Small Things

There's a part of me (that organized, predictable, and yes, anal-retentive part) that wishes I'd begun this blog on January 1 of this year.  For one thing, I'd be done after this post.  But more importantly, it would all be so perfect, you know, to be able to say, "I wrote a blog post every single day in 2014" or something like that.  Alas, Matthew didn't send me the Billy Collins poem that begat this blog until later in the month, so I will be continuing until January 24.  So keep tuning in.  Please?

Despite all of that, I am, of course, somewhat reflective on this year of 2014, which will be over in a few hours.  I cannot dismiss the highlights of the year:  my youngest child's college graduation, seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland, my wandering daughter's return from a year in Australia, my northern California road trip, visiting my oldest daughter in Florida, winning Dirt magazine's "Most Creative Garden" award.  These are all good things, and recalling them allows me to feel pretty good about the year.  In fact, I'm feeling a bit guilty about having complained about anything along the way, which I know I've done.

But I am more reflective on the small things.  Writing this blog has compelled me to pay attention to things I might have ignored:  animal tracks in the snow, laundry on a clothesline, dragonflies, the various slants of sunlight, the phases of the moon.  I have paid closer attention to the uniqueness of the flowers that have enhanced my summer life:  crocus, daffodil, myrtle, forsythia, ajuga, lady's mantle, columbine, rhododendron, primrose, tiger lily, morning glory, echinacea, black-eyed Susan, sunflower, clematis, foxglove.  (Don't those very names sound beautiful?)  I have written my way through acceptance of the death of my cat.  I have celebrated covered bridges, icicles, sagebrush, garlic scapes, the Viking Spirit, coastlines, and the dirt beneath my nails.

My life is far from perfect.  But in reflection, I can be thankful for all the things, both big and small, that are allowing me to bid farewell to 2014 with a grateful heart and a reason to continue.

And for those of you that followed along, thank you.

Putting It Away

I tried very hard to wait until January 1, but I couldn't.  I put it all away today.  (When my kids were little, the day to put it away was January 6, The Feast of the Epiphany and the twelfth day of Christmas.)

What is "it" then?  Christmas, of course.  Today I took down the tree and the wreath, the stockings and the Santa Clauses, the elves and the snowpeople, the skates and the bells, the pine boughs and the lights, the glitter and the gold.  I will admit, it's all sitting on the floor of my bedroom, waiting to be put in the right boxes and stored in the attic.  But it's out of the living room and dining room and kitchen.  Like it never happened.

Okay, I'm not being a Grinch here.  If I was truly a Grinch, I would never have gotten it all out in the first place.  But I do find some satisfaction in being done with it, in putting it away.  It's like the last day of school in June.  It was a good run, but there is joy in putting it away until September.

So now there is this facade of normal.  My living room, though comfortable enough in appearance, is not artificially decked out in pinecones and scented candles.  The Christmas china has been replaced by winter white plates.  And my mantle is now devoid of elves.  Thank god.

Perhaps my eagerness in putting it away has more to do with my eagerness to move on.  I am ready.  For what, I'm not sure.  But there is great promise in bidding farewell to what is past and anticipating . . . with a degree of excitement, yes . . . what is to come. 

More on that tomorrow.  For tonight, I am in love with putting it away.

Oregano

I am old enough to remember a time when a shady drug dealer might sell you a nickel bag of oregano and be long gone before you discovered his deception.  Other than that misuse of the herb, I have always been a fan.  In fact, I've had a bed of oregano in my perennial herb garden for many years.  I like that I can always count on it to advance wild and crazy as the summer lengthens.  I feel a twinge of guilt when I have to cut it back, thinking that I should be giving the springs of herbal essence away to passersby.  It's just that, where I live, I never have any passersby.

Other than using it in tomato sauce and on pizza, oregano is my herb of choice to blend in with olive oil on cut-up veggies that I am preparing to roast.  Such was the case today, after I'd cut up peppers, mushrooms, broccoli, tomatoes, Brussels sprouts, red onion, and carrots.  A look in the pantry reminded me of what I'd forgotten to put on my grocery list.  There was no oregano.

Now I know I just told you that I grow my own.  But you see, I just never seem to remember to hang some sprigs to dry in a cool, dark place before the frost comes to claim my herb garden.  My bad.

Cursing my lack of foresight, I tore the pantry apart, searching for a small lost bottle of oregano magic.  And then I spied a container that I'd forgotten about.  Inside were tiny packets of spices, remnants from some convenience package that promised you a home-cooked meal with everything included.  Right down to the spices.  And there it was:  a tiny, one-square-inch cellophane box of oregano.

I lovingly sprinkled it onto the mound of oiled veggies in the bowl, then spread the mixture on a parchment paper lined baking sheet.  They are ready to go into the oven now.  And I am saved.

Will I remember to harvest my oregano next autumn?  We'll see.  Meanwhile, I am writing oregano on my grocery list.  Because if you don't have oregano, where is the love?

Fathers

My girls and I went to NYC today to see Sting's musical The Last Ship.  I'm not sure what I was expecting, but what I got well exceeded my expectations.  This was a brilliant show.  (IMHO, of course.)  The talented cast, the set, the choreography, the story, the songs . . . all extremely well done.  The fact that Sting was IN the show was also a nice touch.  I first saw Sting 34 years ago; I saw him in his white overalls in a few concerts by The Police.  And then I saw him several times after that as just Sting.  But it was certainly nice to see him again.  Yes, it's always nice to see Sting.

The story behind The Last Ship is a story of fathers and sons.  And it's a painful story.  Admittedly, I was skeptical about how the father/son issues would be resolved in the second act.  And I was prepared to pounce if there was a happily-ever-after ending to an impossible-to-rectify conflict.

Basically, the plot involves a boy and a girl in love.  Boy runs away from his abusive father to go to sea, but promises the girl he will come back for her.  And he does.  Fifteen years later.  At which point, she has a 15-year old son and a man who has long loved her and her son.  Which "father" does the son choose?

Clearly, I was championing the "father" who'd been there to raise the boy.  I was taken completely off guard by my tears during the scene where the returning son goes to his father's grave to scream his rage, and instead, utters these words (from the song Ghost Story):

The moon's a fingernail and slowly sinking
Another day begins and now I'm thinking
That this indifference was my invention
When everything I did sought your attention

You were my compass star
You were my measure
You were a pirate's map
A buried treasure

If this was all correct
The last thing I'd expect
The prosecution rests
It's time that I confess: I must have loved you 

Those last words, I must have loved you, resonated so strongly inside me.  Without going into detail, I was one of those wounded birds who, for most of my life, felt that my father just didn't love me.  His early death when I was 22 allowed me to make him somewhat marginal in my memory.  Did he love me?  I don't have the answer to that question.  But in that moment on stage today, I realized that it doesn't matter so much whether or not he loved me.  What matters is that I must have loved him.

I cannot articulate this cathartic moment.  All I can tell you is that tonight, I am in love with the love that I had . . . or have . . . for my father.

Thank you, Gordon Sumner.

Hundreds of Ways

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.  ~ Rumi

That has long been one of my favorite quotes. But I already wrote about that last month, didn't I?  Well, maybe Conor Oberst was reading my mind or my blog, because he has a new song titled Hundreds of Ways.  Actually, he was probably reading Rumi.

Anyway, the song is in my head.  The lyrics (at least the chorus) are rather simple:

There are hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of ways 

To get through the day 

Just find one 

Concerned about me, my daughter asked me today what I plan to do in January.  She will be returning to Florida next week, and she knows how much I dislike winter here in the Northeast. She wanted to be sure that I had some project in mind to get me through a month of likely snow and sub-zero temperatures before I visit her in February.

"I'll probably be shoveling snow," I deadpanned.  

The truth is, I don't have a particular project in mind, but I'm not concerned about that.  I'll come up with something.  I'll come up with several things.  Because it's true:  there are hundreds of ways to get through the day.  And each day, I just need to find one.

So I'll read, I'll craft, I'll write poetry, I'll binge-watch a series on Netflix, I'll refinish a piece of furniture, I'll purge closets and drawers of outdated stuff, I'll catch mice, I'll make soup, I'll do a jigsaw puzzle, I'll start a novel, I'll write letters, I'll take out the garbage, I'll build a snowman, I'll ice skate, I'll try to sell stuff on ebay, I'll watch the birds at the feeder, I'll try to make some new friends.

Wow.  The word I'll starts to look really weird after awhile, doesn't it?

There are hundreds of ways to fall in love.  This is one.

Boxing Day

As if Christmas weren't enough, the day after is a celebration in and of itself, depending on where you live.  You've probably heard of Boxing Day, but maybe you didn't know what it was.  In some countries, it's a practice whereby workers in the service industries are given boxes of gifts from those they've served.  But some churches also honor Boxing Day by taking donations from parishioners and then breaking open the box of cash on December 26 and doling it out to the poor.  In South Africa, the day was officially named Day of Goodwill a couple of decades ago.  In Ireland, the day is known as Day of the Wren and many Catholics celebrate the day as St. Stephen's Day.  Get out your old book of Christmas carols and sing along to Good King Wenceslas to get a better idea of that one.  In many European countries, the day is called Second Christmas Day and seems to refer to all the sales and gift returns/exchanges that happen on the day after Christmas.

And just in case that's not enough celebration for you, the day marks the beginning of Kwanzaa.

And I thought we were done!

Being in a state of relief that I survived another Christmas, I was unsure what to fall in love with today.  But Boxing Day seems to have the right idea.  After all the excesses of Christmas, beginning on the Thanksgiving Shopping Day and its twin, Black Friday, we could use a day which is dedicated to those less fortunate.  I think I will use this day to write out my annual checks to selected non-profits and organizations that do good work.

So Happy Boxing Day to you!

The Rest of Us

I love seeing the Facebook posts by friends this time of year:  their lit Christmas trees, gathering of relatives, children tearing open wrapped presents, Santa hats on the pets, elves on the shelves, etc.  It's all very jolly.

And then there are the rest of us.

At no other time of the year are we as challenged to be happy.  (The fact that this occurs during the darkest time of the year is no accident.)  Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Joyous Noel.  I have been known to request that people have a Moderately Content Day, but the pressure is on to be merry, happy, joyful . . . and to count our blessings by the number of people gathered around our dinner table or the number of gifts under our tree.

In my house this year, we numbered three.  And while we love one another dearly, we certainly did not live up to the quintessential Christmas family gathering.  There was no roast ham or turkey baking in the oven, the fact that two-and-a-half of us are vegetarians notwithstanding.  What did I make for Christmas dinner?  I made reservations.

Before you judge, this was definitely the first time I've done this, and most likely the last.  It seemed like a good idea, a way to take the sting out of my son not being home for Christmas.  So off we went, to an upscale restaurant which a friend had told me would be beautifully decorated and very festive and also, on the expensive side.  Whatever.  I was prepared to pull out the credit card if it meant not having to cook.

I cannot attest to the beautifully decorated part, as we were seated on the stage of the bar area.  Not a decoration in sight.  I was seated against an uninsulated window and stared at a giant MOONSHINE sign.  I decided not to be the squeaky wheel, suck it up, and enjoy a dinner.

There was not a single vegetarian option on the menu.  But I'd been told that I could tweak anything on the menu and the chefs would oblige.  So I ordered a "vegetarian plate" which, I was told, consisted of vegetables piled onto red quinoa.  Now, I know I could pull that off in my own kitchen and it would be to die for, but what I got was so bland, I couldn't even taste the vegetables.  At $18 for some grain and sorry vegetables, I ate it all.  (My half-vegetarian daughter's sea bass was twice that.)  Paid the bill, left a good tip.

And then I fell.  Not in love.  I fell stepping off the stage.  My foot hurt quite a bit, so I made sure to file a report at the front desk in case I wake up at 3:00 a.m. with a swollen foot.

Today, I am falling in love with the rest of us, the ones who do not have legions of relatives that gather for holiday cheer at some unfortunate soul's home.  The ones who can count on one hand the number of people who give us gifts (or on whom we bestow gifts).  I am in love with those who do not celebrate Christmas but have to endure the onslaught of advertising, unsolicited greetings, and general upheaval that this season brings.  I am in love with the lonely, the sad, the sorry.

Clearly, those are the ones who need our love the most.  For what it's worth, you have mine.

Munchie Dinner

Have you ever been at a party or a reception where the appetizers were so good, you'd rather pig out on them than sit down for a meal?  But instead, you nibble sparingly in order not to ruin your appetite for the main feast?

Well, nuts to that.  Although I don't remember how it started, for many, many years, our family has had a Christmas Eve tradition we call Munchie Dinner.  Although the offerings have changed over the years to account for different tastes and preferences, some things remain the same.  Of course there's always cheese and crackers and veggies and dip, but the main dish, the one we could never do without, is the breaded and sauteed artichoke hearts.  This was an appetizer that my grandmother always prepared, and then my mother, and now me.  And I think Jenna is ready to take over the assignment.

When the kids were little, they loved the idea of eating in the living room in front of the fire, nibbling from an assortment of plates overcrowding the coffee table.  It was at this time, too, that we would open our gifts to one another so as not to get them confused with Santa's gifts the next morning.

It was our tradition.

Tonight, there were only three of us to carry on the tradition.  Pete is gone twelve years now, my mother four, and Sam is in California.  So the girls and I munched and drank and laughed and cried and opened our presents.  We talked to Sam on speakerphone, and for a moment, it seemed like he was in the room with us.

I hope that one day, there will be more people crowded around the coffee table on Christmas Eve.  But whether two or twelve, there will always be the artichoke hearts.   And the love in our hearts, too.

Schlumbergera

Ha!  You don't know what Schlumbergara is, do you?  If you're wondering what I fell in love with today, let me tell you by its better-known name.  Christmas cactus.  You know what that is.

My Christmas cactus was given to me a dozen years ago by a friend/neighbor down the street.  It was on the occasion of my husband's death.  I have managed to keep the plant alive all these years, although there was the one summer when I innocently put it outside, thinking it would enjoy the warm sun.  I very nearly killed it.  And it still isn't back to where it was before I tried to roast it.

I have seen pictures of friends' Christmas cactuses.  There are dozens of blooms on them.  I'm lucky if mine puts out three.  Right now, today, the day I decided to fall in love, my Christmas cactus has a total of two flowers.  There is no evidence of more to come.

There they are.  You can see why I am in love with them.

Think about it.  If my sorry Christmas cactus was full of dozens of flowers, would I be able to fall in love?  Try to remember Antoine de Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince.  On his journey away from home, the Little Prince discovers that he loves the rose he left behind very deeply, despite her vanity and demands.  When he comes upon a rose garden, full of flowers just like his, he is sad, because his rose told him that she was the only one of her kind.  But what he learns is that love makes a person responsible for the beings that one loves.The Little Prince loves his rose and is responsible for her.  Shortly thereafter, he returns to his planet, and presumably, his rose.

I am responsible for those I love.  Today, I will count among them the two flowers that have exuberantly shown themselves to me two days before Christmas.  And I'm going to water them right now.

Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Other than his iconic performance at Woodstock, mesmerizingly captured on film, I cannot think of Joe Cocker without placing myself in my college dorm in the fall of 1970, listening over and over again to my vinyl copy of Mad Dogs & Englishmen.  Even without video to watch his unique delivery, his voice and his mastery of what it means to sing the blues compelled me to ignore the rest of my vinyl collection in favor of being serenaded by Joe Cocker, every day and every night.  I may have ignored my textbooks as well.

Joe Cocker died today, so the airwaves, newsfeeds, and memory banks are full of all things J.C.  And I can't think of a better way to spend this second day of winter as we begin waiting patiently for the sunsets to come later.  Joe is summertime, immortalized by the summer sweat shaking off his unruly mane on the stage at Max Yasgur's farm.  I visited Bethel Woods recently, taking out-of-town guests to my favorite museum there.  As part of the museum visit, one watches an excellent film of the festival, and Joe is one of the featured performers in that film.  His performance is captivating, from his pigeon-toed stance to his arched back to his flittering fingertips to his odd little tongue thrust.  He personified the word passion.  And in his own unique way.

Pop performers are gimmicky these days, whether it's in their choice of costumes, their odd make-up and hairstyles, or their sexy dance moves (see twerking).  But Joe Cocker was the real thing.  The music informed his body language, a natural expression of what he was feeling when he sang.  The song and the movement became one and the same.  The proof of that is in the fact that you can listen to him sing without watching him perform and still feel the performance.  And in 1970, when there was no youtube, no music video library, no way to watch a performance other than a rare performance on The Ed Sullivan Show, we knew this was true.

Don't rest in peace, Joe.  Perform for the angels like it's 1969.  And if you need a back-up band, I'm sure you can get by with a little help from your friends.

Winter Solstice

I have long preferred the quiet of the Winter Solstice to the noise and chatter of Christmas.  Although the two occasions have for centuries been intertwined and sometimes indistinguishable from one another, I like to consider them separately.

Years ago, and for several years running, dear friends Jim and Lois celebrated the solstice with Pete and me.  It all began one December when we met for dinner on what happened to be the date of the Winter Solstice.  Having enjoyed such a good time, we determined that we should do it again.  Mindful of how often we plan on doing things and then somehow forget to follow through, we vowed to again meet for dinner on the Summer Solstice.  As Jim said that night, "Well, that's the long and the short of it."  And so began our tradition.

Jim and Lois were in charge of Winter Solstice, which meant that they had to pick the place, make the arrangements, and pick up the check.  Pete and I did the same for Summer Solstice.  For the several years that we enjoyed this tradition, we were always raising the bar.  Although we began with dinners at local restaurants, our adventures eventually led to an overnight at an inn in Vermont one June and a limousine ride to NYC to see the Paul Winter Consort at St. John's Cathedral one December.  Had Pete survived, I suppose we might now be celebrating on a beach in Hawaii or seeing the Northern Lights in Finland.

When I was teaching, I engaged my Creative Writing classes in a poetic celebration of the Solstice.  There was music, food, poetry, and good will.  I remember one year giving them pieces of obsidian I'd gathered in Santa Fe.  We held our stones above our heads and stared into the mystical light that shone within.  It was all pagan and new-agey and really, really nice.

The word solstice itself comes from the Latin sol stetit, literally "sun stands still," which recognizes that for approximately six days in June and again in December, the sun appears to rise and set at more or less the same point on the horizon, appearing to stand still in the sky.  For the people of the old world, the solstices effectively divide the year in two, a dark half and a light half; six months of waxing sun and six months of waning.  The points where intersection occur . . . have always been recognized as mysterious, shadowy, uncertain times, when the conviction that the sun would return becomes doubtful, and when the gates between worlds stand ajar.  At these times the coming and going of other-worldly beings, communications between the dead and the living, happen all the more easily . . . 


I will testify that, beginning yesterday, coincidence has been more apparent in my daily activities, and my dreaming has seemed somewhat prophetic.  I choose to believe that those gates are indeed ajar, and I am paying close attention to what wisdom I can gather from the light and the darkness.

And if all of that sounds like phony-baloney to you, look at it this way:  from this point on, the days will be getting longer.  How can you not be in love with that?

A Dozen

Information taken from Wikipedia:

A dozen  is a grouping of twelve. The dozen may be one of the earliest primitive groupings, perhaps because there are approximately a dozen cycles of the moon or months in a cycle of the sun or year. Twelve is convenient because it has more divisors than other small numbers: 12 = 2 × 6 = 3 × 4 = 1 × 12. The use of twelve as a base number, known as the duodecimal system (also as dozenal), probably originated in Mesopotamia. This could come from counting on one's fingers by counting each finger bone with one's thumb. Using this method, one hand can count to twelve, and two hands can count to 144. 

Okay, I'm still trying to figure out that last part.  (With two hands, I get 24.  What am I missing here?  Besides 120 bones?)

I have often considered our obsession with Base 10 to be limiting, especially in regard to the way we refer to the past.  "The Sixties" does not accurately sum up a period of time culturally, musically, politically, or otherwise.  I know.  I came of age in that decade.  I would say that 1961 had absolutely nothing in common with 1969.  I've always liked to quote Miles Dentrell, a character on the TV series thirtysomething:  "The decimalization of time is so arbitrary."

But twelve?  A dozen?  Christianity tells us there were 12 Apostles.  Recovering addicts go through a 12-Step Program.  There are 12 pairs of ribs in the human body.  There are 12 inches to a foot, 12 hours on a clockface, and 12 months in a year.

Many things come in groups of 12:  cupcakes, roses, soda cans, bottled beer, eggs, hot dogs (which always brings up the fact that hot dog buns come in packages of eight, a very clever marketing technique to get you to buy more).  Literature has given us Twelve Angry Men, The Dirty Dozen, and Twelfth Night.

And then there are the Twelve Days of Christmas, which, unbeknownst to commercial radio stations and marketing people, don't begin until Christmas Day and end on January 6, The Epiphany.

But that's not why I am in love with a dozen.  I'm not even sure that I am in love with a dozen.  But my husband died a dozen years ago tonight, so I am searching for something to love.  How can I spin this?  A dozen years have passed, and my love for him is still there?  Yes, that's it.

I am still in love.

My Name

I strongly believe that the names we carry around with us have a lot to do with the personalities we develop.  And if that is true, it follows that parents have a great responsibility to choose names for their children that will allow them to grow and become good human beings.  We could all site poorly chosen names of others, ordinary or famous.  For example, Ima Hogg, known as "The First Lady of Texas," was an American philanthropist, patron and collector of the arts, and one of the most respected women in Texas during the 20th century, despite her ill-chosen name.  One can only wonder what her legacy would have been had she not been born into money.

A couple of years ago, there was a great to-do in a nearby town when a supermarket refused to decorate a birthday cake with a child's name.  I don't recall the child's last name, but his first and middle names were Adolph and Hitler.   Seems he had three siblings with similar Nazi names.  Ultimately, the children were taken from the parents for (one assumes) unrelated reasons.  The story involves devil-worship and spousal abuse and all kinds of creepy stuff to which children should not be exposed.  You can google "Child named Adolph Hitler" and learn as much as you want about this story.  The last I read, the Nazi father is still trying to regain custody of his children.

But think about that child and his siblings.  Might be tough getting a job with names like theirs.  And that might be the least of their problems.

Anyway, where am I going with this?  Oh, yeah, my name.

I was named after my mother, which is rather strange, as I have an older sister.  My mother's first name, in my opinion, is not a pretty one.  And despite it being on my birth certificate, I have never been addressed by that name.  The name I have always used is actually my middle name, and more people know me by my nickname, Terry, than any other name.

Nonetheless, post 9/11, the Social Security Administration decided that one's name had to match the name on one's birth certificate, so they rechristened me with a name I've never used and one I dislike intensely.  (Sorry, Mom.)  Further, it doesn't match the name on my passport, my driver's license, my diplomas, my bank accounts, my titles and deeds, or anything else, for that matter.  Whenever I receive mail addressed to that name, I think it is mail for my deceased mother.  And then I realize it's for me.  Creepy.

For years, I've been considering legally changing my name.  And today, push came to shove.  I had to make a phone call to the pension system regarding their dental plan offerings.  A new plan is less than half the cost in premiums as the one I currently have, so I wanted in.  As a result of the phone call, I found out there are two of me, one of whom qualifies for the new plan and one who doesn't.  I felt so schizophrenic, unsure which one was the real me.

So I spent the rest of the afternoon filling out the several forms necessary to file a complaint with the court for a name change.  I made the required copies, I wrote out the check, I included the SASE, and on Monday, I will send the complaint certified mail, return receipt requested.  Then I will wait for a court date, notify the local newspaper that I am "changing" my name, send the required documents (along with various checks) to the appropriate agencies, and after all of that, merge the two MEs into one entity named Therese.

The name I love. 

The Grinch

What color is The Grinch?

You said green, right?  Well, I just retrieved our family's copy of the original book (published in 1957; our copy was printed in 1985), and guess what?  The Grinch is colorless!  That's right, no color at all!  In the original book, there are only four colors:  red, pink, black, and white.  The Grinch is white.  So when did he turn green?  I suppose it was with the cartoon movie version which was aired for the first time on this date in 1966.  Forty-eight years ago today.

So of course, on this anniversary, I am going to fall in love with The Grinch.

I just did a little math to determine how old The Grinch is.  If he was created in 1957, which was 57 years ago, and he was 53 years old upon his creation ("Why, for fifty-three years I've put up with it now!  I must stop Christmas from coming!  . . . But HOW?"), The Grinch is now 110 years old.  No wonder he's green.

The lesson inherent in the story of The Grinch's transformation from nasty to nice is a good one for children to hear.  I suppose all of Dr. Seuss' characters impart something good to their readers/listeners.  Which is why we all love Dr. Seuss.

But that's not why I love The Grinch.  Actually, I don't know why I love The Grinch.  Maybe because he was brave enough to say that he didn't like Christmas.  The truth is, there are a lot of people who don't like Christmas, and it's not about being envious of other people's happiness.  It's about being lonely or sad or reminded of what one has lost.  I can easily fit that description.

Green is the color of envy.  In the original book, The Grinch was not green.  So, psychologically speaking, why did he want to steal Christmas?  Well, maybe he just wanted to get rid of something that seemed to magnify his loneliness.  Poor thing.

I think all he needs is love.  So that's what I'm giving him today.

Latkes

Growing up in a 1950s household, we abided by the traditions of the time.  That meant that, even though my mother worked outside the home, she was still the one who did the meal preparation.  I recall that the only thing my father could "cook" was something he called "German Potato Pancakes."  And maybe he prepared them a couple of times; memory fails me here.  I do remember that I liked the idea that he could actually cook something.

It wasn't until I was married and raising a family that I learned about latkes.  There were a lot of children's books in our house, especially holiday ones.  Latkes and Applesauce was shelved alongside our Christmas books.  And as our children grew, we tried to expose them to many cultural traditions.  So on the first day of Hanukkah, we ate latkes and applesauce.  (Probably with a side of kielbasa.)

Although I haven't done it in years, I decided tonight to make latkes.  Katrina is home for the holidays, so I feel compelled to cook a meal or two.  I've got some potatoes and onions, an egg, and a bottle of olive oil.  Good to go.

I forgot how not easy it is to cook a simple recipe.  First thing I learned:  it is very important to get as much liquid out of the mixture as one can before one attempts to fry the latkes.  Secondly, it is very, very hard to do that.  Needless to say, I did not do well on this part of the recipe.

I also learned (too late) that the temperature of the oil in the pan is more important than one would think.  I did not get the pan hot enough, and consequently, my latkes wanted to fall apart more than they wanted to cohere into perfect spheres of potato goodness.

Nonetheless, I persevered.  But the worst thing is that I didn't have any applesauce.  Or enough apples in the house to make my own.  (Thank goodness.)  Instead, I made asparagus soup.  I have no idea what asparagus soup has to do with Hanukkah, but it seemed like a good companion dish to me.

So Katrina and I "celebrated" Hanukkah with ill-formed latkes and delicious asparagus soup.  It all tasted pretty darn good.  So good that I fell in love with it, and there are no leftover latkes for tomorrow.

Hobbits

I did not discover the work of J.R.R. Tolkien until I was out of college.  Crying my way through my first year of teaching in a small town in northern Pennsylvania, I do believe that hobbits, elves, dwarves, and wizards kept me sane during that long winter.  It was easy enough to breeze through The Hobbit, but The Lord of the Rings trilogy was an exercise in focus and the willing suspension of disbelief.  I cannot think about that difficult year (which included my father's untimely death) without remembering the solace I took in vicariously living in Middle-earth.

And I carried the love with me after I left that job.  I acquired two Irish Setters and named them Brandybuck and Strider.  I collected the Brothers Hildebrandt calendars of all things Hobbit.  I cheered when Led Zeppelin sang songs (Ramble On, Misty Mountain Hop) with Hobbit references.  I indulged in a world of fantasy that even took me beyond Tolkien into a love of unicorns and crystals and all kinds of things New Age.  Having encountered adulthood during the Vietnam Conflict, I was not the only one my age trying to exist in a world of fantasy as opposed to the reality from which we were still trying to recover.

A year ago yesterday, my kids and I began a road trip down the east coast of Australia.  We traveled from Yungaburra in the rainforests of Queensland down to Sydney in time for New Year's Eve.  It was in Sydney that we saw the newly released The Desolation of Smaug at an IMAX theater.  In 3D.  Yes, it was very, very cool.

Midnight last night marked the release of the last of The Hobbit films.  The Battle of the Five Armies will end the cinematic journey of Bilbo and his cohorts.  No, I didn't line up at a nearby theater to catch the midnight showing, but I will definitely try to catch the film at some point this week.  Maybe even in 3D.  A review I read likened it to playing video games, something I am not familiar with, but I think I owe it to my younger hobbit-loving self to see this thing through.

Last year, my wandering daughter Jenna spent some time in New Zealand.  She got to visit the Hobbiton set where the movies were filmed.  One look at this picture and you will see why I am in love again with hobbits.

Tommy D.

I grew up on Maple Avenue, and Tommy grew up around the corner on Second Street.  It was a post-WWII Baby Boomer neighborhood, which we lovingly called Gingerville.  Yes, I've written about Gingerville before, but someone is not allowing me to let go of my reminiscing of that time and that place.  I half-heartedly stated awhile ago that I should write a novel about it, and now Tommy is sending me "gentle reminders" to get started on it.

Tommy is two-and-a-half weeks older than I am, and we've known one another since before we started kindergarten.  There were likely a good number of years during which we had no contact with one another, but through the wonder of social media, we have reconstructed our friendship to the point where not a week goes by that we don't chat about something online.  And I have discovered something new about Tommy.  He is one of the kindest, most gentle men I will likely ever know.  Did I understand this about him when we were children?  Probably not.

This is a picture that one of Tommy's best friends from childhood posted of him this morning.  I know it's a difficult picture to view closely, but I think you can see the smile on Tommy's face.  My guess is that he was tickled to be having his picture taken.  It was fairly easy to make Tommy happy . . . a backyard baseball game, some homemade ice cream, or a neighborhood clam bake was cause enough to light up Tommy's face.  I have not seen Tommy in years, but I'm pretty sure that when I do, I will see that same smile on his face.

These friends from childhood . . . where do they go?  Our world was so small those many years ago.  As adults, we travel so far beyond it, ideologically, geographically, socially . . . and then we find ourselves reflecting so positively on what once was.  I recognize the gift of a memorable childhood; I know that not everyone is as fortunate as I. 

Today, I fell in love with this picture of Tommy D., but I fell in love with more than that.  His smile embodies all the joy and hope and promise that we, as children, felt back then.  In a week of CIA torture reports, hostage-taking in Australia, and cyber-hacking of Sony, it's nice to think back on a chubby little kid in the 50s, happy to have his picture taken by his best friend's mom.

Wishin' and Hopin'

Back in the early 80s, I was in graduate school, working toward an MFA in Writing.  One of my fellow students was another high school English teacher.  Although I was in the Poetry MFA and he was in the Fiction MFA, Wally and I had enough in common that we forged a friendship.  I remember well when he was working on a short story, and his advisor told him, "You have too many pots on the stove."  That short story became the novel She's Come Undone, one of Oprah's first book club reads.  And Wally Lamb became famous.

I can testify that Wally is one of the kindest, sweetest, most down-to-earth people you could ever meet.  In an age where fame is bestowed too often upon undeserving media darlings, Wally's rise to best-selling author is something we can all applaud.  I assure you, he is still the down-to-earth human being he always was.

In 2009, Wally published a fun little holiday novel titled Wishin' and Hopin', taken from the Dusty Springfield song of the same name.  (You may have noticed that the titles of Wally's novels all come from song titles.)  The story is told from the point of view of Felix Funicello, fifth-grader and cousin to the well-known former Mouseketeer, Annette Funicello.  The story takes place in 1964, and lest you think that the story is autobiographical, I can assure you that Wally was not in fifth grade in 1964.

Wally has a strong sense of the trappings of the Baby Boomer generation, so the novel is a delightful romp back in time for those of us who grew up in that era.  If you happened to have had a Catholic school upbringing, you will be amused by his interpretation of that experience.

Wishin' and Hopin' was made into a movie this fall.  It premiered on the Lifetime Channel earlier this month.  It stars Molly Ringwald, Chevy Chase, Cheri Oteri, Conchata Ferrell, and (believe it or not) Meatloaf.

I don't have cable TV, but my friend Margaret invited me to watch her DVR'd recording of the movie this afternoon.  Although Margaret had already seen it, she could not control her laughter watching it the second time around.  I was in Christmas heaven, watching Wally's movie and eating Margaret's Christmas cookies.  If you missed it, Lifetime will air it again on December 21.

Tune in and fall in love.

Wally in his cameo as the janitor

Larry's Guitar

If you want to get to heaven
Over on the other shore
Stay out of the way of the long-tongue liar

There's nothing like going to hear some good music at a venue and having the performer do a song dedicated to you.  My friend Larry, fingerstyle guitarist extraordinaire, knows that I love Jorma Kaukonan (Jefferson Airplane, Hot Tuna), and so he played Good Shepherd for me.  Larry sure knows how to make a person feel special.

Larry is self-taught.  He has honed his skills over many years, and his versatility as a guitarist is evidence of that.  He plays solo fingerstyle guitar, but is also a team-player in other bands, namely Soylent Blue and Wood Hippie.  His musical family is tight-knit and supportive of one another.  This is local music at its best.

Larry put out a CD a couple of years ago, Pickin' and Sliding the Blues.  His sleeve notes speak his passion better than anything I can write here:

"Blues is Truth."  Cannot be denied!  Brownie McGhee spoke those words, and one can only believe it if one loves the blues.  To pick the blues is to take the blues by the hand, the fingers, the heart . . . lay it down and start walkin'.  To slide the blues is to feel, slip, and skate.  Everything in between is the blues, everything around 'em is the blues.  Outside, inside, to the side is the blues.  Why?  Because the blues is feeling . . . good feeling, bad feeling, we're all feeling.  Some pickin', some sliding, some walking.  "Blues is truth."

I am in love with an afternoon of good music, good conversation, good vibes, and good feeling.  Thanks, Larry!
 

Ornaments

In yesterday's post, I mentioned that I thought it was important to purchase something in the places one visits.  Those souvenirs can spark memories of good times and exciting adventures.  I have long practiced what I preach.  Whenever I travel, I try to purchase a Christmas tree ornament to commemorate the trip.  Granted, sometimes I forget (as I did with the recent California road trip with my son), but my Christmas tree will attest to most of the places I've been.

And yes, we'll call it a Christmas tree, though it's a pretty secular one.  (It's also an artificial one.)  Then again, I don't think Baby Jesus had a Christmas tree, real or artificial, so we're all okay here.

When decorating the tree this year, I took stock of the places I've been.  My tree represents 22 cities/states, 14 countries, five continents, and three islands.  Only four of these I have not visited; they were among Jenna's contributions.

Represented here are Italy, Ireland, New Zealand, Jamaica, and Herrington Harbor, Maryland.  Although I have never been to New Zealand, I have strong memories of the other places.  Italy, which I visited with my husband in 2000, was my first foray abroad.  Herrington Harbor was the first trip I took with my kids after my husband died.  Katrina and I visited Ireland together on a fabulous bus tour.  And Jamaica was one of our "run away from Christmas" vacations in those early years after Pete died.  Jenna has been to New Zealand twice.  Perhaps there's still time for me to get there?

Pawleys Island is a heart spot.  Our family spent two spring vacations there, and years later, I took the kids there along with my girlfriends and their families.  It is still a place that speaks to me, and I hope that I can get there again someday.  So many places, so little time.  It is always a question of whether to return to beloved places or venture into new territory.  I seem to always struggle with this.

And this is my most recent ornament.  This one, from Iceland, depicts one of their several Santa Clauses.  I was drawn to him because of his designation:  Window Peeper.  (I have endured window peepers in my life.  Innocuous though they were, they were still disconcerting.  Perhaps it's nice to think of a Santa Claus who's a Peeping Tom, looking to see if the children are behaving?)

And there he is, peeping out from a window in my tree.  Perhaps he is looking out at all the places I've been.  Or maybe he's telling me Stay home!  Home is where the heart is!  I think I prefer both.  I can fall in love with the places I've been, but I will always be in love with the place I call Home.

Gloves

Today was too cold for the lightweight fleece gloves that I usually wear, so I went in search of a warmer pair.  What a nice surprise to find the lambswool/angora gloves that I bought in Iceland back in March!  (I don't think I'm the only one who's ever purchased something off-season, stored it away somewhere, and was surprised to find it months later.  Admit it . . . you've done this, too.)

The price tag tells me I paid 2,680 krona for these gloves.  Using an online money conversion calculator, I either paid two cents for these gloves or $21.67.  We'll go with the latter, and it's still a good deal.  But it isn't about the bargain.  I know that every time I put these gloves on this winter (which looks to be often), I will think fondly of that girlfriend vacation in Iceland last spring.  And that, to me, is the reason to purchase at least one thing from the places one visits.  I can't wait until someone says, "Hey, I like your gloves!" and I can say, "Oh, these?  I picked them up in Iceland last year."

Yeah, well, that's not going to happen.  The gloves are pretty nondescript.

But are they ever soft and warm!  Finding them today made the impending winter seem less frigid.  Just a little bit.  Okay, not at all.  I'm lying.  I'm still dreading the cold.

But at least when I put on my Icelandic gloves to go out and shovel the snow, my heart will be warmed by the memory of a wonderful adventure full of geysers and waterfalls and Northern Lights and Vikings and laughter.  And wine.  Never forget the wine.

All good things with which to fall in love.

Calendars

Calendar was the first word I ever got wrong on a spelling test.  Memory tells me that it was in second grade and that I spelled it calender.  I have never been able to write or type that word since without giving it a second (or third) thought.  But I bet I'm not the only one who has misspelled that word.

I like calendars.  One hangs on my refrigerator, and I probably glance at it every day.  One sits here at my computer desk.  On this one, I write down the titles of these blog posts.  I have had to read through it many times to avoid falling in love with the same thing twice.  And I keep an engagement calendar on the table to keep track of birthdays and appointments and dates that taxes are due.

So I like calendars.  But today, I got to fall in love with a calendar.  This one came in the mail today:

This is a gift from amazing artist and dear friend Angie Falstrom.  (I wrote about Angie's Art back on February 28.  My desk calendar told me that.)  Angie lives in Lyme, Connecticut, that charming New England town that had the great misfortune of having a tick-borne disease named after it.  But Angie does her part to show the world that there is more to Lyme than ticks.  This calendar is illustrated with reproductions of the miniature paintings Angie has done of pastoral locations in her town.  Even the names of the paintings are beautiful:  Winter Morning, Birch Mill Road and Morning at Ashlawn Farm and Afternoon Light, Tiffany Farms.

Unlike the glossy calendars I usually pick up for free at my local liquor store, this one requires a suitable presentation.  I intend to purchase a frame and switch out each month's offering as the year passes.  Angie has an eye for simple beauty, and her artistic renditions of that beauty remind me to be more observant and to seek out the places that calm and inspire me.  For example, take a look at December's illustration.

I cannot look at that painting without feeling the cold or reflecting on the waning light.  There's a peacefulness and a melancholy to it that I find compelling and comforting at the same time.

I almost want to say that I can't wait until next year, but we know that at my age, wishing time away is not something one does.  But at least I have something to look forward to in 2015.

 

Jordan

No, I have never been to Jordan.  But this evening, I picked my daughter up at the airport, and I learned a lot about Jordan on the drive home.  Jenna, the wanderer, spent the last week in Amsterdam, Jordan, and Paris.  And it was Jordan that captured her heart.

The fact that she was ten kilometers from the Syrian border might make a mother take pause . . . but she insists that she felt safe the entire time she was there.  Xenophobia is just not a word in her vocabulary.  She embraced the culture fully.  And she is already plotting a return.

Upon our return home, she offered pistachio treats, demonstrated how to wear a traditional head scarf, and detailed all the highlights of her adventure.  She rode a camel.  She did not smoke a hookah (although that is a popular pastime in Jordan). She explored the ancient city of Petra by herself.  She traveled to a monastery on a donkey.  She swam in The Dead Sea.

Here, you can see the facial that she received at The Dead Sea.  She seems pretty happy about it, doesn't she?

The most stunning thing that Jenna told me on the drive home was how much she appreciates the slower pace of life in the countries she has visited.  And I am not surprised about that observation.  Seriously, what the hell are we doing here?  Christmas shopping on Thanksgiving?  Road rage?  Tailgating?  Getting in line for the latest technology?  Ugh!

I could easily fall in love with a slower pace.  So today, I will fall in love vicariously with a different culture.  I will fall in love with Jordan, a place I have never been, but one that has just been added to my bucket list.

John

He was not my favorite Beatle.  Initially it was Paul.  (He was everybody's favorite then.)  Being a fickle 13-year-old, I claimed George as my favorite once I heard Listen, Do You Want to Know a Secret?  That song allowed me to create an entire fantasy world involving an imaginary British transplant named Nigel who fell head over heels in love with my 13-year-old self.  Ah, Beatlemania!  How you fit so timely into my sexual awakening!

And then there was a period in my mid-teens (pre-Sgt. Pepper) when I strayed from the general fanaticism over The Beatles.  When I returned, during those heady late-60s days, it was John who inspired and intrigued me.  (And to those of you who have insisted on dissing Yoko, get over it.  He loved her, you know.)

And then the band broke up, breaking a lot of hearts in the process.  I remember well the freaked-out mood of the Paul Is Dead mania, and I recall following their individual careers as well as I could in those post-Beatle years.  John recorded Imagine in 1971, and it remains, in my mind, one of the most evocative songs I have ever heard.  (I can still feel my anger rising when I recall how Clear Channel wanted to ban the playing of Imagine immediately following the 9/11 tragedies.)  In 1974, #9 Dream moved me in a very deep way.  But it was the Double Fantasy album that really captured my attention in 1980.

And then, with the Double Fantasy soundtrack playing in the background, he was gone.  For some of us, that horrible injustice wounded us in a profound way.  If the most peace-loving human being we knew could be taken down by an assassin's bullet, what hope was there for the world?  A sorrow and a cynicism was born that day, and I don't think anything has come close to dispelling it.  It has become the way we live.

I do not remember the exact date, but a NYC radio station (WNEW, 102.7) sponsored a moment of silence shortly after John's death.  I will never forget sitting in the living room of the house that I lived in at the time and watching a snow squall rise up out of nowhere outside my window.  And as suddenly as it appeared, it stopped.  It was hard not to believe that John had something to do with that.

A friend posted a meme about John today.  In honor of him and with deep love to those of us who believed in him, I share it with you here.

Margaret's Cookies

Hi, Margaret!  I'm pretty sure you're reading this, so please consider this a thank you for a fun afternoon packing up your cookies!  It's just too easy to fall in love with them!

For those of you who are not fortunate enough to know Margaret, she has many talents, only one of which is her baking talent.  Every Christmas, she packages up at least sixty tins of home-baked Christmas cookies.  I wish I could tell you how many dozens she makes, but I didn't ask, and she probably doesn't remember.  She just bakes and bakes all autumn and freezes them.

And then today happens.  I am the lucky one who gets invited to help her package up the cookies.  On a very long table she has set up in her living room, she has laid out the plastic containers of cookies, a different kind in every bin.  I forgot to count or take pictures, but there must have been at least twenty different containers with maybe five or six dozen cookies in each one.  We line a cookie tin with wax paper and fill it up with one or two of every kind of cookie.  And then we do that again.  And again. Until all her containers are filled.  Back in the freezer they go until she delivers her goodies to those lucky enough to be on her list.

And yes, I get to nibble as I go.  (I know you were wondering.)  It's cookie heaven.

This is what I brought home:

Do I have favorites?  I will let you know after I eat them all!  But wait.  No.  I cannot eat them all.  Sam isn't coming home for Christmas this year, so I will be sending a package to California.  You can bet there will be a tin of Margaret's cookies in the box.  Sam has known Margaret's cookies for a dozen years.  So he will find a little bit of home in the mail within the next week or two.

Every year, Margaret says she is going to cut back on her baking the next year.  But she never does.

Lucky me.  And lucky everyone else who is in love with her gift of cookies.

Pawprints

Cassie preferred being outdoors, and if the weather was warm, that's where she would be.  I installed a "cat door" on the sliding screen in my bedroom so that she could come and go as she pleased throughout the day and night, but when the nights got too cold, she had to find other ways to get my attention to let her in.  One of those ways was to climb into the windowbox outside the living room window and meow until I noticed her.  Another was to sit on the bar-height table on the deck outside the kitchen window.  Sooner or later, she knew, I would come into the kitchen and see her there.

Today was a rainy and dismal day.  I tried to continue the distraction by putting up some winter decorations.  I had less spirit than the Grinch before his heart began to grow.  At one point, when I was carrying some doodads into the kitchen, I was startled by how "dirty" the kitchen window was.  And then I realized that the marks on the window were Cassie's pawprints.  Now, before you think I'm delusional, I do not think that the Ghost of Cassie had been trying to get inside last night.  I knew those prints must have been there for awhile. Nonetheless, I had an emotional moment or two as I imagined her little face asking me to let her in.

But maybe I am delusional.  Delusional with love.  I woke up before the dawn this morning and willed myself to fall back to sleep.  And I did.  But the dreams that I had in those couple of hours were the kind that are so unpleasant, you try to talk your dreamself into waking up.  Every time my dreamself opened her eyes, the ceiling was only a foot above her.  Very frustrating.

But also, at some point within that sleep time, I was aware of Cassie walking on my bed.  I could hear her, I could feel her . . . but I couldn't see her.  Again, I willed myself to wake up, but I couldn't.

All day long, I have thought of her little paws walking on my bed, kneading the comforter, and I have convinced myself that she "visited" me early this morning.  Laugh at me if you must, but that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Because I am still in love with her little paws.  And by now, we know how powerful love can be.

The Holly and the Ivy

O, the rising of the sun,
And the running of the deer . . . 

It's a new day, and I have filled it with distraction, although I have spent many moments glancing out my kitchen window at the place where I buried my cat yesterday.  I am still at that point where I am more relieved that her suffering is over than I am sad about missing her.  I'm sure the sadness will kick in soon.  But for now, there are distractions.

I used to be one of those Crazy Christmas Persons.  Every square inch of my home got decorated.  The kids had flannel Christmas sheets on their beds, there were stockings hung for the pets, and I made more than a few varieties of Christmas cookies, breads, and pies.  The decor incorporated Santa Claus, Baby Jesus and His Family, and lots and lots of Snowpeople.  It was a lot of work, and I enjoyed it just a little bit.

With my kids grown and gone, my holiday decorating has been limited to articles of winter, although I do usually put up a small artificial Christmas tree, and the kids' stockings still hang on the fireplace.  But these days, I think I am more tuned in to Winter Solstice than I am Christmas.  I like the idea of filling the home with evergreens and berries and lighting candles against the darkness.

And I begin with the windowboxes.  Remember when those icicle lights were all the rage?  Granted, no one's house looked like the one in Home Alone, but nonetheless, we all fell into the trap of purchasing all those strings of icicle lights to hang under our eaves.  Being the kind of person who never throws anything out, I still have some of them.  So now, I just bunch them up and put them in the windowboxes.  Then I wander around my property, trimming branches from white pine, hemlock, juniper, and holly.  It all gets stuck into the dirt in the windowboxes (where there is still some English ivy from the summer), and then I add berries and pine cones.  This is decorating on the cheap.  Costs me nothing and looks great.

Looks like a couple of angels settled in there.  Fall in love, and the angels will come.

Shoebox

The shoebox was empty when I took this picture.  (It is important that you know this.)

I'm not sure what shoes came in this box, but they were probably a pair of Jenna's.  I like the box because the lid is part of the box.  And it's black.

I chose the box today for something important.  The box is now a little coffin.  If I am correct in my belief system, my sweet cat Cassie is right now chasing mice through fields of gold with her brother Bryce.  My old dogs, Mack and Killian, are messing up the hunt with their noisy forays into the brush, but Cassie is intent on the kill, and she will not be denied.



But her small and furry earthly body is now contained within the box and buried in the ground.  I secured the gravesite with two 3-foot pieces of 2 X 12 pressure-treated wood and piled several orange-mottled pieces of fieldstone on top.  A makeshift marker sits on the boards, a lidded planter with a ceramic cat curled up on top.  I can see the grave from my kitchen window.  It sits right behind the Buddha bench, a favorite resting spot of Cassie's.  I cannot say with any certainty that Cassie followed the teachings of Buddha, but I wouldn't be surprised.  The Four Noble Truths seem to speak to her most recent existence on this planet.

The Buddha in the picture is the Traveling Buddha.  Although I have grounded him in terra cotta, you can see his whimsical joy of adventure in the jewelry he chooses, Mardi Gras beads from New Orleans.  Cassie knows how I love to travel, and she has now given me leave to do so.

The burial was a solitary activity for me, the only way I would want it.  The late afternoon was raw and overcast, and my hands were numb with cold as I shoveled the dirt on top of the shoebox.  Thirteen years of love were contained within that box, so I was gentle with the shoveling.

Thirteen years of love.  In a shoebox.  In my memory.  In my heart.  I love you, Cassie girl.

Cassie

(just love)

Digging a Hole

Snow and freezing rain are in the forecast for this afternoon and evening, so this morning, I got out my shovel and began digging the hole.  It wasn't easy.  Rocks and stubborn tree roots made the chore difficult.  I can't say that the tears freezing on my cheeks helped any, either.  Nor did my runny nose. 

I placed a couple of heavy boards over the hole and a planter on top of them, put away my shovel, and went back inside.

She is dying.  And she is taking her time about it.  Last night, I slept on an air mattress next to the towel she was sleeping on downstairs.  I was certain she would die during the night.  But this morning, she made her way upstairs and asked to go outside.  Although I obliged her, it was a nervous two hours until she came back.  I vowed to keep her inside for the rest of her time.

And then I broke that vow.  Her insistent meows, weak as they are, compelled me to open the door again.  I grabbed my coat and followed her down the driveway.  I was about 15 feet away when she seemed to disappear.  I am fairly certain that she is in the drainpipe at the base of the driveway.  There's water in the pipe, maybe a couple of inches, and that's where she has decided to hide.  There isn't anything I can do about it now.

This morning, there was something I could do.  I could dig a hole.  It took all the love I have to do so.

It is so hard, this letting go.  As hard as stomping on the shoulder of the shovel's blade, as hard as the rocks in the almost-frozen earth, as hard as the tangled web of tree roots, as hard as the resolve to do what needs to be done.

As hard as love.

Cheap Eats

For at least a year, probably longer, my friend Jeannine and I have been meeting at a local bar/restaurant on a Monday or Tuesday afternoon for happy hour.  Not every week, but maybe every other week.  We have a glass or two of wine and something off the bar menu.  When the bill comes, we laugh and then tip generously.  We call this place Cheap Eats.

Lately, we've been enjoying a bar pie with our wine.  A $5.00 pie feeds us both.  Sometimes we get two and bring the leftovers home.  Like I said, Cheap Eats.

There was one time when we had a miscommunication while trying to split the bill.  We ended up tipping 100%.  But the bartender that night was a young woman who grew up down the street from me, so we were happy to be so generous.

But Cheap Eats is much more than a good bargain.  For Jeannine and me, it's therapy.  We catch up on our very different lives, console one another, encourage one another, and laugh a lot in the process.  We are an unlikely duo.  There's a decade and a half between us, and although Jeannine was a student in the high school in which I taught, she was never in my classroom.  She was, however, a student in my husband's classroom, and that is what brought us together.  Several years after Pete's death, Jeannine sent me a message about what he meant to her as a teacher and as a human being.  Her words touched me, and thus began a communication which led to a meeting which led to a friendship.  Which led to Cheap Eats.

I've had a rough couple of days.  Jenna is off to adventures in Amsterdam and Jordan, Sam broke his finger catching a football, Katrina is making big decisions about her future, and my cat appears to be dying.

But this evening Jeannine and I did our usual thing at Cheap Eats.  I always feel better after my therapy.  And the pizza was good, too.  Love.

Tomorrow

Let's pick up where we left off:  Tomorrow is another day!  And today, I am in love with tomorrow.

At the risk of sounding like I am wishing away today, let me explain that November is just a rough month for me.  Both my parents died in the month of November, so that's one thing.  And although my husband died in the month of December, he began his descent into death in the month of November.  More simply, I perceive November as dull and gray.  And November is, to me, a harbinger of all things cold and confining.  So, you see why I might be eager to say goodbye to November.

Tomorrow will be the first of December and that lightens my heart.  December is full of distraction!  As mentioned before, I am not a big fan of holidays, but I can engage in the art of decorating a bit.  I am also not a big fan of shopping, but I will come up with a gift or two for my kids.  I am not a fan of holiday stress, but given my minimalist celebration preparation, I can avoid the stress.

Today was mild, and I was able to remove the slushy remains of last week's snowstorm from my car.  I also shoveled the ice and snow from the parts of my driveway that never see the sun on these short days.  I felt like I was getting rid of November.  An act of love?  Maybe not, but I could say that I loved doing it!

So my love today is directed toward tomorrow.  December's distractions include holly and berries and hemlock to cut and place in my windowboxes, gingerbread cookies to bake, and scented candles to alter my indoor mood.

So long, November.  See you next year. 

Limbo

This was one of those times when I had to struggle to fall in love.  Thanksgiving and Girlsgiving are over.  It's not December yet, though the weather is frozen.  And today is the anniversary of my father's death 42 years ago.  Not much to love there, right?

And then the word limbo popped into my head.  I wish I was talking about the dance, but you know I'm not.  I guess I just feel like I am in limbo today, caught between two things, and I don't even know what they are.  It's not as simple as saying that I'm caught between Thanksgiving and Christmas; there are no holidays between which I ever feel "caught."  (I prefer to tiptoe around the edges of the holidays.)

Edges.  A religious definition of limbo is the edge of hell.  Some of you may know that limbo is defined as the place where unbaptized souls dwell until Jesus Christ can absolve them from original sin and send them on to heaven.  Perhaps you believe that, despite the fact that the term limbo does not appear in the Bible.  As a child, I felt so sad for the children that were waiting in limbo; it was fairly obvious that they'd done nothing to deserve such a fate.  I cared for them as much as I cared for the pagan babies, those poor and sorry foreign children who needed our American dimes to pay for their baptisms.  I dutifully contributed.

But it would probably be wise for me to avoid the religious meaning of limbo.  Here's another definition:  any in-between place, state, or condition of neglect or oblivion which results in an unresolved status, delay, or deadlock.  And yes, that is how I am feeling today.

But can I be in love with that feeling?  Let's see.

Neglect is clearly a negative word.  Today, I've neglected to do anything positive, unless you count cryptograms and Sudoku puzzles.  But oblivion?  Now there's a word that could be perceived as not entirely negative, as in she was oblivious to the idea that anything was wrong.  Did this oblivion lead me to an unresolved status?  Absolutely.  I posted no status whatsoever on social media today.  Delay?  Yes.  I have delayed dealing with all the correspondence which has arrived in the mail of late, advising me that there are things I must do pending my enrollment into Medicare in two months. 

Deadlock?  A deadlock is a situation in which two or more competing actions are each waiting for the other to finish, and thus neither ever does.  I am waiting to fall in love, but love is waiting to catch me off guard.  Deadlock.

But here's the deal.  Limbo can be a relaxing place, a time-out in which no decisions or actions need to occur.  Time to chill.  Time to channel Scarlet O'Hara:  After all, tomorrow is another day!

Girlsgiving

I was calling it the Black Friday Feast, but it has been dubbed Girlsgiving by the young women involved.  So Girlsgiving it is.

Having not had a "real" Thanksgiving yesterday, Jenna invited some of her girlfriends to our home the day after to cook, feast and be merry.  The friends are from different times in Jenna's life:  high school, college, and one of her AmeriCorps stints.  Seven guests came, and Jenna and I made it nine for dinner.

There was some kind of punch to begin:  gingerbeer and cranberry juice with a hefty pour of gin.  My contribution was our traditional breaded and sauteed artichoke hearts, an appetizer that has been part of every holiday dinner I can remember.  And then the feast, prepared by Jenna:  salad, green beans, mashed potatoes, stuffing, butternut squash, apple salad.  Cyndi baked two pies for dessert: a buttery apple pie and a decadent chocolate creation that was made even sweeter with Lyndsay's rum-infused whipped cream.  There was music, conversation, and laughter . . . sounds like a holiday celebration to me.

I don't know if Girlsgiving will be repeated next year.  Who knows where these young women will be a year from now?  For today, I fell in love with the company of twentysomethings who remind me that I was once that young, that hopeful, that inspired.

Gratitude

Today is Thanksgiving, and I am on a plane.  I left one daughter in Florida and am flying home to see another daughter who has traveled from Vermont to see me.  My son is in California.  There is no Thanksgiving dinner.  No large family gathering with too much food and drink.  No grace before dinner, no stuffing, no mashed potatoes, no choosing between apple and pumpkin pie.  No cleaning up the kitchen and putting away the leftovers.  There are no leftovers.

Nonetheless, it is a day to feel and express one's gratitude, so in keeping with tradition, I will do my best here.

I am thankful that I am not the mother of the screaming child across the aisle, and I am thankful that I am not married to the man who is not doing a thing to help her with their two children.  I am thankful that my flight was delayed only an hour and not several, and I am thankful that, unlike yesterday, the skies are clear for air traffic.  I am thankful that I brought an avocado sandwich with me and I am thankful that I can buy a glass of wine to feel a little more festive.  I am thankful that I have a good book with me.

I am thankful that my daughter called to tell me she is always sad when I leave her.  I am thankful that my other daughter is making the long drive to the airport to get me and will have a warm coat for me to wear.  I am thankful that the roads are clear.  I am thankful that my son has a Zombie Thanksgiving Feast to attend with friends in California and that he texted me to call him when my plane lands.

I am thankful that I have things to be thankful for.  I have three kind, smart, talented, beautiful, adventurous, and responsible children.  I have a warm and beautiful log home (built by my husband) to return to.  I have a cat who will yell at me when I greet her because she gets upset when I leave her.  I have enough, and I have more than enough.

My Thanksgiving might not be happy, but it reminds me to be grateful.  I am in love with what I have.