Christmas Catch-up

Behind on my Christmas report. I'll blame my nose. It only seems fair. Here's goes.

Swedish Christmas Eve. Mom's Dup: divine. Being with just the CBF's for such a feast, a first.
Rice Pudding and poems: with the R's this year.
O's poem: free verse and hysterical, in the deepest of ways. (Something about a voice in the forest?) Luckily, we had the camcorder. All of the poems were noteworthy.
Charlie Brown Nativity: a delight as always, with new Lamby from the R's to make the shepherds watching their flocks by night even more realistic and ever so dear.
Mary Cassatt for sister and me on Christmas morning: framed and ready for hanging. Where? I'm not quite sure yet.
Mekki: Dad's nickname in Germany and what was found in chocolate form in his stocking.
(Thanks to Rich helping the Elves this year I got 8-legged chocolate creatures in my sock. The Elves know me so well!)
Breakfast and tea rings with Grandma H. Missed the W's this year most definitely.
Children in utter package-opening pandemonium at Uncle R's round their tannenbaum at noon, wide-eyes galore.
Homemade cinnamon rolls from Heidi wrapped up for the ride home. We made it all of three blocks before they were devoured. Delish!
Snow: all evening long.
White Christmas: fulfilled.
Yale Avenue: desolate at 9 p.m. Christmas Night as we bundled up and slid about the empty streets in a foot of freshly fallen snow on our OME walk past the Magic House. It's documented and dialogued forever, thanks to E. Rescue by our knight in white before we nearly froze to death, thanks to Daddah. See E's post for a much better synopsis slash proof slash pictures.

these city lights

The front of the restaurant was empty but for us. Surrounded by thick, hand-carved wood moldings and atop black and white Egyptian key tile, we sat in the corner of the historic red stone building. We had asked for a booth, but at the last minute, changed our minds. Could we take a table instead? And could we have that one, please? We said, pointing to one all the way up front. It was perfect; cozy. Through the skeleton of an old building across the street, a building that used to divide the City's skyline, we could see magical twinkling lights and a bright star atop a tree illuminated in all-red. Outside, amid the chill, all was abuzz with Holiday comings and goings. Packages tucked under arms eagerly wait to be wrapped in pretty paper and colorful ribbons; like the people in scarves and hats, scrambling across the busy streets beneath us.

We sat for a long while after the table had been cleared, the wick of the candle growing short like the night. Flame flickering in the mirror across from our table for two, we were content with conversation for dessert as the other diners shuffled out. We explored a little on our way out, pausing to note the original copper ceiling and the wrought iron staircase leading somewhere exciting, we were sure. Pausing in front of the big window which moments before had divided us from the chill of the night, we read the historical plaque before dashing down the side street to the car.

sledding

Tonight I walked out the backdoor,White Christmas tucked under my arm. I took a running start at the decent of the driveway, grabbed his hand in mine, and together we slid all the way down to the bottom. Just for fun.

Round

As we walked west towards the mountains, he asked questions. Questions I have answers to. But, in the moment of the day, when the sun was sinking below the wintry skyline, I didn't feel like answering. Fully. Wholly. I gave flat answers, like a flat character in the plot that is The Story of my Life, and what I hope to be The Story of my Life. Really, I want my life to be full of round characters. People who go places and experience things that help them discover. People who add layers to who they are, to who I am, like rolling stones gathering moss, gaining circumference as their gyre widens. Characters the reader connects with. Characters whose oddities and inclinations jump off the page and become dear to the reader. So much so that when the reader turns over the last page and closes the cover, they feel that something in them has died. That they have parted with a best friend. Not only a friend full of self-discovery, but that the reader discovers themselves within the discoveries. I wish I would have said that.

I wish I would have told him I don't just want to help people, but I want to change them and be changed by them. I want to be the only member of the church within many miles and have the opportunity to teach the gospel to people who have never heard it. I don't want them to hear that I believe it. I want them to know.

I wish I would have told him I want a best friend to spend days like this with. To go here and here with. To live in a Big City with and make it our own. To bundle up and walk along the streets with on the evening of the first snowfall. To come home to and cook dinner with in a tiny kitchen we can barely afford. We'd take visitors to our favorite side streets in town, show them the best art museums and favorite eats, and then kiss them goodbye until we come home for a short summer stay. I want to know what it feels like to be lonely in a place where you only have each other. To know what it means to sing, "I'll Be Home For Christmas" and feel the warmth that comes from excited voices heard when walking in the back door.

I wish I would have said all sorts of things. That I would have talked his ear off, because I know he would have listened. You're quiet tonight, Martha, he said. I put my hands in my pockets. I know. When the last of the purple skyline folded into the mountains to fall asleep, silence set in. As the two of us walked in tandem, along some un known longitude and latitude on this round earth with round places and people and life to experience, all I could hear was the sound of our feet, walking towards the future.

{images via flickr}

New England New Year's Eve

It seemed like such a good idea at the time; to spend even more time in a rental car with the entire family. Everyone was a "go," even Rich, which meant we seized the opportunity at its height. We were going to cruise down the Cape, shutter speed mach 90, making up for the millisecond it took to erase the memory card full of Nantucket mansions, which I'm never supposed to speak of again. (Typing is different though, right? And for the story's sake?) We'd be in a New York (up)State of mind by nightfall. Or, so we thought. Something like ten hours (and about 100 photos later) our Plymouth minivan rolled into the hotel lot near Buffalo. Our patience meters were as low as our gas tank, but my memory stick was full of gorgeous Cape Cod style salt box houses and I was a happy girl. I think I'm the only one who would dare say this, but I'd do it all again. I'd take the two-way road down the Cape in the middle of August. I'd listen to Chard's jokes about Cheboygan and bottles of water, Dad's puns, and Mom's complaints about Dad's puns just to spend more time in Salt Box House Heaven. I hope to take the same drive one day with my family. I may split it up into several days and stop, not once, but three or four times at the Mom and Pop ice cream shacks that dot the coast, but I've added it to the list of Things to Do With My Future Family.

Two years later, I found myself walking the salty soil along the same eastern seaboard, a bit farther north than Cape Cod, Massachusetts. We had taken a day trip to Maine and I was in love. It was like the Cape, minus all the commercialization. Minus the Ted Kennedy sighting and the near-death experience on the Nantucket scooter. I felt like I had just stepped into an L.L.Bean ad, golden retrievers running alongside the beach and all. And, as if the cake didn't have enough icing on it already, people kept stopping me on the street to ask for directions. Apparently, I looked the part. Needless to say, I came home with yet another memory card full of salt-air-weathered shingled houses and a new point on the map to obsess over.

When this played at the YBH a few weeks ago, I knew I needed to add another trip to my List: I'll celebrate New Year's Eve here and be among the first to ring in the New Year. With all the components of yet another New England Love Story: snow, firelight, a lighthouse, and a sunrise to beat the books, I'll be as happy as a clam, no matter the company. And sure, what the heck? Throw in four boys and a Subaru.
{photo of West Quoddy Lighthouse, Lubec, Maine via National Geographic}

Green, Green My Valley Now

I remember I didn't have to leave. I remember I shouldn't have left. But I saw him, and longed to be with him, even just for the ride home. His salt and pepper hair (it's mostly salt now) bobbed up and down through the window as he trotted down the steps towards the sidewalk.
* * *
I imagine he looks a lot like his father did at his age: a head full of bristly-white hair, softer to the touch than it is to the eye; church books in hand; his scripture case well-worn with everyday use; kind eyes and a gentle smile. People say we have the same eyes, the same smile. I hope that means that I am kind as he is kind, at least some of the time.
* * *
I pushed open the door and called to him. He turned. We walked together towards the car.
* * *
I head in a straight line from the water spigot, and search the stones for the name, passing Andersons and Smiths until I reach theirs, the F clearly engraved in the rock. I brush away the dirt and clean around it as best I can until all that's left is a border of fresh green grass, earth's way of framing the dates of his time here upon it. The green mountain grows up and up in front of me. Trees cast shadows across its face and shout down to the others in the valley, calling "King of the Mountain." Legs folded one under the other, I trace my fingers along the letters.

Some days I am content to let the shadows do the talking. I know he knows what is on my heart, so I let him read it. On other visits, I speak aloud, seeking approval, or asking for advice. Although I can't hear him talking back, I feel his presence. In the peace of the moment. In the calm of my surroundings. I long to be with him, always. But find contentment in the moments when I know he is not far, for heaven is all around us. It is in the air we breathe. The moments we step aside and pause to notice the Divine in the every day. It is evident in the eyes of those we love, those kind eyes staring back at us from across the car or across the room. It is in the green of the mountains and the shadows of the afternoon sun. The opportunity lies within us to stop and remember.

"It is very strange to think back like this, although come to think of it, there is no fence or hedge round Time that has gone. You can go back and have what you like if you remember it well enough...Beautiful were the days that are gone, and O, for them to be back. The mountain was green, and proud with a good covering of oak and ash, and washing his feet in a streaming river clear as the eyes of God. The winds came down with the scents of the grass and wild flowers, putting a sweetness to our noses, and taking away so that nobody could tell what beauty had been stolen, only that the winds were old robbers who took something from each grass and flower and gave it back again, and gave a little to each of us, and took it away again." How Green Was My Valley, by Richard Llewellyn

{painting by Kershisnik}

Confession

If a boy brought me a copy of the holiday House & Garden (the UK edition), Veranda, or Southern Accents right now, I would love him. Forever. I'm just saying. (It's a pitty boys never read this.)