The living room was mostly dark that night. No overhead lamps, but the Christmas tree lights were flashing, creating transient shadows on the walls. The only noise outside the hum, like gentle snoring, from various appliances was the quick succession of creak-crack-creak from the rocking recliner I had just vacated.
A moment after I left the rocker, my husband settled into it, and we soon heard the stealthy padding of tiny feet in the hall. We watched, waited and around the corner crept a wide-eyed toddler. He turned his head, saw who was sitting in the chair, said "oh, it's you, Papa" , and then his face fell, his body relaxed and a mixture of disappointment and relief played across his features. He obviously thought he had caught Santa and was excited by and yet fearful of the encounter with that strange, jolly old elf.
That toddler has since grown to be a nine-year-old boy who plays flag football, rags his younger sister constantly, makes great grades in school, and is obsessed with Harry Potter. He still believes in Santa. I blame myself for that. Mostly.
Technically, it all started with his dad's upbringing. His dad was raised in a household where even when a belief in Santa should have been impossible for the five boys under its roof, it was the official policy of those powers that be (mom and dad) that gifts came from Santa Claus and no other. Gift tags bore his neat signature to bolster faith, and the presents were beautifully wrapped as if by meticulous (and, considering the gifts are free for the asking, no doubt underpaid) elves. Even when my husband returned to his parents with a wife and children in tow, his parents hovered as he and I watched TV late Christmas Eve night, waiting to give Santa the all-clear when we finally gave up on watching A Christmas Story for the third time on TNT and went to bed. We were oblivious until they became too tired to wait any longer and decided to cart Santa's gifts out in plain sight from where they were conveniently and suspiciously stowed in the master closet.
As for me, Santa was not promoted in my childhood home. It wasn't practical. This does not mean, of course, that there were no Santas in our lives at Christmas. My parents were very generous Santas the year they let me keep the much-desired Heart Family doll set, even though, when asked, I sweated and pointed at the cats, lying that they had ripped open the wrapping paper prematurely, not me. There was Mr. Wellins, the hard-working farmer from down the road, who never failed to leave a box filled with nuts, fruit and candy on our doorstep on a cold afternoon in December. There was Mr. Owens, the bus driver, who handed out king-sized chocolate bars to all the kids on his route. And there was the tall lanky fireman who showed up in our drive on Christmas Eve when I was eight or nine. At the end of a hard year for our family, he miraculously brought with him everything from our Christmas wish list that hung on our basement door. Instead of a fur cap, he wore a cowboy hat. He was a young, thin man but the closest thing to Santa I've ever known.
So I thought it would be fun to BELIEVE, to imagine, to weave a little holiday magic for my own children to honor my husband's tradition and all those Santas of my childhood. I didn't know it'd be hard work, that I would foot it all over town, make a dozen phone calls, dodge, sneak or speak in elaborate code with my husband just to make sure St. Nick fulfilled his quota of Christmas wishes. I didn't contemplate beforehand how I might, with my overactive imagination, weave and spin prolific lies to cover for Santa and his flighty reindeer's inconsistencies. I didn't foresee my anxiety or regret when Santa could not or would not cross off the most expensive or impractical items on my kids' lists.
I'm exhausted of the tale sometimes, but I've looked in my older children's eyes, and the light is still there. I can't extinguish it, so I build the legend, speaking about St. Nick with the persistent belief of a little Virginia. It keeps me young. Still, each time I tell again how I heard his sleigh bells on the fateful Christmas Eve when I stayed up ungodly late to finish my daughter's stocking (which turned out freakishly crooked and funky looking), speculate with my kids on just how St. Nick gets into our house without a chimney, debate whether this year's mall Santa is the real one, or laugh with my older kids over the idea that their sister will turn into an elf at the age of 21 (she polished off the half-eaten cookie Santa left behind last year, and therefore must have ingested magical germs that will someday point her ears in abnormal fashion), I'm digging a broader hole, throwing shovelfuls of snow over my head with reckless abandon as I sink deeper in the magical mire.
Why do I do it? There's no doubt that I like a good story and love the power of imagination. But, well, as crazy as it surely is, I believe. I believe in the Santa in me and you and in the Saint Nicholas of a few hundred years ago. I believe in believing even though I know who really does all the work and spends the hard-earned money.
Why I do it can best be summed up by my favorite line at the end of one of my favorite holiday movies. At the close of The Polar Express, the little boy sits on the floor with his little sister on Christmas morning, ringing the sleigh bell Santa returned to him. His parents can't hear its pretty tinkle, because they no longer believe. Eventually, as the boy points out, the time comes when even his younger sister can no longer hear the bell. Then he pronounces the line that, for years, made me cry each and every time, "Though I've grown old, the bell still rings for me."
That's what I want - that childlike spirit. I want it for my nine-year-old boy who swears Santa woke him up at midnight a couple years ago (and who then proceeded to wake up his mom and dad at midnight before spending two hours crying because we wouldn't let him go out to the tree). I want it for my daughters and for my toddler son. For my husband, too, whose parents kept it alive so long. I'll do my part to spread the joy. I hope the bell may ring long and clear for all of us.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
A Friendly Answer
God hears prayers. I was reminded of that.
He may not always answer. As I told friends recently after seeing the movie Contagion, I feel sometimes as if I'm pounding on a cold stone door three feet thick, that the mail's not running, no messages are getting through, and the gate is barred behind me as I leave the grounds dejectedly....but he hears. I've had answers given before, one of them hand-delivered with a crystal-clear rebuke. So I leave my request parceled on the doorstep, tape a sign to the door, come back and rattle the doorknob occasionally, call out a resounding Hello! that echoes back to me in a thousand different tones of perplexity, frustration, reverence and inquiry. Then I shuffle down the path to keep my neglected patience company, peering over my shoulder in hopes of catching a glimpse of God.
My dear friend Camille's move to a different state last week reminded me of answers given. In saying goodbyes, her husband mentioned how fortunate it was that we had all met in the social hall of our church one Sunday seven years ago.
"I was praying very hard for friends then," I replied passionately.
That is absolutely true, though perhaps pathetic. When I met Camille, I had no friends in this dusty town to talk to. I was raising two fresh whippersnappers; I needed support, fellow women to converse with about my experiences, to share advice, laughter, tears.
Of course, God helps those who help themselves, so when I saw my opportunity, I pounced on it. Literally and not gracefully, I'm embarrassed to say. I saw Camille, elegantly-dressed and with a kind, friendly face, and I heard her mention to an older couple that she sang in a touring opera company. The words had barely escaped and the couple had hardly a chance to acknowledge them when I sprang toward her like a lonely Jack-in-the-box. With wide-eyed desperation, I exclaimed lamely but passionately, "I love opera!"
Another person would have given me a short response, a false smile and turned away, but Camille, though a little startled, chatted with me and gave me a card with her cell phone number, telling me we could get coffee sometime.
It would be a long while before we got that coffee, but we began to greet each other with a smile and pleasantries whenever we met. A few months later, after a Mom's Group I had started in our parish began to blossom (and bless me with the friendship of several lovely, intelligent women), I saw Camille walking out of church as we were waiting to baptize our little girl. She was pregnant. I congratulated her warmly.
"Did you ever start that Mom's Group?" she asked eagerly.
The rest of the story is history, as they say. Since that first Mom's Group meeting to which she brought her infant son and for seven years now we have watched each other's children grow. We have shared faith, tea, countless pastries (we both have a compulsive baking disorder, though hers often yields mind-numbingly yummy results), and time with friends. We have talked about sleep deprivation, nursing, beautiful moments of parental bliss, mommy regrets, history, our personal artistic endeavors, and, of course, God. I could always talk long to my friend about God, and in doing so feel that she truly was a friend given to me through faith. Camille and I became such good friends these past several years, and however it may sound to an outsider, I believe we were both in the social hall that day because God knew we could.
Now that we no longer live close, I find myself unusually grateful for a world that is riddled with cellphones and bubble-gummy social media.
And even though today she's a thousand plus miles to the northwest, even though I've recently felt as if I were prowling outside God's gate in the dark waiting for some guidance, I can reflect with gratitiude on the friendship I was given and remember through it the prayers that are answered.
He may not always answer. As I told friends recently after seeing the movie Contagion, I feel sometimes as if I'm pounding on a cold stone door three feet thick, that the mail's not running, no messages are getting through, and the gate is barred behind me as I leave the grounds dejectedly....but he hears. I've had answers given before, one of them hand-delivered with a crystal-clear rebuke. So I leave my request parceled on the doorstep, tape a sign to the door, come back and rattle the doorknob occasionally, call out a resounding Hello! that echoes back to me in a thousand different tones of perplexity, frustration, reverence and inquiry. Then I shuffle down the path to keep my neglected patience company, peering over my shoulder in hopes of catching a glimpse of God.
My dear friend Camille's move to a different state last week reminded me of answers given. In saying goodbyes, her husband mentioned how fortunate it was that we had all met in the social hall of our church one Sunday seven years ago.
"I was praying very hard for friends then," I replied passionately.
That is absolutely true, though perhaps pathetic. When I met Camille, I had no friends in this dusty town to talk to. I was raising two fresh whippersnappers; I needed support, fellow women to converse with about my experiences, to share advice, laughter, tears.
Of course, God helps those who help themselves, so when I saw my opportunity, I pounced on it. Literally and not gracefully, I'm embarrassed to say. I saw Camille, elegantly-dressed and with a kind, friendly face, and I heard her mention to an older couple that she sang in a touring opera company. The words had barely escaped and the couple had hardly a chance to acknowledge them when I sprang toward her like a lonely Jack-in-the-box. With wide-eyed desperation, I exclaimed lamely but passionately, "I love opera!"
Another person would have given me a short response, a false smile and turned away, but Camille, though a little startled, chatted with me and gave me a card with her cell phone number, telling me we could get coffee sometime.
It would be a long while before we got that coffee, but we began to greet each other with a smile and pleasantries whenever we met. A few months later, after a Mom's Group I had started in our parish began to blossom (and bless me with the friendship of several lovely, intelligent women), I saw Camille walking out of church as we were waiting to baptize our little girl. She was pregnant. I congratulated her warmly.
"Did you ever start that Mom's Group?" she asked eagerly.
The rest of the story is history, as they say. Since that first Mom's Group meeting to which she brought her infant son and for seven years now we have watched each other's children grow. We have shared faith, tea, countless pastries (we both have a compulsive baking disorder, though hers often yields mind-numbingly yummy results), and time with friends. We have talked about sleep deprivation, nursing, beautiful moments of parental bliss, mommy regrets, history, our personal artistic endeavors, and, of course, God. I could always talk long to my friend about God, and in doing so feel that she truly was a friend given to me through faith. Camille and I became such good friends these past several years, and however it may sound to an outsider, I believe we were both in the social hall that day because God knew we could.
Now that we no longer live close, I find myself unusually grateful for a world that is riddled with cellphones and bubble-gummy social media.
And even though today she's a thousand plus miles to the northwest, even though I've recently felt as if I were prowling outside God's gate in the dark waiting for some guidance, I can reflect with gratitiude on the friendship I was given and remember through it the prayers that are answered.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Short - World Series Cardinals
My husband and son are rooting for the Texas Rangers to win the World Series. I don't have anything against them really. I like Texas in general, but my heart roots for the St. Louis Cardinals, despite the fact that I refuse to watch the games. I find baseball on TV very boring, but I still stand beside the Cardinals in spirit.
The reason I stand with St, Louis is akin to the reason why I like the Miami Dolphins football team. I loved them because my big brother loved them, and I still have stout feelings for that team despite the fact that they have no Dan Marino anymore and I rarely get their games on TV here in Arizona. Nevertheless, my hatred for the Dallas Cowboys is a legacy of my loyalty to Miami, and it will always persist.
With St. Louis, the history is longer. My dad has always rooted for St. Louis. Maybe he inherited it from his dad, for he often told us kids how much our grandfather loved baseball (I'm pretty sure that's why my brother signed up for little league all those years). I also know that my grandfather's dad moved from Missouri to Idaho as a young man.
And I have good memories with my own immediate family tied to Missouri, tied to its baseball team. On all the trips west from Tennessee to Idaho to visit relatives as a child, we passed through St. Louis. The St. Louis arch wasn't just "the Gateway to the West", it was our gateway to the west, to our extended family, to my parents' beginnings. We always stopped. I have memories of the arch growing in the horizon of the front dashboard, of looking up at the great curve of the arch as I stood on the pavement below, of the brown and broad Mississippi River with its slow barges, of my dad perusing all the Cardinals baseball memorabilia in the souvenir shop at the feet of the huge structure.
But to really cement the history and my loyalty is the recollection of all the nights my family spent outside on humid summer evenings or chill autumn nights listening to baseball games on the car radio. I don't know how the tradition started. Maybe that was during the period when we had no TV, maybe Dad went to the radio to catch all the games not shown on TV, or perhaps he simply preferred the experience of sitting and listening beneath the open sky. Sports broadcasters, good ones at least, can make the game a carnival for the ears with their phrasing.
On those outdoor baseball nights, Dad and Mom snuggled up together in the car, windows rolled down to let in the breeze. We kids were allowed to drag ourselves and our blankets onto the hood of the old sedan. There we stretched out to watch the stars, stare at the moon. The game on the car stereo was merely a pleasant background hum for our stargazing, sibling poking and laughter. Only occasionally did Dad shush us or punctuate the broadcaster's words with exclamations of delight or disgust. Sometimes there was the excited tempo of his encouragement as he leaned forward toward the dashboard, momentarily drawing his arm away from my mother's shoulder as he prodded his team - "C'mon, C'mon, C'mon..."
Man, I'm grateful for those memories. They make you feel like you come from somewhere. I come from a man who loved the St. Louis Cardinals baseball team. That man came from a man who loved baseball. My grandfather came from a man who once had a farm in Missouri. And so, even though I won't watch a single game, I know where I stand and who I'm rooting for in this World Series.
The reason I stand with St, Louis is akin to the reason why I like the Miami Dolphins football team. I loved them because my big brother loved them, and I still have stout feelings for that team despite the fact that they have no Dan Marino anymore and I rarely get their games on TV here in Arizona. Nevertheless, my hatred for the Dallas Cowboys is a legacy of my loyalty to Miami, and it will always persist.
With St. Louis, the history is longer. My dad has always rooted for St. Louis. Maybe he inherited it from his dad, for he often told us kids how much our grandfather loved baseball (I'm pretty sure that's why my brother signed up for little league all those years). I also know that my grandfather's dad moved from Missouri to Idaho as a young man.
And I have good memories with my own immediate family tied to Missouri, tied to its baseball team. On all the trips west from Tennessee to Idaho to visit relatives as a child, we passed through St. Louis. The St. Louis arch wasn't just "the Gateway to the West", it was our gateway to the west, to our extended family, to my parents' beginnings. We always stopped. I have memories of the arch growing in the horizon of the front dashboard, of looking up at the great curve of the arch as I stood on the pavement below, of the brown and broad Mississippi River with its slow barges, of my dad perusing all the Cardinals baseball memorabilia in the souvenir shop at the feet of the huge structure.
But to really cement the history and my loyalty is the recollection of all the nights my family spent outside on humid summer evenings or chill autumn nights listening to baseball games on the car radio. I don't know how the tradition started. Maybe that was during the period when we had no TV, maybe Dad went to the radio to catch all the games not shown on TV, or perhaps he simply preferred the experience of sitting and listening beneath the open sky. Sports broadcasters, good ones at least, can make the game a carnival for the ears with their phrasing.
On those outdoor baseball nights, Dad and Mom snuggled up together in the car, windows rolled down to let in the breeze. We kids were allowed to drag ourselves and our blankets onto the hood of the old sedan. There we stretched out to watch the stars, stare at the moon. The game on the car stereo was merely a pleasant background hum for our stargazing, sibling poking and laughter. Only occasionally did Dad shush us or punctuate the broadcaster's words with exclamations of delight or disgust. Sometimes there was the excited tempo of his encouragement as he leaned forward toward the dashboard, momentarily drawing his arm away from my mother's shoulder as he prodded his team - "C'mon, C'mon, C'mon..."
Man, I'm grateful for those memories. They make you feel like you come from somewhere. I come from a man who loved the St. Louis Cardinals baseball team. That man came from a man who loved baseball. My grandfather came from a man who once had a farm in Missouri. And so, even though I won't watch a single game, I know where I stand and who I'm rooting for in this World Series.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sped Forth - Contagious
I had a funny feeling about pork yesterday. About the bacon I was cooking, about the bacon tossed out because its seal was broken while it resided with our deli meat and cheese in the refrigerator drawer. Damn! Keep raw meat and prepared food separate, people! I can testify about the clammy hands, the clammy mind as you stare and wonder if there are malignant micro-organisms colonizing your ready-to-eat food.
But, well, I had also seen Contagion in the afternoon, and a pig plays an important part in that film, to such a degree that you speculate about the feasibility of never consuming a fellow animal again.
Contagion made me think quite alot. At the end of it, I made the smug, self-righteous comment to my friends that it was a " feel bad about humanity movie". It points out a pretty blatant truth - it only takes a little panic, a little mayhem, a little fear to de-civilize us, to degrade our humanizing rituals, to make us prowl like savage animals.
We talked a little about the London riots, how it was difficult to remember what kind of protest it sprang from, because it is so easy to feel contempt for people who use a cause as an excuse to steal or destroy others' property or lives. One of my friends said calmly and with grace, "I've seen some of those things (rioting, looting portrayed in the film) during our civil war in our country. You never know what you would do until you're in that situation." For the sake of my Christianity, if not my humanity, I hope I would not do much to preserve myself at the cost of others in an extreme crisis, but for my children? I would do a great deal to keep them fed and safe.
The film does show altruism, too, though not nearly as much. Kate Winslet's character is outstanding. You know little about her background, her state of life, but you feel her lonliness drawing you into her world thoroughly. Her outcome haunted me a little, and she certainly made sacrifices. On the other hand, the selfish blogger in the film with his such and such "millions of unique visitors" irritated the hell out of me and drew only a drip of sympathy that quickly evaporated.
But the movie was good grisle for discussion. For two hours after the movie my friends and I talked, and our conversation wandered down a long and winding road. One friend related how a rat had jumped out of her compost bin that morning and how she kept a boa constricter in her garage. I never knew; I don't think you can forget something like that if someone's told you. I told her that keeping a boa consticter in your garage is something you tell a friend, and then you take them to see it. I brought up an article I'd read about the plague. Scientists have mapped its DNA, using black powder (dried, ancient blood they believe) drilled out of the teeth of those who succumbed to it centuries ago. They discovered it has changed little, extraordinarily little over time. Thankfully, human beings have changed much - not just in our immunity but in our quality of living, our innovations. Quite simple anitbiotics can destroy the grim grip of the plague in our day. Good news for mankind, we agreed.
But is the scenario of Contagion plausible? Viruses are fascinating and terrifying, like a tornado. I read the analysis of the movie Contagion from various healthcare professionals. Most agreed it realistically portrayed the breakdown of society that would occur in a major epidemic, as well as the unique way in which a previously unknown "super bug" could set about decimating humanity. It's happened before, most recently in 1918, but I sincerely hope it will never happen again. I nearly believe it. I have a lot of faith even yet.
But I still feel funny about that pork.
But, well, I had also seen Contagion in the afternoon, and a pig plays an important part in that film, to such a degree that you speculate about the feasibility of never consuming a fellow animal again.
Contagion made me think quite alot. At the end of it, I made the smug, self-righteous comment to my friends that it was a " feel bad about humanity movie". It points out a pretty blatant truth - it only takes a little panic, a little mayhem, a little fear to de-civilize us, to degrade our humanizing rituals, to make us prowl like savage animals.
We talked a little about the London riots, how it was difficult to remember what kind of protest it sprang from, because it is so easy to feel contempt for people who use a cause as an excuse to steal or destroy others' property or lives. One of my friends said calmly and with grace, "I've seen some of those things (rioting, looting portrayed in the film) during our civil war in our country. You never know what you would do until you're in that situation." For the sake of my Christianity, if not my humanity, I hope I would not do much to preserve myself at the cost of others in an extreme crisis, but for my children? I would do a great deal to keep them fed and safe.
The film does show altruism, too, though not nearly as much. Kate Winslet's character is outstanding. You know little about her background, her state of life, but you feel her lonliness drawing you into her world thoroughly. Her outcome haunted me a little, and she certainly made sacrifices. On the other hand, the selfish blogger in the film with his such and such "millions of unique visitors" irritated the hell out of me and drew only a drip of sympathy that quickly evaporated.
But the movie was good grisle for discussion. For two hours after the movie my friends and I talked, and our conversation wandered down a long and winding road. One friend related how a rat had jumped out of her compost bin that morning and how she kept a boa constricter in her garage. I never knew; I don't think you can forget something like that if someone's told you. I told her that keeping a boa consticter in your garage is something you tell a friend, and then you take them to see it. I brought up an article I'd read about the plague. Scientists have mapped its DNA, using black powder (dried, ancient blood they believe) drilled out of the teeth of those who succumbed to it centuries ago. They discovered it has changed little, extraordinarily little over time. Thankfully, human beings have changed much - not just in our immunity but in our quality of living, our innovations. Quite simple anitbiotics can destroy the grim grip of the plague in our day. Good news for mankind, we agreed.
But is the scenario of Contagion plausible? Viruses are fascinating and terrifying, like a tornado. I read the analysis of the movie Contagion from various healthcare professionals. Most agreed it realistically portrayed the breakdown of society that would occur in a major epidemic, as well as the unique way in which a previously unknown "super bug" could set about decimating humanity. It's happened before, most recently in 1918, but I sincerely hope it will never happen again. I nearly believe it. I have a lot of faith even yet.
But I still feel funny about that pork.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Trick-or-Treat, Elephant Snot
Come late October, fall reigned in Tennessee. The changing leaves, overhead and under foot, always thrilled me on the walk down the lane to catch the bus as a child. The cooler weather with its sighing breezes invigorated me, and though it stripped away, patch by patch, its exotic, multi-hued cloak that hid our little home from the world, late October brought with it Halloween. In all its trick-or-treating glory, it presented us with a new multi-colored splendor to relish: candy.
There was very little decorating in our house. The only thing I can remember is a scarecrow with accordion legs dangling from our living room closet door. How I loved to see that scarecrow! He cemented my admiration for all such persons fashioned from straw, sticks and old clothes. But no ghost, witch or ghoul friends bore him company in the vigil for Halloween.
It didn’t matter that decorations were sparse; no trick-or-treating would take place at our home or those of our neighbors. Trick-or-treating would have entailed walking the half mile or so between houses - uphill both ways, of course - and likely as not, if we had attempted it, we would have been greeted by bemused stares and given a crumbly corn muffin, hint of mashed potatoes on the corner, left over from our neighbors’ dinner.
So we ransacked our house on Halloween night to find the things that added up to a presentable costume (like a scavenger hunt, you couldn’t be sure what it all might signify at the end), and anyone who needed make-up of some sort presented themselves to Mom. Then we drove 30 minutes into the town of Dickson, and Dad navigated the car into one of the fancier neighborhoods where we were certain to amass a splendid cache of sweet booty. Out of the car we four kids spilled onto the sidewalk. Costumes straightened, treat bags ready, Dad would point out the first street to attack and away we’d sprint.
Looking back, Halloween was like a date night for my parents. I envy what they were able to glean from it. They strolled down the tree-lined sidewalk, holding hands. They had their conversation, and Mom’s laughter would drift through the air to us kids as we stood before a door with treat bags spread wide. They seemed so relaxed, so thoroughly in the spirit of things, and thankfully oblivious to the school day usually waiting on the morrow.
Occasionally, they did call out to us to keep us in line, prevent us from tripping over garden gnomes or yard lights or from decimating flower beds in the eager rush from door to door, and to keep us from grabbing more than our fair share from unattended candy bowls with signs that courteously commanded, “Please Take One”.
We cut through a lot of yards on Halloween night, flashing through the easygoing grass. The only lawns to which we gave a wide berth were those inhabited by vampires and smoke, webbing and bubbling witches’ brew. Inevitably, Nate and Annie egged each other on to those houses, returning with abundant candy for their bravery.
When our bags strained our wrists, we beat it back to the car where Dad popped the trunk for us to spill our treasure into waiting receptacles. Then with empty, expectant bags we felt re-energized and doggedly pursued fresh streets with untried houses.
So it continued until we stumbled to the car at an hour when most respectable revelers conceded to give up the treat hunt, leaving the teenagers to toilet paper houses and smash Jack-o-lanterns until some ungodly hour of their own choosing.
The car ride back to the boonies let us weigh the fruit of our efforts by the amount of pressure our bags put on our tired legs, and it also served as a necessary opportunity for our stomachs to settle with all the candy we had sampled between doors. Heaven knows, as soon as we dumped out the glorious piles of booty on the living room floor, we would eat a hearty second round of gut-busting sugar with unabashed glee.
And that’s when my sister Vinca and Dad unleashed their strategies. Vinca waved all kinds of miraculous bite-sized chocolate bars and little bags of candy corn in the air to beguile us into relinquishing our stores of bubble gum. We were weak and took what she proffered, trading over fat rounds of Dubble Bubble. Unfortunately for us, our candy always disappeared much quicker than her gum stores. She would make them last for months afterwards, and we were left to ask covetously now and then, “Is that from Halloween?” Vinca would nod, chew, and blow boastful bubbles without even looking up from her book.
Dad, of course, sat in his chair and called for his “daddy tax” (most have heard of this tax, because dads are upfront in their claims on candy, while moms, cackling like wicked chocolate-seeking witches with lusty thighs, simply raid the bags when their sweet, silly children are asleep). My dad demanded his share of Sugar Daddy suckers, and, as most would agree, they had his name on them, so it was only fair. Besides, we couldn’t begrudge him the suckers, because the only other thing he really took was something we didn’t want at all: Elephant Snot.
“Ewww,” we’d say when we’d find them, “Gross!”, or “Uggh, not these again!”
And then Dad would grin and wave us over, “Bring them here,” he’d say. “Bring me the Elephant Snot, kids.”
So we’d pick the plain orange or black wrappers out from our decent candy between thumb and forefinger, taking handfuls over to dump on Dad’s lap. He’d unwrap them and stuff the wrappers in the corner of his recliner as he chewed comfortably on their peanut butter filling, saying for our benefit, “Umm, Elephant Snot – good stuff!”
I never knew the proper name of the candy. Dad’s pet name for it seemed so much more appropriate, especially given its color. They were bite-sized chews with peanut butter inside and I don’t know what kind of horrendous coating on the outside, almost like peanut taffy. I haven’t seen any in years. Perhaps people wisely stopped patronizing their manufacturer, perhaps they were banned for their atrocious flavor by the FDA, or maybe my dad orders buckets upon buckets of them for himself each Halloween, and so there’s none left for the stores. But if I ever see any Elephant Snot come through my kids’ treat bags, I know just where to send them, along with the memories that spring from their gaudy little wrappers:
For you, Dad
With love
Some elephant snot
Happy Halloween!
Love, Hoodoo
There was very little decorating in our house. The only thing I can remember is a scarecrow with accordion legs dangling from our living room closet door. How I loved to see that scarecrow! He cemented my admiration for all such persons fashioned from straw, sticks and old clothes. But no ghost, witch or ghoul friends bore him company in the vigil for Halloween.
It didn’t matter that decorations were sparse; no trick-or-treating would take place at our home or those of our neighbors. Trick-or-treating would have entailed walking the half mile or so between houses - uphill both ways, of course - and likely as not, if we had attempted it, we would have been greeted by bemused stares and given a crumbly corn muffin, hint of mashed potatoes on the corner, left over from our neighbors’ dinner.
So we ransacked our house on Halloween night to find the things that added up to a presentable costume (like a scavenger hunt, you couldn’t be sure what it all might signify at the end), and anyone who needed make-up of some sort presented themselves to Mom. Then we drove 30 minutes into the town of Dickson, and Dad navigated the car into one of the fancier neighborhoods where we were certain to amass a splendid cache of sweet booty. Out of the car we four kids spilled onto the sidewalk. Costumes straightened, treat bags ready, Dad would point out the first street to attack and away we’d sprint.
Looking back, Halloween was like a date night for my parents. I envy what they were able to glean from it. They strolled down the tree-lined sidewalk, holding hands. They had their conversation, and Mom’s laughter would drift through the air to us kids as we stood before a door with treat bags spread wide. They seemed so relaxed, so thoroughly in the spirit of things, and thankfully oblivious to the school day usually waiting on the morrow.
Occasionally, they did call out to us to keep us in line, prevent us from tripping over garden gnomes or yard lights or from decimating flower beds in the eager rush from door to door, and to keep us from grabbing more than our fair share from unattended candy bowls with signs that courteously commanded, “Please Take One”.
We cut through a lot of yards on Halloween night, flashing through the easygoing grass. The only lawns to which we gave a wide berth were those inhabited by vampires and smoke, webbing and bubbling witches’ brew. Inevitably, Nate and Annie egged each other on to those houses, returning with abundant candy for their bravery.
When our bags strained our wrists, we beat it back to the car where Dad popped the trunk for us to spill our treasure into waiting receptacles. Then with empty, expectant bags we felt re-energized and doggedly pursued fresh streets with untried houses.
So it continued until we stumbled to the car at an hour when most respectable revelers conceded to give up the treat hunt, leaving the teenagers to toilet paper houses and smash Jack-o-lanterns until some ungodly hour of their own choosing.
The car ride back to the boonies let us weigh the fruit of our efforts by the amount of pressure our bags put on our tired legs, and it also served as a necessary opportunity for our stomachs to settle with all the candy we had sampled between doors. Heaven knows, as soon as we dumped out the glorious piles of booty on the living room floor, we would eat a hearty second round of gut-busting sugar with unabashed glee.
And that’s when my sister Vinca and Dad unleashed their strategies. Vinca waved all kinds of miraculous bite-sized chocolate bars and little bags of candy corn in the air to beguile us into relinquishing our stores of bubble gum. We were weak and took what she proffered, trading over fat rounds of Dubble Bubble. Unfortunately for us, our candy always disappeared much quicker than her gum stores. She would make them last for months afterwards, and we were left to ask covetously now and then, “Is that from Halloween?” Vinca would nod, chew, and blow boastful bubbles without even looking up from her book.
Dad, of course, sat in his chair and called for his “daddy tax” (most have heard of this tax, because dads are upfront in their claims on candy, while moms, cackling like wicked chocolate-seeking witches with lusty thighs, simply raid the bags when their sweet, silly children are asleep). My dad demanded his share of Sugar Daddy suckers, and, as most would agree, they had his name on them, so it was only fair. Besides, we couldn’t begrudge him the suckers, because the only other thing he really took was something we didn’t want at all: Elephant Snot.
“Ewww,” we’d say when we’d find them, “Gross!”, or “Uggh, not these again!”
And then Dad would grin and wave us over, “Bring them here,” he’d say. “Bring me the Elephant Snot, kids.”
So we’d pick the plain orange or black wrappers out from our decent candy between thumb and forefinger, taking handfuls over to dump on Dad’s lap. He’d unwrap them and stuff the wrappers in the corner of his recliner as he chewed comfortably on their peanut butter filling, saying for our benefit, “Umm, Elephant Snot – good stuff!”
I never knew the proper name of the candy. Dad’s pet name for it seemed so much more appropriate, especially given its color. They were bite-sized chews with peanut butter inside and I don’t know what kind of horrendous coating on the outside, almost like peanut taffy. I haven’t seen any in years. Perhaps people wisely stopped patronizing their manufacturer, perhaps they were banned for their atrocious flavor by the FDA, or maybe my dad orders buckets upon buckets of them for himself each Halloween, and so there’s none left for the stores. But if I ever see any Elephant Snot come through my kids’ treat bags, I know just where to send them, along with the memories that spring from their gaudy little wrappers:
For you, Dad
With love
Some elephant snot
Happy Halloween!
Love, Hoodoo
Monday, October 3, 2011
Short, mostly unedited post #3 - Chicken Noodle
I walked into my kitchen early Saturday evening, and I smelled home. It was emanating from a large blue crock pot on the stove. I breathed in deeply and sighed. My tiny little kitchen smelled and therefore felt like home, and I had warm feelings for it despite its diminutive size.
The smell was a whole cut-up chicken simmering in broth and a potpourri of onion, celery, bay leaf, carrot and thyme. The soup was a Mama's love offering for my eldest boy who was running a fever. Thankfully, it wasn't interfering with his appetite, for every time he passed the kitchen, he exclaimed, "Ummm! That smells good."
Of course it did. Fresh chicken, fresh veggies. Old memories. Homemade chicken noodle soup has been a part of my life since childhood. My mom used to make it with handmade noodles - not those fancy kind that pass through the pasta press a few dozen times, but rough, country style ones - thick, doughy and delicious. My dad was very particular about how long the soup should cook after the noodles were folded in and spread thickening flour ribbons through the pot. Off from the burner the soup must come after the last noodle entered the heat. Then it rested for only a couple minutes before my mom presented a steaming bowl to her husband.
Though Mom's chicken noodle soup nurtured me as I grew, it betrayed me when one cool autumn evening in Idaho, I hovered at the edge of the counter and asked self-consciously, "How do you make it, Mama? Can you show me?"
My mom practically giggled over the implications of my request, and I saw her grin and wink at my dad. I had never asked to be shown how to make anything. Of course she guessed what I myself barely knew: I was becoming serious about Matthew.
But not all memories can be satisfying, no matter how sweet the conjured smell. After a few years of marriage I made the soup for My Man's family, hand-rolled noodles and everything. He has four brothers, and some of them have wives and children, so I had to double the recipe, but I neglected to double the seasonings. After my unaccustomed labor, I heard low voices saying, "It's a little bland." Missing something...." "Does anyone else want the salt?"
I tried it and got a familiar sinking feeling. It was indeed bland and pathetic, like my every other attempt to impress my husband's family with my kitchen skills. Thwarted again! A curse!
But never mind. Let by-gone bland soup be by-gone. On Saturday evening I heard the noise which always signifies a happy family at dinnertime - the eager click-clack of spoons on bowls.
The smell was a whole cut-up chicken simmering in broth and a potpourri of onion, celery, bay leaf, carrot and thyme. The soup was a Mama's love offering for my eldest boy who was running a fever. Thankfully, it wasn't interfering with his appetite, for every time he passed the kitchen, he exclaimed, "Ummm! That smells good."
Of course it did. Fresh chicken, fresh veggies. Old memories. Homemade chicken noodle soup has been a part of my life since childhood. My mom used to make it with handmade noodles - not those fancy kind that pass through the pasta press a few dozen times, but rough, country style ones - thick, doughy and delicious. My dad was very particular about how long the soup should cook after the noodles were folded in and spread thickening flour ribbons through the pot. Off from the burner the soup must come after the last noodle entered the heat. Then it rested for only a couple minutes before my mom presented a steaming bowl to her husband.
Though Mom's chicken noodle soup nurtured me as I grew, it betrayed me when one cool autumn evening in Idaho, I hovered at the edge of the counter and asked self-consciously, "How do you make it, Mama? Can you show me?"
My mom practically giggled over the implications of my request, and I saw her grin and wink at my dad. I had never asked to be shown how to make anything. Of course she guessed what I myself barely knew: I was becoming serious about Matthew.
But not all memories can be satisfying, no matter how sweet the conjured smell. After a few years of marriage I made the soup for My Man's family, hand-rolled noodles and everything. He has four brothers, and some of them have wives and children, so I had to double the recipe, but I neglected to double the seasonings. After my unaccustomed labor, I heard low voices saying, "It's a little bland." Missing something...." "Does anyone else want the salt?"
I tried it and got a familiar sinking feeling. It was indeed bland and pathetic, like my every other attempt to impress my husband's family with my kitchen skills. Thwarted again! A curse!
But never mind. Let by-gone bland soup be by-gone. On Saturday evening I heard the noise which always signifies a happy family at dinnertime - the eager click-clack of spoons on bowls.
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