12 Blessings of Christmas
Church Christmas Tree
Stevan Dohanos
December 27, 1952

Grateful for the studded snow tires that anchor my car to the frozen earth, I follow the old dirt road as it crosses an icy creek, then winds through the snowy woods that extend for miles through the Vermont mountains.

It’s an incredibly beautiful day. Spotting the simple, 200-year-old Quaker meetinghouse in a sunny clearing ahead, I carefully slow to pull off the road, then stop by the freshly plowed path to its door.

To the north, there’s the sound of wood being chopped. To the east, a dog barks. But here there is only silence. As it has for nearly two centuries, this simple country church sits in a profound stillness rich with a sense of Presence. Leaning back in the sun, I relax for the first time in weeks.

This is my favorite time of year. My car is loaded with freshly cut pine boughs, candles, baskets of pine cones, dried seed pods, and lemon balm, plus garlands of balsam that I’ll use to drape over the door and decorate the deep windowsills of the old meetinghouse. But as I sit here in the warm sun, the rich fragrances of woods and meadow hold me in my seat—and remind me of the joyful blessings that will be woven into my life over the next several weeks.

1. The Blessing of Community

The Blessing of Community
Tree in Town Square
Stevan Dohanos
December 4, 1948

During the holiday season, the entire world seems in harmony: Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus, Buddhists remember the enlightenment of Siddhartha, Jews recall the miraculous temple lamp that burned for eight days, Muslims welcome the new year based on the lunar calendar, and even nontheists join the expression of goodwill with colored lights and electric Santas that wave to passersby.

Down the mountain in the village of Bristol, the Christmas season begins on the first Saturday of December when villagers sweep the snow from their steps, light the village Christmas tree, and members of three churches around the village green hold their annual Christmas Bazaars.

“It looks like an old-fashioned Christmas card,” chuckles my friend Laurie Kroll. “Wreaths and greens are everywhere. St. Ambrose has a silver tea on one side of the green, First Baptist has soups and sandwiches for lunch on the other side, and the Federated Church around the corner has Santa.”

The members of each church have been knitting and baking for weeks to produce an abundance of foods and crafts, and each church becomes a small marketplace with tables of homemade jams and pickles, knitted hats, fruit-studded braided breads, and every kind of holiday ornament imaginable. It’s a fundraiser, sure—”One year we made enough to buy a new vacuum,” Laurie remembers—but more than that, it’s a time of coming together and remembering what we share.

2. The Blessing of Giving

Thinking about my friends in Bristol, I realize that there are probably few of us who won’t admit that gift-giving has strayed far from its humble beginnings of homemade crafts and food—particularly when we have to cart piles of wrapping paper and plastic packaging to the recycling center after Christmas or pay our credit card bills in January.

A few years ago, this really got to ecology author and activist Bill McKibben, who lives a few hills over from me near Ripton. “A bunch of us in what was then the Troy conference of the Methodist Church, were thinking that there was a lot of waste at Christmastime—all those batteries!” Bill recently messaged me. “But when we started talking with folks about new ways of celebrating Xmas, we quickly found out that there was something deeper here. People really dreaded the approach of Christmas, because it had all become too much—and they were incredibly receptive to the idea of doing it differently, with an emphasis on gifts of service.”

Bill and his friends persuaded a number of families to commit themselves to doing things for those with whom they normally exchanged gifts—walking an elderly aunt’s dog when the temperature drops into the single digits, for example. Bill subsequently wrote a book called Hundred Dollar Holiday, in which he proposed spending no more than $100 per family at Christmas. The result? Less running back and forth to the mall, less time spent desperately looking for hot toys and sales, less time tuned out with electronics—and more time spent sitting by the fire with family, sharing a potluck with friends, or taking a long walk outside, alone in the freshly fallen snow.

The 12 Blessings of Christmas The Saturday Evening Post

Community members singing Handel's Messiah at the Middlebury Congregational Church. Photo by Ernest Longey.

Chattering madly with friends and neighbors, they’ll pour into the church, unwrap their mufflers, grab a score of Handel’s Messiah from a pile stacked by the door, and slide into a pew.

Everyone in the community is welcome to come and sing or bring their instruments and join the orchestra. There are no rehearsals, only a couple of carols to warm up. Soloists will include community members like tenor François Clemmons, who played “Officer Clemmons” for decades on Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood when we were kids.
(Read more in “The 12 Blessings of Christmas,” Nov/Dec 2012 issue.)

Get in the holiday spirit with these videos from Middlebury Congregational Church’s 2009 Messiah Sing.

The Blessing of Music The Saturday Evening Post

Pregnancies are announced, engagement rings studied, medical diagnoses questioned, and Grandmother Nettie’s recipe for cucumber lotion—an anti-wrinkle remedy—quietly passed around to those in need.

Standing around the picnic table sipping sweet tea as my uncle pontificates on the lack of civility among young people, I look around at the assembled aunts, uncles, fathers, mothers, greats, grands, and cousins two-, three-, or four-times removed and realize that a family gathering not only reconnects whole generations of folks, it also builds a support network that allows us to weather all kinds of ills.

There’s always a mother or aunt who’s ready with a shoulder to cry on, strong arms to lift you up, and a nurturing spirit that puts her right up there with the angels. There’s always a cousin who’s ready to pull your car out of a ditch—or your husband out of a bar—and an uncle who’ll give you his last five bucks if you need it.

Unfortunately, in most families, there are also an equally bad cast of characters who like to cause trouble, particularly when the whole clan gets together and offers them a stage. Grease the boards with a keg of microbrew or a few pitchers of sweet tea spiked with rum, and it can get so dramatic you could sell tickets.

But, as Los Angeles psychologist Leonard Felder, author of When Difficult Relatives Happen to Good People, points out, “They’re still the people who can teach you to be civil when you don’t want to be—and the people who can teach you to look past the surface of other human beings to find the wounded child within. They’re also the only people who—as you debate whether to stay or go, forgive or not—can give you a deep emotional ‘workout’ that leads to personal growth.”

“Even if your relatives are obnoxious,” he adds, “they’re still irreplaceable.”

Putting down my sweet tea to accept the even sweeter blessing of a small cousin’s hug, I think about Felder’s words. He may have a point. But how do you manage to reap the benefits of connection and avoid the backsplash of toxicity?

First, says Felder, you need to figure out how to shape your own reaction to relatives’ sometimes oddball and often hurtful behavior. And, second, you need concrete strategies that will stop them in their tracks. Turn the page for some common caustic family archetypes drawn from my own experience—and what to do about each one.

Helpful Hannah

Your sister Hannah means well. She really does. She has lots of advice for you every time the two of you cross paths. And, after receiving the advice, you’re just about set to strangle her.

The Problem: You can always count on Hannah making suggestions about how you can better manage your weight, your kids, or your job. Aww, isn’t that nice? It sounds to everyone else as though she’s a concerned big sister who is trying to help, but her words simply make you feel overweight and incompetent.

The Solution: Reacting emotionally to her negativity is a trap, says Felder. Instead, try a little understanding. In some families the “helpful” big sister might just be doing unto you what was done unto her. Perhaps your mother constantly criticized her weight, for example, so now Hannah takes it upon herself to pass that legacy on to you. Or maybe, just maybe, she really means well because being overweight and lacking parenting or job-related skills has cost her big time—and she doesn’t want that to happen to you.

To blunt the impact, you need to have a conversation with yourself before Hannah starts picking at you. Say to the Hannah that resides in your head, “Thanks for teaching me who I don’t want to be.” It will crystallize the differences between you and Hannah and allow you to respond to her compassionately and without resentment.

As for a strategy that will stop her in her tracks, that’s easy, says Felder. If she starts giving you tips on how you should be raising your kids, answer with, “You’re probably right. I’m gonna think about what you’ve suggested. But right now let’s talk about something else besides kids.”

The Perfect Nephew

This is a relative I happen to be very familiar with. Let’s call him Robert.

The Problem: The little twerp “borrowed” his parents’ life savings to start a business and lost it. Now he’s moved on to my widowed mom. “Dear Robert,” she said to me at last year’s get-together. “He’s so helpful. Always willing to make sure I hear about a new investment opportunity.”

Last time the “investment” was in Robert’s boat. I admit I’d like to back my cousin into a corner and give him a piece of my mind. But as Felder points out, 20 years worth of studies have now discredited the once-popular theory of scream therapy—you know, where you “express yourself” through genuine rage. Although it may feel good temporarily to really let someone have it, more recent research has discredited this pour-oil-on-the-fire approach.

The Solution: Nothing can unhook you from your usual negative reaction to someone like humor, says Felder. The approach I favor: Simply look quizzically at the person as though he’s a bug under your microscope, note his more bizarre qualities, and silently classify him as a Mephitis mephitis (striped skunk) or Agkistrodon contortrix mokeson (northern copperhead). Or, as in my cousin’s case, a Hadogenes troglodytes—a big, fat scorpion.

Big Mama

Illustration by Kagan McLeod

Your mother-in-law actually has some good qualities. In fact, when it’s just the two of you alone, you get along just fine.

The Problem: You married her little boy, the youngest of the clan. He’s all grown up now, but Big Mama still calls him a couple of times a week, talks to him for hours, and always has some little thing—a blocked drain, a marauding mouse—that he needs to come over and take care of. When the family gets together she wants him by her side, talks to him constantly, and fires subtle put-downs directly at you when you join them.

The Solution: “Make your relationship about when someone’s humanity comes across, not their worst moments,” says Felder. If the two of you enjoy being together when you’re alone, offer to come early to the gathering and help her set up. Or offer to come early and cook. Then use those moments to connect.

When your husband arrives, give him up gracefully. “Tom, why don’t you get your mom a drink and take her down by the lake?”

True, Big Mama’s sure to get off a few shots before she goes quietly into the night. So to keep your blood pressure down, keep score. Count the number of zingers she sends your way and write it down when you get home, suggests Felder. Then, after every family gathering, compare the totals. “An ironic sense of wit can keep you from being destroyed,” says the psychologist. “If last year you got pissed off after 20 minutes, but this year you lasted an hour—congratulations!”

Husband #3

Your cousin Sarah has divorced two lovely but flawed men. One was lazy and the other was a drunk. Now she’s presenting husband #3 as the crown prince with whom she will happily live forever.

The Problem: Chances are this one will be gone before sundown. So how do you hang around with him at family gatherings but not get so close you’ll get hurt when he disappears?

The Solution: “Keep your heart open,” advises Felder. Just because you’re afraid you’ll have to share another guy’s pain and suffering in the future is no reason to keep him at arm’s length now. Why should your cousin define your relationship? And if husband #3 becomes a good friend, well, hey!—friends are hard to come by.

The Beauty Queen

She’s gorgeous. And smart. And one of the nicest, kindest people on the planet.

The Problem: Every time you see her, you get so jealous it gives you a stomachache. How can you make her feel as ugly as you do?

The Solution: You can’t. But you can shape your reaction to her, suggests Felder. “Realize that the Beauty Queen has at least one flaw that people who are really close to her know about. Do some people research and see what it is.”

The point is not to use this information against her, but simply to help you see her as an ordinary, fallible human being with the same kinds of faults as anyone else. Ask yourself, what is it about her that really sets you off, suggests Felder. You’re likely to find this test extremely revealing—about you. “All of us have character traits that we get to work on,” explains the psychologist.

Nasty Nell

Solving the “Nell Challenge” is harder than getting rid of the zombies in The Walking Dead.

The Problem: Dear Aunt Nell loves telling you what your mother said about you at bridge the other day, and the worse you feel the happier she seems to get. She actually enjoys making other people feel bad.

The Solution: Unfortunately, says Felder, “there are a variety of people who feel better about themselves by poking at the vulnerabilities of others.” You’re not going to change them, but you have a good shot at changing how they affect you by learning more about them. Ask older relatives how Aunt Nell was when she was a girl. Ask when she started to get nasty, and what was going on in her life at the time.

You may find that she was dumped by someone she loved, prevented from going to college, or trapped in the town she grew up in by the need to care for an aging relative.

Then ask yourself how Aunt Nell might feel when she looks at you. “Is there something about you or your choices in life that might intimidate or threaten her?” asks Felder.

Thinking about all the blessings that flood my life, the people who love me, and all that I’ve been able to do and be, I begin to see my aunt’s actions in a different light. And that little cognitive shift has allowed me to accept her for who she is. I find it’s a gift to regard her with compassion even as her latest barbed comment rips into my skin—and to respond to her quietly and with love.

As Felder says, “Sometimes the spark in someone is really well hidden. You really have to look for it. And sometimes the most difficult people—that ex-spouse, that toxic parent, that obnoxious sibling—can be the one that forces us to the most growth.”

Build a Better Family Reunion The Saturday Evening Post

The warehouse is located 10 or 11 blocks north of the Victorian homes and upscale shops for which the city of Burlington, Vermont, has, time and again, been rated as one of the ten best places to live in America by a slew of national media. But here there are no houses trimmed in lacy gingerbread and no chic shops. Instead, sagging homes line the street surrounding the warehouse, which—along with a small kitchen—is home to the Chittenden County Emergency Food Shelf.

A freezing rain pelts the 60 or so men and women gathering outside. Inside, eight volunteer students from the University of Vermont (UVM) dressed in jeans and khakis are working furiously to bake chicken, warm up Tater-Tots, re-heat donated pizza, chop vegetables, make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and put bananas and beverages within easy reach of anyone who comes through the door.

Six nights a week, the Salvation Army makes dinner for those who have fallen through the safety nets of the city, state, and nation. But on Sunday, the Army’s day of rest, the UVM kids take over and make sure that anyone who’s hungry gets fed.

The students are more than just short-order cooks. With $85 from UVM, the group has spent the afternoon shopping for bargains at PriceChopper; scavenging for pizza seconds at American Flatbread, Uno’s, and Domino’s; and sweeping up not-quite-stale pastries at Starbucks. They arrive here at the Food Shelf by 4:30 p.m.

This year the program is headed by a tall, blonde chemistry major from Ohio. At age 22, senior Carly Hodgins has been a part of this group for four years and is a masterful organizer. She bursts through the door loaded with bags of bread, boxes of pizza, and a carful of fellow students. Within minutes every hand is scrubbed, chicken is in the oven, salad is being tossed, pizza is warming on the stovetop, and this observer is put to work too, chopping what seem to be a zillion carrots.

Here are the stark facts about hunger in this plentiful nation. While 96,000,000,000 pounds of food are thrown away every year by the food industry—that’s 96 billion pounds—someone in 1 out of every 10 households in the United States is either hungry today or at risk of being so tomorrow.

Why they are is a matter for sociologists and politicians to debate. But for these kids, it’s beyond politics: When people are hungry you feed them.

“Time to open up!” Carly yells.

The door swings open. Men and women who’ve been waiting outside silently flow into the building, single file. There’s no pushing or shoving, just focused intent. Ten steps inside the door each man or woman picks up a waiting plate and the students start piling it with food. Every person gets a portion of meat, vegetables, salad, potatoes, and pizza. When the last person heads for a table, those who’ve been through the line can come back for seconds. The kids will serve until they run out of food.

Carly stands at the end of the food line and offers a beverage. “Apple juice?” she asks, looking straight into the eyes of each diner. “Orange juice?” Her smile is a flash of sunshine, her warmth a benediction.

As she reaches out to steady someone’s hand, I remember words buried long ago in my heart: “I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”

When the last meal has been served and the last diner has gone back into the darkness, I wipe down a steel table in the kitchen and think about what these kids have accomplished: Tonight, no one in Burlington will go hungry.

To contribute to a food bank, please contact Feeding America (feedingamerica.org). Excerpted with permission from Blessed: Living a Grateful Life, © 2011 G. Ellen Michaud, published by The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc., rd.com.

Edited on Dec 8, 2011: Blessed was named 2011′s “Best Inspirational Spiritual Book” by USA Book News.

Feeding the Hungry Can be a True Holiday Blessing The Saturday Evening Post

Into this sanctum stepped Laura Berton-Botfeld with her therapy dog—a 70-lb blond poodle named Apollo. The father of one of the patients spotted them and came quickly to her side. “Over here,” he said, tugging on her arm. Laura and Apollo moved to the bed of his 10-year-old daughter, whom we’ll call Sophia to protect her privacy. The delicate, wan figure under the sheets had bacterial meningitis—an inflammation of the brain that can be fatal. By the time Laura and Apollo arrived, the girl had been in a coma for seven days, and things were not looking good. Doctors had told the parents to prepare for the worst.

Sophia’s dad propped his daughter up with pillows. Her unseeing eyes were wide open, a beautiful blue, framed by lank blond hair.

Normally, with a patient’s permission, Laura has Apollo jump up on a chair beside the bed then onto the bed itself. He’s trained to sit with his broad back to patients so they can stroke him and nestle their fingers in his fur. In this case, because Sophia was not conscious, Laura urged Apollo only to sit on the chair, a position that left him practically nose to nose with the patient. “It was the weirdest thing,” says Laura. “Sophia’s eyes seemed to just lock onto Apollo’s, and the dog’s gaze was so intense I thought he was going to kiss her—something therapy dogs are trained not to do.”

Eventually, Laura moved Apollo to the foot of the bed where he continued to watch the patient intently with his intelligent, poodle eyes for a good 20 minutes. But Sophia was unresponsive, and eventually Laura and Apollo moved on to other patients. A few hours later as she sat in a parking lot waiting to pick her daughter up from school, Laura’s phone rang. It was Jack Barron, director of UCLA’s People Animal Connection (PAC), the volunteer organization responsible for Laura, Apollo, and 49 other therapy-dog teams at UCLA.

“He said, ‘Sophia just woke up,’” recalls Laura. “‘And her first words were, “Where’s Apollo?” How fast can you get back here?’”

In hospitals across the country, stories like Laura’s are common. “I see miracles here every day,” says Barron as he talks about the PAC program in the medical center’s cafeteria. “People who just wake up. People who start eating. People who finally take their meds. People who are paralyzed and then suddenly move a couple of fingers to wave at a dog.”

But if the healing associated with these dog visits is stunning, so are the sheer numbers of dogs and their humans now certified to provide Animal Assisted Therapy (AAT), the technical term that refers to using trained dogs intentionally as a therapeutic healing tool. The Delta Society, a non-profit organization that evaluates and certifies teams across the U.S., has gone from 700 AAT teams to a staggering 10,000 plus in less than 20 years while Therapy Dogs International, a non-profit that also credentials dogs, reports that it has fielded 20,000 teams in the U.S. and Canada.

Although dogs have been used for therapeutic purposes around the globe for years, today, particularly in the U.S., their use is driven by mounting evidence that dogs truly can heal. One look at a therapy dog strolling into a hospital room and a patient’s blood pressure drops, heart rate slows, and the corrosive hormones generated by stress that damage arteries and play a part in so many diseases and disorders plummet.

In a study at the University of Southern Maine researchers found that therapy dog visits calmed the agitation of patients with severe dementia. At UCLA another group of researchers found that therapy dog visits had a significant effect on heart patients. The study looked at 76 patients with heart failure and their responses to a 12-minute visit from either a therapy dog or a volunteer, then used blood tests to compare the patients’ responses to other patients who had no visit of any kind. The results were unequivocal: There were essentially no changes in those who did not receive a visit. Visits from volunteers lowered anxiety levels around 10 percent, and didn’t do much else. But visits from therapy dogs reduced pressure in the heart and lungs by 10 percent, reduced stress hormones by 17 percent, and lowered anxiety levels by a startling 24 percent. A similar study at Massachusetts General Hospital supported those results and extended them. In this report, visits from therapy dogs markedly reduced patients’ pain levels as well.

“Blood levels of endorphins generated by the body increase dramatically after dog visits,” says University of Pittsburgh neurologist and pain specialist Dawn Marcus, M.D., author of The Power of Wagging Tails. “That’s why pain levels go down. Endorphins block stress chemicals—the body’s natural narcotic.”

Nor are the physiological effects of a therapy dog visit fleeting. Other studies have found that the benefits last a full 45 minutes. “It’s not just that the dog walks in and does its stuff,” says Marcus. “Even very brief encounters produce a helpful effect. There’s a profound, biological change. And the change is associated with better health. So when you see changes in someone who connects with a therapy dog, something’s really behind it. We’re not just crazy dog nuts. Real science proves the dogs make a difference.”

To get a sense of just how therapy dogs work their magic, this reporter pays a visit to the UCLA medical center early one morning where I meet Charley, a personable, 79-pound “goldendoodle” (golden retriever/poodle mix) therapy dog and his handler, Ellen Morrow.

It takes me about two seconds to fall in love with them both. Charley has long, straight, creamy-beige fur that falls in shaggy lines from the top of his huge head to the bottom of his equally huge feet—and a sparkle in his eyes that suggests he’s up for anything. At the other end of his leash—complete with ID badge and carrying a navy cloth bag stuffed with everything from treats and collapsible water bowls to doggie-wipes, balls, biobags, hand sanitizer, and a brush—his teammate Ellen is a tiny powerhouse of positive energy with hair about the same color and cut as Charley’s.

The three of us take the elevator up to the 4th floor to visit the adolescent psych unit. There, on an outdoor triangular roof patio sheltered on two sides by the medical center and on a third by 20-foot, clear, shatter-proof panels, a dozen kids between 14 and 18 are gathered in the sun. Some lounge in twos and threes on benches, others pace back and forth, and a few simply wander around. One kid stands alone up against a wall, looking down at his feet, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other. Tall and thin, with creamy café-au-lait skin and beautiful dark curls, he is completely withdrawn, isolated as if alone on a desert island.

Except for this one young man, the kids light up when they see Charley. Ellen calls out, “Do you want to see Charley do some tricks?” and the patients gather around the two, petting the dog, shaking his paw, answering Ellen’s questions about their own pets, and asking questions about Charley. Eventually they perch on benches while Ellen folds her legs under her and sits on the ground, nose to nose with Charley.

She puts Charley through his paces—speaking in his regular voice, his quiet hospital voice, his big voice, and finding a circular cut-out on the ground as kids shift it around. But his big crowd-pleaser is the way he shakes hands, literally curling his paw around the kids’ hands and squeezing. “It’s like he’s holding your hand,” chuckles Ellen. “It’s a very personal connection. They just light up!”

The kids bond instantly with the dog. As Ellen draws kids, dogs, even staff into the interaction, each begins to open to the other: kids to dog, then to Ellen, then to staff. The process is beautiful to watch.

But the quiet young man by the wall never looks up.

Then something happens. Ellen asks Charley to give her a high-five, and the dog joyfully leaps straight up into the air, smacking both of Ellen’s raised hands with his shaggy front paws.

The kids squeal with delight, and suddenly the silent young man is paying attention. His eyes come into focus and he stops rocking back and forth. A few minutes later he rigidly stretches out a hand in Charley’s direction. Ellen, seeing the invitation, moves the dog closer. For the next 10 minutes, the young man is anchored to reality by a shaggy dog.

In the psychiatric world, breakthroughs are often made from far less.

“I love these dogs,” says unit nurse Coleen Moran. “They know when someone needs love. And that’s better than any medicine.”

Charley, Ellen, and I walk down another corridor toward the neuro trauma unit where Charley and Ellen are scheduled to visit Lois Kearney who recently had a stroke. When we arrive on the otherwise sunny unit, Lois’ room is pitch dark except for the red, white, and green lights of monitors measuring every sign of life.

Ellen checks with a nurse to see what’s going on. The nurse enters the room and quietly asks Lois if she’d like to see Charley. “Oh yes,” a faint voice murmurs from the bed.

“Come on in,” the nurse calls as she opens blackout drapes and flips on some lights.

Lois is sitting propped up on a high bed, wires taped to her head and neck, a tube taped to her nose, an oxygen mask dangling to her shoulder, IVs and other tubes running every which way to more computers, monitors, and wires than I’ve ever seen in my life. Her eyes are dull, her face pale, and she is clearly a very sick woman.

Ellen quickly surveys the situation, approaches the high-tech bed with Charley, and asks if Lois would like Charley to lie on the bed with her. The woman nods, a small smile taking shape as she looks at Charley. She watches as Ellen carefully spreads a fresh sheet over the bed where Charley will lie. Her soft “Oh!”s of amazement and delight as Ellen helps Charley onto the bed are a gift to Charley, Ellen, and the smiling staff clustered around the door, peeking in from the hall.

It’s nothing short of a love fest. As Charley lies next to Lois, she gently strokes his head and begins to tell Ellen about a dog she had for 12 years. Ellen listens, Charley connects, and Lois talks, her voice gaining strength and energy with every word.

“He’s such a love,” she says in wonder.

From floor to floor, room to room, patient to patient, the story’s the same. Charley comes in, he and the patient connect, and someone’s healing process gets a boost.

But exactly how and when did this human-dog connection happen?

Part of the answer may be rooted deep in our shared past. One theory holds that when people stopped hunting and began forming villages, early dogs—descended from wolves—started hanging around the edges. “The dogs were attracted to the trash people threw around,” says Alan Beck, D.Sc., director of the Center for the Human-Animal Bond at Purdue University. “Dogs were useful. They ate the trash, alerted residents when predators were around, helped with hunting, and provided companionship. And people found the puppies fascinating so they kept them around.”

As time passed, the connection between dog and human evolved with each growing more tightly attuned to the other’s needs. The bond between therapy dogs and the humans they visit may be the next step on that evolutionary journey, says Beck. But, in effect, the dogs are only doing what they’ve been programmed to do for centuries: help us out.

Although the theory behind the dog-human bond is plausible, there’s a real, measurable explanation for the healing that occurs, says Rebecca Johnson, Ph.D., director of the Research Center for Human-Animal Interaction at the University of Missouri, Delta Society board member, and president of the International Association of Human Animal Interaction Organizations. She points to studies defining the neurochemical changes in our brains triggered by the dog-human connection. “The vagus nerve that runs from brain to gut is stimulated when you see, hear, touch, and smell the dog,” she explains. “That triggers the relaxation response.”

The result: the amount of the stress hormone cortisol drops and oxytocin and prolactin—two feel-good hormones—increase. “When that happens,” says Johnson, “the body can switch over from a deterioration state”—a state of illness—“to a growth state” in which healthy new cells emerge that can promote healing.

“It’s the magic of animal-assisted activity,” she adds. “Actually, it’s not magic at all. It’s medicine. Good medicine.”

Therapy Dogs and Healing The Saturday Evening Post

As they came through the turn, he saw the accident. A woman had smashed her car into the rocks, the impact tossing her vehicle across two lanes of traffic and onto the median strip. Debris littered the road.

The bus braked hard to a stop and, without thinking, Joplin leaped to the ground and ran to the car. “I thought the driver was a goner,” he recalls. “Her whole face was bloody, she was unconscious, and the roof was caved in. She had her seatbelt on, but the way she hit…” He shakes his head. “The hardest part was the kids had to watch.”

As he paused for a moment to assess the damage, the driver’s compartment began to fill with smoke. Joplin ran back to the bus and grabbed a fire extinguisher. “By the time I got back, the engine compartment was full of flames,” he says. He emptied the extinguisher over the blaze as other motorists pulled the driver from the wreck.

“She was so banged up I questioned the choice to move her,” he says. “But it was the right thing to do because the fire reignited and totally consumed the car’s interior.”

Joplin is more comfortable hiking the Long Trail high in the mountains of Vermont or reading Blueberries for Sal to his kindergartners than he is being called a hero. But, by anyone’s definition, that’s precisely what he is. When another human being needed help, he acted decisively and put himself in harm’s way.

“I’m not a hero,” he protests vehemently. “When I think of a hero, I think of that guy who stepped in front of the shooter in Tucson when Arizona Congresswoman Gabby Giffords was shot in January. Now he’s a hero!”

Joplin is referring to Bill Badger, the 70-something retired army colonel who leaped at the Tucson shooter as he tried to reload, and held onto his gun arm as two others joined him to subdue the man. Six people died that day, including an elderly woman and a young girl, but Badger undoubtedly saved others from violent death.

Watching the replay of cell phone images and news media interviews with Tucson survivors, the question became inescapable: What makes a person risk himself to save others?

“Helping others in a crisis is a gut response,” explains researcher Paul Slovic, Ph.D., a professor of psychology at the University of Oregon and president of Decision Research, a nonprofit institute that investigates human judgment, decision-making, and risk. “We don’t fully understand what’s going on in the brain, but we’re built in a way to respond quickly to emergencies. And in a crisis, we don’t sit back and weigh the costs and benefits with pencil and paper. We react in an instant.”

Essentially, the human default position is to help others.

Most people we tag with the label “hero” are professionals who have been trained as soldiers, firefighters, police, paramedics, or search and rescue team members to hone that instinctive, heroic response and put their lives on the line—so in the split-second it takes to decide to either run or help, they’ll move forward and do what needs to be done. They’ll take the risk, take the bullet, take the consequences.

But so, it turns out, will ordinary people on their way to work or picking up milk at the corner market. There’s the subway hero in New York City who, after a woman commuter fell from the train platform onto the tracks, jumped onto the tracks himself, pulled her between the rails, and covered her body with his as a train passed over the two of them.

There’s the letter carrier in Lexington, Massachusetts, who saw a house on fire, ran in, and pulled a 96-year-old man to safety. Before it was brought under control, the blaze engulfed the house and burst through the roof.

Then there’s the Mississippi football coach who was out fishing with a buddy when he spotted smoke coming from another craft. Acting swiftly, the coach pulled passengers to safety just before the craft burst into flame.

And there’s the Pennsylvania mom who was picking up some milk from the local stop-and-go when she saw a man grab his former wife and force her into a car. As the man tried to hang on to the woman and get into the car himself, the mom leaped forward, opened the passenger door, yanked the woman out of the car, and pulled her into the store to call police.

“Every one of us is a hero in waiting,” says Scott Allison, Ph.D., a psychologist at the University of Richmond and co-author of Heroes: What They Do & Why We Need Them. “We’re just waiting for the opportunity to step forward and do something extraordinary.”

Still, why? Why place oneself in harm’s way—often for a complete stranger? After all, it’s not rational, and it’s certainly not prudent. The explanation may have as much to do with human biology as with altruism, says Allison. “There’s research to show that there’s a biological, evolutionary tendency toward these actions. We’re social animals. And we’ve learned, or at least our genes have learned, that survival is fostered by social relationships. We’ve learned that if we’re helpful to others, we’re more likely to survive ourselves.”

Selfless selfishness: That does sound like a bit of a paradox, but it may well be that the engine of self-interest—on a genetic level, at least—is what drives our noblest deeds.

Another surprising fact about heroism is that it need not be associated with danger or classical ideas of bravery at all. Heroism does not require standing in front of a speeding bullet, leaping through fire, or putting one’s life on the line. Indeed, there are many ways to be heroic, and some do so quietly, without any fanfare. Take Mississippi washerwoman Oseola McCarty. Forced to quit school in the sixth grade to care for an elderly home-bound relative, she took in laundry to support herself. Throughout her life, she never owned a car, walked everywhere she needed to go, attended Friendship Baptist Church every Sunday, held her Bible together with tape, and banked just about every dime she ever made. Eventually those dimes added up to $150,000—and Oseola decided to give it all away.

“More than I could ever use,” the tiny, 87-year-old told The New York Times.

The money went into a trust and, upon her death in 1999, some went to her church and family, but most went to the University of Southern Mississippi, a nearby school that did not admit children of Oseola’s race when she was a girl. The money—quickly matched by a business community humbled by the woman’s generosity—was used to provide scholarships for nine African-American children.

Or take two nuns in Indianapolis, Sisters Rita Ann Wade and Barbara McClelland, who had seen the largely middle-class eastside neighborhood nearby slide into poverty. Based at the Holy Cross convent, church, and school, they watched as older residents—and some of the young ones, too—became afraid to venture into the increasingly hostile streets.

Holy Cross became an oasis of safety and succor. It wasn’t unusual for a homeless or hungry soul to come knocking on the convent’s back door in the middle of the night. “Holy Cross had a food pantry, and the door to the parish office was right next to our kitchen door,” explains Sister Barbara. “So when people got hungry or just wanted to talk, they’d come and pound on our door.”

She chuckles. “We had one guy who came every night at 2, 3, or 4 in the morning and woke us up.”

As a result of their nocturnal visitors, the two Sisters jokingly began to refer to their “back door ministry.” But they also recognized the very real need for a place where people in the neighborhood could find food, a place to relax, a place to be heard, a place to be safe—and a couple of loving hearts.

The two women approached the problem the way they approached every other challenge: They thought about it, prayed about it, then talked to their spiritual community. The women’s order ultimately voted to have the nuns quit their jobs and begin serving the neighborhood on a full-time basis. Within a year, Sisters Rita Ann and Barbara had rented and renovated a house on the near eastside and named it “Miracle Place” (amiracleplace.org).

Today, 11 years later, the house is a hive of activity—and the Sisters have also cleared away a pocket park across the street where kids can play safely. Those who have watched the community evolve say that the Sisters will never tell you the half of what they do nor take the credit for any of it. Yet one look at the door constantly swinging open for neighborhood children, their brothers, sisters, parents, and old folks shows the Sisters are saving lives as fully as if they were snatching victims from a burning building.

The point being that heroes come in different forms: the action-hero kind like Joplin James, the secret-giver kind like Oseola McCarty, and the quietly devoted kind like Sisters Rita Ann and Barbara.

There’s heroism in such small gestures as writing a check to your favorite charity, coaching a little league team, or offering a kindness to a total stranger. “It’s all these gifts of self that, put together, really make the biggest difference,” says Diane Heavin, co-founder of the Curves fitness centers and a star of the ABC hit television show Secret Millionaire.

In fact, if you really want to change someone’s life, “Think about the last time you put a smile on someone’s face,” says Heavin. “Then go out there and do it again.”

Ellen Michaud is the author of Blessed: Living a Grateful Life. Contact her at theblessedblog.com.

The Hero Next Door The Saturday Evening Post

To learn more about prayer shawls, visit shawlministry.com.

Prayer Shawls The Saturday Evening Post

They sat down at the table, pulled out a stack of old Fleishmann’s margarine tubs (carefully washed and saved), placed some paper towels beside them, and added a stack of stamped envelopes from the previous weeks’ mail.

“She’d put water in the tubs, and we’d soak the stamps off three or four envelopes at a time,” Amanda remembers. “We laid them on the paper towels to dry and pasted them in a book.” The two sat side by side in the kitchen organizing stamps—and Amanda discovered a passion that inspires the line, color, and feeling of the work she creates today as a professional artist.

Bathtubs and Nickels

Around 97 percent of those who collect stamps today began, like Amanda, somewhere between the ages of 7 and 14, according to a survey by the American Philatelic Society, says Wade Saadi, president of the group. But what first ignites the passion for stamps and sends collectors hurtling through life on a hunt for colored bits of paper is a happy mystery—as is the “why.”

Some experts suggest that people collect simply to immerse themselves in the beauty of stamps, while others collect to expand social networks and make friends. Others seem to collect because, in the middle of a stressful life in a chaotic world, it gives them a sense that at least one part of their lives is organized and under control. Still, others collect for a sense of accomplishment, as an investment, or as a way to connect with history.

In Amanda’s case, it was the visual appeal of the stamps that first caught her attention as she worked with her great-grandmother. But it wasn’t until Amanda had soaked the stamps off 3,000 envelopes in the family bathtub one day that her family realized how serious she was. That little incident led her father to take her to a meeting of the Southern Illinois Stamp Club. Amanda was in heaven. She saw stamps featuring images by Degas, Renoir, Picasso, and other great artists. “I suddenly realized I was in a whole new world,” she says.

She began attending meetings of a local club and getting to know experienced collectors. “Our club had some magnificent characters in it,” says Amanda. “They were always educating me—whether it was about stamp facts or the history represented on the stamps. And they had boxes, called ‘nickel boxes.’ I could sit there at meetings with them, dig through their boxes, and buy a stamp for a nickel!” She laughs. “It was a fabulous way to build a collection, and a fabulous way to build relationships.”

Lick ’Em and Stick ’Em!

Do you have an interesting collection you’d like to share with our readers? Send your stories to letters@saturdayeveningpost.com.
Want to give stamp collecting a whirl or get back into it?

• Check out the new stamps from the U.S. Postal Service at your local post office or online at shop.usps.com. There, you’ll also find practical answers to most questions—including how to tell what a stamp is worth.

• Smithsonian’s National Postal Museum at postalmuseum.si.edu offers all you need to get started, including a video on the history of stamps.

• Visit the American Philatelic Society Web site at stamps.org for clubs and shows across the nation.

Stamp Acts The Saturday Evening Post

For some, home is primarily a nest that nurtures, a refuge that protects, a delight that allows us to exercise the playful side of our natures. For others, it’s a sturdy structure of brick and mortar that anchors us—or a shell of aluminum that sets us free.

Even more, as architect Claire Cooper Marcus points out in her book, the aptly titled House as a Mirror of Self, our homes reflect our priorities, our values, and our histories—they are all on display through the places where we choose to live. On the following pages, you’ll meet some amazing people whose homes do just that. We think you’ll find their stories both familiar and surprising.

The manner in which we design, adapt, and furnish our homes says a great deal about who we are, too, as individuals, as families, and as a society. New homes are getting smaller—the era of the oversized “McMansion” is over (for now). At the same time, households are expanding to accommodate two, three, even four generations under one roof. Revolutionary products and services are allowing older homeowners to live long lives, safely, happily, and independently in the same house; meanwhile, wireless and integrated “smart” technologies let others redefine their notions of home entertainment, convenience, and comfort. As you’ll see, these and other housing trends in America are more than just the bloodless facts and statistics of a multibillion dollar industry—they are the very measure of our hopes and dreams.

As twilight settles over Boston’s historic Beacon Hill neighborhood, Victorian gaslights glow against the aged brick row houses that have stood here for close to 200 years.

Inside one of the elegant homes here, Susan McWhinney-Morse sits in the living room of her home and counts her blessings. “I have everything,” says the active septuagenarian. “A garden in back. A deck off the kitchen. A beautiful living room with high ceilings, exquisite plasterwork, and two wood-burning fireplaces. My four children all grew up in this house, and they loved it. They can’t imagine not coming home.”

The house has been through a lot of changes since Susan moved here with her first husband some 40 years ago. After that marriage ended in divorce, Susan took in boarders to support herself. Her family occupied three floors, but with other floors in the house, there was plenty of room for paying guests.

“The house has been so flexible,” Susan says. “When I married David Morse 15 years ago, the kids were all grown up, and we really didn’t need all this room. So we downsized within our own house. We turned the house into three separate apartments. We have the main floor, four bedrooms, and David and I each have our own study.”

To make sure that she and David are able to stay in their home as they age, Susan and her neighbors formed a community organization that offers services to Beacon Hill residents: dog walking, house painting, garden weeding, grocery shopping, rides to the airport,

even someone to help rearrange the furniture.

“The idea was to be on Beacon Hill forever,” says Susan. “The people here have a great sense of community, of neighborhood, and of caring for who we are and what happens here. We started with 11 people who were wild about the idea, and it’s just grown.”

As the Home Roams

Stella rocks. A 200-square-foot Airstream Excella, Stella measures 29 feet at her longest point. She’s
covered in polished aluminum, and her interior boasts wood floors, custom cabinetry, an antique metal backsplash in the kitchen, a stained-glass window, sheer window treatments throughout, and a couch that flips into a bed. In short, all the comforts of home, for only $15,900, delivered to the Maryland driveway of Ramona Creel and her husband, Matt Boorstein.

“Stella’s hip and cool and awesome and I love her,” says Ramona. So much so, in fact, that she and Matt decided to sell their house, reinvent their careers, and take to the open road. Permanently.

“The house thing just wasn’t working for us,” says Ramona. And they were miserable in Maryland, spending nights and weekends fixing up the house and days working to pay for it. Plus, all that work cut into their travel time.

“Some people are perfectly content staying at home, living in the same town their whole lives, not really caring if they see the world,” Ramona writes from somewhere near Atlanta. Or San Diego. Or maybe it was Louisiana. “Not me! I inherited busy feet from my father. Nothing excited him more than jumping in the car and taking off to someplace he had never been. I’m the same way.”

Matt is, too. Ramona’s husband was a military brat who grew up wandering the country. Initially he worked in interior design while Ramona, who has a degree in social work, found homes for displaced families in Florida. Eventually, she started her own business as a professional organizer of homes and offices, while Matt started work developing her business’ Web site. To earn money and remain mobile, Matt morphed into a full-time Web designer. Now, Ramona coaches clients via the Web, with occasional meetings when Stella pulls into an RV park, and Mark runs his business online. Wherever they can hook up to a server, an electrical outlet, and a water faucet, they’re in business. It’s a life that suits them well. “It just feels like the right path,” says the woman with busy feet. “We didn’t want the house. We don’t need the big screen TV. We want the experiences.”

Where are they off to next?

Ramona laughs. “Florida. We follow the good weather.”

Under One Roof

Standing proudly in front of the chicken coop on his grand-mother’s three-acre homestead in Starksboro, Vermont, 8-year-old Christopher Gravelle carefully holds out two eggs so fresh they’re still warm from the hen. He carefully explains to visitors the hows and whys of raising chickens as he walks toward their outdoor pen. His sister, Courtney, a 6-year-old blonde elf in a lavender parka and sparkly shoes, bounces along beside him. “Know what?” she asks, pointing across the yard. “That’s my bike!”

Along with their hens, bikes, and cats, Christopher and Courtney have lived here in the gray clapboard house all their lives. Their grandparents, Bob and Sue Baker, bought the property 28 years ago to raise their daughters—Lori, now 26, who works at a kitchen-and-bath shop in Burlington, 27-year-old Jessica, and 31-year-old Shelly, a stay-at-home mom to Christopher, Courtney, and 9-year-old Thomas.

“The house was old but the price was right,” says Sue. “And we liked the neighborhood.”

Situated between a two-lane rural highway and the wooded foothills of the Green Mountains, the house, with its fenced-in front yard, sits on one side of State Route 116 with neighboring homes spaced well apart. A cornfield is across the road.

“I love my property,” says Sue. “I have two apple trees, a big garden, a bird feeder, we’re bordered by Lewis Creek, and the kids can fish.”

The big draw for her was the yard. “When we first moved here, we had a maple tree by the fence that shaded the yard, and there was one that shaded the house,” Sue remembers. “Those girls could play in that yard all day. They had their swing out there, and it was nice. During the summer, you could sit in the living room and feel the breeze blowing through.”

As time went by, the kids grew up, Shelley got married and moved away, and Sue picked up part-time work at a local supermarket, a golf course, and a neighboring elementary school. But then Sue’s husband developed cancer, and nine years ago he died. Five months after that, Sue had a heart attack and quadruple bypass surgery.

Concerned, Shelley and her husband, Jason, moved back home with baby Thomas to give Sue a hand. Christopher and Courtney were born over the next couple of years, and things seemed to be getting back on track. Then Jason died of a heart attack, and Shelley was suddenly a single mother.

Things have been tough ever since. Sue was able to work part time as a cafeteria worker at the local Robinson Elementary School until her job was outsourced in budget cuts last spring. Lori has a job; Jessica and Shelley don’t. The family heated the house last winter with a woodstove and two kerosene heaters, but one of the heaters broke, and Sue didn’t have the money to fix it. That’s a concern in an area with below-zero temperatures in January.

But Sue shrugs it off. When something breaks down, generally the girls figure out how to fix it. “You learn this stuff as you go along,” says Sue. “We had a major toilet clog last week, so the girls became plumbers. They went and got plumbers’ snakes, took the toilet off, pushed the snakes through, had the septic tank pumped, and got it fixed.

“When you got family, you do what you’ve got do,” she adds. “This place has been a refuge for everybody.”

Big Little House

Benjamin Speed and his wife Sarina grew up on Maine’s rocky coast, exploring lighthouses and cracking lobster at the Bucks Harbor market. Then they headed for college in Washington State, and, like so many children, vowed never to return home.

After they graduated, Sarina went to work as a jewelry designer; Ben worked as a videographer. Both realized just how deep their roots were embedded in Maine’s sandy soil, how much they missed their folks, and how strongly they felt that the children they would have should be raised close enough to know their grandparents.

The two returned to Maine and rented an apartment. Ben got a job teaching film production with a local school and picked up a few extra bucks videotaping weddings, while Sarina continued with her design work.

But paying all that money for rent really bugged the practical Sarina. So the couple, in their mid-20s at the time and with a baby on the way, decided to build a house. And not just any house, but one that reflected their values—something large enough to meet their needs, but small enough to respect the environment and leave a reasonable footprint on the planet. A footprint, in fact, that measured 18 feet by 18 feet.

“People don’t need as much space as they think,” says Sarina, who grew up in an even smaller house. “We can’t have huge groups of people over, but for three people it’s more than enough.”

Aside from leaving a smaller environmental footprint, the house also makes sense in the current economy. “I wanted to build something so that if our jobs didn’t work out, we could still afford our house,” Sarina says.

Borrowing as little as possible from the bank, and with help from friends and family, the Speeds built the two-bedroom house themselves. “We did the basic framing, roofing, shingling, and insulation,” Sarina says. “The stuff that would take us too long to learn we farmed out.” As a result, the house—including its foundation and the road leading to the house—cost just $55,000.

With son Noah now 4½, and baby Larkin newly arrived, Sarina and Ben are planning to build on a third bedroom. “But the house will never be more than 800 square feet,” says Sarina, firmly. “And we’ll have the mortgage paid off by the time the kids go to college.”

Smartest Homes Ever

As history has proven, new technologies—from electric lights and appliances to radios and televisions—inevitably make their way into the home. When they do, they make life easier, more efficient, and more fun.

Tony Tessaro would agree. Standing on Mandalay Beach in California, the 60-year-old retired Wall Street trader is like a kid with a new toy. Only that toy is his whole home. And it’s a smart home. “I can control everything from my TV clicker,” says Tony. “Say I’m watching TV and you ring the doorbell. There’s a camera in the bell, so a photo of you pops up on the screen.”

Tony loves that the house “knows” who he is. “We have a two-car garage,” he says. “One side’s me, one side’s my wife, Mary.” When the garage door opens and she drives in, the house senses it’s her, then closes the garage door, lights up a path to her bedroom, and turns on her favorite music.

Trends in home technology are changing the way we come home and what goes on in the home, from lights and music to control of heat pumps and central air for energy efficiency, says Laura Hubbard, a spokesperson for the Consumer Electronics Association.

Companies such as Russound, for instance, offer customizable equipment that plays music in different areas throughout your home from a single device, controlling the system with iPod-like keypads. Some systems read smart tags embedded in a phone or a keychain and respond according to the preferences of the tag’s owner.

While advanced systems can cost thousands and require extensive remodeling, the do-it-yourself route offers affordable off-the-shelf systems. Take HomePlug, for example: This concept allows TVs and computers to communicate via the home’s pre-existing electrical wiring. Home automation is just the beginning, Hubbard says. In coming years, with the advent of the “smart grid”—a more efficient system of delivering electricity to your home—new home appliances will turn themselves on when it’s the most efficient time of day to do chores.

No Place Like It The Saturday Evening Post