipment and say goodbye to the players. A sports season brings you together daily for hours at a time. We gave thanks for that time and thanks that that time was at an end. I always marveled at the resilience of those athletes that I would see the next day when they reported for the first day of basketball or wrestling season. The football coaches would be there, cleaning up the leftovers and they would smile and wave as they walked passed, eager for a new beginning.

The warmth and the aromas of the home, after the morning of work or hard play or shivering as a spectator made the air vibrate. I smiled so wide then and gave thanks for the warmth and the rest. That was thanksgiving.

As a teacher, Thanksgiving break was the end of the first quarter. A teacher who is paying attention and has some kind of a vision for the academic year, reflects on the students’  progress, concerns and hopes and then looks at the opportunities that the upcoming curriculum provides. For me, this was always a task that captured my attention and spoke to my spirit. “Where do we need to go from here? And why are we going there?” Those were my guiding principles during Thanksgiving vacation assessment.

Sometimes, we had Italian-American Thanksgiving feasts at the family gatherings. These began with an antipasto. It was filled with finely sliced and rolled meats like Capicola and Sopressata and Salami. Soft and hard cheeses were mixed with tangy olives. Anchovies and mackerel from oil based tins along with sardines served on beds of lettuce created appetite as it was consumed. That was followed by the pasta course. The pasta was always rich and creamy and the sauce was soothing. It was only then, two hours into the feast, when you were full and warm, that the turkey was served. It was usually a bit dry. But the broiled potatoes in garlic and olive oil, the ones garnished with parsley, were fine.

Even when my mom submitted to these adjustments to the meal, she was sure to make her stuffing a star. It was crusted and moist and the celery had just a feint firmness, and she made sure that she placed the gizzards on a separate plate for anyone who might be interested. The taste of Thanksgiving is turnip and creamed onions along with that stuffing. But I was always seduced by the antipasto and the pasta. Isn’t it strange how food can reflect values? Thanksgiving is about food with a history.

I love the taste of good apple cider, but only on Thanksgiving. Somehow it seems to lighten the heavy fare. Perhaps it is the acidic base but I can swill the stuff that day, like I can no other beverage. I had no wish for it to be alcoholic because I want to be able to drink glass after glass.

Lymphoma robs its victims of energy and Fitz also developed cataracts that deprived him of most of his sight. The treatment that we selected for him was to use steroids to keep him comfortable and then let nature take its course. The steroids gave him a huge appetite and thirst. He accepted this new condition with the same enthusiasm that he showed for everything else that he wanted. It has been a long time since I have eaten a piece of toast or a bagel without sharing it with Fitzgerald. If I made a sandwich, it became necessary to add a couple of slices or meat of cheese for him to have. Of course he gobbled them down and then waited patiently, or not so patiently, to have some of my sandwich.

I would have never thought that I would compare Carlos Castaneda and Quinn Fitzgerald but here goes.

“If a dying warrior has limited power, his dance is short; if his power is grandiose, his dance is magnificent. But regardless of whether his power is small or magnificent, death must stop to witness his last stand on earth. Death cannot overtake the warrior who is recounting the toil of his life for the last time until he has finished his dance”

Fitz rose slowly to his feet and I got up and grabbed a leash so that I could steady him. The look on his face was more than a little disdainful and he refused to move when I attached the leash to his collar. When I took it away, he slowly walked out of his door and onto the porch. I watched from the window.

He had not ventured off of the solid even surface of the porch in quite a while.  I felt fear as he walked into the remains of this year’s garden.  I take the temporary fence down and pull out what is left of the vegetable garden annually. It is one of his happiest times. He loves the smells and the tastes of what the fence has walled off for a time.

I watched him slowly make his way in and sniff and once he licked the ground. I don’t know why. Then he turned and made his way to the willow tree under which he had taken many an afternoon nap. In earlier times. I threw the Frisbee so that it just touched the edge of a tendril of the tree. He gloried in those catches, leaping into the air with abandon and success.

He sniffed around the well-developed roots of the tree.  He did not turn back towards the window from which I watched.  Then he slowly ambled to the flowering plum tree.  It was planted at the same time as the willow and had the same nightly irrigation, which he was always there to witness. Slowly, he rubbed along the bark of the tree. And then he came down to the false front of his home.

My house has no driveway in the front. There is no way except traipsing across my front lawn that one can access the front door. People arrive at the gravel driveway in the rear of the house, where the barn is. Fitz and I had first played catch with the Frisbee at this spot in the front.  The way that I taught him to catch was right here and he caressed the grass with his muzzle and I cried.

There is a small incline back up and he took it very slowly and curled around the outside of a berry shrub. I used to marvel at the dexterity with which he leapt back onto the porch but now I feared that area in the front. Curling around was the longer and safer route.  He moved slowly but safely made his way back onto the porch and through the door. He never really walked again.

The steps were both painful and necessary to him. This place had been his world and he knew that he would not visit again. The rest of his life, less than a day, was spent lying on the floor where he was stroked and kissed as his organs shut down. It was a good death. The sadness in its wake is a testament to his life of life and what he inspired.

I wanted to write this in order to communicate my sense of awe at the way that he was able to adjust and more than adjust. It was his ability to adjust with joy and enthusiasm that I admired. He was always a puppy, for his whole life, always a little boy and yet his love of living and his devotion to the brief time that he had was total and complete.

I know that we all have our stories of our pets. I know that my last real image of him is sprawled on the wooden living room floor looking up at me with impaired sight and expressing a “what the fuck is happening” expression. I think it may be that way for us all at the end. But maybe just for a few.

These last days, I have disassembled the accommodations that we’d made for him. Their absence creates an emptiness, but I know that this void is not him but my feeling of loss at not having him. Maybe all grief is like that.

Aren’t friends those people with whom you feel at home? That presence that brings the comfort of acceptance? But maybe that feeling is just a re-enactment of your imagination that has placed a face and voice in someone else. Maybe all friends are imaginary.

I don’t wish to offend but I can’t help asking questions long after I should stop. Friends make you vulnerable. Friends hold promise and sometimes along with promise comes disappointment.

Reading is like having an imaginary friend, if you discover the voice.  My first such voice was that of Clarence Darrow in his autobiography called simply, The Story of My Life. I remember sitting in an elementary school classroom and creating a “cover” for the book. When my teacher saw what I was doing, she said, “Kenneth, it has to be a real book.” I told her who it was about and she looked a little shocked. “Your parents allow you to read that kind of book?” she said with a distinct air of disapproval.

Darrow made me want to be a lawyer. Perhaps it was a voice to which I should have paid more attention. In those days, I read anything that was considered too old for me to understand. As long as I could hear the voice and had a dictionary, everything was ok. It was his voice that taught me about injustice. I repaid him with my devotion. But was he ever my friend?

My boyhood friends are about sports and fistfights. Those friendships didn’t survive and I doubt that I have a place in their history. Why do they live in mine? Is it that I think my life something so special that everyone should remember it? Is it that I try to capture moments and hope that they can live beyond their moment? To what end do I need to do this? Can a friendship be one sided?

There was that time of elation when I thought that friends constituted a new tribe. We were something new. We were more special than blood. Combined imagination trumps blood, or does it? Is imagination just a form of subterfuge? Have I dedicated my life to a form of camouflage?

I never wished to believe that friends were temporary, but they are, aren’t they? They are a product of time, place, and interest. But they seem like so much more at the time. Memory revives but perhaps advanced directives are more appropriate. Do not resuscitate. Let those moments go.

Memories are leftovers. It is rare that they taste as good as they do at first serving. Maybe it’s the preservatives. Maybe they aren’t as fresh. Maybe they shouldn’t be food. Perhaps they should be tossed into the garbage or fed to pets. I have trouble doing that.

I believe that there is bravery in friendship. After I doubt, I believe in the sanctity of imagination. I hope that it doesn’t sound like religion, but part of it feels like it does.

Experience teaches the difference between colleagues and friends, but is there one? Aren’t colleagues people who are rooted to time and place and interest? Are friends really so much different? Time is more deceptive than place and interest. They are easier to categorize. Time has a way of seeping into other things. At least for me it does.

Time and friendship:  are they allies or adversaries? Maybe they are a bit of each. An imaginative form of natural selection. What is saved and what is deleted? What does the selective process say about us? Do we know the criteria that we use to select?

Unlike Clarence Darrow and the voices that followed his, music was different. My first voice was Little Anthony singing “I Think I’m Going Out of My Head.”  That was followed by the Duprees. Their versions of “Have You Heard” and “You Belong to Me,” were strong but the song that resonated in my head and became my soundtrack was “Ebb Tide.” It was the seductive power of the kiss of the sea. It spoke to my soul like friendship.

Love and friendship are different. Love without friendship is vicious. Friendship masquerading as love is soft and sad. One sunny afternoon in Westfield, New Jersey, my girlfriend came home and told me that she had met a boy in the park. He played the drums. He was a jazz musician. We went to his apartment and he said in an excited, almost manic tone, “These are my friends,” as he pointed to his vinyl records. We drank juice and talked about friendship while he played his records. I have no idea of what became of him but I know that in that time and place all his eggs were in the same basket.

I have learned to be friends with creatures that require a different form of communication. When you communicate with plants, are you really just having imaginary friends? When you think that you feel the spirit of a horse or the kinship of a dog, are these just manifestations of your own imagination?

When I feel that I encounter the spirit of a horse, I am in awe of the strength and speed but feel that an eagle and a horse are more alike that either is to me. Does that remove the potential for friendship? Is there little common ground?

What does friendship require? Is it a combination of need and opportunity? Perhaps it is a mutual agreement. Something like “our minds are good for each other.” Or maybe it is that friends can put each other at ease though some kind of alchemy. The common element seems is purity.

I had a comical imaginary friendship with Jackson Browne. It began when my friend Tom came back from California after learning that his friend Steve was no longer alive. He played “Song for Adam” from a new record by this new singer songwriter. He looked at me with a profound sadness and said, “This guy wrote a song about his friend who died.”

Jackson became one of my favorite imaginary friends. He once auctioned that he would go into a recording studio and work on a song with a person who donated enough money. I bid everything that I had, which was all of $12,000. I was outbid at the last moment. But later I had a recurring dream that Jackson was my friend. He came to me in dreams and we were light and easy with each other. I was embarrassed to share these dreams with anyone. And then they went away. Friends require a certain kind of maintenance.