The Lists of Christmas

There's nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.

Erma Bombeck

Last night while babysitting my two-year-old granddaughter, I pulled out my old copy of Peter Spier's Christmas!

The colorful graphics depict the chaotic season so well. No words, just pictures of the process -- setting up of lights/trees/, the shopping and wrapping, card/ornament/cookie making, pageants and caroling, food shopping, the big dinner, the opening of gifts, the mess of it all -- the kitchen filled with dishes and the floors draped in wrappings. The exhausted parents. The unchosen Christmas trees lying forlorn at the tree stands.

Then the cleanup, the discarded trees and garbage lining the streets and the reboxing of the decorations and lights. A graphic at the end of the book says only 360 days or so until it all has to be done again.

This morning I listed in my journal all the things I could possibly do today.

Make that last batch of cookies
Sew that smaller blanket for my granddaughter and one for her babydoll
Go downtown and watch the Christmas tuba concert on the capitol's steps
Iron the tablecloth and napkins
Go see the quirky 37th Street lights

I don't feel like doing anything except sit in my bright bedroom and read. I'm tired. As I age, life seems to speed by faster and faster. Christmas arrives sooner and sooner. I swear I did all this stuff only a couple months ago. But, once again:

The decorations are up - inside and out
The gifts purchased, wrapped and mailed or under the tree
Boring Christmas letter written and mailed
Christmas Eve menu planned and ingredients purchased
Cookies made (I've lost my touch -- need to rekindle baking techniques)
Swedish cardamon coffee bread and lefsa made
A host of other little things not remembered at the moment

Pretty fine-looking piece of lefsa, if I do say so myself

But I won't lie. Christmas was definitely more fun when I was a kid. My lists then consisted only of dreams:

A new bike
A new doll
New pajamas
A snowcone machine
A new game

Such anticipation while my mother worked her tail off to make Christmas happen. I had no idea.

In my current life my lists and duties have lessened. I don't have all the children's events to prepare for and attend -- the church pageants and school parties. The guitar recitals and band concerts. My children are off on their own and my parents no longer alive so I don't have three meals a day to prepare for a crowd.

But planning for Christmas Eve is still a huge venture. Detail work.  Lots of detail work. All the little stuff that makes it special. All the little stuff possibly no one notices except me.

Which is probably why today I'm choosing how I want to spend my day before the final crush begins. I do need to dust the house and get the mailman his yearly gift. On Sunday, I'll need to make certain my fresh dill is still fresh and I don't need another visit to the insane grocery. I'll do the prep for our traditional Christmas Eve dinner and make certain everything is ready for when the kids arrive Monday morning and the festivities lasting until midnight begin.

Eggnog and Swedish coffee bread
Gingerbread House creation
Ugly Sweater decorating contest (decorating done at the participant's leisure throughout the day)
FaceTime with youngest son in NYC
Swedish meatball construction
Someone making a sandwich -- and then everyone wanting one
A long walk
Naps
Tea and scones
Facetime with youngest son in NYC
Cocktails
Church
Cocktails
Ugly sweater contest judged via text message by extended family throughout the country
Appetizers
Traditional Swedish Dinner
FaceTime with youngest son in NYC
Present sharing

My list for Christmas day is nil. Where I used to make another huge dinner,  I now sleep late, my children off with their other families or headed home. No structure to this day. Leftovers. Rest. The festivities complete. Until it's time to put Christmas away.

Last night my granddaughter undressed the Elf on the Shelf and herself, put the stuffed reindeer to bed in a box, and helped me create a railroad track. I wore a crowned Santa hat and she a rack of antlers.

Had to call her Uncle Jordan to chat.

She doesn't quite understand all this Christmas hoopla yet. I don't think she cares about the manger scene and the presents under the tree. Too many other distractions. Next year might bring more awareness. More of that anticipation in the air, the excitement. A better understanding of a guy in a red suit with a white beard that can fit down a chimney.

I look forward to that and next year her Uncle Jordan will bring his new baby, too. Two grandchildren. Possible pageants and recitals to attend in the future. A new cycle.

As to what I'll do today? Sitting here writing this post has given me time to look out the window. The sun shines on the lawn in places where it didn't when all the leaves were on the trees.  The house is quiet, and peaceful. The buttercream candle offers a pleasant scent, just like the cookies I most likely don't need to bake.

Sitting here I've decided that if some of those details don't get done, it's okay. Because watching the sun filtering on the lawn is more important. Watching and noticing is how I will collect myself after all this preparation. That in this collecting, I will acquire anticipation and gratitude for those who will gather around me on Christmas Eve day. All of us together -- FaceTime or real time -- sharing gifts of time together, laughter, and fun.

Yes, today I will look out the window. And gather.

Merry Christmas everybody. Have a good one.

Shopping Wears Me Out

Efficiency is intelligent laziness.  

David Dunham

I should be writing my Christmas letter. I didn't get one out last year. Or cards. Can't seem to get my fingers to type beyond, "Merry Christmas" though. I'm tired. I've been shopping all day.

Dear friends are laughing now. They know I don't go shopping all day. They know I'm good for two hours at most and then I've either found a bar or escaped home. But, no, to you naysayers. I shopped for a good seven hours today. All that time someone else might spend fighting crowds and looking for parking and elbowing one's way through the check out line. Hmmmph! Nuts to that. I'm almost done.

I shop from my chair. Catalogs galore. A book bag full of them. Great deals online. Added bonus -  much fun to open my front door and there everything is. Right on my front porch. Don't even have to haul it from the car.

Lazy? Maybe.
Exactly what everyone had on their lists? Maybe. Maybe not.
Guaranteed to be fun opening it? You bet. 

Why? The hundreds of catalogs delivered to my house offer a plethora of items for consideration. I get catalogs for everything from underwear to dog food. I get weird T-shirt catalogs. Weird yard art catalogs. Cooking utensils and electronic foot massage catalogs. Art museum catalogs. Wine, cheese and pear catalogs. College flag catalogs. Flower and seed catalogs. Give a herd of sheep or a gaggle of geese catalogs.

Every day beginning in September my husband arrives from the mailbox and a loud bang hits the kitchen table. "Here's today's load," he says.

If I didn't recycle, I'd feel guilty. It isn't all my fault for once you order something from a catalog, Those That Hold Your Address pass it on to everyone else. Pretty soon everybody and their brother who sells something sends you a catalog. Or, if your mother passes on and her mail comes to your house, Those That Held Her Address now switch to yours. As well as all those charities she contributed to for the past 85 years.

My mailman assures me he doesn't hate me. I normally give him a homemade sweet bread for Christmas. I'm thinking this year maybe he needs something a little extra. Any ideas? After all, my mailbox is only so big so there are times, often, when he leaves his jeep and comes up to the door to hand me my newest load. Or leaves it discreetly on my porch swing.

So, back to where I was. Oh, yes. Shopping. I'm in pretty good shape. Just need to order a few fruit and wine or coffee or English muffin or cookie baskets to out of town family and I'm good. Leaves me open to begin the quest of writing that Christmas letter, addressing the cards, digging out the advent wreath, making the bread, meatballs and cookies. Oh, yeah - decorating the house. Planting the hyacinth bulbs curing in my refrigerator. Putting up the tree. Wrapping those gifts after they arrive at my door. Planning the meals. Cleaning the house for out of town company. Remembering what this season is supposed to be about.

Those of you who do it know what I'm talking about. Merry Christmas to you.

My mind is now fully overwhelmed. Thinking I'd better go get a glass of wine.  And dream about...

... December 26.

Promises, Promises

The promise given was a necessity of the past:  the word broken is a necessity of the present.  

Niccolo Machiavelli

I will never have a fake Christmas tree. 

Here it is. Fake in all its glory. Opened the box, took it out in two pieces, plugged it in. Nobody complaining because we had to drive 50 miles and walk acres and acres to find the perfect tree. Nobody swearing while trying to get it straight in the tree stand. Nobody GDing while stringing all the lights. No needles to pick up by hand because the vacuum won't suck them up.

Instant Christmas tree.

I have always, going back as far of my 55 years as I recall, promised I would never have a fake tree. A Promise. A word of honor - an oath, pledge, guarantee, commitment. All those fancy words for 'You can count on me.'

Well, hell. Doesn't seem to bother anyone else around this household, so why should it bother me? I think it's kind of pretty. LED lights and all. So pretty, that the ornament boxes haven't even come out of the garage yet. And they might not. The only thing on there is a pretty crown I picked up years ago and the angel oldest son, Jacob, made 24 years ago.

Bob has an ornament, of course.

And there are 9 candy canes on there. I ate one.

I'm thinking that is all I can muster this year. With the passing of my mother this past fall, I've pacified myself by substitute teaching and making lists of things to do for Christmas. Gifts, bread making, wrapping, contributions, food for Christmas Eve and Christmas day. Cards and letters written and sent. (Some long overdue thank yous.)

But for some reason getting the ornaments on the tree just seems too tedious. All those little things seem just too much for me. Even Ian came home from university and said, "We don't have to put all the ornaments on it, do we?"

No, we don't. Worked for me. I didn't even put up many of the other Christmas decorations. It does look festive around here, but in a milder manner.

I did, however, order a new dove for my tree. Rather ironic as I think about it. Bear with me as I tell this story.

My mother never left much in regard to instructions for her funeral. I don't think she much cared what happened to her body after death. My older brother, Jon, handled the arrangements at the funeral home while I - well, I don't quite remember what I was doing. Getting everyone gathered. Going through paperwork. Funding it. Anyway, I was grateful for his handling of that aspect. The only thing my mom ever told me was that she wanted white doves released at her graveside.

A few years ago she called to tell me she had talked to a woman for hours all about it. And when we discussed my dad's funeral arrangements last year, she told my brothers that she had told me she wanted that at hers. I promised to do it. Promised.

When my brother went off to the funeral home with a myriad of details to fulfill, I reminded him of the doves. I couldn't find the name of the lady my mom had spoken to but the funeral home had a guy. They said the dove guy would meet us at the graveyard.

As things go, you know, we did the nice service at the church (my mom would have complained that it was much too long), proceeded to the graveyard where my older brother and I were met by a guy under dressed for a funeral with a squat cage of birds. He handed us a well worn laminated sheet with three poems on it. "Which one you want me to read?" he said. My fast reading eyes decided then and there that I should have had a little more hands on for this part. I couldn't get past that they all sounded rather cheesy. I chose the least tawdry just as my brother pointed to the most trite.

Whatever, was my thought. But when the time came, the man said he didn't usually get requests for two birds - either one or an entire flock. I guess I was thinking my mom and dad when I requested two. For some reason, that revved the old guy up. He said the most lovely words repeating the unusual request and that this was a love story. Bill and Bernie flying off together.  As my oldest and youngest brothers passed in front of my husband and me, birds in hands, I closed my eyes to what I saw - and decided to lift that sight from my mind and just imagine two lovely doves. My husband, however, does not have the creative imagination I do - nor the ability to always keep his mouth closed.

"They're GD pigeons, " he blurted out.

Thank you, Bob.  Of course they weren't beautiful doves. Of course they were ratty old white carrier pigeons. Just pretend, Bob. I promised.

As I stood there gulping down  the promise I'd made,  I couldn't help recall how much my mother detested pigeons. When I was a little girl living on 18th Street, the mothers  used to sit out on the front stoops while the kids played outside. Pretty soon I'd hear a few screams, look over to see Joey Costa's big brother's pigeon swooping at the women's heads as they sat on their steps. Joey's brother no where in sight.

The poor bird only wanted to sit on the light above their front doors and if left alone, probably would only have done that, but imaginations run and I think Hitchcock's The Birds was out at the time and women and their tall, teased hairdos and well, you know...

My mom would scream, "Joey Costa. Go get your GD brother and tell him to get his GD pigeon back in its cage right now or we'll have that GD bird killed."

I don't know whatever happened to Joey Costa, or his brother's bird, but for years after, my mom loved to watch cardinals, carolina wrens, finches and robins while they ate at her feeders. She called to those freebirds she discovered in the wild. But if one dared swoop at her, they were the devil incarnate.

So there's the irony in that. My mother was scared enough of pigeons to GD the poor little neighbor kid's older brother and his bird. Good thing she was dead when the pigeons were released to symbolize love at her funeral.

The birds were very eager and pretty when they flew off toward their home. Everyone oohed and ahhed. But I guess I didn't handle that promise very well. I did, however, put a really pretty fake dove on my fake tree that I also promised I would never have. Does that help?

Believe it or not, I have many other stories to tell from my mother's graveside ceremony - like fireworks wars, champagne toasts, and that tombstone that sort of got knocked askew. Perhaps another day.

Merry Christmas everybody. I promise.

On the Hunt for a Tree

Nostalgia is like a grammar lesson: you find the present tense, but the past perfect!

Owens Lee Pomeroy

Tis the time of year to get Christmas up in the house. Before us, the annual trek out to the tree farm, family in tow. Riding the haycart out to the fields, wandering the aisles of growing firs. "How about this one?" "Hey! Come see this one." and the inevitable "Just pick one for cripe's sake."

Then a stop at a small town BBQ joint before returning home to open the numerous boxes from the attic accompanied by exclamations of "Oh, isn't this fun?" and "Remember when you made this? When you were two?" "Put on some Christmas carols" followed by rearranging the furniture, getting the tree straight, the lights and ornaments placed. All the remaining decorations spread throughout the house and Bingo, the house transformed into an enchanted winter wonderland, Christmas on the horizon.

Back in the 70's when I met my husband and visited his house at Christmas, I was appalled to discover a tree similar to this in his parent's living room -

What kind of people would have THAT for a tree? Who didn't endure the family hunt for the perfect real tree? No smell of true pine in your house? No handpicking of prickling pine needles at tree's end?

Of course, that was just the beginning of the "fake tree" boom. Suddenly families could simply grab their tree out of the box in the attic and have it up in few moments. No wrangling the pine through the front door and hallway. No arguments on its best side, whether it was straight or not, the husband lying on the floor, twirling the trunk, losing patience while the decision made.

Alas, back to the present tense. I had hoped others in the family might garner interest in doing as always. That as my kids drifted in from jobs and college far away, they, too, might welcome the norm and perhaps generate some interest for me. Funny thing, they don't really seem to have the enthusiasm either.

Gives me pause for relief, and guilt. Relief because my kids are older now. I don't need to put on a perfect Christmas with all the baking, music, festivities. That I, as they, do want the family dinner on Christmas Eve, but maybe we don't need all the decoration hoopla. Guilt, because my husband, under protest, already put up the lights outside.

Perchance my apathy presides because it has been a very full year and I'm tired. Just plain tired.

I awoke four hours ago. I'm still sitting in bed, deciding on the process to come. I've perused via my laptop the shops in Austin with trees for sale. Not a normally barren lot with dry trees cut in October, but a store with real fake trees with the lights already on them. When I find one that arrives on wheels, completely decorated, and can be pushed back into its box and automatically lifted into the attic like magic, I'm buying it.

As to that silver tree of my in-laws, I want it.

Family Outing Helps Prepare for the Season

No one can whistle a symphony. It takes a whole orchestra to play it.

H.E. Luccock

Sunday glooms, but we head out

and out

Catching the ride back to the parking lotA stop at the rabbits

The goats

The chicken BBQ

Pork Ribs

Baby back ribsCompany to eat with

Home to the task at handCompleted

Our angel. My oldest son made it in 2 year old preschool out of a paper plate. We've had it for 22 years.

Tree up and house decorated one more year. Relief. At least until the day it has to be taken down.

Meanwhile - the Bunco Bitches enjoy the evening.

Holiday Tipoff in the Hill Country

While the spirit of neighborliness was important on the frontier because neighbors were so few, it is even more important now because our neighbors are so many.

Lady Bird Johnson

I'm finishing up my Nanowrimo, such as it is, and will report later this week. I thank you for your comments on my last post and will respond to each of you as soon as possible. Life, life, life. Gets in the way of my blogging.

Just a note, take a gander at the Dr. Phil TV show on Tuesday, December 1. My friend, Jen will be featured along with her book on mothers and stepmothers working together, No One's the Bitch. If you are in that situation, you may find this helpful.

Another friend, Bernadette Noll, had a mention in Time magazine this past week on her project Slow Living. You can check out her blog on raising young families here.

Meantime, please welcome the holiday season through some photos from the Texas Hill Country this past Saturday night. Johnson City, childhood home of Lyndon B, pop. @1200, had a celebration in the town square. Courthouse all lit up. Food vendor alley - one of those where you wander around and try to decide where you want to fill up. Could be beef fajitas from the Masons, baked potatoes from the 4H Club, baked goods from the Women's Library Auxiliary, turkey legs from the high school band, hamburgers from the Lions. The longest line? Funnel cakes smothered in powered sugar. "Like going to heaven," my almost daughter-in-law's little cousin declared.

At dark, all gathered on the streets surrounding the city square for the parade. Santa hitched a ride on the last fire truck. The parade announcer invited all to join Santa in City Park, right behind the jailhouse. Americana at its best. Perfect ingredient to tip off the Christmas season.

My choice of food? Fajitas and cotton candy. Pictures aren't the best, but so it goes. Enjoy!

The Sunrise Beach LawnChair Band

The Electric Company

The Court House
Even the trucks had lights.
All the homes and businesses around the square shone.

Onward!