Christmas at the Dahlins and Who stole baby Jesus?

I'm the baby in this picture... 

Erick and Mary 

Kurt  and Mom with Mary and Erick

Kurt and Karl 

Mary and (baby sister) Karin 

See! We really were adorable...at one time.  But all of that had changed.

Last time,  we left off with my brothers who had ambushed me and left me hanging by an ankle from the rope that was tied off to the top corbel of the highest most point of our roof. They plugged in the Christmas lights and quietly sneaked back to the hippy hut out back and left me dangling as night fell and people from all over Venice, Mar Vista, Culver City, and Santa Monica came to marvel at this years best Christmas light display!

Eventually, after swinging myself back and forth like a bazillion times, I gained enough momentum to thrust my body to grab the rope that was tied to my leg. Hand over hand, I used my Troop 32, Boy Scout, rope-climbing skills to make my way to the top of  the roof where I was able to catch my breath, untie the rope and also finish the job of pulling up the lights. When I got to the top, I had assumed the crowds that had gathered in the street watching my heroic performance would have applauded the intrepid accomplishment of a 13-year-old, instead they hissed and boo'd that the show was over and quickly dispersed.

Lazarus, the cat, was particularly grumpy that I had not fallen. She had waited the entire time to see if I would have landed on my feet - had the old, worn, rope broke. It was now just the two of us - me and the stupid cat. Standing on the peak of the roof, I stuck out my tongue taunting the scaly thing and shouted "there!" as if I had won and also to formally dismiss the disgusting creature that lingered - still hoping I would have fallen to my death.

By now, since I had survived all various episodes of being buried in "pits," the "arrows," the "monkeys," the "hamper of death," the "veloci-rooster," the "electrocutions," the "jalapenos," the "templates," the "alligator," the snake" and "Salton sea" I had proven to the proud cat that I indeed had more than nine lives (I WAS WINNING).  I grinned like the Cheshire Cat as Lazarus who raised it's head like a stuffy British Nobel - turned it's back on me and walked into the house.

Anyway, I had proven that I had a high threshold for pain and was pretty much unbreakable... and figured out the "Someone up there must be looking down on me."  

I went in by the manger scene we had on top of the piano in the entry and stole baby Jesus. The mynah-bird cussed as usual, and since no one was around and I was in no mood to tolerate the foul language - I slapped the cage and headed upstairs with Jesus. I had intended to have a conversation with the Baby.

We had eventually found poochie, our dog, that had been trapped in one of the cars in our fleet of non-operational piles of junk that we had pushed to the Thursday side of the street (for street cleaning) and had been trapped in there all week long.   Poochie, like me was strong. She a survivor. I think that's why we got along so well together.

Poochie.   Me.   And an antique, plaster-cast of baby Jesus.
                         The three of us were going to have a serious Christmas talk!

I barricaded myself in my room to prevent any kind of sneak attack by the notorious herbal-smoking "Wolf-Pack" and/or Ulrich and his angry little-man-crew, so I could have this serious Christmas chat without too much interruption.

I stared at the baby Jesus for a long time and then realized that if God did come down to earth - there were a whole lot better ways to do it.   But, He didn't consult me on it.  Chariots of fire.  Machine guns.  As Superman.  In a spaceship with laser beams or on fire with one foot setting down on one continent and one foot on another.

Take control. Show everyone who is the boss.

That's the way I would have written the story.  A Baby!  In a manger (an animal eating trough)? Pshaw...No way.

In a barn? Who wrote this story - God probably should have talked to me about it.

Stinky smelly animals.

Hay.
 
I don't think it was the plaster Jesus who had spoken to me, but this thought suddenly occurred to me... "vulnerability."

Like a mother and a new born child... I figured that it was only by this extreme act of ultimate vulnerability could humans be invited into this level of intimacy with the Creator of the universe.

If God came to this planet like a powerful super hero and exercised his authority all over the place as if to Lord over - who could draw close to him(or want to).  He came in vulnerable and he went out the same way. He took all of that power and surrendered it... humbling himself to die in such a disgraceful fashion on the the cross.

Hum...I looked at baby Jesus in new light and realized that he could totally identify with me... he chose to be vulnerable... he chose to be arrested... falsely accused... he chose to be the object of racism to the scorn of the proud Romans.. he chose to be mistreated... beat and crucified... This Baby came and lived in a way - not as the crazy king Herod... or Caesar Augustus... but as a human just like you and me.  

I figured this way he came and lived in a way to identity with me so that he could feel what I felt every time I was  mistreated so that I could identify with him... It was Brilliant actually...what better way to draw us into intimacy with the majestic power of the Universe.  The voice in my head said there was no better way. I smiled at baby Jesus and was glad that he didn't consult me in regards to his grand entrance into this world. Boy, would I have messed it up.

I tenderly tucked the painted, plaster-cast of baby Jesus on my pillow next to my head pondering the troubled condition of the world...floating off to sleep in deep thought...wondering if intimacy with God was something to be grasped... yet yearning for it...

...when I heard someone downstairs screaming,

"Hey, who stole baby Jesus!"  followed by the pounding of furious footsteps as an angry mob ascending the stairs - marching towards my room.

  God Jul ... Merry Christmas!  

Part 6 The TRAGIC TALE: "My Little Cheeseburger"

I stood on the lonely highway and stared at nothing, but a white line that faded into the darkness as the dusk hues of hot, burnt orange turned as dark and gloomy as my soul.  I was lost, discarded, left behind. 

My entire chest cavity groaned, pressed in, as if in a vise. The red dye of my unlicked, untasted, untried nickel Popsicle ran down my arm as if blood from an open wound.  Chocked up with pain and tears, I sauntered slowly back to the marina and sat on the curb holding the stick as if my life depended on it.

I knew I would be stolen and have to live with the slow Salton Sea People in a million degree weather for the rest of my life. I had been erased.

I was sentenced to Purgatory: The place where fish, unarmed atom bombs, trailers and dreams come to die. 

I wanted my family and had nothing but a red Popsicle stick.  "Our Father who art in heaven... I need your help... I'm alone, lost and forgotten!" It was a dumb prayer but it was all I could think of... We weren't allowed to talk to God, only to say rote prayers... lots and lots of prayers...

Anyway, I figured that my guardian angel didn't need to come into the diner with me just to buy a Popsicle and had probably waited in the trailer. Right now the poor angel was being tossed around in that hot trailer without me and I was without him.  I cried and prayed for a replacement angel. Where would I sleep? Where would I go? What would I do?

I was a sight.. a mud covered refugee with blonde hair, burnt nose and a red stain on my arm that looked like an open wound. Because I looked like a piece of garbage I thought maybe I would be safe and that no one would steal me.  I wasn't worth anything, after all - my family had thrown me away! TRASH! That's what I felt like. I decided to curl up for the night on the hot cement under the sole lamp post and tried to stop the flow of tears. This small hot patch of earth where flying insects gather at night was my new home. I began to brush off some of the flying pest that landed on me, but realizing the futility of that gave up trying.

Just then a Ford truck pulled up with an older, gray-haired couple inside...they must have been a hundred and twenty years old.

"You lost?" The man asked gently from inside the truck as it slowed to a stop in front of me.

"No, I'm not lost...I know exactly where I am. I just don't don't where my family is..." Stuttering, I said in words that had a difficult time coming out. The older couple approached me carefully, like you would a cornered dog whose trust you wanted to win, hoping to not get bitten. He sat down on the curb next to me and tried to get information. Holding onto my red-stained Popsicle stick, I couldn't say another word.  I felt empty -  hollow - like a Zombie, dead on the inside. I wasn't even aware that he had stood me up and began to walk me away from my little puddle of melted red goo. I didn't know if he was an angel sent from God or if this was the man who was going to steal me and make me a slave in a foreign country (like the Ishmaelites and Joseph).

Zombie-esque... I followed the man and his wife into the dinner. "Hey, Gene!" He shouted to the owner. "This boy's parents up and left him here."

"Yeah, we know that family. They came in here just a little bit ago like a swarm of locust:  Hippies, some of them."

"Poor parents."

"No wonder they left one behind!"  Now the conspiracy theories began.

"That's probably what they do. They're probably driving around and leaving one kid at each stop...Did you see 'em - that's what I would have done."

"I saw them..." they both stated and questioned hoping to gather information. In that gold Dodge station wagon... the one with the big dent on the driver door that had red paint that read "OUCH!"


"Yep, that was the one. I saw it too. The one with a hundred kids in it...must have been about 15 of them."

I had taken the "Oath" and pledged on my sacred honor not to reveal that bodies rode in the trailer. That was good, I thought! I had to protect dad and wanted them to believe that all of those stinky, hot sweaty bodies were all crammed in the station wagon... I wouldn't give away the secret. "Yep, there was like 15 of us in that CAR!"  I saw a man to my right who sitting alone at booth suddenly jump to his feet in excitement and began to ask questions as he wrote things on his small pad of paper.

"Call the Highway Patrol, Gene!" one guy yelled across the diner. I didn't want them to call the police, I thought it was the Police's job to take me to an orphanage. Orphanages in movies were never a good thing.

I didn't have a lot of information to give: who I was, where I was from, phone numbers, no answers- just the
living-dead. Everyone else filled in the blanks as wild theories and exaggerated explanations flew around the diner like a murder of angry crows. I covered my head not to be attacked as my angel led me to the very back booth - at the far end of the diner.

An officer came in and asked me for a description of the car and trailer as the excited Salton Sea-ites supplied the answers along with the criminal intent of the abandonment theories. I sat motionless on the faded-blue sticky-vinyl holding my Popsicle stick. The guy with the pad of paper furiously wrote like a Washington reporter discovering a government coverup... this was his Pulitzer (well ,as close as it gets at Salton Sea - anyway). Boats sank, trailers rusted and dreams died at regular intervals at Salton Sea - that's exciting at it gets at this place.  THIS WAS BIG! A newspaper reporter, the Highway Patrol, A Swedish tribe of hippy locust, Parents systematically abandoning children...

In the middle of all the commotion...Gene set the most incredible thing I had ever laid eyes on: a great big, hot, delicious, ginormous, incredible, cheeseburger of steaming goodness -  right down in front of me! FOR ME! 

Up to this point in my life, I don't think I had ever had a restaurant-bought cheeseburger all to myself. They had just opened this new place at the corner near the church called McDonalds. The Blasers went to this  new place called McDonalds; they got to eat hamburgers and cheeseburgers all the time. Not us, we went to Wessles at the corner of Lincoln and Venice and bought greasy brown bags of french fries that we all had to share. When that bag eventually made it to our house, it was a feeding frenzy - like sharks on a whale carcass... I'll spare you the gory details - but you get the idea. THIS WAS MINE. My little cheeseburger and mountain of french fries - enough to feed my entire family...ALL MINE! "My little cheeseburger"  It would go down the pipe and share room in my belly with my half piece of gritty bacon.

My family, meanwhile, was probably eating rock-hard, tainted cheese and singing "Oh you can't get to heaven" like they always do. Jovial fun that was also a way to pick on someone about shoe size, nose size, about zits, about retainers, or about being too fat...

"Oh you can't get to heaven in Tony's nose... 'cus the Lord don't allow no garden hose." The leader would sing and the tribe would then raucously echo along, loudly, and not in key (we were not the Lennon Sisters - mind you). "Oh you can't get to heaven in Tony's nose 'cus the Lord don't allow no garden hose... Ain't it going to grieve my Lord no more..."

Next, they would make fun of Kurt, then Kris and Karl and Erick and Philip and Charlie and Bob....all taking stabs at one another...then, when it got too loud, dad would put his right arm up on the back of the driver's bench-seat that was crammed with 4 bodies. It meant that if it didn't quiet down, the arm would strike the next person or persons- it could reach! "THE ARM" was no respecter of persons. Everything had to come down a notch - or else! He would say, "Silence is Golden."  This is where I come in! The Wolf Pack would strategically place me so that the "THE HAND attached to the THE ARM would find its way to me! They loved me for this! This was my omega utility in the wolf pack.  They would get loud after the warning... The Hand would strike... I would get hit.. they would laugh... everyone would have a good time.

ONLY. Only, I wasn't there... bummer for them that I was in the trailer (so they thought). The Hand would probably be hitting Erick about this time... haha...It would not be me. I would not be in that horrible trailer frying or baking or being tossed with every bump along the way...instead, I would be eating my wonder delicious cheeseburger - manna from heaven.

They had made it about as far as Indio when Mr. D saw the speeding Highway Patrol car approaching with lights flashing and siren blaring.

THE ARM. THE HAND was up and in position to strike anyone who made a noise...it was like a reminder of the covenant not to tell about illegal bodies being transported in the trailer.  Mr D was sure he was being pulled over for illegal contraband. Everyone was to keep their mouths shut.

Mrs. D pushed the intercom on the speaker that Tony had wired between the car and the trailer... buzzz... buzzz... buzzz..."Roy (that's what she called my dad) Roy...(mixed with static) what's going on?" Tony pulled the wire out of the intercom just as she was invoking The Clause... "Under-Pain-Of- Mortal......" silence...they didn't want the policeman to know bodies were in the trailer, so the wire was pulled and Joan was cut off midsentence.

"NOT ONE WORD!" Mr. D threatened - knuckles turning white as he gripped the back of the seat, pulling the traveling menagerie slowly over onto the dirt next to the freeway.  Mrs D. began covering bodies in the trailer with blankets, sleeping bags and greasy pots and pans...

There was an uneasy stillness in the air as the officer opened his door and his black jackboot hit the ground sending a puff of angry dirt into the air. As the officer walked ominously towards the Dahlin clan you could hear a pin drop - no one burped or cut the cheese!
                                                                      This would not be pretty!



I sat and stared at my cheeseburger, picked it up, put it to my lips, but could not open my mouth to take a single bite. I did not have the strength to suck the milk shake Gene had given me - through the straw.
I was powerless and unable to enjoy what was set before me...I clutched my Popsicle stick... as conspiracy theories whizzed frantically over my head in the diner.

I guess there might be a lot of things we can pick in this story to contemplate and reflect on.. simply one moral might be that a lot of us are unable to enjoy the blessings and things set before us as we focus on the pains of the things that hurt us so badly. If only we could lift our heads in the times of trouble and count our blessings - rehearse the all the things we can be thankful for - we might experience a little power to open our mouths, take a bite and enjoy what is set before us -  (even in the the middle of crippling crisis). 

Why is that so hard to do?  And how come it can scar so deeply?


NEXT TIME: The Conclusion