Mixed Blessings

2013 started out gray. 2012 ended the same way. For most of the last week the skies have been heavy, bloated, on the verge of crying. I know this feeling. I spent a good portion of last year feeling this way.

I don’t like to hear someone say “This day can’t be over soon enough!” or “I wish it was Friday already!”. Ask my son how many times he’s heard me say “Don’t wish your life away!”.

And yet, as I sit at my desk watching the first few drops of rain ping one leaf at a time on their way down, I am aware of a sense of relief that a new year has begun, that the old one is finished, and that we’ve careened past yet another milestone no more damaged than we were going in. And, I am grateful.

Thanksgiving was different; not bad, not difficult, just different. Christmas was different, too…a little sadder, and angry, but not in a fierce way. Angry in a wistful way. Wistful as in “Isn’t it a shame he chose not to be here?” Because, he did. Trey chose not to have Christmas with us. And we know how to do Christmas! We have great Christmases! I don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to be here…

There are lots of things I don’t understand.

I don’t understand why a general practitioner happily rewrites a middle-aged woman’s Zoloft prescription for months on end, but when that same woman suggests her adolescent son might also benefit from anti-depressants, he refuses without listening and looks at her as though she should be ashamed.

I don’t understand a therapist who, after several unsuccessful attempts at getting an obviously troubled teenager to open up, dismisses his mother with “You’re wasting your money and my time. Don’t bring him back until he’s willing to talk.”, or a high school counselor who, upon being alerted by a classmate that a student is cutting himself, shakes her head at the parent saying “We simply can’t have that here.”, as though mental illness is somehow catching and another kid will see his scars and think them cool and before you know it everyone is cutting.

Anyone who tells you mental illness carries no stigma never tried to get help for a disturbed child.

I do understand, though, the horror inherent in the realization that the weapon-wielding monster might have been my son and the ever-present fear that the next time he might not be pulled over before crossing the center line.

My son is dead but he didn’t take anyone with him. I understand that. And, I am grateful.

I am told that the black hole in my memory where last January and most of February used to be is normal. I likened the space to a blank chalkboard when describing it to my therapist who agreed that the missing chunk of time may, indeed, contribute to my feeling that every moment since is a do-over.

In one of those moments, several weeks after I began seeing her, I realized parts of me I hadn’t missed are back. My wounds are healing, as all wounds do, by reclamation. The “skin” has grown back, not as new skin but as a continuation of the old, only better, stronger, scarred and thus resilient. I like her, the woman I am becoming; the one I was before but newer, stronger, with a chance to be better.

That is his gift.

He always did that. He always brought me gifts. From the time he was very small, if he went outside, he came back in with pockets full of rocks and handfuls of dandelion heads. He was sure every rock was a gem. And they were. I kept them all.

At Thanksgiving last year he brought me bird’s nests to add to my collection. He frequently came across them in his work and saved them for me. Some were square, as though formed inside a box. Some were round and tiny. And one had parts of blue eggshell inside.

And he wrote me notes like the one I found a few weeks ago while cleaning out a file cabinet.

Thank you so much from all of us. Without you I/we would be nothing. In my whole 21 years you have never let me down. You are absolutely without question the best mom in the world. I love all you guys with all my heart.

Thank you.

Love, Trey

First Christmas

I shopped for weeks.

I cooked for days.

I spent hours wrapping gifts.

In quiet moments you came,

making every task a reminder of what we would miss

on this,

our first Christmas without you.

Warm Whispers

I have a thing for sleepwear. I like cotton nightgowns, silk nightshirts and girly pajamas. I own six bathrobes; one of them purported to be “The Softest Robe Ever”. It’s soft, alright. It’s also very fluffy, and putting it on makes me feel like a lavender-hued Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I hold on to it for those two or three days a year when the temperature dips so low that warmth trumps frump.

Two of my robes are girly. The silky peach one channels Hedy Lamarr. The sheer black one was an impulse purchase from a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. It has bright pink feathers at the collar and cuffs. I’ve never worn it. But you never know…

The red robe is short, made of cotton and features a very large dragon embroidered down the back. It’s one of my favorites. Depending on my mood while wearing it, I either feel like a prize fighter or a naughty Geisha.

The black one is heavy and hooded and used to belong to a man. It’s a Bill Blass. 1998 was a very good year.

The one I wear is flannel and plaid, tartan plaid, in blues and greens. I remember tearing open the Christmas wrap covering the box it came in, and looking around to see what my sisters’ robes looked like. For several years, since we all had married, my mother bought four of the same thing in different colors. One year it was sweaters. Mine was beige. Have you seen me? Well you can’t if I wear beige.

Blue and green are not my colors either. I’m more a red and black or, better yet, a turquoise and silver kind of girl. And plaid? Honey, please…

And yet, that’s the robe I wear. I take care to make sure it hangs on the outside of the hook so that in the morning, as I stumble out of my bedroom and into the bathroom, I can grab it without thinking.

This morning I noticed a hole…a slice really…in the back. The fabric around the slice was thin, very thin; thin enough to make me wonder if the slice wasn’t really a tear; a surrender to time. The discovery inspired me to inspect further. As it turns out, there are lots of holes, some of them bigger than others.

But, you would expect that in a 30 year old robe.

This morning, as I drew the robe around me, I felt her.

I imagined her hands on the robe, as she chose it, as she wrapped it, and the image comforted me.

“It’s going to be alright.”, Mom whispered. “You’ll be fine. He’s here with me, you know. Your boy is here with me.”

>Cookies for Breakfast

I just washed an entire load of pajamas. Just pajamas; flannel pants, t-shirts, and even one pair of actual pajamas, the old fashioned kind. They are black fleece and have polka dots. As my friend exclaimed when I unwrapped them, they are “me”.

That’s the kind of week it’s been, a pajamaed week; a week spent, for the most part, inside the flannel-lined cocoon that is my home. I’ve eaten cookies for breakfast. I’ve mastered most levels of my son’s new fishing game. Spear-fishing and bow-fishing are easy. It’s the rod-fishing that’s given me a little trouble.

I’ve watched hours and hours of college football between frequent, sometimes tiny, naps. I love the way that happens. The feeling creeps in like a cozy fog and I realize that if I close my eyes and tilt my head ever so slightly to one side, sleep will come. I’ve learned to embrace the feeling. And, I’m reaping benefits. Yesterday, the face that met me in the bathroom mirror was clearer, less lined, more relaxed, content.

We did go out on Tuesday. We had gift cards to redeem and Christmas money to spend. Shane bought a pair of Sperry Topsiders. Counting out seventy five dollars, he laid it on the counter taking great pains not to touch the hand of the clerk who congratulated him, repeatedly, for being a “good boy” and “saving” his money. I tried, once, to correct her.

“It’s Christmas money.”

She either didn’t hear me or didn’t care, and continued to voice her approval.

Of course, my son believes he and his friends practically invented Sperry Topsiders. He winced just slightly when the clerk called out his total, but I’m sure he would have paid whatever it cost. The only thing of which he was not certain was the color. You see, it’s very important that one’s Topsiders are the proper color. I started to tell him that when I wore them we favored the darker brown. I started to tell him I could show him a photograph that hadn’t even had time to fade. But I didn’t.

While we were out, I was delighted to discover that Sirius radio continues to play Christmas music right up until New Year’s Day. I don’t understand why our local station doesn’t do that. They begin playing carols a week before Thanksgiving when people are mainly just thinking about food, and if they are thinking about Christmas it’s because they’re hoping that this year the family will draw names. Then, at midnight on the day after Christmas, the carols end. Sometimes right in the middle of a song! Okay, so they might not change formats in the middle of a song but it is abrupt. And, it does come before I am ready. It’s good to know Sirius “gets” me.

I take vacation the week after Christmas. I do this for a number of reasons. I do this because Shane’s Dad takes vacation the week before. I do this because I enjoy watching college football. And, as I recently came to realize while sitting in a tub of warm water after an emotional day during which I almost cried while watching a car commercial, I do this because I don’t want my holiday to end in a pile of torn wrapping paper and dirty dishes. Especially this year, I don’t want Christmas to end.

I don’t want to go back out there. I don’t want to work, or pay bills, or worry about children, or plan meals, or work out, or clean the bathroom. I want to wear pajamas and eat cookies for breakfast. I’ve still got one level of that fishing game to conquer. I want to stay up as late as I like, secure in the knowledge that there will be more than enough time for a nap tomorrow.

But there won’t…

So, I will.

Daddy’s Girl

My father fathered four females.

I am the eldest.

“My name is Stacye, and I’m a Daddy’s Girl.”

Of course I am. We all are. We have a Daddy…we are girls. And, like all good southern girls, we actually call him “Daddy”.

Addressing him that way comes naturally. Admitting to it conjures images of Orson Welles, syrup dripping from the corners of Joanne Woodward’s unlined mouth, and a discomfort that smells like warm gardenias.

By now, you have an image. My blonde hair is long, as are my legs. My eyes are large, and probably blue. There’s a natural curve to my lips, which are carefully painted pink; never red. And, you would be right.

Except, the image is that of my sister, my baby sister to be exact; the one who still throws her limbs on either side of his recliner as she sprawls across his lap, the one that bakes for him, calls him daily, and houses him when he leaves the crystal sands of his beloved beach for important family events, such as his birthday, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

But I was there in the early days…

On Saturdays, we logged hours in his two-toned El Camino, driving around town doing errands. His “Honey-Do” list became our “Trip for Two” list, as we traversed suburban side-roads between the post office, hardware store, garden nursery, and occasionally, the local mechanic.

Mostly, we talked.

“Never forget who you are!” I especially loved that one. “You’re a Howell!”

He said as though it meant something. He said it as though mere mention of our name was enough to garner the respect of anyone within hearing distance. He said it so often that I believed it.

He told me stories of him and Joe Wiggins. It was always “Joe Wiggins”, never just “Joe”. Perhaps there was another Joe. I don’t know, he never said. But, he never mentioned his childhood friend without inserting his surname.

I remember the sun being particularly bright one Saturday afternoon. We’d probably just dropped my car off…again. The dilapidated shop occupied most of a block-long side road. They specialized in foreign “jobs”, such as Hondas, Toyotas, Datsuns, and Cortinas. They didn’t actually specialize in Cortinas. No one did. Because, no one east of the Atlantic drove one…except me.

“Why don’t you divorce her?’ My right hand swept blonde wisps from my face. The air conditioner in the El Camino had stopped working weeks ago.

“Because Howells don’t divorce.” He said it as though it were true. He said it as though he was raised by two loving parents instead of a crotchety grandmother who insisted he sweep their dirt floor each morning before mounting the newspaper-laden bicycle he later rode to school.

And I believed, because I didn’t know.

He taught me about cars. He didn’t change his own oil. He had “Eddie, The Mechanic” to do that. But, he taught me to change mine.

He lay under the car, while I leaned across the engine. We changed the oil, added water to the battery, and checked all the other fluids. When we were done; large, continent-shaped swatches of my flannel shirt were missing.

“Battery acid.”, he said while ordering me inside to change my shirt with just a look.

But I kept it. I kept the shirt. I even wore it a few times. Now, I’m sure it lies alongside my holey Peter Frampton t-shirt; the one I kept for almost twenty years before deciding that I really never would wear it again.

But I will…

Angels will sing, harps will play, and there I’ll be…Daddy’s Girl…wearing a holey flannel shirt over a faded Peter Frampton t-shirt.

“Do you feel like I do?”

Weighing Waiting Women

Women learn, from a very early age, to be good waiters.

The first thing I remember waiting for was my birthday. As the oldest of four girls, it was the only day of the year when the spotlight would be for me, and only me. Children came to a party for me. People bought presents for me. Mother baked a cake for me. Birthdays were always worth waiting for.

And then, of course, there was Christmas. True anticipation usually began about a week after Thanksgiving, when large, brown cartons were extracted from the attic and strewn haphazardly about the living room. It was mother’s job to string the lights, which meant more waiting for my sisters and I as we perched on the edge of a couch rarely sat upon, waiting for her signal to breach the boxes. Completion of decoration led only to more waiting. Twinkling, multi-colored lights reflected in our eyes as we “watched” the tree while imagining what hidden treasures lay underneath.

In a house with four girls and one bathroom, there is always a wait.

Soon after my sixteenth birthday, my father presented me with a reasonable facsimile of a car, featuring two seats on four wheels, and very little else. I soon realized it was the seating that concerned him most, and the words “Wait for your sister!” became the bane of my existence.

My sister, Laura, had one speed. A snail once challenged Laura to a foot race. The snail won. Most weekday mornings found me biding my time in an idling car with a blaring radio, for what seemed like hours, as Laura completed her toilette. Weeks of begging, and pleading, and screaming, and warning fell on immutably deaf ears. Finally, I cracked. Bidding her adieu with a foundation-jarring slam of the back door, I jammed the gear shift into reverse. All I remember of my return home is the anger in my mother’s eyes. The rest has been mercifully carved from my memory, but whatever the punishment, it was worth it!

The summer after my senior year in high school was spent waiting by the telephone. I met John, weeks before, while on a trip to Washington, DC with a youth group. When he called, it was to say he would be in Atlanta the following week. My excitement was tempered by the knowledge that I was scheduled to be in Destin on a family vacation. To her credit, my mother allowed me to make the decision. I remember very little of that week spent on the beach, besides a feeling of longing.

College graduation began the wait for my big move. My best friend and I had planned this day for years. Numerous shopping trips for linens, and dishes, and what passed as artwork, made the waiting easier. The experience of living together wasn’t the euphoria we knew it would be, and I gained a valuable life lesson. With the assistance of a good attorney, it only cost $400.00 to get out of the lease.

The only thing more difficult than waiting for the results of a pregnancy test is waiting for his reaction. Pregnancy is the ultimate exercise in waiting. I skipped waiting to discover the gender of my children. A long-ago forbidden foray into my parents’ closet, just before Christmas, had taught me that surprises are to be relished.

Pregnancy came naturally to me, as affirmed by the midwife who announced I had “childbearing hips”. For thirty-six months of my life I was a walking miracle, and I never forgot it.

I loved the quaint expression of being “with child”, and all that came with it. Pregnancy, of course, meant shopping in exclusive shops; exclusive as in those selling maternity clothes, nursing bras, baby furniture, bibs, pacifiers, and the genius that is the One-sie. My children were of the generation first introduced to this remarkable example of adorable efficiency. Thanks to the invention of the One-sie, babies no longer required trussing in order to get to the diaper; just four simple snaps, and you were in!

Mothering is synonymous with waiting. Waiting room carpet patterns are memorized, and it isn’t long before a tote bag filled with the necessities of waiting, takes up permanent residence on the back seat of a mother’s car. Mothers wait for hours in check-out lines accompanied by the wailing of an over-tired child; hers or someone else’s. Her first child’s first day of school is torturous for a mother who imagines, all day, trails of tears running down her child’s face when in reality it is her face that is wet. She can’t wait for her baby to come home.

Mothers think of clever ways to pass the time spent in carpool lanes, and later, outside movie theaters and shopping malls. Mothers wait outside dressing rooms until, curious, they grasp the doorknob, prompting the rebuke, “Not yet!”. Mothers wait, sometimes anxiously, for school to start as summer wanes, along with her children’s patience with one another.

As our children grow, waiting mixes with worry. I sat white-knuckled, at the front window, for the full fifteen minutes it took my son to drive around the block for the first time, alone. That was almost ten years ago. Yesterday, when he didn’t arrive within fifteen minutes of our agreed upon time, my face appeared again, at that window.

Even today, I am hard pressed to say which was more shocking, my mother’s announcement of her diagnosis with cancer, or her concurrent use of the word “shit”, as in “Pretty heavy shit, huh?”. On the day of her surgery, the sunny environment of the waiting room, walled floor-to-ceiling by glass, competed with the emotions of the large group of friends and family it housed. Having recently returned to school, I spent most of the day with a textbook. I turned pages filled with words I only appeared to read, until the entry into the room of a small group of green-clad men wearing serious expressions. Their words left no doubt as to the arduous journey ahead, and I would begin my night-time sojourns in the ICU waiting room within weeks.

My father didn’t want my mother left “alone”. He and one or more of my sisters spent the day at the hospital, never missing one of the fifteen minute intervals during which my mother was allowed visitors. Visits were not allowed after nine at night, so my brother-in-law and I took turns sleeping in the waiting room. For many months, waiting became a way of life, as my mother slowly healed.

Commuting lends itself to reflection. Commuting in the rain requires more careful attention, until rainy streets become the norm, and reflections resurface. Such was the case on Wednesday, when, as I rolled to a stop under a murky, red beacon, I realized I have unknowingly adopted a constant state of wait.

Last year was a year of unwanted, if not unexpected, consequences. Reminders of what proved to be an achingly short spate of purest joy, plague me, in the form of physical reminders with psychological presence. The realization that I have been waiting for a different outcome brought an ironic smile to my lips, and a reminder. Inherent in waiting is hope. And, with hope, all things are possible.

Oh, My Darlin’…

“You wait!” A familiar sneer leant my mother’s words an equally familiar tone of acridity. “You wait! You’ll wish you had this time back! Time moves faster the older you get. Why, at my age, a year goes by in a blink of an eye.”

As a kid, who had probably just bemoaned a yawning three week wait until Christmas, her admonition had no more effect than her frequent wishes for my future.

“I hope you have children, and I hope they cause you just as much trouble as you’ve caused me.”

As it turned out, she was right, on both counts.

I have heard the month of January described as meaningless after the hustle and bustle of a holiday season that now seems to span several months. There is, of course, an introspective aspect to January, coming as it does, after weeks of economic, gastronomic, and even alcoholic depravity.

New Year’s Day dawns on millions of hung-over, antacid-swilling Americans, who greet the day holding a television remote control. Football-filled hours pass in a semi-upright position, interrupted only by the odors of foods said to be infused with magic powers on this day, and this day only. More often than not, it is while we are pushing collard greens around the perimeter of our plate, that someone floats the topic of New Year’s resolutions. As we anticipate finally being able to access a beer without encountering a well-maintained eyebrow raised by the “time police”, we attempt to discern a recognizable image in the smattering of cornbread crumbs stuck in gravy remnants before answering.

And, no matter the answer, we finally manage to pull from the refuse that is our dinner plate, one thing is sure; by January thirty-first we will have forgotten it. This is the stuff of January.

Recently, though, I’ve discovered other reasons to mark January.

January is the month of the Clementine. In case you are not familiar with this delectable nugget of sugary citrus, a Clementine is cousin to the tangerine. A friend tried, for years, to sell me on their merits, but to my discerning eye they appeared nothing more than a miniature tangerine at twice the price. I couldn’t imagine anything about them being worth double the money…until my son tasted them.

Usually imported from Spain and neighboring regions, these tiny, orange morsels are sold almost exclusively in crates. This feature originally, prohibited me from buying them. This year, after tasting one provided by my friend, I decided to chance unloading a crate of citrus on a family usually partial to meatier fruits such as apples, pears, and melons. Within days, my son was urging me to return to the store for another crate, and when I tasted one, I understood why.

That was three crates ago, and on Saturday, I carefully placed one of the last three available into my grocery cart. Clementine season is winding down. We’re treating this crate as though it will be our last, because it just might be.

This weekend, I discovered another reason to mark the passing of January. My Christmas cacti, inaccurately named as they begin blooming just after Thanksgiving, are waning. I have, over the years, collected a virtual grove of cacti by taking advantage of post-holiday plant sales. At present I nurture eight, in varying shades. This year, for the first time, all of them bloomed.

My grandmother raised Christmas cacti, and I loved one of them, especially. It was at least two feet in diameter, and bloomed in a lovely, deep, shade of pink. Visits to her house were warm, due in part to her attention to the thermostat, but also because of our shared interests. She knew I loved plants, and she loved to share. Every time I visited, she pinched off shoots of any plant I admired, urging me to root them. And, I did.

Today, my largest Christmas cactus, started as an offshoot of the one I so admired, measures over two feet in diameter. She is old. There are unattractive striations upon her leaves, and yet she blooms, gloriously, year after year. When others tease, putting out buds that never come to full fruition before the foliage shrivels; she blooms, and blooms, and blooms. I fertilize her, in warmer months. I water her, judiciously at first, until the buds begin to squeeze from her succulent fronds, whereupon I strengthen her by plying her with liquid. And she responds to my ministrations, year after year, after year.

Withered blooms fell into my watering can yesterday. The show is nearly over. As I looked around the sunroom, I enjoyed, possibly for the last time, each and every bloom; bright pink, salmon red, and white, with just a trace of pink lining each petal.

And I marked January, wondering where the time had gone.

“Tryin’ To Get The Feelin’, Again”

I love Christmas.
I love the music, the colors, the lights, the smells, the sparkle.
I love children at Christmas; especially young children, who still carry the magic, and spread it, through the light that shines in their eyes on Christmas morning.
I love wrapping paper. One year, when I was greener than I am now, and much poorer, I fashioned wrapping paper from brown paper grocery bags, and a couple of potatoes carved into stamps. The result, when tied with red and green dyed raffia, was rustic and charming. Now, as I rifle through shelves of shiny pre-printed rolls, I prefer a thick, shiny paper that creases easily into nice sharp edges, as it covers a box.
I love Christmas baking. I do a lot of it, not just for our family, but also to give to friends, as gifts. To insure a reasonable amount of freshness, I usually start the evening of the twenty-first. Each night until the twenty-forth I cook three or four different decadent treats; storing them in canisters with sheets of waxed paper between each layer. No one is allowed to sample the goodies until our family get-together on Christmas Eve. And, I love Christmas Eve.

When my older children were very young, they complained, loudly, about the unfairness of their father and me attending holiday parties to which children were not invited. From their perch on the babysitter’s lap, they watched longingly as we left on a wave of sparkling holiday elegance. And, next morning, they plied me with questions about what we did at the party, and what kind of food was served. The actual event could, in no way, match their vivid imaginations; and I would occasionally embellish my story, as I passed out the treats I had secreted inside a gaily colored paper napkin, the night before.
I don’t remember exactly when, but at some point, I began throwing parties on Christmas Eve for my children; not children’s parties, but parties much like the ones their father and I attended, complete with real hors d’oeuvres and pretty beverages, minus the alcohol. They ate their food from Christmas china on tables covered with seasonal linens, and the candlelight danced in accompaniment to Christmas music which filled the background, softly. Most years saw several friends in attendance, as well, and, while I still brought goodies home, my children never again complained when we went to a party.
The tradition continues today. I began baking, grateful for my daughter’s help. And, when the M&M cookies refused to flatten, leaving me with something more in keeping with an M&M biscuit, it was nice to have someone to laugh with.

Christmas, this year, was a struggle. As Thanksgiving passed, I sought out the radio station playing non-stop Christmas music, and, as I always do, saved it in my presets. In years past, I listened every day to and from work. This year, I tuned my dial to this station just twice, when my son and I were out, Christmas shopping. All the songs sounded the same. There was nothing new; nothing interesting. My commute was fueled, instead, by a favorite CD or Sirius.
Most of my shopping was done online. This is nothing new, though, my approach to it was. I didn’t so much shop, as purchase, having decided on my gifts, in a very matter-of-fact way, much earlier. This proved very efficient, but much less enjoyable. In years past, as the boxes arrived, I took much pleasure from slicing them open to view what was inside. This year, the boxes remained sealed until time came to wrap them.
The day after Thanksgiving is always set aside for Christmas decorating. This year I hung the last wreath three days later. The crèche never made it out of the box, and the garland that usually drapes the fence lay, unlit, on top of a box in my garage.

I strapped on my apron on the December twenty-second, and made all our favorites, but much less of them.
Our Christmas Eve party started, as always, as 6:00 pm. In years past, as the evening wore on, I found myself tired, and looking forward to clean-up, and bed. This year, the house was quiet by 8:00, and I ended the evening with a movie on pay-per-view.
A couple of weeks ago, as I sat alone in my office, I thought about my struggle to feel Christmas. After several minutes of soul searching, I finally decided that the culprit was my commitment to frugality, in deference to a fragile economy. My decision to reign in my expenses had taken all the fun out of the holiday. Choosing Christmas gifts had become a question of money, rather than the receiver’s delight. Holiday cooking became a chore to be completed, rather than an experiment of gastronomic pleasure. My lack of spirit was evidenced by decorations that never left their boxes.
My husband, and I, used to argue about when to take down the decorations. I felt they added sparkle to New Year’s celebrations. He subscribed to an old adage, holding that Christmas decorations, lasting until the New Year, brought bad luck. We quibbled for years, and usually got them down just before the ball began to drop.
Today is December twenty-eighth, and my house is free of Christmas debris. For whatever reason, the spirit never quite arrived, and the remnants of it were just a reminder of what never was. I am not happy in the realization that money has come to play such a large part in my enjoyment of the holiday, and hope to change that in the coming year. I’ll start by saving brown paper grocery bags…

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Six-Blessings

One Christmas, a few years ago, I completed my shopping, online, with several spirit-filled weeks to spare. Since discovering the ease, convenience, and seemingly endless choices available from the comfort of a chair that has memorized the precise dimensions of my oft-perched ass, I never looked back.
The requisite shipping deadlines, too, work to my advantage. Knowing there are only “five days left to order in time for Christmas delivery” forces me out of my usual procrastination, and while I don’t always match my inaugural performance, I have yet to fall into my former mall-inspired pattern of waiting until the very last minute.
This year, it was with no small measure of satisfaction that I clicked the “confirm order” button for the last time two weeks ago, secure in the knowledge that the few, small, miscellaneous items still needed could be purchased locally at a small store free of jostling shoppers, long lines, and the need to invoke “The Secret” in order to obtain a parking space less than a mile from the entrance.
Several days ago, during a lull in workday activity, I sat in front of a different computer monitor, eager to take advantage of another handy online tool. Tracking my purchases not only assures that I have, indeed, met the deadline, but it also provides me with an exact arrival date, allowing me to game-plan the sport of hide-and-seek my delivery man delights in playing.
All but one of my purchases had been shipped, and, to my horror, the approximate delivery date of the errant package flashed in holly-adorned graphics: “For arrival after December 25th.” After several hours spent in impotent outrageous indignation, I returned to the site, cancelled the order, and resigned myself to the reality of jostling shoppers, long lines at the check-out, and a rare winter-time opportunity to break out my hikers. I strengthened my resolve by inviting my son to go along, while reminding both of us that he, too, had some shopping to do.

Lists in hand, we set out early, determined to complete the task well before his 1:00 tip-off. Careful planning set our route, and we finished with an hour to spare, thanks to several very helpful salespeople. We sat down to lunch at my son’s favorite hamburger joint, where the portions are so big that neither of us could finish.
As was his usual custom, Shane had shed his coat much earlier in the day, encouraging his rush towards the car ahead of me in an effort to escape December winds. I aimed my key fob and clicked the locks open. A young girl with dulce-de-leche skin approached in my periphery. She held a cardboard box underneath her needy expression.

“Ma’am?” Her voice was soft, hesitant; prepared for refusal.
Shane, his hand already lifting the door handle, stopped, and turned.
I looked down at the girl, giving her permission to launch a whispery, mostly unintelligible pitch. My hand went to the wallet stashed in the back pocket of my jeans on finally deciphering nine words of what proved to be a rather lengthy, possibly practiced, speech.
“….so we can buy some presents for my Mom.” Her facial expression never changed.
I handed her a five dollar bill, and selected two plastic-beaded key chains from her boxed collection. Her hand folded the money while heading towards her pocket before she stopped and asked, more clearly this time, “Do I owe you any change?”
Somehow, the values spoken by her words assured me I had done the right thing.
“No, honey. Merry Christmas!”
I barely heard her wispy “Thank you.”, as she disappeared behind another car.
“Who was that, Mom?” Burgeoning masculinity laced Shane’s voice with protectionism.
“I don’t know honey…a girl trying to earn money to buy gifts for her parents.” I answered, distractedly, as we slid onto our seats.
“But, how do you know?” His skepticism surprised me. I stopped and considered my answer.
“You know? I don’t. But, sometimes you just have to trust your instincts. In this case, she was offering something for sale, and I chose to buy it; whether that be a hand-made key ring, or hope that my contribution may brighten another family’s holiday, does it really matter?”
Shane thought in silence.
“We can’t control what others do with the gifts we give them. All we are responsible for is the spirit in which we give.”
As our seatbelts clicked into place, his silence continued, even as my blessing doubled.

Oh, Christmas Tree!

Large, multi-colored lights, strung around the perimeter of the lot, winked at us for the last mile of the ride. My sisters and I occupied both rear seats, the one facing forward, and the one facing backward, in the woody “Vista Cruiser” station wagon my mother usually piloted. On this night, as on any occasion on which my father accompanied us, she rode the passenger seat.

For many years, our girlish chests swelled as we glimpsed the large, blue and white, wooden sign announcing our arrival at “Big John’s Christmas Trees”. The only “Big John” we knew, was my father, also known as “Mistah John” and “Mistah Howl”. He allowed us our sin of pride until we were old enough to know better.

As we disembarked the Buick, clay dust rose from the bottoms of our sneakers as we raced to be the first to breach the string of lights; and the search was on.

A plumbed line of Frasier firs stretched in either direction, as far as our young eyes could see, tethered at the top with a piece of simple cotton string. Each tree stood separate, tall, and full, allowing my father to reach inside and give the trunk a turn, as my mother stood apart; arms crossed, eyes squinting. A simple wave of her hand signaled my father to turn again, and wait, while she searched for “holes”. With her “No…” we moved to the next row. In the meantime, calls of “Here! Over here!” rang out from all corners of the lot.

After mounting the carefully chosen tree in the rickety metal stand, my father left us to complete the task. My mother took her job of lighting the tree very seriously, employing a step-stool to clip bulbs to the tallest branches. When she was done, she assumed a familiar stance; arms crossed, eyes squinting, looking for “holes”, until, satisfied, she dragged large, worn, brown paper boxes into the middle of the floor signaling it was time to hang the ornaments.

“Ohh, look at this one!”

“I made this!”

“No! I made that in kindergarten, I remember! Didn’t I Mom? I made that in kindergarten, remember?”

For the next couple of weeks, I spent countless hours on a living room couch that still carried the scent of the furniture store from which it was purchased. I laid and “watched” the tree…and dreamed.

“Mom!” The word was accompanied by a tug on the end of the shirt that was hard-wired to my heart.

“Mom! When can we get a tree?”

Shrugging on my coat, I felt inside the pockets, assuring my gloves were still where I left them, and I saw dust rising under my sneakers.

Horror diverted my attention as my oldest son entered the room, wielding a small, yet toothy, saw. Reaching to retrieve it, I sent him to get his coat.

Covered, from head to toe in an assortment of colorful, warming fibers, we began our trek. The woods behind our little farmhouse offered an assortment of acceptable firs. One year we found a perfectly shaped, five-foot scotch pine. The next, we settled for a scraggly cedar. And, then there was the year of the table tree; as we decorated, Snoopy played piano inside my head.

For the last ten years, the day after Thanksgiving has been set aside for Christmas decorating.

We roll to a stop in a parking place in front of a big-box hardware store that offers trimming and bagging at no extra charge. Tying our jackets about our waists, we head towards a pile of meshed Frasier firs in our shirt-sleeves. We stand them. We twirl them. We look for “holes”, with eyes wide open. The orange-aproned employee mounts our selection atop my car, securing it with bungee cord I provide.

A single-construction plastic stand screws on in minutes, and the tree is placed in front of the living room window. Carols, old and new, flow from wall mounted speakers as we begin decorating. Twenty minutes, and two boxes of ornaments later, the sound of a video game wafts in from the next room, and I realize I am hanging ornaments, alone.

And I remember; “Big John’s”, squinting eyes, sibling rivalry, “watching” the tree, tugging children, toothy saws, table trees, and Snoopy’s music.