This ancient brass sprinkler hooked up to a hose sends its cooling spray into the inferno of superheated noon air of an August Minnesota day and saves my life and lives of thousands of youngsters across the Midwest who have lawn sprinklers.

In 1924, when the mercury is hovering around 110 degrees in the shade and air conditioning a futuristic dream, we do what we have to do to lower our body temperatures and avoid fatal heat strokes and death by dehydration.

In a state that advertises 10,000 lakes, why not cool off by immersion?To qualify as a “lake” in Minnesota a body of water must be at least ten acres. That’s 435,600 square feet. Northfield’s three “lakes” are puddles.Mothers are too busy with five kids to herd them several blocks to this swimming hole.

A brass ring with spray holes is cooler and cleaner than a mud bottomed lake.

Here is a photo of me at three in my one-piece summer undergarment buttoned half way up the front and hanging limp and soaked over my tiny frame, cooled and refreshed by bravely running through the spray. I am testing the temperature of the water with my right hand.

The big boy running toward the brass ring is probably Orville Heffernan. We stay out of his way. He is not a bully, but sometimes he doesn’t understand his ability to inflict pain innocently.

The Heffernans raise chickens. They eat roast chicken every Sunday. We get to watch Mrs. Heffernan grab a fat hen by the neck and chop off its head with a large hatchet, release the dead bird and see it run around their back yard spouting blood from the stump of its neck. We wonder how a headless chicken can entertain us with its dance of death. It’s a mystery.

Then it’s back to our crabgrass and dandelion yard and its faithful, cool brass sprinkler.

Blessed baby.

Three heirless girls and finally a crown prince son!

Oh, glorious day.

O, holy day.

The day that He was born and wrapped in swaddling clothes and placed in a crib.

And the glory of the Lord shone round about him and he grew in wisdom and stature and in respect among all peoples in the tiny town of Northfield on the Cannon.

From the day you see him newborn sitting uncomfortably on his father’s lap until He was six and had his locks shorn and was as helpless as Samson, He remembers nothing. A total void. A tabula rasa. A preternaturally dry sponge thirsting for a flood of memorable stimuli.

February 19, 1921 was a cloudy, cold day. The most earthshaking event? A snowstorm that draped a fresh blanket of purity upon the face of Minnesota farm fields and lawns, roofs and streets.

Not an auspicious day.

Kansas went dry in 1881 on February 19.

In Peru, in 1600, stratovolcano Huaynaputina exploded in the most violent eruption in South America’s recorded history.

In 1942, iconic President Franklin Delano Roosevelt signed executive order 9066, imprisoning 140,000 loyal Japanese Americans—the most shameful act in modern U. S. history prior to the invasion of Iraq.

On February 19, 1945, cousin Lt.jg Bill Murray, U.S.Navy surgeon, landed on Iwo Jima with 30,000 U. S. Marines for six weeks of hell, sewing up an average of 100 broken bodies a day.

No, February 19 is not a good day to be born. It is either the last day of Aquarius or the first day of Pisces—an astrologer’s cusp and curse.

He shared his natal day with such lesser luminaries as pot stirrer Karen Silkwood and six footballers—Belgium’s Enzo Scifo, Dominican’s Mikko Kavén, Italy’s Gianluca Zambrotta, Ireland’s Clinton Morrison, England’s Nicky Shorey and Brazil’s Marta.

But He transcended these negative portents and brought great light and pride into the lives of his earthly mother, municipal court judge father and five siblings.

His Hebrew name means beloved, and He strove like Sisyphus to take away the sins of the world—to feed the hungry, heal the sick, house the homeless and triumph over tribalism. He knew grief and sorrow and bowed low to kiss the feet of those who preach the gospel of peace.

His progeny have steadfastly marched in his footprints, bringing him overwhelming joy now and forevermore. Amen.