As a child, the first date I learned was my birthday: December 27, 1949. The second date I retained in my then-very-small head that was nearly as significant was Jesus’ birthday: December 25, 0 (Zero).
I know…I know…he wasn’t born in the year “0” (Zero)–because the folks who were printing calendars in those days had not received any memo, or otherwise official notice of the significance of the Nazarene’s nativity, thus they had not anticipated changing from “-1” to “0” even though the math seems to clearly demand it. It’s very likely that when Jesus was born, no year was specified, because everyone was still trying to learn how Roman numerals worked. After all, it took me XIV years to master the darn things.
It should be noted that the Chinese say Jesus was born in the year 2698. And the Hebrew calendar set the event in the year 3760. Neither place his birthday in December, because the ancient dynasties of the Middle Kingdom, the Tribes of Israel, and even my furry ancestors running through the woods of Thuringia, had yet developed such a month, nor the holiday traditions of mass marketing, including the custom of putting huge red ribbons on Mercedes cars, that now surround the celebration.
So anyway, those are the first most important years in my mental ranking of years: 1949 and 0 (Zero). The near occurrence of my birthday to Jesus’ was, of course, a psychic trauma due to the fact that most folks figured one, solitary, single gift should cover both anniversaries and I should just be a good little kid and accept it without complaint. Did little kid Jesus wonder why he always got Frankincense or myrrh instead of Legos, or a slot car racing set? They were certainly holding me up to a standard I could not meet. I am still bitter after all these years.
The next date I remember engraving on my psyche was 1066. I was trying to boost my C-minus to a C-plus in Brother Herman’s world history class when the Bayeux Tapestry came up in class. It’s probably the most famous bit of sewing that most folks have never heard of. The most important thing about the tapestry is that it is very, very long. In fact, though it is only 20 inches tall, it stretches from the home team’s goal line all the way to the opponent’s 25-yard line. This is surprising because football was not invented for another 800 years. The second most important thing is that the embroidery tells the tale of Halley’s Comet appearing in the sky and a Norman from Normandy named William becoming a conqueror by conquering the Anglos and the Saxons at the Battle of Hastings which was not actually held in Hastings but instead happened nearby at an appropriately named place named Battle. This shows just how literal things were back in long-ago Sussex. This battle, if you haven’t guessed yet, happened in 1066.
Thus, the Normans took over England and the Anlgo-Saxon language merged with French and Old Norse, and Latin, because the Normans were Vikings originally and brought along guys who dressed like bishops because they were bishops…that’s how things go. And all the tongues tangled up and liked it. Eventually, everyone started speaking English, which worked out well for William Shakespeare—not to be confused with William the Conqueror.
And it worked out well for me, too, all these 958 years later, because I would have had a lot of trouble expressing the true depth of my bitterness about those Christmas/birthday gifts in French.
This article originally appeared in the November/December 2024 issue of Omaha Magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.
