Having a Childhood Christmas

Christmas at Grandpa and Grandma's, 1958


"What you remember is a part of you."

I'm not a big fan of Wayne Dyer. Some of the things he writes make me want to smack him. So does his butterfly-holding picture on the cover of the book from which I took this quote.

But he also said, "Every memory I have is me...We each have the power to retrieve any piece of ourselves that we desire, and to experience it right here, right now, in this present moment."

Well, Dr. Dyer, I do take comfort in that. You see, I've always thought that was true. I was deeply disturbed, many years ago, when a friend pointed out to me that if I couldn't remember something, then it was as if it had never happened -- and even more disturbed when he argued with me that there were, indeed, things in my life that I didn't remember. I feel differently now, but at the time -- I was 23 or 24 -- I swore that I remembered every single moment I'd ever been in!

Of course there are things I've forgotten. I've forgotten where I put my red ballet flats -- the soft leather ones that fold up and fit into a little mesh bag. I've forgotten where I laid my tweezers -- the ones that belonged to my mom, the only ones I've ever had that worked worth a damn. Why, just today, I forgot twelve different things (at least) that I wanted to tell my daughter.

But other things -- the things I think Dr. Dyer is referring to, I remember oh, so well. Things like the Christmases of my childhood...

I remember Christmas Eve day being the longest day of the year, as we tried to keep busy and quit bugging Mom, as she kept suggesting we do. I remember eating dinner perched on the edge of my seat with butterflies in my belly because right after dinner, it would be bath time, followed by the sit-around-the-tree-and-open-one-present ritual. That Christmas Eve present was always new pajamas.

I remember trying to go to sleep in those new pajamas. I always shared a room with at least one of my sisters. We were able to share our visions of sugar plums long into the night.

I remember one Christmas Eve, miraculously having fallen asleep, waking up to the sound of banging and (gasp!) cussing in the kitchen. I was stopped at the kitchen door by my mom, who explained that Dad was a little upset with Santa, because Santa had just dropped some stuff off and asked Dad to put it together himself.

I remember Christmas mornings, being told to sit nicely and wait as presents were doled out one at a time. (With five kids, it must have been nearly impossible to maintain control, but Mom did a far better job of it than I've ever been able to!)

I remember going to church -- were we really there for four or five hours -- and then another six hours or so to get to Grandma and Grandpa's...Okay, I'm exaggerating, but do you get my point?

The picture above was taken at my Grandma and Grandpa Borg's house. My mom's parents. They lived in Garden City, about 70 miles from us. We gathered there every Christmas, along with all my aunts, uncles and cousins. Grandpa had a great basement, with long tables covered with white cloths. There was tons of delicious food, and the kids were given a lot of lee way during dinner.

Recently, my cousin, Rod, unearthed a trove of photos from these gatherings over the years and shared them on facebook. Here we all are in 1962...

and again in 1971...

Seeing these faces as we morphed from toddlers to young adults has allowed me to retrieve, if not the actual experience, then the memories of all of those childhood Christmases, and to realize how much a part of me they are. They are mine, they are me, and I am me because of those times with my family. That makes me feel happy and loved and part of something truly wonderful.

A dear friend wished me a Childhood Christmas this year. She couldn't have wished me anything better. I wish everyone the same!

Newtown, Connecticut

The tragic shootings -- 20 children and 6 adults -- in Newtown Connecticut, are no longer front page news, at least not in my neck of the woods. Still plenty of editorials and letters to the editor about gun laws and gun rights, but those who died have been laid to rest, and those who love them must try to go on.

And I can't stop thinking about them.

A friend whom I respect and admire admonished us on facebook not to make this tragedy about ourselves. She said our children were safe, and no one was going to try to take away our guns; that yes, this incident was sad, but it was not about us.

I don't agree with her. I can't think of another way of processing this horror without making it about me -- without putting myself in the place of the mother (or grandmother) of one of those children. I have to put myself in the place of one of those frightened children who, seconds before his own death, saw his friends and playmates being brutally executed. To make it about me is to at least try to feel it.

I don't understand why I want -- or need -- to feel it. I just know that I do.

I don't know anyone from Newtown, Connecticut, and probably never will.

But I have a daughter who just celebrated her 35th birthday -- whose birth I can remember as if it were last week. I remember holding her in my arms, and feeling sure that I held the entire world. And I did. My world. That day, I knew that to lose a child would be to lose everything. I don't know that I'd be able to move forward, as I've been praying for those parents in Newtown to be able to do.

A couple of days ago we celebrated Christmas. We really celebrated, with food and presents and time together. One day just before Christmas, I sat in my living room, looking at the lighted tree, and I felt happy and peaceful. The Spirit of the Season, I would say. But then I felt like it was wrong to feel that way. I tried to imagine what the families in Newtown were feeling, but I know I never even got close.

If there's anything I can do, besides pray, I hope it comes to me. I don't mean to denegate the power of prayer, because I know that there are times when prayer is the only thing that can help. I know that this is one of those times. But right now, my prayers feel so small, and my contentment seems so selfish.

I have no answers or solutions. I'm just feeling things that are hard to feel. And I'm so sorry.

Jordyn

Ten years ago, my life changed forever. Jordyn Paige Gottlieb, my Sunshine, my Tiny Best Friend, my Imaginary Granddaughter, was born. She grabbed my heart with both of her tiny little fists the moment I saw her, and she hasn't let go yet.

For ten years, she has been part of our family, considering our house her second home. It is.

Jordyn loves to help. Since she was small, she has helped Greg choose and plant the flowers in our backyard, chiding him the years he never got around to it. She helps Greg make pancakes and me make scrambled eggs. (She whacks 'em, I crack 'em.) She's been an eager student, letting me teach her to sew, crochet, knit (several times, in fact). She's developed a love of books and all the places you go to get them -- libraries and bookstores -- to match my own.

She's provided us with so much laughter. Tears, too, as life got difficult at times. Jordyn and her sister, Taylor, brought the magic of childhood back to our holidays, and made us eager for the days when our status as grandparents wouldn't just be imaginary.

And now that we have our own Charlie, Jordyn has a new status around here -- Big Sister -- and new ways to help.

I add "Assistant" to the list of titles I have for Jordyn. I look forward to picking her up from school and bringing her home to play with Charlie, who adores her.

My life is full. I'm busy and I'm tired. But I'm happy. Today is a day to celebrate...

Happy Birthday, Jordyn. I love you forever!

Dad

Today is my dad's 83rd birthday -- the fifth one that we've had without him. (But don't be sad.)

Today is the anniversary of the last time I saw my dad, the last chance I had to give him a hug. (But don't be sad.)

Dad, September 22, 2007 (by Karen Branson).

He was living in Michigan at the time, but he and his bride of only a few months, Betty, had come down for his first granddaughter's wedding.

Dad & Betty, dancing at Meagan's wedding, 9/22/07 (by Karen Branson).

I remember when they walked into our kitchen the day before the big event. I was taking care of my "imaginary" granddaughter, Jordyn that day.

Jordyn dancing for cake, because we told her she had to, at Meagan's wedding (by Karen Branson).

Jordyn knew and loved my dad from all of his other visits. And he thought of her as a bonus granddaughter. She was the first one who saw Dad that day, and barreled across the kitchen, throwing her arms around his legs, truly catching him off guard.

Jordyn used to stand in the driveway with me, crying, as she waved goodbye to "Grandpa Tom" after each one of his visits. (But don't be sad.)

Of course, we all still miss Dad terribly. Especially on days like today, his birthday. But it's hard to think of him for more than a few minutes without breaking into a smile. He was a fun and funny guy. Sometimes I would get annoyed with his silliness, but that was when he was still here, and I felt like he always would be -- like I'd always have a chance to stop acting annoyed, and just rejoice in his whimsies.

If there's one thing that I've learned from losing my parents, it's that the little (and not so little) things that bother us about the people we love completely disappear when they leave us. Instead, those things all become little snippets of memory that we cherish.

I remember how Dad was my hero when I was little. In our family, as in probably a lot of other families, Mom was always busy doing stuff around the house. Dad worked all day, but when he came home, he totally belonged to us kids. It was Dad who read to us, played with us, got us ready for bed. There were family vacations, but it was always Dad who took us swimming, fishing, boating.

It was Dad's heart that broke the hardest when we moved from Michigan to North Carolina. (But don't be sad.)

Of course there were lots of visits back and forth...

Dad really wasn't the best house guest. Unlike my mom, who kept herself busy tidying up and cleaning my linen closet, Dad would leave wet towels on the floor and cups with an inch of coffee all over the house. (Treasured memory snippets now.)

I'd give a lot to have him walk in this house today and tell me he was going to stay for a few months. (But don't be sad.) As it is, I can talk to him anytime I want, and tell him things that I might not have at one time, because I didn't want to worry him.

No, we're not going to be sad on this birthday. It's one of the most beautiful days we've had this year in Greensboro, and we're going to drink beer (to Dad) and celebrate.

Also, it's my brother, Mark's, birthday.

Dad & Mark, August 2007

Dad always said that Mark was the best gift my mom ever gave him. I'm going to call Mark now and make up for the fact that I haven't seen him since Christmas. Family is the best thing anyone can have, and it all starts with a mom and a dad.

Happy Birthday, Dad and Mark.

Mark

Mark Lockamy in 2010 at Pilot Mountain (from his facebook page)

A life has ended. My son's friend, Mark. We were awakened shortly before midnight by the telephone. Another friend, Paco, was calling with the news. He said Mark had jumped from a parking deck downtown. Mark was 25 years old.

I saw him three nights ago when he came by to see Dj. They were just leaving to get something to eat when I got home. I told him it was good to see him. It was.

Mark hadn't been around much lately, but I always used to enjoy his visits. When his son, Joshua, was young, Mark would bring him by sometimes to visit. I loved seeing him play with his little boy.

Now Joshua doesn't have his dad. My heart is broken for Mark's family -- his mother, his sister, his grandmother. I don't know them, and I can only imagine the pain they are in tonight.

I don't know what to do with this. I can't sleep. I can't read. I can't pray. (But I can cry.)

I don't understand and I want to go back in time...

A Kitten Named Ella

Ella, June 2011

One Friday afternoon last June, my Awesome Husband Greg went out to get the mail from the box. He thought he saw a squirrel sitting in the middle of the road. But he was wrong...What he saw was a tiny gray kitten, sitting in the center of the road, right between the two yellow lines.

Bravely risking life and limb, he stopped traffic with his one free hand (his other clutching our granddaughter, Charlie, whose life he was also risking).

Ella, August 2011


...So I had written exactly one year ago today -- August 31, 2011, the day I decided to write about how we acquired Ella, the hapless little kitten. But somehow (the usual way, I suppose) I got distracted and never finished.

We still have Ella, who was really only hapless for a short time. That would be the time between whenever she was born, and that day last June when Greg rescued her from the middle of the road in front of our house. Since then, I guess you could say she's been very hap. She found Greg.

Ella today, in one of her favorite poses. (I'm afraid she'd have to suck it in a little to fit in that window now.)


I didn't really want another cat. Greg tried to pretend he didn't, either. We made a few phone calls, "advertised" on facebook that we had found a kitten and would keep her for the weekend if anyone wanted her. I guess we were implying that if no one did, it was off to the pound (gasp!) on Monday. But I know us. We'd never do that.

Even so, we did still have this girl...

Cinder, the Big Orange Cat

Cinder is 16 years old now. I, never really a cat lover, love this cat. Greg adores this cat. We almost lost her a couple of years ago, and I had a glimpse of how painful that loss was going to be -- for everyone. So when I saw how Greg held and fussed over that bedraggled little gray ball of fluff, I knew from that first afternoon that she was ours. He'll try to tell you that I convinced him to keep her, but I didn't. I simply got out of his way.

I will admit to having some regrets...

The reason I love Cinder is that she's really a dog who looks like a cat. She comes when you call her. She hangs around and socializes when company comes. She doesn't indulge in displeasing cat-like behaviors, like clawing the furniture or leaping onto tables and bookcases. She lets us use her as a pillow or a blanket -- sometimes even a mattress. She's generally very nice to have around.

I had forgotten what real kittens are like. Ella was a real kitten. And she's a real cat. Last Christmas, I relented to putting up a tree, against my better judgment -- fortunately, it remained standing, although a few ornaments took a topple -- but I refused to bring out my "good" red slipcover and quilts. I can think of few things more unnerving than the sound of a cat's claws plucking at fibers.

(I don't like the smell of their food, or their poop either, but that doesn't have to be part of this story.)

A year later, Ella is very different from that shy, grungy, runny-eyed, bug-infested little mite she was last year -- the one who would fall asleep in a Kleenex box on the back of the toilet. She's minus most of her tail, which we have logically deduced must have been run over when she parked it in the middle of the road. (After we'd had her a few days, it atrophied and began losing its fur.) But her coat is like beautifully striped velvet.


She's the kind of cat you want to hold. But you can't. She'll lie on her back at your feet and wriggle around enticingly, but don't fall for it -- she only wants you to reach for her so she can take a swipe. It's all part of her game.

Guests rarely see Ella. She prefers to hang out in the office in a box of stationery whenever anyone besides family is present.

Oh -- And did I mention that she's relentless in tormenting poor Cinder?

Yes, I knew there would be a transition period as our "girls" got used to each other, but how delusional was I to have imagined that Cinder would one day be glad that we'd brought her a young companion? What was I thinking? It's gone from bad to worse, with Ella becoming fearless of Cinder's hissing and boxing. She lies in wait, ready to jump on the old girl every chance she gets. Poor Cinder now pauses in doorways, afraid to walk into a room for fear of being ambushed -- something she shouldn't have to endure in her golden years. Cinder, I am so sorry...

So I'm having difficulty finding things to love about Ella -- except for her striking good looks. But she's here to stay. Greg has plenty of room in his heart for a cat like Ella. Just like he did for Cinder. And probably as many more as he might be allowed to have, but we're not even going to go there.

I'm just glad he consented to her name (suggested by dear facebook friend, Patricia Thomas Blevins). You did you pick up on that, didn't you? Cinder...Ella? (Greg had wanted to call her R.K., short for Road Kill. Glad he let me win that one!)

Bookend

"The Intimate Book Group," l-r: Frances Moore, Mary Elizabeth Keister and Marilyn Brenneman, May 2009 (Kate's LRDC)

Today, I attended a Celebration of Life. A very long life. A life well lived. My friend, Mary Elizabeth Keister, was 99 years old when she died earlier this month.

Mary Elizabeth and I were the "bookends" of our little reading group -- the last two members living in Greensboro. We had been a group of four. Four friends who enjoyed referring to ourselves as the "Intimate Book Group" (The Book Group, June 23, 2009). Frances Moore died in 2009 (Remembering Frances, September 17, 2009), and Marilyn Brenneman moved to Colorado a year later to be with her daughter.

Although Mary Elizabeth's eyesight didn't allow her to read even large-print books in her last years, she had such a vast knowledge of, and love for, literature, that she would never be at a loss in any discussion of books and authors. (4/20 -- If Yesterday Was Your Birthday, April 20, 2009).

In fact, I'm sure Mary Elizabeth never found herself at a loss in any conversation.

Although I've know her for years, because my friend was such a humble person, and because she always graciously accommodated my propensity to ramble on about books I've read -- well, about everything -- I never really grasped the scope of her contribution to the world. I read her brief biography on the back of the program today with a lump in my throat, realizing how privileged I'd been that she had considered me a friend. (Oh, to think that sometimes I would have preferred to stay in bed on a Saturday morning -- what I would have missed!)

Dr. (I don't think I was even aware of her title) Keister had a love of children, beginning with her baby sister, that led her to several degrees and a career in child welfare, preschool education and improving programs at women's colleges throughout the world, taking her to India, Rome (with the United Nations), Nigeria, Afghanistan, to name a few places.

She never married or had children of her own, but loved and influenced her 11 nieces and nephews, one of whom spoke so lovingly about her Aunt "Bubba" today, it made my heart ache.

I will always regret that the last time Mary Elizabeth and I got together for McDonald's cinnamon rolls (a guilty pleasure that we only indulged at our monthly get-togethers), coffee and conversation a few months ago was the last time I saw her. She went into hospice care several weeks later, and I learned of her passing the day I called to make arrangements to visit her. I had downloaded "Little Bee" on my Kindle, and was planning to read it to her. That book will serve as my reminder to never put off doing a kindness for someone. Mary Elizabeth never would have.

Bookends no more. I exchanged e-mail messages with Marilyn earlier today, and it seems that we both feel the same way...Our Intimate Book Group was so special, we can't imagine getting involved with other groups. We were special, and I am so thankful for the time we had to be together. And now I am just a single bookend.

What I Actually Said...

My unedited story about "Heat," submitted to The Sun Magazine:




I grew up in a small town near the "thumb" of Michigan. Winters were long and cold, and spring and fall were fleeting. Summers seemed to last forever. The days were hot and humid, and sometimes it was hard to sleep in our un-air conditioned house. (I remember being escorted home from a date one evening, to find my entire family sprawled on the living room floor -- the only room with a window unit.)

Growing up with five siblings meant there was always someone around to play with. That was good, because we had to entertain ourselves a lot during the summertime, when vacation from school meant that poor Mom wasn't getting any breaks!

My mother used to send us out to play, and then lock the door so we couldn't get back in. I thought she was cruel. We were so hellbent on thinking of ways to get her to open that screen door, that we could scarcely concentrate on our play.

Mom, I'm thirsty!

I have to go to the bathroom.

I think I'm going to throw up!

Please, Mom -- There's bees out here!

I saw a snake!


Nothing worked. She always made us "go" before we went out. She'd bring glasses of water to the door. She told us to just stand still if there were bees, and to stay away from snakes (which were the non-poisonous garden variety, anyway).

Once, my sister was stung eight times by a wasp which had flown into the armhole of her romper. She got to go inside and get baking soda and cold cream applied to her back. I didn't think it was worth it.

I remember the heat of those summer days -- The smell of the vegetable garden being "steamed," the sound of the cicadas, the prickly feel of the dry grass on our bare feet. The itchy, sweaty feeling that wouldn't go away, even if we took off our shirts, and the way the sand and straw from the barn would stick to our skin. (But it was cooler in that barn.)

I remember being allowed to bring a blanket from the house so we could lie on the grass under the big pine tree in the front yard, and I remember making tents with the blanket and chairs on the front porch -- and nearly suffocating.

And I remember Mom telling us that if we'd be good and not fight, Dad would take us to the lake when he got home from work -- Something to live for!

When I grew up, we moved North Carolina...

Summers -- indeed all the seasons -- go by fast now. The heat from June through August is relentless and brutal. There are still cicadas and snakes -- poisonous ones -- but they don't bother me, because I rarely go outside, other than to dash from my air conditioned house to my air conditioned car.

I wouldn't dream of locking my kids outdoors in the heat of the summer.

But I can understand why my mom did it. And you know what? Those are some pretty happy memories.

Published!

(This photo of my great-niece, Natalie, was taken a couple of years ago in Glen Carbon, Illinois. It has nothing to do with my story, other than that it was hot that day!)



The Sun magazine, published in Chapel Hill, NC, has a monthly column called "Readers Write." Every month, readers are given a broad topic, and asked only that stories submitted be true. I was so excited to have my "heat" story chosen for the July issue, I could hardly wait to share. This is the edited version...


I grew up in a small town in Michigan, where spring and fall were fleeting but summer seemed to last forever. The days were hot and humid, and sometimes it was hard to sleep in our un-airconditioned house. I remember being escorted home once from a date to find my entire family sprawled on the floor in the living room — the only room with a window unit.

My five siblings and I had to entertain ourselves during summer vacation. Mom used to send us outside to play and then lock the door so we couldn’t get back in. We tried everything to get her to open that door.

“Mom, I’m thirsty!”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“I think I’m going to throw up!”

“Please, Mom. There’s bees out here!”

“I just saw a snake!”

Nothing worked. She always made us use the bathroom before we went outside, and the snakes were all nonpoisonous.

Once, my sister was stung eight times by a wasp that had flown into the armhole of her romper. She got to go inside and have baking soda and cold cream applied to the stings. I was jealous.

I remember the sound of cicadas buzzing, the smell of vegetables being steamed right in the garden, the prickly feel of the dry grass on our bare feet, the way the sand and straw from the barn would stick to our skin. (But it was cooler in that barn.)

I remember being allowed to bring a blanket from the house so that we could lie on the grass under the big pine tree in the front yard. We made tents with the blanket and front-porch chairs and nearly suffocated inside them.

And I remember Mom telling us that if we’d be good and not fight, Dad would take us to the lake when he got home from work.

Now I live in North Carolina. The heat here from June through August is brutal. There are still cicadas and snakes — including some poisonous ones — but they don’t bother me, because I rarely go outside, other than to dash from my air-conditioned house to my air-conditioned car.

An Equation?

Sometimes I wonder if Glasses + Cannula = Too Much Facial Bling?

(4/16/12)

And while I'm wondering, do they only make cannulas in clear? Because I think a purple one would be awesome!

Our Own Rose

My mom with Bev, Karen, Mark and me, in front of our house on Bowers Road. If this was taken in 1960, as I think it was, then she was pregnant with Melissa, and Jason was still 12 years from making an appearance!

Mom died eleven years ago today. I recently found the notebook I used as a journal as we spent her last days in the hospital, all my sisters, my brothers and myself. Of course we were sad, but it was also an amazing, healing time for us all.

What did I write? Weirdly, I wrote limericks and haikus. Maybe someday I'll share them here. But now I want to share this, for my sisters and brothers. I guess it's a poem. I called it "Tribute to a Rose," and it's dated March 6, 2001 -- the day after her funeral...

My mother is a rose,
The most beautiful of flowers.
So many different varieties,
All beautiful, all difficult to nurture.

In death, I see her as a pale pink rose, my favorite --
Exquisitely, heartbreakingly beautiful,
Soft, open to love -- both giving and accepting.

In life, she was a red rose --
The American Beauty.
Classical beauty, grace and style,
A true "lady" of a flower.

At times, something inside of her would cause her petals to deepen to burgundy --
Some inner, troubled darkness.
Still very beautiful, but somewhat disturbing to behold.

Our rose didn't always receive the special care she required.
Although her beauty was always evident,
At times her thorns predominated, making her difficult to tend to.

But in her final illness, we were at last able to give to her
What she needed to receive, and what we needed to give.
The proud, dark petals, and along with them, the thorns,
Fell away, revealing a new softness.

Now she is a beautiful, pale pink rose.
My favorite flower.
I will try to nurture the seeds that she planted in each of her children,
That we might also become like flowers in God's garden.

(Sure do miss you, Mom.)

Defending My Character: A Blog of Rebuttal

My character has been defamed, and it's up to me to refame it!

This is the cover of the [absolutely gorgeous] scrapbook that my beautiful, talented sister, Karen, made for me, and for each of my siblings this Christmas.

Our family has been greatly blessed by Karen's talent and generosity, and over the years, we have all amassed a large collection of these treasures. I can't stress enough how important it is that you not think me ungrateful. But still...

On the page dedicated to Christmas 1967, we read, in part:

Unfortunately, this is the year that Kate made sure Mark no longer believed in Santa Claus! She was snooping for presents in the basement and found ALL of our gifts! Of course she had to drag us all down there to see them...The real kicker was that Mark got a bike that year, and Mom and Dad were ready with the camera to get the excitement on Christmas morning...the reaction was not what they had hoped for...

I'm sure that that's how Karen remembers it. But it's not how I remember it. The real truth is probably somewhere in between; I've had enough experience with failing memories lately to know that mine is not infallible. But now, look at this picture from that same page...

That's me -- the tall one in the back. The innocent-looking one. Do I look like someone who would deliberately set out to ruin a child's delusions of Santa Claus?!! Certainly not! True, another year, another Christmas, I may have beckoned a couple of my sisters into the pantry, where I had possibly discovered three coordinated skirt-and-sweater sets, and perhaps a toy or two. (And if I did that, my intentions would have been pure -- I would have only wanted to share my exciting discovery -- those skirts and sweaters were gorgeous!) But I am absolutely certain that Mom and Dad never hid anything in the basement of that house on Franklin Street. That was a dark, nasty, scary place that had a cistern in one corner!

No. I clearly remember that Christmas Eve of 1967. I was wide awake. (I never slept on Christmas Eve.) Mom and Dad had gone to bed and the house was quiet. I decided that, since I was awake anyway, I might as well go downstairs and check out what was under the tree...

HOLY CRAP -- MY BROTHER GOT A BIKE!

I knew for certain that I would positively explode if I didn't share this information at once! I crept back upstairs and woke up the other kids. I know these were my exact words: "You guys, Santa came!" (See -- I absolutely did not try to make sure that Mark -- or anyone else -- no longer believed in Santa Claus!)

So we all traipsed downstairs. If only Mom and and Dad had been ready with their camera then. Because Mark was beside himself with excitement. "I got a bike," he whispered, awestruck. (I admonished him to act surprised in the morning so that Mom and Dad wouldn't know he'd already seen this wonderful surprise.)

Somehow, we all got back to bed without our parents hearing us. I don't think any of us slept. Somehow morning arrived. (Probably 5:00 a.m., but still morning, if you're a kid and it's Christmas.) Mom made sure we all stayed in our rooms until they were downstairs with the lights on and the camera ready. Giddy with excitement, and adorable in our pink flannel gowns (except for Mark), we tumbled down the stairs.

I knew I should have spent some time rehearsing my brother. I don't know why I trusted him to pull off "surprised and excited." He looked at what was obviously the most magnificent gift beside the tree -- a brand new, red two-wheeler -- and said, "A bike," in the same tone of voice he would have used to say "Cereal."

A tragedy, indeed, as Karen said in the last sentence of her narrative. But not the tragedy of a big sister giving away the secret of Christmas. The tragedy of a big sister who couldn't stay in bed, couldn't keep a secret, and couldn't think of anyone but herself in the excitement of a moment.

I am so sorry that I ruined Mom and Dad's Christmas that year. But I don't think I'm the villain I was made out to be. At least not the way I remember it.

Tree Talk, Part Two

Tannenbaum 2011 -- What remains (1/2/12)


Well, when I said I hoped we'd be talking again, I was picturing you standing there all decked out in ornaments and lights -- you know, like you were yesterday.

Did you say something?

Guess not. You probably don't feel much like talking to me, do you?

Well, I don't blame you. But even though I'm sure you feel way worse than I do, I'm feeling pretty bad myself, you know...

Sure, we didn't get off to the best start, but I really did learn to love you as you stood there in front of the window, making our living room glow so beautifully. I feel very sad that you had to go so early. We usually keep our trees around until at least the second week of January. But you were so dry -- needles everywhere. Plus, I guess you were becoming a fire hazard. I'm sorry.

Of course it's not your fault that I feel bad. I was going to be sad today, anyway. See these guys...

Tom and Rosemary Karlek, 12/26/51

...That's my mom and dad. They would have celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary the day after Christmas. Well, I guess they wouldn't have actually celebrated, since they weren't together anymore. They separated after they'd been together 40 years. Probably should have separated sooner, seeing as they'd stopped being happy together a long time ago. But that's neither here nor there, as they say. They're both gone now, and I miss them like crazy.

So anyway, there was that anniversary, which always sets off a string of sad remembrances for me...Mom died in February, 11 years ago. Dad got remarried in July of 2007. The last time I actually saw him was at my daughter, Meagan's, wedding in September of that year.

Today is the fourth anniversary of the last time I ever spoke to him. I guess we talked for a few minutes on Christmas -- He was at my sister, Karen's, house in Michigan, and I was here in North Carolina. I know she had a houseful of people, and things were pretty hectic, so if we did chat, it was only for a few seconds. I called him the day after New Year's, though, and we had a really nice conversation. He told me how much he loved the quilted wall hanging I'd made him. I felt good after we'd talked, which wasn't always the case.

Two days later, my sister, Melissa, called to tell me that Dad had died that morning while walking with his wife, Betty. They'd been to Mass -- First Friday. I knew he'd taken the Express, straight to Heaven, because I immediately felt him all around me.

I'm thankful that he got to go so quickly. He had no unfinished business to see to. It makes me happy to think that he got to leave the way a lot of people would wish for -- No pain, no lingering. Just "Hi, Tom -- Good to have you here." But I sure do miss him.

Okay, then. Thanks for listening. Since I've gotten that off my chest, maybe I won't have to write a sad, Missing-Dad blog on the anniversary of his death.

Thanks for being such a nice tree.