Auld Lang Syne

When my kids return to school after vacation or break, I am not eagerly hurrying them on their way, shoving them on the back as they slouch out the door.

A weird mother maybe, but I'm sad. 

That goes for my husband returning to work, too.  

While we were all together the two weeks of Christmas break, there were squabbles and irritations and arguments over Christmas presents, and there was the stress and labor involved in party preparations and then the frustration when I realized I hadn't gotten to everything on my list.

But we also played numerous games, of the board and card variety.  I learned that while playing Clue I will always be like that slow-witted police detective in crime novels who is forever confounded by the methods and the success of the sweet old lady or eccentric private investigator.  Diligently I would narrow things down, doing my grunt work, and as soon as I knew two things for certain,  someone else would win.  Daniel, who is only eight and had never played Clue before, won our second game! I was proud, not envious at all.

Santa brought Daniel a drift bike (the toy that caused the arguments), and Gabriella and Daniel, giggling, drifted on my tiled kitchen floor for what seemed like hours a day.  Even while trying to load my dishwasher, make homemade bread, or prepare food, I enjoyed watching them do donuts and didn't mind too much when they slid into cabinets, tables or appliances.

A racing video game brought by the man in the big red suit was a big hit with Berto and Ana, but my husband seemed to be the one who liked it most.  Despite not being keen on gaming myself, I actually had fun watching him speed down exotic dirt roads or paved highways, crashing through fences and pitiable trees when he off-roaded into an oddly realistic yet foreign environment.

What tale to tell from New Year's Eve? Nothing.  It was sedate.  In contrast, the snow that fell most of New Year's Day was a beauty that reminded me of the melancholy Dan Fogelberg song, "Same Old Lang Syne".  So I played it repeatedly as I quietly prepared a turkey with all the fixings for my family.  I listened and watched through my kitchen window as the lovely and gently transforming snow drifted for hours, feeling wistful and enamored by Nature's quiet, simple grace.  Tiny crystals almost too minute to notice until I peered into the gray day at just the right point were followed by large, fluffy flakes.

My children marched out into the freezing temps again and again, but I didn't have their bravery.  They even made a miniature ice rink beneath the swing set - something I told them they could do, having a gift for understanding and sympathizing with the sometimes dangerous schemes of childhood, but then regretted when our Phoenix kids tried to turn on the hose in below freezing weather.  (What were they thinking?!)

On one cold evening, I took a walk with my kids, endeavoring to find the sidewalk beneath the snow, trying not to slip or trip as we admired our neighbors' still blazing Christmas lights, greeting many of those neighbors, including some teenagers who were going about at their mother's behest or their own volition, shoveling neighborhood drives.

All the time spent with extended family around Christmas was cherished.  We caught up with my husband's uncle and aunt whom we have not had the good fortune to see in many years, and his aunt shared family stories and pictures with me.  My husband Matthew and I were both grateful to his brother Steve for making a point of spending a lot of time with his nephews and nieces, because our children enjoy his company so much.  Matthew's parents accompanied our family to Albuquerque's River of Lights, and though it was freezing, we got many keepsake photographs of them with the kids by huge, incandescent displays.

On the last weekend before a return to normal routines came the amusement of watching all my children and their cousins, including the teenagers, don crowns for Three Kings' Day while their parents snapped pictures.

The laughter, the aggravations, the snow, the craziness, the relaxation, the late nights, the long sleep ins, the boring stretches, the busy days, the craving for the company of family, and the moment when you want a break from them for months  - that's Christmas break.

And it was good.

My favorite things: being a Christmas tumbleweed

I have multiple personalities when it comes to Christmas. I vacillate between behaving like an angel or a Grinch for weeks.

Tumbleweed Tree

Like a tumbleweed I'm blown back and forth from one side of Santa's wintry highway full of merrymaking and carol-singing in front of brightly festooned, enormous pine trees whose trunks are surrounded by shiny packages and the other side on which all the disillusioned elves hang out and drink their peppermint schnapps around a landfill of broken ornaments, tangled non-LED lights and noisy, worn out toys.

Makes you want to come to my house for Christmas, doesn't it?

But I would warn you off that inclination. Though my tree is up, it only has a few scattered ornaments on it that the kids have brought home just this past week. A lonely picture of Santa climbing a chimney does grace the wall in the living room, but not one of my collection of nutcrackers or snowmen has yet been paroled from storage.

And I've eaten pretty much every batch of Christmas cookies I've made thus far by myself; I need the fuel to keep going through all the mood confusion.

Plus I'm afraid I couldn't entertain you with my usual flair. I was unable to practice carols on my guitar for more than a week because I cut my middle finger on a wicked serrated knife my parents-in-law gave us in a set last year at Christmas. They said that sharp knives do less damage because you don't have to work at chopping stuff. It's only about the hundredth time that knife has quite easily sliced my appendage. I think I'll regift it.

Still....despite my decorating laziness, my scarred middle finger and my recurring desire to meet my husband under the mistletoe, not for a kiss but a boxing match, I've had some truly bright moments this Advent.

Just yesterday I was full of spirit...Christmas spirit! I listened to a beautiful recording of my friend Camille singing in a wintertime concert. My son's teacher gave me a delicious bag of chocolates. A bell ringer for the Salvation Army entertained shoppers with his rambunctious rendition of "The Twelve Days of Christmas". And I spent the whole wonderful day with my husband being scouts for Santa, flying across town from Walmart to Walmart, and every Walmart we entered was filled with helpful elves - all with gray hair and a great attitude despite their long, busy shifts accommodating anxious parents.

We also had a delectable lunch in a festive Mexican restaurant, new to us both, where we enjoyed, not schnapps, but margaritas.

Gosh, just remembering it all makes me feel like dragging some boxes out of storage, picking my guitar, and hanging up some mistletoe in order to smooch my man when he comes home.

Though the Grinch could sneak up and ransack my cheerful, hopeful mood at any moment, the energy, joy, excitement and love that I felt yesterday is what the Christmas spirit is about, my friends.

I'm grateful that, for now, this tumbleweed is sticking on the festive side of the road.

My Favorite Things: Christmas songs and singers

You're on one side of the holly-and-ivy, Christmas music fence, or you're grimacing, arms folded on the other....or, yes, you're that one standing on the rails above, belting out the tunes on road trips and light-viewing expeditions, caroling even though you don't have the foggiest idea what wassail or figgy pudding is or why Jesus and Mary came sailing in on ships of three.

(December 2013)

Those of us belting out the Christmas tunes ( starting in November) have our favorite songs performed by favorite artists, and we won't hesitate to defend what we believe is the "greatest rendition". Here are some of my favorite holiday songs and Christmas carols sung by both contemporary and legendary performers:

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" and "I'll Be Home for Christmas"

Frank Sinatra

I think a great vocal gift is especially highlighted by simple and restrained arrangements, and this is how I feel about The Sinatra Christmas Album. I asked to borrow it from a teacher in middle school after I found a cassette version while helping to clean her home office. I have good memories of listening to it by the Christmas tree, Sinatra's voice making me feel more than a little wistful during these two beautiful songs especially.

Michael Buble

Listening to Buble's voice is like being wrapped in layers of silk: soft, luxurious and soothing.

James Taylor

Want to become wistful again while at the same time feeling comforted by a favorite uncle? Listen to Taylor and his guitar.

"Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire"

Nat King Cole

Who can beat that voice, like clouds of perfectly whipped cream on a satiny custard pie? With this song, no one can.

Michael Buble

Oh, am I mentioning this gentleman again? The silk thing, you know.

The Carpenters

I think my dad believes there was never a woman blessed with a finer voice than Karen Carpenter. He may very well be right. If Buble's voice is silk, then Carpenter's is lush velvet.

"God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings"

Barenaked Ladies with Sarah Maclachlan

If you were stranded at a mountain cabin for the holidays with talented musicians and great vocalists and everyone pulled out their instruments and began to sing carols, this is what it would sound like. The arrangement and tempo are interesting, and of course Maclachlan's voice is absolutely captivating and gorgeous on "We Three Kings". It is one of my favorite versions of any Christmas song or medley ever.

"O Holy Night"

Celine Dion

I once cried over a glass of wine when Dion's version came over the radio after supper. My husband and I were in the dining room, overhead lights low, the advent wreath lit in the center of our table.

Dion does this classic carol justice, avoiding vocal acrobatics that dilute the lyrics. The choir of children in the background only amplifies her annunciation of its message. It's a crystalline version.

"White Christmas"

Bing Crosby

Was there ever a man born with richer resonance in his voice? There's a reason we will listen to Crosby sing "White Christmas" every year.

The Drifters

Yes, it will always remind you of Home Alone, but have you encountered a more whimiscal version, one that makes you feel this peppy and carefree while listening to a group of singers with such vastly different but complementary tones? I haven't. They had me at doo-wop!

Comfort and Joy

This is the time of year when individuals in the arts and crafts community step forward with alacrity to sell their wares to those who are seeking unique gifts for dear ones and wanting to support something bigger than big business.

Today I took my daughters to the annual craft fair at our church, one we patronize every November, but before we entered the community hall with its Christmas carols and abundant tables laden with diverse offerings from knitters, wood workers, potters, tailors, and bakers, there was something I had to do.

I got in line for confession.

It went better than I had hoped. Afterwards I felt as if I received maybe too much mercy.

But Jesus met me in the confessional. What else did I expect?

Truly, my step was lighter when we walked across the courtyard to meet friends at the craft fair. Shortly after we entered that cheerful, open space with so much red and green, so many sparkles and lights, we were given free sugar cookies. I then chatted with my friend Kathy whom I had not see in far too long while my girls walked around with her daughter Ariel.

One of our priests works in wood, making bowls, crosses, lazy susans, and pens. I bought a multi-hued bowl to complement the one we got from him a year or two ago. And from an older gentleman who has been a fixture at the craft fair for years (supplying simple but sleek wooden toys that have a distinct Santa quality to them), I finally purchased a toy that my kids have long been fascinated with playing.

Arriving home, I had to kiss my husband goodbye. We've gone in different directions all day, but he needed to take my son to a late soccer game on the far side of town. My oldest daughter decided to go with and grab the now rare opportunity to watch her big brother play.

Almost as soon as they left, I made a big batch of brownies that I have been contemplating for weeks, inspired by all the seasonal goodies at church, Meanwhile Danny and Ella, my youngest two, had a grand time playing with the new toy from the fair that involved a sturdy wood frame, plastic spoon, tiny ball, net and some careful aim. Later, they watched Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer; it was just that kind of cozy, looking-forward-to-Christmas day.

Because of my wonderful mood, of such a kind that I have not enjoyed in some time, I made popcorn for my little ones without hesitation when they asked. My absolute childhood favorite, Frosty the Snowman, was then on pause.

Really, the day couldn't have gotten much better.

But it did.

I asked my kids if they wanted me to play "Jolly Old St. Nicholas" on the guitar for them, and they responded with enthusiasm. To my surprise, my instrument was actually in tune. I warmed up with "Angels We Have Heard on High", and then I played some of their favorites and my own personal favorite that my dad played often, "Joy to the World". Because they asked sweetly, I even let them strum my lovely guitar.

But first I admired its shiny, wine-colored surface, pretty details, and, yes, even the smell of its strings. I remembered the day my husband surprised me with the beautiful instrument, and my cup, already full of whispers and hints of the most wonderful and generous time of year, overflowed with joy and thanksgiving.

The weather has finally cooled. God is merciful. I have a guitar.

And Christmas, my friends, is just around the corner.

Joy

Due to excitement my littlest boy, Daniel, had trouble sleeping tonight, this eve of Christmas Eve. I invited him to sit in the recliner with me, and I turned out all the lights save those on the Christmas tree. After a quite busy day, we sat there in silence watching the colored lights blink, and I recalled how I used to love it when my daddy would make the lights blink on our real tree from the woods in Tennessee.

My oldest boy came out shortly, too, and with both of them for company, I gave in to nostalgia, remembering when Berto, my oldest, used to sneak out to catch Santa Claus and how he tried more doggedly than any of our children to encounter the big guy. Then, of course, in typical mama fashion, I reflected upon how many years had passed since our teenage son woke us up at midnight one Christmas and fussed and fumed for the next two hours, because he was certain Santa had come and wanted to go out to the tree immediately.

How many more of those exhausting but cute and memorable moments do I have with my little Daniel? I wondered a little desperately.

The problem with children is that the bigger they get, the more time flies and the more we parents are trying to pull back the years, scared that our opportunities for witnessing that miraculous thing called the joy of childhood are fast disappearing. We are left clutching at fairy dust and puppy dog tails and chalk drawings.

But joyful memories are everything, and we keep them as well as we can, editing them ever so gently to make them even shinier like fragile Christmas balls.

I'll remember the kids' sticky faces after licking the fudge spoon. I'll recall how my oldest daughter Ana and I sang carols with all our off-key hearts as I played my guitar. Ella, my youngest daughter, has an obsession with Batman that will tickle my heart long after she has outgrown it and long after Santa no longer brings her things in black and blue. Berto's fascination with St Nick, from whom he got his middle name because of his great-grandfather who was born on Christmas Day, will stay with me and warm my heart when my ears are so dull I can no longer hear the bell myself. Daniel, my baby, is still generating little hand-print memories, and I can only pray and have faith that I'll appreciate them as I should.

After spending this Christmas season vacillating between Bah! Humbugs and Fa-la-la-la-las, I think I am now finally, just in time for the big day, firmly in the region of joy and expectation, looking forward to the new memories to be made this Christmas.

So to you, my family, friends and readers, I say:

Merry Christmas! 

And in the classic words of Tiny Tim,

May God bless us, everyone!

Music in the Frigid Air, the Ghosts of Christmas Past (dedicated to my sisters)

You're on one side of the holly-and-ivy, Christmas music fence, or you're grimacing, arms folded on the other....or, yes, you're that one standing on the rails above, belting out the tunes on road trips and light-viewing expeditions, caroling even though you don't have the foggiest idea what wassail or figgy pudding is or why Jesus and Mary came sailing in on ships of three.

I love it, and I sing it....just not well.

I sang White Christmas at my junior high holiday concert. Dad said I was probably the third, maybe fourth best person there....then he paused to make sure he wasn't forgetting anyone.

My friend Christina dragged me to an impromptu audition. I tried to sing "Blackbird" by The Beatles for the new choir leader. I sounded like a young man going through puberty; I couldn't find the right pitch anywhere, though I manfully searched about for it. For some desperate reason, the teacher accepted me anyway.

I could have found that missing pitch or even gotten good probably if I had actually practiced "White Christmas" in front of my mother. Performing in front of others - not those jokes and silly dances I did in elementary school - was no laughing matter, she emphasized. Unfortunately, every time I tried to sing in front of Mom I giggled. The sterner she looked, the more I was tickled. Dad eventually told her to give up, that if I didn't want to practice and ended up embarrassing myself, it would be my own fault. I breathed a sigh of relief; I'd grown immune to embarrassment during my preschool years, so I went to my room to smugly sing to myself.

My parents were bravely there at the concert, and I was so nervous that, seeking comfort, I pointed out into the crowd at my best friend Michelli and sang at her. She smiled back encouragingly, but later probably wished I had pointed at some kid near the opposite end of the gym. Later, I performed in a trio, our choir leader filling in last minute for a girl with a cold. We sang "Joy to the World", and somebody was so far off key, we all skidded off into the frosty embankment of audience disgust. That tone-deaf individual? Our choir director! It made perfect sense why she accepted my audition.

Luckily, the concert ended with Dad playing several songs on his guitar at the request of my teacher, Mrs. Hillis. He revived the sorely abused Christmas spirit for everyone.

Vinca and Annie, my big sisters, could really sing, and both participated in the proper junior high holiday program. Mr. Owens, also the algebra/geometry teacher, ran it and held real auditions. (He sadly gave up directing it the year before I auditioned.) The production was put on in the evening for the community, not mid-day. It included musical performances and a holiday-themed play. There were festive sets and a huge, bright Christmas tree in the background. I remember being enchanted by the comedy, the music at intermissions and the general gaiety of the evening. All the actors and singers took a bow with Mr. Owens at the finale, and the audience actually stood and applauded gratefully, cheerfully.

Later my sisters both studied under a legendary choir director in high school named Ms. Freeman. She was a short, blond-haired woman and a force of nature, a quality-oriented task master. You did not talk about life outside music in the daily hour she owned. You breathed, sweated and dreamed music. The concerts that she coordinated were therefore brilliant.

My sisters were brilliant, too: in their big, poufy, satiny dresses with their big, coiffed hair and their big, powerful voices on stage in some vast auditorium. At my sisters' feet, in their audience, I learned to appreciate what they had learned to appreciate and sing! Songs like "I Wonder As I Wander", "Patapan", "Ding! Dong! Merrily on High" were just a few that I grew to love as my sisters' and their peers' voices gave testimony to the message. I first stood for the "Hallelujah Chorus" at my sisters' concerts.

Due to their influence, then, I have a great love and reverence for traditional carols, many no longer well known. My first carol love is "Joy to the World", of course, because I remember how my Dad played it for us kids, with a quick tempo and truly joyful, but my new favorite carol is an obscure one. It is based on a poem, composer uncertain, from the 18th century and is called "Jesus Christ the Apple Tree". Vinca gave James Galway's Christmas Carol to my dad some years ago, and I was thereby introduced to its gorgeous, profoundly spiritual lyrics on that collection. You can hear the Choir of King's College, Cambridge sing it HERE. It begins thus:

The tree of life my soul have seen

Laden with fruit and always green

The trees of nature fruitless be

Compared with Christ the apple tree

Ah, I love that. I know who my Savior is.

In general I far prefer carols to popular winter jingles. I'm also old-fashioned in that I'd rather hear Dean Martin, Doris Day, Frank Sinatra or a really excellent choir sing them than Mariah Carey, Josh Groban or Kelly Clarkson. Still, sometimes inspiration, awe and reverence can be found in unusual places. I recently heard Celine Dion sing "O Holy Night", my husband's favorite, as we were finishing our wine with supper. By the end, I was in tears and ready to fall on my knees. And the very first time I heard the Barenaked Ladies and Sarah McLachlan's collaboration on "God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman/We Three Kings", it became my forever favorite arrangement.

Audacious gal that I am, I dare to sing Christmas songs beginning somewhere near late November. It's the thought that counts, after all, and would you believe I accompany myself on my burgundy guitar? My playing is like my singing. It could use practice, better form, and the proper chords/notes might help, but I enthusiastically bang it out. My children think my rendition of "Feliz Navidad" is perfect.

The music of this season, whether I'm rambunctiously playing it or listening to it appreciatively, connects me to Christmases past and all the rich gifts of memory they bear, and, above all, to Jesus Christ the apple tree.

This pretty red Dean - short

There are times when I suspect I only keep a guitar around for these last two months of the year. I get restless come early November. I glance at the corner where its case reposes, and I feel a desire to strum, to pluck, and to bruise the ends of my delicate fingers on its wire strings - all for a little fa-la-la, ho ho ho, or a rambunctious chorus of Feliz Navidad!

Today I found the time. (If you can find the time for something, I always believe that Sunday is the time to find it. Lately, I've been on a losing streak for finding time, but when you keep a sabbath day the minutes seem to pace themselves with your perusal of the paper, your coffee-sipping and your pointless shlumping around in PJs) I unsnapped the guitar case - a merry sound, a sound of anticipation! - and I pulled my guitar on my knee, sat down at the edge of my chair, and warmed her up. Clumsy fingers, clumsy voice, bad timing on my Angels We have Heard and my Feliz Navidad, but then my preschooler was dancing, my toddler's eyes were alight, and my eldest daughter came and sang behind me as my fingers finally remembered my F chord for another round of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Silver Bells.

By the time my finger tips were purple with pressing down the strings and absorbing the shock of my glad strumming, my husband had come and entertained me and my girls with his goofy but energetic dance to Up on the Housetop. After watching our daughters join him in dancing like those happy Peanuts characters, I put the guitar away, snapped the case again. Then I blew on my fingers to lessen the pain of holiday music brilliance. Oh, well - I'll get my calluses back before Christmas. I've got a fair amount of jingle belling, gloria trilling and Feliz Navidading left to do.