Moon River, dream maker

Sometimes I'm thoroughly entertained by the subject matter of my dreams, their landscape or the amazing detail and vivid color conjured up while I sleep. There are rare times when I truly appreciate how cohesive is the story told by my unconscious mind. I'm impressed!

I fall into dreaming very quickly, even when I nap. I remember quite a few of them when I awake in the morning. If he's very lucky, my husband will escape a retelling.

This morning I couldn't resist.

Last night I found myself in the large room of a university or public building erected in dreamland. The rich blue of its walls was such that I remember thinking I would love to see it in my dining room. On those deeply hued walls were sophisticated paintings in ornate frames. I had just been listening to a lecture on art or historical artifacts (a little vague, I know, but isn't the memory of all lectures so?) given by a lean older gentleman in dress shirt, tie and slacks. Getting up from a long, heavy table lined with wooden chairs, a group of us approached the doors to leave. It was then that I heard the music for "Moon River" playing over the speaker system. As I often do with beloved tunes, I began to boldly sing the lyrics aloud to match the melody.

It wasn't but a line or two before I heard a man's voice harmonizing with my own, and I turned and saw the gentleman lecturer behind his desk at the end of the room, singing and staring back at me behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He came around his desk and held out his arms in such a way, one extended high with flat palm and one making a lower curve, that I understood an invitation to dance with him. In a serendipitous move worthy of the silver screen, we met in the middle of the room and sang our duet as we danced to the haunting music. Smiling, he guided me around the large space.

Abruptly, as we glided about, his teeth began to fall out, and he quickly pushed them back in. At first I was startled, but I decided I didn't mind the awkwardness, not really; he was such a smooth dancer and so debonair, even gray-haired and careful in his movements as he was.

*************

I think my mind was making a connection of a strange sort in that charming little dream.

A couple of days ago, on Veteran's Day, I read a story of mine to my kids, one based on something that happened to my family at Christmas decades ago. It's a work my dad has encouraged me to look at again for years, but I've long been afraid to reexamine it, convinced it needed to be thoroughly retold, become more sophisticated than the simple tale it was.

The manuscript I read with my kids was one of my earliest ones, written before my marriage more than fifteen years ago. It was missing 50 pages, including the conclusion, but it surprised me. I had been a more capable writer than I remembered. I joked with my kids that I was a better writer then than I am now! How does that happen?

What gratified me the most, however, was how raptly my children, two of them already gifted writers, listened to this little book I began writing at 17 years old. My eldest son hushed his little brother repeatedly so that he could hear and give feedback periodically, and my older daughter went and retrieved a favorite pillow to hug as she snuggled with me and the tale progressed.

I had to contend with a few tears - my own. Reading details based on the struggles my family experienced during our lives in Tennessee overwhelmed me, more so because I had not really thought about those hardships in years and the great love and faith that carried us through them.

*********************

What was the connection to my little dream? Who was the old gentleman with whom I danced?

He represents my story, the one my husband read before we were even engaged, the ending of which he loved and perhaps made him more willing to fall for me.

It has come around to waltz with me after these many years, pulling me into the romance of following a dream whose strength and charm I had forgotten. It's got some loose teeth, yes, but I believe once more that wherever this story is going, I'm going its way.

It's where my heart has always has been.

Letter to Mama

Letters are intimate things. They are also often more informal. It takes the pressure off to allow myself to write letters here to those I love, and then I can more easily embrace the ideas and memories that are sitting on my brain at the moment. No need to make them perfect. Just let them go.

Dear Mama,

A couple weeks ago I was dreading the approach of Christmas - the shopping, the shipping, the "is this fair, is it all even?", and the constant decision-making. I love the idea of Santa Claus, but I laughed a few days ago wondering if I like the jolly old guy so much, because if he would truly just come around, it would take a load off, you know?

But then I perked up. Matthew came home with flowers one day at lunch. I spoke to my good friend Camille on the phone and now have the hope of seeing her family. And, with the magic that happens every year, I began to think about our lives in Tennessee, our Christmases there. Then I began to sing Christmas carols with Ana and to look at holiday decor catalogs, and my world was righted.

Do you know what I was remembering the other day? I was remembering that one cold night when I was eight, nine or ten. We were returning home as a family from shopping, and the car broke down or the bridge was out...or both...and we had to leave the car and walk home in the dark on the country roads, crunching leaves. It felt like an adventure to trek home in the dark. I was skipping in the cold breeze, because I had on a new pair of black booties you and Papa had bought me for school. I loved them. They had the little tabs on the sides, old-fashioned and charming. I still love those kinds of boots.

Later that night I got very sick, remember? And the space heater in my bedroom didn't work. So you pulled me into your room to sleep between you and Papa. All night you were up and down checking my temperature, very high, and making me drink glass after glass of water, bathing me with cool washcloths, then putting me in warm sweaters. It was like torture! But my fever broke. You took good care of me then and so many other times.

And today I suddenly remembered the time we went over to the Andersen's for a simple holiday gathering. (Perhaps it was the usual cup of cocoa I was preparing to drink this morning that brought back the memory.) We didn't have to go over the river and through the woods to get to them - though in those Tennessee boonies neighbors sometimes seemed like the next frontier - but down the lane and across the creek. I still can recall their little farmhouse quite well, perched precariously on that steep hill above the county road, their tractors and cows roaming in the field behind. I still see the narrow steps climbing from the road to their front door, and from there you could turn to look at our home across the creek between barren deciduous trees. As I remember, though, we went around to the back kitchen door to be let in.

Their home was very simply decorated, and the gathering was a quiet one as Mrs. Andersen stirred hot chocolate in a humble saucepan on the stove. I don't remember whether the cookies she served with it were homemade or store bought, only that they weren't as good as yours. I loved getting the hot chocolate, but for me there was no one to talk with as she had two big boys who liked my older sisters far more than they ever noticed me. I probably stayed around that little farm kitchen to listen to your conversation with that gentle woman. She had a very good heart but few and quiet words. Her kitchen was like her, warm and unassuming.

And Mr. Andersen, if possible, was even quieter than his wife. I think he and Dad mostly sat in companionable silence with every now and then a word floating between them.

I wonder now why that is such a persistent Christmas memory? But it is, and a very pleasant one. Perhaps it just breathes simplicity and purity and a time before Pinterest put so much pressure on celebrations. Ha, I say that, and I'm not even on Pinterest!

This letter didn't quite take the turn I thought it would. I thought I would talk about how I'm beginning to see this first year without my children at home as my "lost year", a time of rediscovery like a backpacking trip across Europe after high school. Maybe talk about my writing disappointments and how hard it is to be a woman. Maybe admit that sometimes I kind of want another baby.

But, no. I will say this, though: I miss you, and I do wish we could sit over fancy coffee or simple tea and talk for a long while. The more I grow in this parenting business, the more clearly I see all that you gave and gave up for our family, Mama, and I appreciate it.

And, boy, do I appreciate the memories! Especially now as Thanksgiving approaches, so many scents, sights and sounds remind me of what you did to make our home a home - all while working with Papa in the woods, too - and I am so grateful.

So rest assured that as I bast the turkey, whip together the sweet potato souffle, knead that dough for the Parker House rolls, and roll out the pie pastry, I'll be thinking of you, Mama Darling.

Love,

Hoodoo

Ghost No More, my review

This is my journey back from fear and hopelessness, and how I went from feeling like a ghost, to realizing my voice and value.

I once hated my past. It had broken and twisted me, but now I appreciate all the beauty and redemption God has brought from each broken area.

Those words are from the introduction to CeeCee James' powerful memoir, Ghost No More, in which she details her life as an only child not valued by the parents who manipulate, abuse, and hold her hostage to their whims because of their insane selfishness and brokenness.

CeeCee's mother loves animals and values friends' company but isolates and torments her own daughter. Seemingly jealous of any attention her daughter receives from the people in their lives, even relatives, she compels her daughter to jump through hoop after emotional hoop in order to be rewarded with some attention from her, mostly negative. Usually she confines her daughter to a room or space out of her way, viciously uses the denial of food as punishment, and only welcomes the caresses of a little girl desperate for acknowledgement and love when she finds herself too ill to cope. The contrast between the mother's habitual neglect and CeeCee tender care of her ill mother is painful.

CeeCee's dad and mom are an unhealthy combination. Their own distrust of and disdain for each other fuels the mistreatment of their only child. Early on we read of the bizarre incident of the Easter candy, and how CeeCee's dad punishes her for sneaking it. Later we must witness her mother's response to a complaint by hitting her daughter across the jaw with a wooden spoon. As with many other cases of child abuse, the "discipline" that CeeCee's parents choose for her is always extreme and harsh without any loving effort to correct behavior. More heartbreaking still is the fact that often there is no behavior to correct, only an imaginary offence that seems concocted as an excuse for doing harm.

Despite the lack of love and respect in her life, CeeCee has a powerful awareness of God's presence. However, because she is consistently fed the idea of her worthlessness, her first prayers are for God to make her "a good girl".

"Please God, let me start over...I will be good this time. I will be a good girl."

This is always a horrific effect of child abuse: the child feels they are somehow to blame for how they are treated. They are punished merely for being human, and they suffer because of their parents' inhumanity.

When the mother finally leaves the father, she tells CeeCee it is her fault that she stayed with him so long. She also childishly tells CeeCee not to talk to her friends and demeans her little girl anytime others praise her or even acknowledge her. Or she ridicules her simply for breathing funny. The mother places inhumane pressure on CeeCee to not "shame" her, the definition of such shaming defined entirely by the woman's utter self-absorption. She smothers her pet kittens and emotionally starves her daughter, leaving others to offer her the phantom of a mother's care.

Each slapping and spanking is gut-wrenchingly painful in its cruelty, as is the mortification that CeeCee suffers as she grows older. Each fleeting, small kindness is painful, too, because the reader learns to recognize the patterns of eventual abandonment.

When people enter CeeCee's life with some understanding of what her familial life is like, recognizing her mother's nature despite the false persona she chooses to present, the reader feels relieved that CeeCee has encountered kindness. When CeeCee spends time in nature away from her mother, a weight is lifted momentarily, but as she grows older, the outdoors becomes just another form of isolation enforced by her mother.

There is a term, "throw-away children" that describes not what the children are but how their parents and others treat them and what misfortune finds them because of the lack of parental concern for their welfare. CeeCee suffers abuse not only at her mother's hands but also at the hands of others, particularly her grandfather. When her mother discovers it, her response is a self-centered one, and she only addresses her daughter's psychological scars when forced to do so by Child Protection Services.

Unfortunately, in all this CeeCee cannot turn to her father, because their relationship, reestablished in her teenage years, is made awkward by distance and the memory of past intimidation and neglect. But when she visits him during summer and holiday vacations there's at least more peace, more care and more food.

There are more glimmers of hope in this memoir as CeeCee is shielded from her mother and aided and encouraged by neighbors, her friend Sandy's family, and the school librarian who recognizes her gift with words. CeeCee also experiences unusual consolation in prayer, an embracing and calming warmth, during desperate moments when she fears for her mother's health or fearfully prays for protection from her mother.

As CeeCee develops into a young woman, we walk with her as she faces her demons. Part of that entails confronting her grandfather and refusing to let him harm her again. How she copes with the continuing abuse, derision and neglect of her mother, although not surprising, is heartbreaking. It is only after she is removed from that woman's poisoning influence and meets a young man who loves Jesus and loves her that she eventually stops harming herself and begins slowly healing while learning to value and love herself.

I am always amazed by the power of the human spirit when I read such testimonies as that of CeeCee James in Ghost No More. I am always awed by how God can sustain and bolster us in the bleakest and most disordered circumstances and environments, environments alien to His love and mercy. Love does not suppress our pain. It does not erase it. It does not blind us to its causes. But it can renew and strengthen us while bringing something achingly beautiful and startling clear from our experience, and by doing so gives us something enlightening to share with others who know little hope and hardly any comfort in confronting their own history or present circumstances. I think this is what CeeCee James has done with Ghost No More.

That is invaluable. That is realizing your voice and value.

May God bless her for it.

Treasured Spaces

I wish my kids had a tree house. Heck! I wish I had a tree house.

A family friend built one for his daughters. It was quite simple but sturdy, properly made with a rope ladder going up through the floor and with windows on each side. He said he hoped that soon the tree's branches would engulf it, so it could be a hideaway.

We have an African Sumac tree in our backyard, a lovely creature with branches not at all stingy with their shade and expanse. A fungus is slowly stripping the bark from it, however, and will likely kill it, so I wonder if its branches are strong enough for such an abode of childhood.

Every Arizona summer the poor thing suffers in the afternoon sun. Would we dare add to its burden?

But, oh, the memories it does provide and the great potential to provide more!

In Tennessee, my siblings and I had a chicken coop for our playhouse. We didn't have to share it with the chickens, for there weren't any. It was a grey, weather-beaten old thing, a relic of a by-gone time. It stood in a hollow that served as the property's landfill (yes, we were that far out in the boonies). On the path into the hollow was a sassafras tree. I used to love to crush its leaves between my palms and then smell the wonderful aroma of them as I passed. The coop had two levels. The first had a dirt floor and was very boring, nothing to see but four dour walls unless you looked up to your right at the open second floor. The only way to reach this second level was to climb a very knobby support beam on the eastern wall. It was brutal, because your hands and legs would get jabbed and scrapped as you made your ascent, and splinters were a likely souvenir of your efforts. Still, once you grasped the lip of that second floor, you were able to stand and gaze out across the field to the woods or the house from behind a half wall. You still had a roof to make you feel as if you were in a secret space and to shield you from rain.

It took me years to climb that beam by myself. I was either stranded on that boring, bare, enclosed dirt floor, or I was hoisted up the beam with help from my siblings. When the day came that I could scramble up to that open, lovely space all by myself, it was a right of passage; I had achieved equality and freedom. Those were the days when my brother Natie and I would take his pop gun rifle up and play cowboys and Indians. Our imaginations were as open as the view from east to west, the view to the landfill thankfully blocked by the solid north-facing wall. Because the denizens of Nature were playing their games before us in the field, there was always something to inspire.

Each of us kids must have gone up to the old chicken coup by ourselves sometimes, too, seeking escape in solitude, in catching the breeze in our hair, in listening to the sounds of thousands of insects, in surveying our verdant Southern home.

I wish my kids had something like that. I've dreamed of what they might have. For instance, I've pictured a large, airy room with tables, chairs, paints, clay and bookshelves filled with all the great tales of childhood lining the wall - a playroom for them and their friends where the messy, adventurous pursuits of childhood reign supreme or where a quiet read can be had in a charming window seat. Such a space seems so much more likely than an abandoned-chicken-coop hideout in the city. Our house in this city is small, however. There is no such room, no room for such a space when our kids can barely navigate the bedrooms they share. And, really, isn't a place outdoors, in the bright light and fresher air, always better for adventure anyway?

Our enormous eucalyptus trees in the front yard offer some inspiration with their large drooping branches that nearly trail the ground now. Sitting between them you can look up and feel transported to somewhere secret and alone. Often my youngest two will go stand in the midst of their cascade of satiny, burgundy-trimmed leaves after I pick up the kids from school. They try to hide behind the wide trunks with their planks of peeling bark before I can exit the van. It never fails that I ask, "Where's Ella and Daniel?" before I think to look for the peek of tennis shoes there. It's the faintest whisper of a secret place, I suppose, but I wish they had something more.

With nary a chicken coop in sight, I do really wish they had a tree house.

 



Tennessee Home

In Joe Versus the Volcano, Joe (Tom Hanks) walks into his dismal, windowless office, lifts his shoe, and, looking at the separating sole, laments, "I'm losin' my soul."

I feel like that sometimes when I sit to write about my childhood. I have trouble remembering the details. Everything is changing color like leaves in the fall. I fear the dull brown that comes after the dreamlike phase, and I'm afraid of the memories dropping to the ground, bit by bit, brittle slivers of organic matter with which I can do very little. The more I grasp, the more they disintegrate.

So I latch on to whatever incites memory. I love any song that even mentions "Tennessee" in the lyrics, like Dave Loggins Please Come to Boston and Brad Paisley's Southern Comfort Zone. Dixie Land, especially when played by my dad, makes me cry; I've left the land of cotton - it seems like forever.

Since leaving at 15, nearly 19 years ago now, I've never returned to my Tennessee home.

I'm grateful I at least dream about Tennessee every few months, but I want to laugh thinking about my gratitude for these bizarre, sad, or joyful returns to childhood. To examine it no one would understand why I miss life in that little square house on 98 acres where I grew up. It had a dank basement, one tiny bathroom, a woodstove poised, it seemed, to burn the house down on any convenient cold night. We had to battle cockroaches and brown recluses constantly, fumigating the house so often I'm surprised we didn't breed our own X Men. One year the water pump from the spring broke, and we hauled water from the creek in five gallon buckets up half our long lane for bathing and cleaning and spring water in milk jugs for drinking. We usually didn't have a washer or dryer and often hand washed clothes in the tub, ringing them by hand and hanging them outside to dry in warm weather, letting them drip all 'round the woodstove on winter days. Some school mornings, my mom dried our socks or jeans in the oven; they came out stiff but toasty.

Yes, I could just laugh recalling it! Wonder why I'm starting to cry, then?

I recently learned from Dad that my brother, my successful, travels-the-world-to-numerous-exotic-places big brother, misses Tennessee, too, wishes he could buy up that property where we used to fight, play, worry, laugh, love, cry, live. It surprised me. My big brother always seemed made for the ambition, energy and vibrancy of a major city, but he misses a plot of earth in Middle Tennessee.

He misses what I do, perhaps: the simplicity, neighbors who would loan you anything - even their pickup truck for a whole month, swims in the creek when the water warmed just (barely) enough, the walks down the lane to school every morning, the tree over the mailbox where we used to hang by our legs, swing and gaze across Spann Road, our old chicken coup turned fort, races in the cornfield and adventures in the woods, especially those December expeditions to get the tree.

Our humble country childhood made us, nourished us, and relinquished us to the wider world.

And however long I live in this vast city of the American Southwest and wherever I may travel from here, I know I'll be whistling Dixie, guarding the memories, dreaming of my Tennessee home.

Raising my Children in a World without Jim Henson; A Mother’s Lament. Dedicated to all the lovers and dreamers. (Guest post by Holly)

I am so pleased to have this guest post from my friend Holly. She and I agree on a lot of things, not the least of which being that we think much of so-called "Family" or "Children's" television nowadays is obnoxious and promotes hyperactivity, superficial thinking and rude behavior. Are we teaching our children to be creative - their own master storytellers - or to be partially-functioning slaves of technology adrift in a world of pointless noise?

Well, I never thought I’d turn into my grandparents quite so soon; longing for the “good old days”. I can’t be alone. I can’t be the only one wishing that the world that I’m raising my children in had a lot less angry birds, high school corpses in stage make-up and stripper heels, or Bratz dolls (the name says it all)…. and a lot more felt. That wonderful rainbow-technic kind of felt that comprises the Muppets. I’m honestly not an advocate of entertaining children through a screen in general, but I do live in the real world and I appreciate quality entertainment for children. This leads me back to my point. The death of Jim Henson left a gaping hole in that realm.

I fondly remember gathering with my family on those Muppet show nights, we all were huddled together around our vintage eighties console television anticipating that familiar theme song: “It’s time to play the music; it’s time to light the lights…”  All of us ready for some good old fashioned laughs that everyone in the family could enjoy on some level. There is just something magical about the Muppets. Jim Henson’s brilliance was unparalleled; he just made the world a little brighter. People of all ages, from all walks of life would have trouble not cracking a smile when they witness Fozzie bear attempting some really bad jokes, following them up with his signature “Waka Waka”.

I’m not sure when “family” entertainment moved into its current tone of fast paced, in your face obnoxiousness, but I know none of it holds a candle to Henson and his fellow puppeteers’ work. Where else can my kids learn such lessons as: A weirdo can be king of his own domain, sophisticated and even fawned over by a flock of ladies, literally…hens, all it takes is confidence. Who better to teach my daughters about feminism than a karate chopping pig who owns her curves and is always rescuing her man (or frog)? In what other place can such hilarity ensue from a crazy chef uttering an unintelligible language?

Even Sesame Street just isn’t the same as it used to be. I used to love when the characters would interact with children and just let the preciousness, beauty and hilarity of childhood stand for itself. We as children could learn simple lessons from Bert and Ernie. Bert is clean and Ernie is messy, how can they “work it out”? Now Bert and Ernie are hardly on the show anymore. The show is not without merit compared to most of the drivel out there but there is just a sweetness that seems to be gone. 

I guess I’m dreaming to hope that someday a wonderful frog and his band of misfit buddies will take over the airwaves again. Until then I’ll show my girls reruns and hope that they keep coming out with new Muppet movies. The 2011 movie was a whole lot of fun and watching it was like pouring lemon juice into my wound of Muppet withdrawal. I am glad they were introduced to a new generation. I issue a call out to all you children who were influenced by Henson: keep the flame alive, show your kids (and remind yourselves) what quality family entertainment is all about and maybe one day, if we are lucky, maybe one of our own children will aspire to follow in his footsteps.
 

 

A Post in Pictures: Take Me to the Circus

I am a person who lives for the chance to feel like a child again. It's why I let my kids do things that my husband would never agree to. I ask myself alot, would I want to do that if I were a kid? A yes can find me repentant and blabbering explanation after they've hurt themselves or broken something.

Yesterday afternoon I was given the gift of feeling like a kid again, and my children got full license to revel in their childdom. And no one got hurt in our wild abandon, though the possibility seemed high. Matthew, my guy, gave the kids and me tickets to the circus.

Zoppe - An Italian Family Circus is in our town each year around the holidays. It has no smoke and mirrors, no big, expensive lights or special effects, no hordes of clowns outdoing each other with their crazy antics. There is only one clown, Nino, and he is hilarious. He is also the one who runs the circus, the descendant of the gentleman who started it in 1842.

It isn't your typical, big-ticket company with wild animals made to do outrageous tricks. I went to a circus like that when I was about 10 or so. I rode on a poor mangy elephant and felt embarrassed for its fellows as they stood in the ring, tutus on and front hoofs balanced on the elephant in front like a cha-cha line. When I got home my parents asked what my favorite part was, and I replied, "The ringmaster." They laughed themselves silly over their strange little girl. I didn't tell them I tried to get his autograph.

If I wanted Nino's autograph, I'm sure he would have given it, because the Zoppe Circus feels like a family circus. They perform in front of the tent for the waiting audience before the show even starts. Nino, sans make-up, introduces the performers, including his toddler son. Spectators are pulled from the crowd to dance with the acrobats. The gentleman most akin to a ringmaster plays the accordion to the tune of O Sole Mio. The members of the circus do it all, even selling souvenirs. And when you walk into the tent, it's a cozy crowd. Every seat is a good one, and if you do not shout and whoop and clap a thousand times during the show, you have missed the spirit of it all and abandoned the child within you.

Of course, getting to your seat is a feat that will make you feel like you're one of the troupe. The bleachers are basically boards latched together with bungee cords, and if you lack a balanced step you could topple into the lap of fellow spectators. I wanted to take a bow when I reached our top tier bleacher, but everyone else was too busy navigating their own path with buckets of popcorn clutched to their chests. Nevertheless, even the seating made one feel at home. There were no assigned seats, and each family could sprawl out as they wished. Our family shuffled around quite a bit as our littlest hopped from my lap to his papa's to those of his siblings. And because they are bleachers without any armrests or other dividers, you feel you are part of a larger family of pleasure-seekers and fall easily into conversation with kindred members of the audience, sharing the awe and the joy of the occasion.

In the beginning I was a little worried that my big 10-year-old son, Berto, would think he was too old for such entertainment. I shouldn't have been. He was gasping and giggling and shouting encouragements to Nino the clown along with his siblings. Even my husband was shouting and applauding. No one could be immune to the amazing feats of the female acrobats (my eldest daughter, Ana, whispered, "Aren't they beautiful?") as they spun, hung from one appendage high in the air. Berto particularly admired the courage of the men who rotated metal balls and fiery torches around their bodies as they kicked up their legs merrily in dance, and the gentleman who balanced a huge metal pole on his face as his children scrambled up it. And all the kids, my own and every other in the audience, loved Nino the Clown. He pulled children and adults from the audience to help him with his comedy, so simple and so magical in execution.

It was a gift of experience and a grand one that made me want to run away and join the circus. And I do believe I could do it. I just happened to notice that the female daredevils had voluptuous thighs like myself, only undoubtedly more muscular, and it made me proud to be a curvy woman when I saw their beautiful and breath-taking maneuvers, even as I exclaimed involuntarily at their daring, "Don't do it! Don't do it!"

As I leaned back into my Man's arms and saw his smile at my childish involvement (I, too, was yelling to Nino), I knew that the memory of this was something our family would cherish and recall at future Christmases.

We left the intimate tent, and the circus stars were lined up outside to see us off with a smile and a wave. I wished them Happy New Year. Nino gave hugs to kids and adults alike and posed for pictures. Ah, the family circus!

On the way home our children used "Awesome!" obsessively to describe the experience, and if that's any indication, I think we have fair chance of returning next year. Until then I'll work on my juggling, bare-back riding, tight-rope walking, hanging myself upside down to spin by one ankle, and building my thigh muscles, so that maybe, just maybe, I can fulfill a time-honored childhood dream of yesteryear and run away with the circus. If I can train my kids and get my Man to wear tights and grow out his thick mane to a respectable artist's length, we can all go together.

Now wouldn't that be grand?

Short, Mostly Unedited: Grapevine

I stood today in Michael's, looking at all the wreaths made of foam and plastic and wondering where the grapevine had gone.

That old friend Nostalgia, popping up suddenly as he so often does this time of year, leaned his elbow on my shoulder, playfully pouted and whispered in my ear. I had to have a grapevine wreath, and I told my husband just that.

We were on a mission to construct our first, very own Advent wreath, and as Advent begins tomorrow, perhaps we were a little behind in the planning. Fake wreaths, too, are expensive. The more artificial but real-looking fruit and flowers are added, the higher the price tag. Add in the candle holders and purple and pink Advent candles and well...

I had suggested I could strip eucalyptus leaves off supple young branches from our trees and make a wreath out of those, but my man Matthew detests the smell of eucalyptus and couldn't stand the thought of any part of that tree invading his home.

The briar and grapevine wreaths my parents used to roll for a living in Tennessee, during my childhood, would have been free - at least for me, their daughter. I could have asked my dad to roll a thick, beautiful, curly-cued 16-inch wreath, and then my mom, so much more gifted with her hands than I, would have wrapped it for me in ribbon and bows, burgundy velvet or bright red/green plaid. It would have been beautiful; it would have knocked Nostalgia's pants off. I would have kept it forever.

But I'm left to roam with my children through Michael's, and when my son says he doesn't like the grapevine look, I tell him that his Paca and Grandmama used to roll up that vine; they used to make those things. Then I choke up as I say to my husband, "I want it to be grapevine."

So we buy a plastic evergreen wreath with fake poinsettia leaves, real pine cones, and red, beady berries, but it has a grapevine base. We find a silver candelabra and taper candles to make it officially an Advent wreath.

For some reason when we purchase the wreath, with its vine jutting out wildly beneath its festive trappings, I think of the enormous briar one my dad made and hung over our porch out in the boonies of Tennessee at Christmas. He lit it up with strands of light. I remember it being all shades of green - vibrant green, thorny briar, neon green lights. Our neighbors on the other side of the creek said they could see it from across dusty Spann Road, the only ones who could see it, but for them it was a beacon of cheer.

Tomorrow when I light that first candle of Advent, I hope my store-bought wreath becomes that beacon of cheer for all who gather at my table.


Peace on Earth and goodwill toward men.



Odd

Last night I was comparing Luke Skywalker to George Washington, and I caught the look in my Man's eye. That look, dammit! I'd know it anywhere, because I've seen it in the eyes of my fellow humans a few thousand times in my life. I'd seen it in his family's eyes and the eyes of my own kin - what on earth? Where'd that come from? Did she just say that? In public? Before us? Before strangers? Why is she still talking? The look said, to be brief, She's weird.

Did your siblings ever tattle on you for being weird when you were a kid? No? Mine did. "Mom! Dad! She's acting strange again!" To be fair, it was warranted. I was the one talking aloud to herself with accompanying hand gestures. The kid pretending a tiny vial of sample perfume was my secret agent communication device, and I'd run around the corner to have a classified conversation with my handler - when I was 12. I was the girl who sang to the boy she liked while he was standing in line for recess with all his friends in sixth grade. Good thing I was odd AND confident.

My best friend in grade school got me a birthday present, a key chain that proclaimed, "I'm not Weird! I'm Gifted." Well, I'd like to say that that is true, but so far there's been no evidence to support the gifted assertion. And I've gotten used to the periodic looks of weird from my family, friends and strangers. I can even shrug them off, explain to myself that they don't understand my special point of view, but the one person who can never give me the look or say the words is my Man. It hurts. He promised to love and adore me the way I am - forever and ever, I Do. Weird, warts, and all.

So last night when the kids had gone to bed, I gave him a talking to. He denied the look (probably remembering my tirade when he had actually said, "You're Weird," to my face a few years ago), wearily claimed he didn't remember thinking what must have inspired it. In my turn I told him that if he's irritated by what I have to say, he should come up with his own contributions to the conversation.

He responded rather disdainfully, "Star Wars is not my thing."

"Well, don't give me the look then."

He looked away.

I let him off with just the warning.

I remember a conversation he and I had a week or so ago inspired by some television show. I said, "If we had known each other as kids, you wouldn't have had anything to do with me. I was too strange. You wouldn't have liked me."

"No, you wouldn't have liked me."

"Sure, I would. I would have tried to be your friend, but I would have scared you off."

"You would have found me too boring," he asserted.

There was a pause as we looked at each other with something like mutual admiration and embarrassment, and then we burst out laughing. Because it was true, of course. We wouldn't have gotten on together then, oil and water personalities. But somehow as adults it works out, A strange girl and her quiet, steady guy.

As long as he never, ever says I'm weird.

Short, mostly unedited post #...ah, bawoon

"Mama, hot air balloon!"

"What...where?"

"By those trees!" exclaims my sweet little Ana exuberantly as she leans forward in the backseat.

"What trees? Where?" I bark as I whip my eyes around the landscape of smog and morning traffic. "I don't see it."

I'm stopped at a light, and, I swear to goodness, this light always turns on me on the last moment. It's an Old West stand-off, and I always lose; my brakes have the scars to prove it. Plus, I've been rushing all morning, more even than most school mornings. To top it off, my daughter is teasing me with this fictional hot air balloon that I know is invisible to my grumpy eye. To see this hot air balloon I must turn into a happiness nymph or a sweet brown-haired girl of seven. I'm not betting on seeing this balloon.

But then my cynical nine-year-old boy points and says disinterestedly, "By those trees. It's right there."

Moving again, I look to my left and lo, a gargantuan balloon hangs suspended over the shopping center across the intersection. Laaaa-aahhh! If I could do a jig and maintain proper control of my vehicle, I'd do it. This is the closest I have ever been to a hot air balloon. I can see it's basket and the bright pattern on it big bulbous body clearly. It rules the southern sky, and the child within me blooms from my head.

"Balloon! Balloon! Balloon!" I shout, tapping the driver's side window energetically with my finger. "Look, Danny Sam! Do you see it?" I add, turning to the carseat behind me.

It's something he should appreciate, being an ardent fan of the much smaller variety. That love of his has often lead to what I term "balloon drama" whenever he sees one, pops one, or someone else is playing with one. He's always asking for a "bawoon, p-eezzz!" And it was a sad day indeed when his birthday balloon escaped into the great unknown of a cloudless Arizona sky. Goodbye!

Such little things bring joy and inspire longing. I've lost much of my appreciation for the ones on a string, but large flighty balloons have long had a special spot in the hearts of my children and I. When my two eldest were small, I used to take them outside very early on a fall morning. They'd play in the crisp air, and I'd jump rope in laps around our now-deceased pepper tree, working to lose some weight. I'd stop every little bit to give them piggy back rides around the yard, and if it just so happened that we saw a balloon in the sky, as we often did, we delighted in it, pointed it out to each other, and admired its lift as the smell of fast food frying floated to us from the nearest major street.

Strangely, though, this balloon on the drive to school is boldly black beneath its flashy patterns. One could think the Grim Reaper would show up in just such a conveyance outside one's bedroom window.

"It's your time, my friend," he'd say, leaning through the glass, smoothly. Then he'd smile beneath his cloak and add, "But let's go for a ride first, eh?"


But, no....hot air balloons don't belong to wraiths. They belong to children and children at heart, which is why my toddler son and I were so disappointed on our way home an hour later.

"Bawoon? Bawoon, p-eezzz?" he pleaded, gazing out the window.

"No, it's gone," I replied sadly.

But I admired his gumption in asking for a balloon he could ride in instead of merely holding by a string.

Imagine...St. Nick (Warning: major spoiler!)

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.

The Creek Floods (anniversary repost)

This story is based on actual events. It arrives here in semi-fictional form.  

A broad old tree leaned over Johnson Creek just upstream from our family's swimming hole. A precarious position, perhaps, but the healthy oak seemed so stout and sure that if it fell in a storm, at least half of the creek bank must surely go with it. Its roots twisted out from the dirt of the bank through the air above the water. Beneath that mass of roots, Indigo snakes liked to hide in summer and glide out into the creek to surprise us.

The most marvelous thing hung from a sturdy branch of that stout tree, something that would provide years of childhood pleasure to my siblings and me. It was a rope swing, a thick braided barge rope Dad had found while he and Mom were rolling wreaths near the Cumberland River. He brought it home, used old powerline equipment to climb high into that beautiful tree, and suspended it carefully to dangle above the clear water of the creek. In understanding the potential of that rope with its large loop at the end to bring his children happiness, Dad gave us a wondrous gift.

Every spring and summer we four were there to pull the loop overhead and under bottom to swing gleefully across the water, giving each other a push, leaping over the water to retrieve it if it lost its momentum in the middle, or using it as a base to climb as high as possible toward the tree's branches. On really hot days we'd swing out with feet and bottom free and drop into the water before splashing out to the pebbly beach opposite.

So one year when the creek swelled with a massive amount of late spring rain to overrun its culvert and wash away the stones from the dirt road, you can see why, despite the danger of it, we ended up there - Annie, Nate and I.

Dad had stictly forbidden us to go down by the creek to look at the flood in the couple days of unending rain when the creek broke its borders. But when the sky cleared at last and was its normal hazy humid blue surely, yes surely, we thought he would let us look at it. It'd already receeded to rush beneath the culvert. Dad had said as much when he'd returned home from a walk down the lane that morning to check its level, so there could be no harm in us kids standing and gazing at it from the road, too.

Annie and Nate approached Dad. I wasn't allowed to do the talking in delicate business such as this for fear I'd wreak our chances of adventure by being too honest or giving up too easily.

Annie hovered near his weathered brown recliner for a few moments as he perused a book over a morning cup of coffee. Finally, he looked up, sensing childish enthusiasm compressing the atmosphere around him.

His pale green eyes planted themselves with all their strange intensity on Annie's face as he said, "Yes, Annie?"

The creek's not over the bridge anymore, right, Dad?"

"No. But it's still flooded. Why?"

"Well, we were wondering...I mean Nate and me...and, uh, Hoo-doo..."

"I hope you kids didn't think you were going swimming?" Dad said sharply.

"No! We knew we couldn't go swimming. But we were wondering if we could just, you know, look at it. From the bridge."

Dad put down his book.

"It's still high - and fast. Why do you kids want to look at it? You can't play in it."

"Oh we didn't want to. We just wanted to see it. We promise we'll be careful. You said it's not over the bridge..."

Dad examined Annie's face, directed his piercing gaze at Nate for a moment, and then turned back to Annie. He didn't even glance at me.

"Be careful, and stay on the bridge. The path is gone. Do not leave the bridge. Understand?"

"Yes sir."

Is Hoo-doo going with you?"

"Please can I, Daddy?"

"Yes. Be careful, all of you. Stay on the bridge. And watch out for your sisters, Nate."

"Alright, I will, Dad."

As she turned away, Annie rolled her eyes at this; of course she could take of herself without Nate's help.

Hurriedly we put on our sneakers. After a few days of being boarded up in that small square house, we were raring to go out into the big wide open. Vinca declined to join us. She was reading, and a good book was more alluring to her than scrambling around outdoors.

As we started out down the driveway, Rueben, Dad's labrador, began to trot beside us. We didn't think to tell him to stay; he probably wouldn't have anyway, so we turned past Nate's and my favorite climbling tree near the mailbox and headed down the lane with the large black dog by our side.

The lane seemed shorter than on school mornings when we were forced to trudge its considerable length to catch the bus. This morning, instead, the trees that bordered the field to the left and the fencposts that hid beneath them flew by. We were skipping or half-jogging without being fully aware of our speed. In a few moments we could hear the creek.

The sound was like a tribute to the white water of the great western rivers, a rushing that did not resemble Johnson Creek's normal bubbly nature. Annie, Nate and I looked at each other with glistening eyes and started to jog earnestly toward the noise.

We could have keeled over into the water with shock when we came to a halt seconds later, because the creek was there, just inches below us where we stood on top of the culvert; it was scraping the two wide tunnels underneath our feet while emitting a ceaseless roar, and the road bore the evidence of its recent passage. We stared down its length in silence for several moments before Nate bent down in the mud, leaning over the torrent. I peered over his shoulder as he dropped pebbles into the rushing water.

"Careful," said Annie, coming closer herself.

"Look at it," said Nate, sitting on his haunches to turn his gaze back upstream.

"Wow," I added.

"It's really fast," said Annie, and already a familiar tone was creeping into her voice.

"No kidding," said Nate, and his voice, too, carried the same tone - something that rang of speculation and a lust for adventure. "It's deeper than I've ever seen. Can you imagine how much fun it would be to swim in this?"

I think that's when I caught on and sharpened my ears as I tore my eyes from the spectacle of a little stream on steroids to my older siblings' faces. Yep, I recognized those looks, alright.

"I wish we could," said Annie, but her words had more the seed of suggestion in them than the sigh of wistfulness.

"It's too fast, and Dad said we couldn't, anyway," I spoke up.

Annie looked to the side where our path to the swimming hole used to be.

"Our path's all flooded out."

"We'd have to walk along the higher part of the bank, " responded Nate. "We could use the trees to help us. But I'd like to see our swimming hole."

"Me, too," said Annie.

"What about what Dad said?" I asked fearfully.

But Annie was examining the hill above the creek. "It's pretty steep, but it's not too bad. We could make it. You want to?"

She and Nate stared at each other.

"Let's go," said Nate.

"Won't we get in trouble?" I asked. It was a rhetorical question; I was already following them off the bridge into the wet, loose soil above the flood water.

"Don't worry, Hoo-doo," said Annie. "We'll be real quick. You want to see the swimming hole, right?"

Well, duh. I was scrambling on the side of a hill above a rushing stream behind my adventure heroes, using tree branches as life supports.

A tree whose trunk stuck out from the bank like a sore thumb usually curved several feet above the creek. On normal days we ducked under it where it overhung the path, but this day we were climbing over it and hanging onto its spindly branches for as long as we could. A few feet ahead of it the spring that flowed from the rock of the bluff joined the creek. Its crystal clear waters were muddied and rough. We'd have to jump it.

"I'll go first," said Nate. "Give me some room."

We girls backed up as Nate did so. He paused and crouched with muscles tense before running full force to leap across the breach. He didn't stick his landing; the water-logged soil slid beneath his splayed feet, and he went down on hands and knees.

"You're dirty now, " said Annie in exasperation. "Dad will know."

Nate merely shrugged and brushed at his jeans, serving to mark them all the clearer.

"Watch out, Hoo-doo," said Annie as she in turn backed up for a running leap.

It must have been her long legs or ballerina classes, but she landed with more success then Nate.

"C'mon, Hoo-doo," said Nate impatiently.

I tried to imitate their form but ended up ankle deep in the mud of the spring.

"I'm wet!" I cried in dismay.

"Oh, let's go," said Nate as I waded out. "Hurry!"

The path was now clear of any encumbrance, because we were on the little peninsula that dissected the creek from the spring and bog that resided beneath the bluff. At times the path wound close to the aggressive water, but there was plenty of dry land. We could now make out the dying tree that pitched dangerously over the stream just above the dam we'd made in the summer. Beyond that was the swimming hole.

I think we all had some fear that The Tree, our swimming hole tree with its prized barge rope swing, would be damaged, but as we ran toward it, we could tell it was secure and untouched. True, its tangled roots were in water and the rope swing, rocking gently over the current, was mere inches above the water, but the tree itself was unfazed by the creek's hyper-activity.

We were all panting as we stopped to stare at it, and then Nate walked over to the great tree and with a hand on its massive trunk, gazed down into the deep water and out at the swing which hung above it.

"I'm gonna get the rope," he said.

"How?" asked Annie, coming nearer.

"Jump out and grab it."

"I'll do it," she said.

"No," said Nate. "I thought of it. Stand back."

"Better not get wet," she warned.

We watched him walk several paces back from the tree and turn around. Before we knew it he was taking a ferocious, half-crazy leap into the air, making brief contact with the rope before splashing into the creek, the water roaring around his chest.

"Are you okay, Natie?" I called urgently.

"I'm fine," he called back, wading with difficulty to the opposite bank, rope in hand. He climbed a large rock there and shook himself a little. The he peered over at us and said defiantly, "Actually, that was fun."

"I'm going to do it," said Annie.

"You want me to swing you the rope?"

"Sure," she said, excitement making her voice shrill. Catching the rope, Annie ran off the old oak's tangle of roots out into space, making a graceful arc over the water before launching herself into the deepest part. Her head disappeared for several seconds, and Nate and I both rushed to the edge of the water in fear calling her name, but Annie popped up slightly downstream and waded laughing through the strong pull of the current to the other side.

The rope pitched like a pendulum above the water. With my hands on the tree I inched down toward the spot where the roots nearest the trunk made a sort of rough stairway but were now submerged. As the rope came back, I caught it and hauled it up to higher ground. My siblings were laughing still on the opposite bank, examining their drenched clothes.

"I want to try," I stated when they finally looked up, searching for the rope in order to come back to the tree.

"You're too small," said Nate. "Swing us back the rope."

She could do it probably," said Annie, searching my face. "We're right here, Hoo-doo, but be careful. And don't go for the deep part, either."

But I didn't take calculations of where I should land. If I thought of that unfamiliar flood of water, I'd freeze, so I simply pulled back and jumped out with the rope swing in hand, tightly clutching it for an instant before letting go.

A whoosh! and then, suddenly, I was facing downstream with all the force of the creek behind me, pushing me toward the dying tree near our destroyed stone dam. I could hear someone calling from a distance, and then the sound seemed to settle in my skull with a thud and become decibels louder, and I realized it was me - my voice crying for help as I grasped in blind panic at the reedy plants at the creek's edge. They slipped through my fingers or broke in my hands, but I saw faces full of fear with hands outstretched racing along beside me - Annie and Nate.

My attempts to grasp their hands failed, and I was sputtering as I continued to cry for help when someone grabbed my shirt and hauled me out. It was Annie, and she began squeezing me and saying repeatedly, "Hoo-doo, you almost drowned. You almost drowned. I'm so sorry."

Nate's face was inches from mine and pale as he huddled near us on the bank. I was quivering, too stunned to break down in tears.

"I'm so sorry, Hoo-doo," said Annie, letting me go at last to look at my face.

"It's not your fault," I answered shakily.

I barely had time to stand up and look myself over for some lingering evidence of my ordeal, before we all heard something that struck terror in our already pounding chests.

"Annie! Nate!...Hoo-doo! Where are you?" a voice called stridently from the lane.

We all crouched in unison like a bunch of scared rabbits hoping to avoid the keen eyes of the hawk. We could hear Reuben barking as Dad continued to call. Silly us! That dog had been playing sentinel for Dad, ever loyal. When he had deserted us we could not tell, but he had obviously returned to his master to report our disobedience.

"Dad!" hissed Nate in a low, urgent whisper

"We're in big trouble," I said, quaking with cold and the fresh chill of fear.

"Kids, where are you?" we heard someone wail.

"That's Mom," said Annie. "We have to answer." She got bravely to her feet and called, "We're here!"

"Where?" demanded Dad, and then a bellow, "Get up here right now!"

There was no hope for it but to trudge up that side of the creek to the lane. We dare not take the time to swing back across, but this opposite bank was never used to reach the swimming hole. It was rough going, and our wet clothes made us clumsier. As if performing the duties of arresting officer, Reuben trotted easily through the tangled growth to meet us as we stumbled along, painfully slow. From the sheer length of time it took us, Dad could not but know we'd been to the swimming hole.

Mom started crying when we scrambled to the road. Dad examined us with eyes that burned with unadulterated anger. We were all forced to lower our faces to avoid that fierce gaze.

"What were you doing? Didn't I tell you to stay on the bridge?"

What could we answer? We were dumb.

"Where were you? Why are you wet?" Still we were silent as we looked sidelong at each other for some inspiration. Dad decided individual interrogation might be more profitable, so he turned to his son. "What were you doing, Nate? Why are you wet?"

"I fell in," said Nate.

"Don't lie to me, son."

"I'm not."

"Annie?"

"I..." she hesitated and then lifted her small chin in an effort to be brave as she looked back at Dad. "I jumped in. From the rope swing."

"Jumped in?" repeated Mom in disbelief.

"I'll handle this, Karen," said Dad sharply. He turned back to us with his blazing eyes, "What about you, Hoo-doo?"

"I jumped in, too, Daddy," I answered, breaking down finally in tears.

"Do you realize you could have been killed?" he cried. "You could have drowned! - all of you!"

Nate and Annie glanced at me, and I stuttered through my crying, "I d-did! I d-did al-most...d-dr-drown!"

There was silence except for the cacophony of my sobbing now mingling with Mom's, and then Dad yelled hoarsely, "Do you realize how stupid that was? That was stupid! I told you to stay on the bridge! Never - never - disobey me again! Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

He glared at us for several minutes longer as we squirmed uncomfortably before him. Then he uttered in disgust, "Let's go home."

We followed Dad and Mom down the road, not sure if our discipline had been served or not. Annie and Nate whispered accusations at each other as we dripped back up the lane, shifting blame like it was a soccer ball they kicked between them until Dad turned and gave them a harsh stare. I sniffled as I shuffled along, weary and grateful to be alive.

The Cobbler and the Cobbler Pan (anniversary repost)

I just made a Memorial Day blackberry cobbler. My husband came home with a whole case of blackberries from the Farmer's market, and as I washed each pintful and spread them out to drain on a kitchen cloth, I was having flashbacks to the summers of my childhood - pounds of blackberries piled in milk jug pails!

I made the cobbler in such a way as to make my Mama proud, I hope. The pastry was thick, the blackberry filling deep - no lemon zest, just a hint of cinnamon. It was delicious. Still, I can't believe it held anything to Mama's Tennessee blackberry cobblers. I told my friends that the preparation of her cobblers was like witchcraft - stirring hot, bubbling juices for what seemed like hours in a cauldron-like pan on the stove...well, despite the grueling nature of its preparation, I'd like to have it again if I could. At any rate, this post melds two earlier ones about that tremendous cobbler and about the very special pan that held it every summer.

The Cobbler

Where I grew up in Tennessee, wild blackberries grew in abundance. They were plumpest and juiciest in late July and August, fully ripened with the heat and the humidity. My parents, siblings and I would hike down the long lane from our little house and climb a gate into Mr. Spann's field. There in a hollow shaded by trees, the blackberry bushes formed a beautiful tangle of leaves, berries and thorns. For our equipment we had milk jugs with the tops cut off and our own two hands.

My sister Vinca was an expert at not getting pricked with the thorns as she harvested the deep purple berries. Annie and I kept up a chorus of "ouch!" the whole time. My berry-picking form was not the best in other ways, too, for I would obsessively pluck practically all the berries from a bush, no matter their size or degree of ripeness. When Dad glanced my way, he'd say, "Whoa, Hoo-doo! Leave some for the birds."

He should have added, "And some for the pail!" because many berries got eaten before they landed in our humble milk-jug pails, our fingers and mouths stained purple with the evidence. But those lucky ones that made it back down the lane to home were destined for mom's blackberry cobbler.

To this day I have yet to find anything that could compare with my mom's blackberry cobbler. It was the culinary equivalent of heaven, but the preparation, at least to us kids, was brutal. We had to take turns stirring the blackberry, sugar and cornstarch mixture over the hot stove until it had practically formed a jam. Mom would come in to inspect every few minutes, lifting the spoon from the bubbling mixture and shaking her head tersely in answer to our pleading eyes.

When she finally decided it was ready, the mixture was poured into the dough-lined cobbler pan (a pan with a slightly rounded bottom that was so large we kids used it to go sledding on the rare occasion we got snow). After what seemed like an eternity, it emerged from the oven, steaming from beneath its thick golden layer of homemade pastry. I can still see it resting on the grates of our old wood-burning stove in the living room, Mama slicing it open with a thick knife as steam rose and the smell of it bloomed in our home. We always ate the first slice warm, very warm - cooled only enough to prevent the burning of our mouths with its delicious purple filling. The taste and smell of it is something I can still conjure up in my mind and something, too, which will always embody the bountiful summers of my childhood.

I won't have that cobbler again, I imagine, but it is still my favorite dish in the world. I don't have my mom's talent with pastry dough and, sadly, I never attempted to learn it growing up. And the last time I had wild blackberries was the final summer I spent with my parents in Tennessee. My siblings had all journeyed away from our home, and it was just my dad and me braving the humidity and thorns to pluck memories from the blackberry bush.

But here's my summer wish for you, my friends, wherever you may be: I hope you are lucky enough to find or make for yourself your own perfect berry cobbler. And may you share your bounty with family and friends.
 
 
Ode to the Cobbler Pan

While driving with my family to Christmas Eve Mass today, I was admiring the clear skies and clear ground and the sunshine of this desert valley town. Indeed, this is my first year living here that the persistent sunshine around the holidays has not irked me as ill-placed winter carols jingle from my car stereo. Though we've gotten a little rain lately and the sky has not been its usual bright self, today I truly thought to myself, "Ah, boy, this is Christmas! Warm. No snow on the ground. Clear and beautiful."

Strange. I never thought a southern gal like me would let her roots sink in this clay soil. But here I am in Arizona, and shockingly I'm finding I'm beginning to yearn for my own southwest ranch home, maybe some horses and a back porch that abuts BLM land. And I wouldn't mind more Christmases spent beneath a clear sky and full sunshine.

Still...a tune such as White Christmas never fails to call me warmly back to that traditional idea of a snowy cold Christmas with mittens on my hands and furry boots for my feet and my kids and dogs prancing through the fresh powder on the lawn...oh, and a good long slide in a sled down the nearest big hill.

I never had a real sled. In Tennessee, the opportunities to go pell-mell down a hill on such a contraption weren't often or good enough to warrant the investment. But when the snow came and it stuck, you can bet my siblings and I were rooting around for something, anything that would give us the speed we craved in flying down the big hill in the field.


Ode to the cobbler pan!


Whose cobbler pan this is, I think I know


Mom will not mind if we use it though


To send our bottoms racing down the hill


And hitting a cornstalk, take an awesome spill


Which our siblings will see and laugh about


Til we head home...cold, worn-out


The pan was shiny aluminum, rounded on the bottom and deep with a small lip around the rim. It had been given to my parents in a set for a wedding day gift, I believe. I don't know who first thought of using that old aluminum pan for a sled. Maybe Mama suggested it, giggling at the idea of our little bottoms stuck into the pan in which she baked the deepest, purplest, most scrumptious blackberry cobblers one could ever hope to experience. Or maybe it was Annie, who always was so very skinny and was able to fit into it years after she should have outgrown it. But maybe it was destiny...for us four kids and for the pan.

I can remember many an occasion, heading across a white field toward the long slope that came down between the lines of trees with one of my siblings swinging the cobbler pan in their hands. We usually had hubcaps, too, but the bond there was never strong. We didn't feel love for those hubcaps, no loyalty for their many years of faithful snow-day service. They were just something we picked up as extras along the way. But the pan? We hunted it down on a packed snowy day, pulling it with clatters and clunks from beneath a pile of other pots and pans in the kitchen, dragging it out into daylight after its months of hibernation post-blackberry season.

On the hill we kids would spend a good deal of time clearing our sledding paths of pebbles and broken cornstalks from the summer's harvest. It was cold, hard work. Good exercise, too, and we loved it even if we did have to stop and breath the life back into our fingers which were adorned only in some of Dad's old socks.

With cleared paths at last, we'd balance the pan and a hubcap at the top of that hill - two of us at a time, and two behind ready to give a push whether requested or not. If you were the one in the pan, you held onto that tiny lip of metal around the rim as you teetered near the launching point, then you lifted your legs and got a shove from behind. Down you went, spinning all the way with the world a blur of barking dogs and laughing siblings, and all the while you're thinking, I hope I don't go into that gulch at the bottom or biff it hard on a cornstalk. You knew you'd get a few colorful bruises if you did. But if you were still intact, pan and kid, when you stopped spinning and slowly skidded to a stop at the bottom of the hill, you laughed in victory before hauling the pan back up the hill to the sibling waiting for their turn in it.

We'd take turn after turn speeding in the pan until our hands, noses and bottoms were thoroughly frozen. Then we'd head home, satisfied as only kids can be in their puerile pursuits of adventure, with the smoke curling above that little square house serving as a beacon to call us to a warm harbor. At the front porch we'd quickly stamp our shoes on the steps, and going in, we'd dump the cobbler pan on the ground and peel off our wet jackets and Dad's old socks by the front door, eager to reach the wood-burning stove and hold our numb hands above its hot surface.

A snowy day did come when none of us kids could fit into the cobbler pan, and it would have been embarrassing to even attempt it. Our ingenuity did not fail us, though. The hubcaps could still be used, and there was some old linoleum that Mom had torn up from the living room floor. Nate and I used it, and its slick surface worked well - until it shredded on the way down the hill, leaving nothing but a scrap beneath our bums. Because you see, no sled or other downhill transport could ever be as durable as that cobbler pan. And we treated the poor thing roughly; each good hard snowfall, it got a few more dents in its bottom. And yet come summer it was again receiving and heating Mom's beautiful cobbler.

This Christmas, I wish I had that cobbler pan to hold in my hands again and marvel at the mere fact that there used to be a time when I could comfortably fit my rear end into it while racing flat-out down a slope. Then I'd like to hang it on the wall in my kitchen.

My friends might say, "Hillary, why do you keep that old pan hanging there?"

And I'd look up proudly and get a little misty-eyed as I replied, "There was a big hill in the field where I grew up. It'd snow sometimes, and that pan was just right...."

that little bit of sadness ever

I'm such easy prey.

"Mama, can we go to the park?"

"Uh..."

Why hesitate? I know I'm going to say yes. It's morning. Or afternoon. There's a breeze. It's not as hot as I thought, and I could use some sunshine for mental health's sake. Besides, the park is green. There are trees. And all that's waiting at home is a kitchen full of dirty dishes, a living room littered with toys and unfolded laundry, and a dining room table that makes me sigh in frustration as I survey the schoolwork, mail, and games that are mounded on its discolored wood.

City parks are a haven, I've learned. I go there for myself as much as for my kids. I jump up the steps, zoom down the slides. I climb the large branching tree after my daughter and feel a puerile satisfaction as I gaze down on the park field from my lofty position. It's almost like the country, with its knolls and its quiet. Well...at least, it's as close as I'll probably ever get again.

"I need green space," I said to Matthew one evening as we prepared supper together. I was talking with relief about the fact that the bermuda grass had resurged in our backyard. "I'm a country girl, after all." He smirked at this assertion, trying to contain full outright mockery. "What?" I demanded defensively.

"That's what you say, but you'd spend a few days in the country now and then say, 'okay, I'm ready to go home'."

Is that true? I ask myself, and I just don't know. I'm accustomed to the city and its conveniences, but the idea that I have evolved away from my country upbringing makes me sad, contrite - as if I've betrayed a part of me that now reclines sickly and neglected in my emotional core, piercing me unpleasantly with moments of sadness when I bother to notice its sorry state. But whatever My Man might think, I do indeed need green space, which is why I scour this city for its parks and let my children run in them two to three times a week though I know they'll be near impossible to round up. And its why I myself linger among their healthy broad trees and short-clipped grass long past time - when I know I should be home starting supper.

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