Dear Santa

Hey, Santa, why the scowl? I guess 2016 must have gotten to you a little bit, too, huh?

Well, on the bright side, your sleigh will be lighter than usual when you head out on Saturday night. In fact, I'll bet the only people on your "Nice" list are the ones who don't have media access, and somehow managed not to hear about that election we had last month. Oh, sure there were a few who were able refrain from saying (i.e., posting on facebook) all the mean words they were thinking about the candidates and the people who supported them. I know a couple of those folks myself, and I gotta say, they deserve all the gifts. Such restraint is truly admirable.

The rest of us will just have to suck it up and buy our own stuff. Sad, to be sure, but it's what we deserve. Besides--and I'm only speaking for myself here--the satisfaction of "winning" an argument by getting in the last word (even if it was only because the other guy had already logged off) was its own reward. Not to mention all the likes and laughing emojis--those were fun. I'll be able to bask in my warm memories of being applauded for my bitchiness while my nicer friends are opening their gifts on Christmas morning.

Merry Christmas, Santa. I really am going to might do better in 2017!

Feeling Good

I didn't blog yesterday, for the first time in 45 days. I wanted to. I had a couple drafts going, but neither one of them was really speaking to me, and I didn't want them speaking for me. They've both been deleted.

In case you're wondering, one was a writing prompt about how my favorite mystical creature would solve a current sociopolitical problem. I wanted it to be funny, but the only funny part was when I asked My Awesome Husband Greg if Donald Trump could be considered a sociopolitical problem. He said "You're a sociopolitical problem."

I actually did some research for the other one. I found photos of rocket skates and human gyroscopes for a post about things I might want to take up after my lung transplant. I really wasn't feeling that one, either.

Today, however, I came across a writing prompt I thought I could work with--"The Best Feeling in the World."

Of course I can't choose just one, so I'm going to make a list of all my best feelings...

1. Holding a sleeping newborn, its head nestled between your neck shoulder so all you have to do to catch a whiff of perfection is tilt your head just a tiny bit.

2. Spending time with friends when it feels like each of you was created for the sole purpose of making the other feel understood and loved. This can be a large group of friends, a couple, or just one; wine may or may not be part of the good feeling.

3. Having a family, whether you were born into it, or invited. Nothing feels better than knowing that there are people who love you and will stand behind you, no matter what kind of a jerk you might be.

4. Being a child at Christmas. If those days are behind you, then being a part of a child's Christmas, knowing that you can perform magic at least one day out of the year.

5. Making someone smile or laugh, especially when they seem frowny and sad. This works for strangers behind you in the grocery store as much as the people who live in your house.

6. Knowing that Christmas is only two weeks away and you still have a lot to do, but remembering--before panic sets in--that everything that really matters will get done, and everything else will fall into place--like magic.

7. Wishing everyone you see a Merry Christmas and a Happy Holiday Season because you know Christmas isn't the only holiday being celebrated this time of year, and you want to include everyone in your best feelings.

May you all have peace and love and joy, and all of your best feelings--this season, and always!

Family Pictures

I come from a long line of amateur photographers. My grandfather had a camera that he could set on a timer and capture moments like this. Apparently there was just enough time for him to jump into the picture, but not to say "Smile!" (That's my mom, second from the right in the front row. I'm stunned by how much Karen looks like her.)

This one from Christmas at Grandma and Grandpa's in 1963 holds so many memory triggers...The red couch, the blond two-level end table with the iconic fish lamp and The Last Supper hanging in the dining room--even Aunt Cathey in her holiday apron. I can still see my grandmother sitting at the table playing solitaire, Jesus and the Apostles keeping watch.

We have an abundance of photos of my sisters and my brother Mark and me, either posing in front of a Christmas tree or wearing new pajamas and clutching new toys. (Sometimes, like in this one, all three elements are present.)

But this one from the 70's is the only one I've come across that stretches far enough to include my brother, Jason, who was born when I was 19.

That's why I was delighted when this one showed up on facebook the other day. It more than makes up for all those missing years.

Merry Christmas to families everywhere!

Nativity Scene(s)

The babe's in the manger,
Asleep on the "hay;"

(Just a little excelsior, really.)

Shepherds and wise men
Their respects come to pay.

(Oh, and the wise men bring gifts, probably to make up for the fact that they're late due to taking the long way around.)

It's awkward at first,
All crammed in together,

(See how the camel is hiding behind the wise men? He's embarrassed because he's from a different nativity set, which was clearly made to a smaller scale.)

Magi and shepherds
Discussing the weather.

(They haven't yet discovered the true meaning of Christmas. They're just trying not to stare at the ox and the ass, who are missing an ear apiece.)

Then comes the magic
We all know occurred...

(Like in that song, O Holy Night...)

At the birth of that baby,
All hearts were stirred.

(And that's why we try to be extra nice at Christmas. It has nothing to do with Santa, really.)

And then there's the version where Joseph and Mary arrive at the inn, Mary carrying Baby Jesus in he arms, because apparently she had already had him, and the manger wasn't ready yet or something. There was an ox and an ass, but no one could ride them because of their confining outfits, so they all just "hoofed" it. But it was still Christmas.

Out of the Box: Haiku for the Christmas Season

A tree in a box,
Carried up a flight of stairs.
Open; assemble.

Hard to envision
A thing of beauty, aglow
With lights and baubles.

It just needs "fluffing."
A little here, some more there.
It's showing promise...

Wait--not finished yet.
This is not what I pictured.
Something must be done!

Voila! Masterpiece,
Save for lights and ornaments--
The best part of all.


Except for the people, of course. If not for My Awesome Husband Greg and My Imaginary Granddaughter Jordyn, it would all still be a tangle of branches in cardboard box in the basement. Thank you to my two favorite tree elves!

Loving Christmas

You've seen this pic before, but still...

My mom loved Christmas. She always made sure our Christmases were beautiful, no matter how many other things she may have been juggling, no matter how much stress she might have been "managing." Like the year she took our live tree into the basement and spray-painted it white.

I'm sure Dad helped her lug it up and down the stairs, but he would have been grumbling the entire time about why the hell we needed a white tree. Never mind. I knew Mom had seen one somewhere and admired it. She'd said "I can do that," and then set out to do it.

I remember seeing it standing on the dirt floor of our Michigan basement. (Yes, that's a thing.) We didn't go down there much, but painting a Christmas tree was a special event. Mom made us go upstairs, though, when she started spraying. The next thing I remember was seeing it in the living room, where Dad put on the lights--with much direction--and Mom hung the string of pink glass beads. I thought those beads were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. They had been in Dad's family for years, and I always suspected that they'd once been red. Pink was better, though.

If we short people were allowed to help with the other decorations, I'm sure some rearranging was performed after we went to sleep. Mom was an artist, and in charge of her own masterpieces, as displayed in the photo.

Look at those dolls...the doll house...the buggies! (Oh, and the stuffed kangaroo for brother Mark. When we were kids, it was definitely better to be a girl.)

Mom grew up during the depression. Her father was an immigrant from Malta, and there were six kids in the family. She never received a doll for Christmas. She told us stories of getting new socks and underwear. That would explain her life-long passion for dolls. My sisters and I always had the most beautiful dolls she could find. Later, she became a doll artist herself, creating exquisite works of art in porcelain.

As a mother and grandmother, Mom enjoyed Christmas as much as the most enthusiastic kid. Later today, when I bring down the boxes of ornaments, I will be reminded many times over what the season meant to her. I will play her CD's and be surrounded by memories as I decorate our tree, hoping that she would be pleased.

Merry Christmas, Mom. And thank you.

Thanksgiving 2016--A Photo Blog

The house was clean enough. The extra leaf was in the table, and the olives and pickles and nuts were on the counter for snacking. We were ready.

We didn't fix a turkey this year. That, along with all the usual fixings--plus deviled eggs--was provided by Awesome Greg's Awesome Sister Dawn and her Equally Awesome Son Brad. They top my list of "Thankfuls" this year. In the spirit of the season, however, I did pull out this pillow that I made from a child's place mat years ago...

...and this paper bag gobbler made by Jordyn when she was in Kindergarten.

Meagan brought a photo-worthy platter of roasted vegetables, and the much-loved green bean casserole.

When we couldn't eat any more, the table was cleared (Thank you, Awesome Greg!) and the games came out.

Taylor and Jordyn--showed up for dessert. We had two pies, but Taylor brought her homemade cupcakes just in case.

More games and hilarity--i.e., Taylor playing Googly Eyes...

...and Greg acting out "putting out a fire"

and "skydiving"

during a rousing game of Heads Up.

There was face time with Daddy, who was in Tennessee this year, until someone's phone suddenly died. Sorry, Jason.

Oh, and just so you'll believe me when I tell you that I was there, too, I took a picture of myself...

It's been a day for Thanksgiving, and I am thankful indeed. I hope you all made some memories that will keep you smiling until next year, too.

Scattered Blessings

This Thanksgiving, my blessings will be scattered. Meagan will be here, but Charlie and Joe will be in Nebraska with Joe's parents. Dominic and Gigi are going to Charleston to celebrate with Gigi's parents. Although it has occasionally happened that one or two of my siblings could be here for the holiday, not this year. But we will have Greg's sister, Dawn and her son, Brad for which I am truly thankful. The final headcount is not yet in; there may be two or three more. Plenty of blessings to count--including the ones who are now missing and deeply missed--when we gather 'round the table. We'll just have to reach a little farther to count them.

I long for those Michigan Thanksgivings when we were young and the kids were babies--or still just little stars twinkling in our futures. Thanksgiving Day was hectic and exciting then. Sure, there were preparations--I remember one time having to shovel snow from the driveway before we could leave--but most of the work fell on our moms. They were the professionals.

Our day would be split into two parts, the first part usually going to my family. All of us would descend on Mom and Dad simultaneously. We were a big bunch, but there was always enough food for us to begin eating the moment we arrived, continuing to pick at the turkey and pies even while the dishes were being washed. There were barns and cats and ponds and ducks and hills and dirt roads--endless outdoor options for the guys who weren't interested in football. My sisters and I would gather in the kitchen, talking and eating and drinking and--I hope--helping Mom. We laughed a lot. Life was still ahead of us, and it all looked good. We felt like it would always be that way.

As the sun was moving toward its evening setting, we would usually be the first to leave. Next stop: Greg's mom's for more turkey and pie. And conversation and laughter. And love. Plenty of love in both places. You could feel it and see it and hear it making its presence known above all the noise and busyness of the day. You could even smell it--it smelled like turkey.

There will be love at our gathering this year, too. And delicious food and conversation and laughter. There will be wine and football and games around the table after dinner. It's supposed to be 70 degrees here, so no snow will be shoveled. But a Frisbee or Nerf toy may be tossed. Our guest list will most likely include Banjo and George, who will come with Meagan. They're rowdy and messy (like all boys), but they love our yard, so they will be welcome.

At then end of the day, I will be exhausted from counting all my blessings. But I will be happy. I love Thanksgiving, once it finally arrives.

Mission Improbable

Good morning, Kate. Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to get your house clean and ready for company on Thursday, which as you know, is Thanksgiving Day.

What?! That's impossible, and you know it! I've been threatening to get this house clean for ten years now, and it hasn't happened yet. What makes you think I can get that mission accomplished in five days?!

Look, I didn't come here to argue with you. I'm simply offering you a challenge--accept it or not.

Now you look! I never accept anything without arguing. You must have a reason for coming to me today with this preposterous offer. Convince me.

Convince you? Okay. How's this...You have five days before the official beginning of the Holiday Season. Believe it or not, some people are using today to haul out the Christmas decorations. I'm not asking you to do that. I'm just suggesting that you might want pull up those bootstraps, get out of your chair and wave a dust rag around for a bit. Thanksgiving is happening, and there's nothing you can do about it. But if you choose not to accept my mission, you will have people coming into your house, bringing food and fun and feelings of good will toward wine one another. Do you want them to have to wipe cobwebs off the stove before they can heat up their offerings? To watch them pry dishes from the guck inside your refrigerator to make room for their veggie trays and dessert toppings? And although they'll probably be too polite to say anything, you'll know why they're sneezing and coughing--no one's lungs are equipped to deal with that much dust in one day...How am I doing?

Okay. I'm trying to keep an open mind. Would this mission include cleaning the bathrooms?

I never said you couldn't delegate. Isn't that why you have an Awesome Husband Greg?

Hmmm. Can we say that I accept your mission with conditions--reluctantly? Like I'll try to get some stuff done if Awesome Greg is watching me. And I get to drink enough wine to make me forget how far behind I'm falling on my Netflix shows. How about if I just do the dusting and light moving--like CD's and books and stuff--and Awesome can do anything that involves using soap and water and heavy equipment--like vacuum cleaners?

You mean like Mission Possible, But Not Very Probable?

Yeah, like that.

Okay. I guess I can work with that. But remember...As always, should you or any member of your force be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This tape will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Kate.

Meager

I am the worst. And the worst part of being the worst--the part that makes it the worst--is that I'm afraid that an ugly precedent has now been set...

It came close to happening a few years ago when, instead of getting a full-sized Christmas tree and carting boxes and bins of ornaments down from the attic, we bought a small Norfolk Island Pine, hung a few simple ornaments on its branches and set it in front of a window.

"It's Christmas!" I declared.

"That's bullshit!" answered my kids.

And now, Halloween.

I have two boxes of Halloween decorations--gourds carved like jack-o'-lanterns with little lights inside, witches, candles, a glittery tree adorned with tiny pumpkins--even a Dracula windsock to hang outside. But this year I did not decorate. I brought the boxes downstairs and set them beside the coffee table two weeks before Halloween. Every night for a week, I promised that tomorrow was the day I was going to decorate. Eventually, I stopped promising. The day before Halloween I bought a string of orange lights from the "junk" bin at Target and hung them on a small Christmas tree that hadn't made it back up to the attic last year. I pulled out a few pumpkins--the ones without faces, so they could transition into Thanksgiving decorations--and arranged them on the mantle.

No one said a thing. I don't think they even noticed. But I did. The day after Halloween, I pulled out my twisted paper pilgrim and placed her beside my pumpkins.

"It's Autumn!" I said to myself.

"Big deal!" I answered.

I felt sad. I remember when things were different. A lot more stuff used to get decorated around here!

Oh, well. Christmas is coming. Maybe I can make up for it then!

Remembering and Otherwise Occupying My Mind

The day before Labor Day, two days after Tropical Storm Hermine blew through, and about as perfect a September day as you could ask for. Low humidity, good air quality...I'm going for a walk!

I like this neighborhood. The houses aren't fancy, but the trees are large and plentiful. I'd be happy to live in a shanty, as long as I could have one perfect tree in my front yard and a window to look out all day long. And maybe someone like My Awesome Husband Greg to keep the window clean for me.

***

That family in their driveway with kayaks strapped to the top of their car--the little boy is so excited, he can't keep from jumping on his invisible pogo stick. They must be headed to the lake to enjoy summer's last official weekend. The sound of their car door slamming just took me back...

I remember when Mom and Dad bought the place on Elk Lake. Now that was a shanty. Really, just a shell of a house. No interior walls or insulation; nothing that would make it appealing in the winter (unless you wanted to sneak in through a window and snuggle with your boyfriend for a while), but perfect for a Michigan summer. Not only was there a gigantic weeping willow, but there was a lake! Closing my eyes, I can hear the sound of screen doors snapping shut across the water, and voices calling to each other--especially kids' voices. Outboard motors being cranked...I can smell the gasoline and hear the water being churned in their wake.

I was in high school. We called it "going to the cottage," and the stress of getting everything together for all (then) five of us kids resulted in plenty of stress for Mom and Dad, and lots recreational arguing for the rest of us. But it was always with a great sense of adventure that we finally piled into the car and moved there for the summer. (In a related story--one which is not mine to tell--my baby brother Jason was conceived out there, according to family lore; but perhaps that's too much information for now.)

The sounds, the scents, the sights of summer. They take me back better than any photograph ever could. I think I could bear losing a few of my short-term memories, as long as I could keep all those old ones where I love to dwell.

***

Those signs for congressmen in that yard...are those guys Republicans or Democrats? I can't tell, and normally, I wouldn't care. But this is not a normal election, and it's making me say and do crazy things. I've become absolutely vituperative! I nearly stroked out the other day when we got that questionnaire from the Donald himself, asking for credit card information so we could contribute to his campaign. Who did he think he was sending that to?!! I had the entire thing filled out, using every version of the f-word that I could think of (and some I'd made up) before Awesome Greg got a chance to look at it. Today I noticed that he had "mailed" it into the trash basket. Probably better that way.

***

I love holidays. I love my family. Holidays make me sorely miss the ones who are gone. Dad especially loved holidays. He loved getting the family together, and he loved going to the cottage. Getting old is not easy, nor is it always fun (although it can be funny). Remembering makes me feel young again, and memories are fun to play with.

I'm not posting this until the day after Labor Day, so I'll wish you all a wonderful holiday--the kind from which happy memories grow--belatedly.

Carnations

Gilli flowers, members of the carnation family.

Today, for Valentine's Day, my daughter sent me a bunch of carnations that grew on the side of a volcano in Bogota, Colombia. She didn't even realize how much I love carnations...

When I first started dating My Awesome Husband Greg, he was working at Perkins' Flowers. He was tall and skinny back then. He still is, but then he had chin-length hair, which he wore parted in the middle. I thought he looked like the guy in Three Dog Night. (Coincidentally, "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog" was our song.) He always wore boot-cut jeans with his "shit kickers," and a tee shirt. I remember a tan corduroy jacket with a belt. My heart did cartwheels whenever I saw him.

It was early spring, and we liked to walk at night. We'd get to Perkins', and Greg would let us in with a key that was hidden in a place that was (ahem) not exactly hard to reach. We'd go in and walk between the flats of carnations. It smelled wonderful. We walked and talked and fell in love in that damp, fragrant jungle.

We hadn't started dating until March, so there were no Valentine carnations for me that year, but on St. Patrick's Day, he gave me a white carnation that had been "tipped" in green.

Another time, when I had been grounded from seeing him for a week, he stopped the delivery van near where I was walking to work, jumped out and, without saying a word, handed me a white carnation and drove off. (Don't tell Mom.)

And when I had to go to Muskegon for a week for the Miss Michigan pageant, he came to my house early in the morning and handed me three yellow carnations wrapped in wet tissue and aluminum foil. I carried those flowers with me all day. They were as exhausted as I was by the time I was escorted to my "home" for the next few nights. I cried when I saw what I had put them through. But a night in a glass of water worked miracles. I awoke in a strange bed in a strange house in a strange town, but my beautiful flowers were the first thing I saw, and I knew everything was going to be all right.

The gift I received today from our daughter reminded me of how much I love carnations.

Three Momentous Christmases--Part Three...

...The One Where We Had Moved to North Carolina

This photo was taken on our first Christmas back home after we moved to North Carolina.

The year we moved to North Carolina--1982--was a year of adventure for us. We fell in love with this beautiful state almost at once. But it was also a year of missing-you heartache--for us, and for our families in Michigan. Nowadays, most of our travel between the two states happens during the summer. But that first Christmas, there was no way we were not going home. I was working parttime, Meagan was in preschool and Greg was working hard and not making much money. I mention that only so you will understand when I tell you that, rather than buying a tree that year, he went into some woods on a neighbor's lot in the dark of night and chopped one down.

The day before Christmas Eve, we loaded the car after supper, planning to drive as far as we could get that night, and then continuing what was left of the 14-hour trip the next morning. After Meagan and I were in the car, Greg slipped back in and set up "Santa" under the tree to surprise Meagan when we got back. The only present I remember was a white stuffed kitten in a basket.

The weather was good, and our hearts were light as we drove through the mountains. I loved seeing the three white crosses that appeared from time to time on the side of a wooded slope. We're used to seeing them now, but they held a special meaning that night so close to Christmas.

Our time at home went by too fast. The happiness I felt at being reunited with the people I loved so much was almost too much to bear. Our hearts all started getting heavy as time to depart drew near.

As we loaded the car, Toby, our springer spaniel, decided to take one last dip in the pond. So we headed back to our new home with tears in our eyes and our noses full of wet dog. I'm not going to lie. That was a tough trip. We'd met some nice people--some we'd even call friends--but we knew that no one would really notice if we never returned. But of course we did, and life got better and better. We are very happy here now.

Remember that white kitten in a basket that I mentioned earlier? When we got home late at night and turned on the lights, it took a few minutes for us to realize that it was covered with little bugs. Apparently, they'd been nesting in the tree that Greg had cut down, and decided to come out and party all over Meagan's Christmas presents while we were away.

Three memorable Christmases. All Christmases are memorable, really. I hope everyone of you has memories that make you smile, even if they make you cry, and that you will always feel joy when you bring them out at Christmas.

Three Momentous Christmases--Part Two...

...The One Where I Had A Baby

My first child (the doctor guessed from the ultrasound that it was a boy, but said that if he was wrong, not to tell anyone) was due on December 2, 1977. She (sorry, Doc) didn't arrive until December 22. So much for my plans to have been in and out of the hospital, feeling fine, wrapping presents, baking cookies and going to parties, all while mothering a newborn. Christmas morning found me in the hospital recovering from a Cesarean. But I was so high on joy, I felt no pain. I was being treated like a queen because I had just given birth to a real live princess. (My delusions of royalty were, perhaps, fueled by the fact that my mother-in-law, Hilma, was head nurse in OB.)

Meagan will tell you that it's kind of bummer having a birthday so close to Christmas. I know what she means, but we've always tried to keep the two occasions separate. It wasn't what I had planned, but you know what they say--if you want to make God laugh, just tell him your plans. Now, of course, I can see that the way things happened were just exactly perfect. I love that my daughter's birthday falls during the busiest time of the year, amid all the planning and celebrating. It's a perfect excuse for me not to make birthday cakes. (Just to prove that point, I've actually made a few disastrous attempts. No one even asks anymore.) Merry Christmas and Merry Meagan!!

Three Momentous Christmases--Part One...

...The One Where Greg Asks Me To Marry Him (Or, as Greg would call it, "Thanks to Bev.")

Christmas 1972. We had been dating for almost two years, and I knew Greg was the one. I kind of knew he felt the same way. I dared to wonder if he might not think Christmas would be a good time to ask me to marry him. You know, merry...marry, and all. Deciding that that would be a great idea, I let my imagination play. I wondered how he'd ask. Would he take me someplace fancy, get down on his knee, maybe? Would he ask my dad for permission?

Then he started asking me to guess what he was giving me for Christmas. Hmmm. Clues? He said it was round. I knew it! I guessed "record album?" No. Not that. "Frisbee?" Nope. Guess again...I couldn't come up with a thing (wink, wink). I was happy with my little fantasies, but it was hard to wait.

One morning about a week before Christmas, Greg pulled up outside the trailer that was temporarily housing the savings and loan where I worked. He stuck his head in the door and asked if I could come outside for a minute. There were no customers, so Jane, the head teller, gave a nod. I think I knew what was coming down, but I couldn't figure out the awkward timing. There he stood in a tee-shirt and jeans, his jacket unzipped. I remember exactly how I felt, but I can't remember the words he said. He just told me that he had been planning to ask me to marry him, had bought a ring, and had showed it to Dave, my sister's boyfriend. Later, Dave told him that he had shared the information with Bev, but that she had promised not to tell. Greg, not sure that he could trust my sister with such enormous tidings, decided to hurry up and surprise me before it was too late.

That's how I came to be engaged, shivering outside a mobile home at the end of a parking lot on December 19, 1972. Oh--I said "Yes."

The Year My Dad Saved Christmas

It really 'twas night before Christmas, and the children actually were nestled all snug in their beds--well, all except for one. That would be me, the oldest of the bunch, and the lightest sleeper. Really, though, it's a wonder anyone could sleep with all the racket that was emanating from our kitchen that night. There was banging and yelling and words that were not part of any Christmas story I'd ever heard.

Once we'd said our good nights, had our drinks of water and marched up the stairs to the beat of Dad chanting, "To potty, to drink, to bed," we were not expected expected not to show our little faces again until daylight. Christmas Eve was no exception, although we were allowed a little leeway on what constituted "daylight" on Christmas morning.

But who could sleep with all those wonder-filled images spinning around in her head? Santa would soon be landing his reindeer-driven sleigh on the roof and, using his magical Santa powers, would slide down our chimney and pop into our living room, landing right in front of the tree--which this year had been lovingly spray-painted white by my mom. There, he would breathe life into all those sugarplum visions, gobble a few bites of cookie and take off again, performing the same miracle in every single house in the world!

I knew it was against the rules to spy, and that if I got caught doing so, that would be the end of Christmas as we knew it. But no one had said anything about staying awake to hear the magic. Except I was pretty sure that what I was hearing that Christmas Eve so long ago had nothing to do with magic. It sounded like someone--my dad--was in a lot of trouble, and needed my help. Or, at the very least, he needed me to poke my head in and see what was going on.

I tiptoed down the stairs and across the dining room without being seen by my mom, who must have been in their bedroom wrapping gifts or something. (If it had been me, there would have been wine, but that was not Mom's style.) I stood in the doorway for a moment, too stunned to even gasp at what to my wondering eyes did appear. There must have been some horrible accident involving a small house, some strollers and a large wooden box with a giraffe on it. My dad was stripped to his tee-shirt in the dead of winter in our drafty old farmhouse, holding a hammer over his head. To say he was startled by my "Hey, Dad, what's going on?" would be a dramatic understatement of the obvious.

Knowing now what I didn't know then, I can see what a vision of grace under pressure my dad was that night. I'm sure he wanted to direct some of those colorful words flying around the kitchen at me, telling me to get my butt straight back into bed. But he quickly assessed the situation, and directed them at Santa instead. The story went that the man in red had dropped in a little earlier, before he and Mom had had time to don their cap and kerchief respectively, and told Dad he was a little pinched for time, so would my dad please be a champ and put together some of the stuff for us kids himself. Dad was upset, to say the least, but I was not to worry. Everything would be fine in the morning. Then he put his arm around my shoulder and escorted me back to my bed, where I may or may not have actually slept.

I have never been able to forget the year my dad helped Santa and saved a little girl's magical visions of Christmas all in one night, without changing a single thing about the person he was--my hero.

Old Stuff--A Nativity Limerick

The year was 2000. Facebook and blogging were impossible to imagine. Email was new to me, and I thought it was a miracle. It allowed me to reach out and touch my entire family with offerings like this with just one click--send.

This story begins with young Mary
And an event that some would find scary.
An angel came bearing
News well worth sharing--
The Son of God she would carry!

Now Mary could have said "Leave!"
She could have chosen not to believe.
But instead, she consented--
Said she'd be contented.
The angel was greatly relieved.

He then hurried off to find Joe
So he'd be the second to know.
He said, "Don't be upset,
For you'd surely regret
Letting this young woman go."

So Joseph let go of his trouble
And the couple got hitched on the double.
Now they hadn't a car,
But they journeyed afar
And our Savior was born in a hovel.

Some more angels came on the scene.
By some shepherds they were actually seen;
And also some kings
Who had incense and things,
To whom they'd appeared in a dream.

So these folks followed after a star,
And they had to travel quite far.
Eventually they found
In Bethlehem Town
A stable with the front door ajar.

They quietly entered in awe,
And were deeply moved when they saw
The tiny young babe
Who had been born to save
Kings and shepherds and all.

Now that birthday so long, long ago
Still has meaning today, don't you know?
Because we were saved, too--
Yes, me--even you--
So thank God Mary didn't say no!

Thanks Given--Check

For morning sun washing the day with golden light--check.

For hot coffee enjoyed in bed while My Awesome Husband Greg took his morning run--check.

For birds singing when I opened the door to let the cat in--check.

For just enough time before company arrived to dust, set the table, shower and fix hair--check.

For Awesome Greg working his butt off in the kitchen prepping vegetables and getting out all the serving bowls. Also, Awesome Greg sweeping and vacuuming the entire house yesterday and standing in line at Honey Baked Ham (for ham) and J&S Cafeteria for pies--check, check and check.

For my brother, Mark deep-frying a turkey, and his wife, Kris, making stuffing and French onion casserole, then transporting their bounty--and their daughter, Tori, with her dog, Charlie--from Mocksville to join us--check.

For my daughter, Meagan, making mashed potatoes and green bean casserole and bringing her Joe and Charlie and Banjo and George to share the day--check.

For my son, Dominic, his girlfriend, Gigi (who made corn bread and mulled cider), and their friend, Rudy, being able to be part of our day--check.

For a new friend, Mark, and his son, Landon, bringing even more fun--and someone for Charlie to play with--check.

For my Gottliebs--Jason, Jordyn and Taylor--being with us because it wouldn't be the same without them--check.

And, finally, for Taylor sharing one of her most special gifts: Mashed Potato Man--check.

It has been another wonderful Thanksgiving, filled with people and food and fun. I miss those who weren't with us, but hope that they had a Thanksgiving that was as "all that" as ours was. I wish the same for all of my friends.

I have given thanks, and pray that I will continue, always, to be grateful for all that I have. Amen.

Oh, wait--I almost forgot! For plenty of wine, and at the end of the day, Charlie crowning me "The Queen of Disaster"--check.

Happy Thanksgiving every day!

Counting My Stressings

I have moments of deep appreciation every day, but this is the time of year when I become acutely aware of how much I have to be thankful for. It's also the time of year when my blessings become stressings.

I have so much. There is nothing that I need or want that I don't have. I know it is wrong to allow the busyness of this season make me crazy and impatient and rude, when there are so many who would give anything to have my "stressings." A goal that is ever before me is to become the kind of person who gets things done in proper order so she can then relax and feel grateful and loving and generous. That said, it seems like some things never change...

1. It is the Saturday before Thanksgiving. The house needs to be dusted and mopped and vacuumed and scrubbed, including the refrigerator and stove. Things need to be put in their proper places so that they can be found when they are needed on Thursday.

2. It is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and my brother is bringing a deep-fried turkey (for which I am especially grateful). A Honey Baked Ham has been ordered and everyone is bringing dishes to pass, but someone has to come up with a plan so that arrivals and serving times are coordinated. (Did I mention that our guest list includes three dogs?)

3. It is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and we need to be sure we know exactly how many people are coming, and that we have enough places for everyone to sit, and enough dishes and silverware for everyone to have their own place setting.

4. It is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and since I don't bake, pies--wonderful pies--need to be ordered from the cafeteria. Pumpkin, coconut, chocolate cream...

5. It is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and I have made a commitment to write a new post for this blog every day in November. It is a commitment I do not take lightly, and my obsessive nature will not let me miss a day. That is why I am here, the Saturday before Thanksgiving, typing a blog about all of the things I have to do before Thanksgiving.

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!