Christmas Seasons

With Christmas but a few days away, I want to send my wishes that your Christmas will be filled with love and peace. Most of us can recall those special Christmases, perhaps those of our childhood, or with our first love, or later, those with a growing family, followed by those with grandchildren.

Over the years, Christmas celebrations tend to evolve as each of us builds our own treasure trove of memories. If you're like me, some of the memories fuse into others. As a child, I remember getting a tangerine in my stocking and so, the smell of a tangerine will always evoke childhood Christmases for me. Over the years, time changes our celebrations. I can't imagine ever putting a tangerine in my children's or my grandchildren's stockings!

I remember meeting my husband, Will. Those were the days when we took lots of pictures. This picture, taken in 1959, was our first Christmas together. We were young, then, and carefree, too. I recall we had to visit both sets of parents that year. And try to eat two turkey dinners, as well.

Since then, we've celebrated fifty-five Christmases together. If I had a chance to relive those years, I would have kept a Christmas journal. Then, I would be able to go back and check out each one. Now, they merge into a lovely pattern much like a quilt made of many hues.


In quick succession, our four daughters came along and with them, late nights of putting toys together, then arranging them under the tree. Ginger, our oldest, was always the "scout." While her sisters quivered with excitement, she would run down the steps, check out the scene, then call up to her sisters, "Santa came!" Then we'd hear another three sets of feet bound down the steps. And our Christmas morning would begin...way too early, but nevertheless, filled with joy.

Way too quickly, they grew up, married and began their own Christmas traditions. Again, Christmases evolved but with glad tidings as life was developing as it was meant to be.

Soon, grandchildren hit the scene. Another golden time, another gilded, ribboned wrapped growth of Christmas change. This, for me, was really special. This picture of me with our grandsons Nathan and John, was taken a Christmas that I'll never forget. Nathan, four months old, was sleeping on a blanket close to the tree while we were all in the kitchen. We heard a thud and ran in. The tree had fallen over and Nathan was under it! Not a sound was uttered by this dear baby boy. We pulled the tree off of him, unsure if he was hurt, but thankfully, not a branch had touched him.

Those years went quickly, way too quickly. And now my beloved and I find we're back to the beginning. Our children and our children's children all live far enough away that Will and I are two once more. We still celebrate with gifts and phone calls, then visits after Christmas day. We're content and feel blessed to be together and well. We rejoice in the day and knowing all of our loved ones are safe and celebrating, too.


May you and your family have a blessed Christmas and fun making memories together!

Thank You, Mrs. Bunting

If you’re like me and someone asks you, “Who were the mentors who influenced you?” you probably can reel off a few names very quickly. We can all recall those who've had a major influence on our life choices, but how about those who enter your life only briefly?

 

One of those people in my life was Mrs. Bunting. She lived near us in a small white bungalow badly in need of paint, but lovely still, with a beautiful rose arbor gracing the back. When my mother returned to work for a brief time so we could buy our first television, we were told we’d be going to Mrs. Bunting’s house after school until one of our parents came home. I groaned as loudly as my two sisters about the prospect of staying with boring and OLD Mrs. Bunting.

A lady in every sense of the word as described in the ‘40's and ‘50's, she dressed discreetly in a pressed house dress and wore beaded, dangly, earrings, pierced ones, which in itself was a rarity in those days among the locals. Her necklaces always matched the baubles in her ears. Her gray hair, was always modestly waved, with nary a hair out of place. An aura of floral scent surrounded her when she moved.

Mrs. Bunting took her responsibility to care for us seriously. Each day when we arrived home from school, she had a snack waiting. Not the usual cookies we would have grabbed on the run at home, though. Instead, she would direct us to her dining room table where she had placed pedestaled crystal glasses filled with chocolate pudding or jello on small crocheted cloth doilies. A dab of whipped cream adorned the top. Dessert spoons with a “B” monogrammed on the handle rested precisely to the right while a pristine white napkin was to the left of the fluted dish.
 

 Filled with pent up energy from school, we were impatient to go outside if the weather was nice. Mrs. Bunting had a long driveway, excellent for jump rope. We tried to rush through the snack as quickly as we could, but Mrs. Bunting didn’t allow it. “When young ladies eat, conversation is important,” she said, with a frown. “The outdoors will always be there, but manners must be observed.”

Then one day I needed to use the bathroom. “It’s the door off the living room,” said Mrs. Bunting. “Just past my boudoir. Remember, you must never enter my boudoir. No one ever goes into a lady’s boudoir without permission.”

I was fascinated by this additional word to my vocabulary! Boudoir. It sounded exotic and special. After that, I made it a point to go to the bathroom every day so I could peek into the “lady’s boudoir.” In the room, made dark by the heavy closed velvet drapes, the interior appeared lush. I’d pause on my way in and out of the bathroom to catch as long of a glance as I could.
And so, Mrs. Bunting began my more formal education of “comportment.” I practiced walking up and down the sun parlor with a book on my head. “A young lady must always know how to carry herself.” She had a rule for just about everything a young lady should do. I practiced sitting quietly on the porch, hands folded. “A young lady does not fidget.”

My sisters didn’t escape all the instructions, either, as Mrs. Bunting always started her lessons at the table. “Always unfold your napkin slowly and place it on your lap before you pick up your spoon. That’s how a lady conducts herself.

          “And when you are finished, place your spoon beside the dish, not in it. Then, blot your lips with your napkin, even if you don’t think you need to do so. Then fold the napkin and place it next to your plate.”
          And again, she would repeat, “That shows you know how to act like a lady.”
          “Always say thank you as well, no matter how simple the meal or food.”

At this point, my two sisters would ask the prerequisite question, “May we now be excused?”

Mrs. Bunting would nod her regal head and as they scrambled from the table, they always rolled their eyes at me since I chose to remain behind. Years later, I questioned my understanding about the word she used, “comportment.” Had I confused it with deportment, a category on our elementary school report card? I looked up the two words and realized the subtle difference. No, Mrs Bunting was definitely teaching me how to comport myself as a lady. Each time I unfold my napkin, I think of her.

And to this day, if I sit in the sun and close my eyes, I can see myself sitting on Mrs. Bunting’s sun porch, practicing my ladylike behavior. Now, I wish I could have acknowledged the awareness she gave me during that brief time we spent together---the appreciation of common courtesies. If you have Mrs. Buntings in your life, consider letting them know they’ve influenced your life. And so, today, I want to say “thank you, Mrs. Bunting,” for taking the time to teach me the value of manners.

 

A Walk on the Other Side

As a writer, I confess I’m a creature of habit. Writing comes easiest when I’m in my usual writing “space”—a room tucked away from TV and other distractions. I put on some of my favorite music, Billy Joel, Frank Sinatra, Chris Botti, and Norah Jones, and the words flow. Well, they flow most of the time…

Spending the winter in Florida where I write on a laptop in the dining room/living room while first football and now March madness prevails, however, has resulted in a bit of a block. My muse, it seems, stayed at home. And of course, the lure of sunshine, beach, and pool has also been hard to resist.

Still, I tell myself that's no excuse and call to mind one of my favorite quotes: "Those who write are writers. Those who wait  are waiters," coined by science fiction and fantasy author A. Lee Martinez. Yet despite my get tough stance, I still come up blank. All my forced sitting in front of the white screen seems to make it worse.

In desperation, I read a lot of how-to-break-through writers block articles on the Internet. The great number of the suggestions tells me I'm not alone in my dilemma. I find a common thread in many of the prompts that tells me I need to recall the joy that I first experienced when I began writing. One way to do this according to my research is to try a different genre, to take a “walk” on the other side—the other side of your usual writing, that is. If fiction is what you normally do, try a poem or a memoir piece, or vice versa.

So I decide to take a break and enjoy writing purely for writing’s sake without pressure. Why not play with words, I thought, like a kid in a sandbox? I can still visualize my now adult daughters as children just letting the sand sift through their fingers. Their joy in the texture wasn't marred by any need to create something permanent or profound. Inspired by that image, I take pen in hand and let my hand take over. I pick poetry as my "blockbreaker" because poets seem to truly love and treasure words. One of the sites I found helpful is Instant Poetry Forms.

Here’s a bit of fun I had with just a wee bit of poetry. It’ll never be in an anthology, but it was fun to play with the words and definitely the antidote to my writer's block. It does need one last line in the second stanza, though. Any idea, fellow writers? Send them to me! But only if you can have fun playing in my poetic sandbox...

A Writer’s Lament

Ideas aplenty come

As I sit by poolside

Long fled before I go to bed

Before the Sun’s memory leaves my skin.

The shower’s hour brings grand ideas

While I soap and shampoo

Gone, oh why, before I’m dry?


I'd also love to hear your solutions for those dry spells in your creativity. And remember:

And So Today, My Potato Smiles

Every January, I take time to reflect on the past year and think of what I want to do differently in the New Year. While my resolutions always list many of the same goals—eat healthier, exercise more, and weigh less, I also like to add new pledges, too. Last year, I chose intentional kindness. Choosing a similar goal for 2013 was especially hard since the year began with the fiscal cliff, the rising debt ceiling, the aftermath of the tragic school shooting, and the memory of Hurricane Sandy’s devastation. I felt weighed down and arid.

I'm lagging behind and barely making my intentions by the end of January, but I tell myself it's never too late to choose a mode of self improvement or look for  a way to better the world. First, I realized I needed to get out of my funk.

I didn't have to go to Google to search. The answer was right in my kitchen. While foraging in the fridge for salad makings, I realized I wasn’t alone. There, on the middle shelf sat my potato bowl and in it, yes, my potato was smiling. I smiled back and ran to get my camera. That friendly potato lifted my spirits and set my mind farther along on my quest. But I wasn't where I needed to be yet.


The next morning I pulled out my plastic container of Florida strawberries. Plump and delicious, their fragrance beckoned. Lo and behold, inside nestled a strawberry heart. And just like the refrigerator light went on, I knew what course I should take. It was as evident as the smile on my potato's face and the curve of my fruited heart.

This year, I will look for the extraordinary in the ordinary, search for the beauty and uniqueness that a busy life often hides. I will try to view my world through a childlike lens.

That, I realized, was exactly what this year's special resolution should be. I needed to see the wonder of the ordinary. So, my goal this year is to see the world in new and different ways, to seek all its beauty and not permit the state of the world to make me lose an appreciation of what is before me. And so, that is where I am now. I’m pledging to become more childlike.

Rachel Carson said it so well: “A child’s world is fresh and new and beautiful, full of wonder and excitement. It is our misfortune that for most of us that clear-eyed vision, that true instinct for what is beautiful and awe-inspiring, is dimmed and even lost before we reach adulthood.” With a conscious effort, I believe that doesn’t have to be so. And so, I am going to set out to view what was before me in a new and different perspective.

So, I invite you to consider joining me in purposely choosing to see the world through a child’s eyes. Searching for and treasuring the wonders that exist in our every day life won’t solve our country’s larger issues, but it will surely enhance our day to day experiences.

Here are a few more words on the value of nurturing your inner child:

“If you want to be creative, stay in part a child, with the creativity and invention that characterizes children…” Jean Piaget, Swiss developmental psychologist and philosopher

“The end of childhood is when things cease to astonish us. When the world seems familiar, when one has got used to existence, one has become an adult.” Eugene Ionesco, French playwright

"We must remain close to the flowers, the grass, and the butterflies as the child is who is not yet much taller than they are..." Friedrich Nietszche

                                                                                       
For more hints on successful goal setting, check out my blog, "How to make (and keep) Resolutions

 

Strawberry Moments Forever

"… the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls· bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory" -Marcel Proust,  "The Remembrance of Things Past"

Do you have a smell that reminds you of special memories? Perhaps the redolent smell of your childhood Sunday dinners? Or popcorn at Saturday matinees? Does a particular aroma take you back where you can see the scene as vividly as if you were right there now?

Proust's words speak volumes to me because throughout my life, the distinctive perfume of fresh strawberries has prevailed as my memory prompter. Perhaps it can even serve as a metaphor for much of my life. This love affair began in my childhood and I write about this in one of my past blog entries, "A World Without Childhood?"

Since that early experience, strawberries have continued as the framework of my most treasured moments.

Consider our honeymoon, for example. The year was 1962 and segregation was still an issue. Neither Will nor I had ever seen signs "for whites only" before, and the sight of so many appalled us. A truck loaded with cartons of berries pulled in behind us on a Chesapeake Bay ferry boat. Two black men got out of the truck and stood in the hot May sunshine. They couldn't go inside where it was cool since the boat wasn't large enough to have an extra space for what then was referred to as "for coloreds only." I spoke to them and said, "It must be nice to drive a truck with such a lovely cargo." They smiled back and tipped their hats.

When we returned to our car, one of the men handed us two quarts of berries. We thanked them profusely and thought about them as we continued on our way. That night, in a modest motel, I poured the lush, red fruit into the tiny sink to wash them and we ate our fill in bed before turning out the light. So, forever they will represent passion and love, along with a little sadness, too, at how badly people can treat other people by considering them as less worthy.

The following years went quickly for us—perhaps because our four daughters were born within the first five years of our marriage. When our youngest was four, we began taking them to a nearby farm to pick strawberries every June. My mother-in-law, Lib, would often join us and then come home to help clean and hull the berries.

After I washed the scarlet stains off the kids' faces and fingers and tucked them into bed, I'd come back to the kitchen to make pie crusts, usually twelve in all. As I kneaded and rolled, I could hear Will and his mother on our jalousie porch, a soft, gentle sound while I reveled in my solitude and the tactile feel of the dough.

Years later, in California, I picked huge, almost meatball size fruit on a California hill with my second daughter, Cindy, and three granddaughters. And as Yogi Berra says, it was "déjà vu all over again." That evening, however, I was the person hulling the berries while Cindy scrubbed away the ruby hue of the fruit that just couldn't wait another day to be eaten.

Now our family is grown and scattered from the East to the West Coast, but this succulent fruit continues to bring additional memories. Last week, we escorted our youngest daughter down a sandy beach on her wedding day in Santa Cruz, California. A joyous week for all of us with, you guessed it, more strawberries. As I hulled them, I inhaled deeply, drinking in one more strawberry moment while I listened to the chatter of gathered family. And as I did so, I thought how blessed I am to have this thread through my life and look forward to seeing what else this succulent fruit will bring in the future.

So, tell me, do you also have a special scent that takes you back in time? If so, drink it in and find yourself right there in that special place, that special moment. If not, consider creating memory markers by using your sense of smell during future happy moments—perhaps the smell of perfume you put on or notice on a loved one some New Year's Eve, or the sweet distinctive fragrance of the ocean after a storm.

Quotes That Stand the Test of Time

How so many writers throughout history have been able to pen words that endure through the years always fills me with awe, especially when they pack a lot of ageless wisdom into those words.

So, whenever I see a quote I like, I add it to my "angel" book, noting the date and the individual who laced those words together so well. Eventually, I'll collate them all into a small collection, note why I like them and take it to Staples and have it made into a spiral book for family members—my way to keep those wonderful quotes alive and share what I love with those I love.

When I was writing a recent blog, "A world without childhood?" the expression, "youth is wasted on the young," came to mind. While I didn't use it in my posting, I keep wondering: Is it a quote or a cliché? Or a quote that became a cliché? Sayings sometimes seem to have a way of doing that—said so often that time seems to wear them down like the tires on a farm truck. It wasn't in my book of clichés, so once again, I turned to Google, the place where you can find almost anything except a clean pair of underwear.

When the page came up, I was surprised to see George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950) coined that expression. My curiosity piqued, I searched through some of his other quotes. Definitely found some that belong in my quote book. But what truly amazed me was how relevant they are today. Consider these quotes:

On Politics

• "A government that robs Peter to pay Paul can always depend on the support of Paul." Whatever side of the political fight over what our country should do or not do regarding tax cuts/increases and the nation's debt crisis, this quote would certainly describe the views of some of our politicians, don't you think?
• "An election is a moral horror, as bad as a battle except for the blood; a mud bath for every soul concerned in it." It seems to me whenever any politician appears to rise in the polls, some hint of scandal or incapacitating illness surfaces. Like Michelle Bachmann's migraines. She wouldn't ever be my choice, but would a migraine really preclude her ability to be president? Pundits predict the 2012 election will be the worst negative campaign in the history of our country.
• "An asylum for the sane would be empty in America." Do I need to add any comment to this quote?

On life

• "Don't waste your youth on growing up." This hits home today especially when I see little girls sporting Madonna like outfits and eye make up, or little girls playing with breast feeding dolls. Childhood needs to be a time to be a child. Otherwise, George Bernard Shaw's other quote, "Youth is wasted on the young," becomes sad but true.

• "We don't stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing." So, whatever your age, be silly! Dance in the kitchen or join a flash mob, perform at an Open Mic, sing in a karaoke bar, wear whatever you like no matter how much you hate your flabby arms. As my grandson, John says, "take a risk."
• "I want to be all used up when I die." This quote is perhaps my favorite of all. Such a lovely sentiment—to have done everything you've wanted to do, to have lived life fully with no regrets, to have loved unconditionally, loved long and hard.. Yes, I definitely want to be all used up when I die.

Facts about George Bernard Shaw:

1. He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1925.
2. For seven years, he wrote five unsuccessful novels.
3. He was a socialist.
4. He supported women's rights and wrote about them in 1891.
5. His last play, Why She Would Not, was completed on July 23, 1950, three days before his ninety-fourth birthday.
6. One of his most famous plays was Pygmalion.

For more information about this great playwright, visit these sites.
Bernard: A Brief Biography
http://www.biography.com/articles/George-Bernard-Shaw-9480925"
http://www.notablebiographies.com/Sc-St/Shaw-George-Bernard.html

A World without Childhood?

My lunchtime drink of choice is always Diet Peach Snapple. I love the taste. An added bonus is checking out the fact printed on the lid of each bottle. Some are funny, others surprising, but all are conversation starters. Yesterday's was thought provoking: "Bees are born fully grown."

Now, many of you may have already known that, but somewhere in my science education, I missed that lesson. The thought of anything being born fully grown never occurred to me. Imagine no frisky puppies, soft little kittens, or pink piglets. Sounds rather glum, doesn't it?

Sure enough, Will, my significant other, and I became fully immersed in thinking about this phenomenon. Will brought up a movie we'd seen entitled "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button." The lead, Brad Pitt (Benjamin), is born old and gradually grows younger—the opposite of what really happens in life. And while not quite the same scenario as being born fully grown, it's the same kind of premise that can spur the "what if" in many of us.

So, what would it be like to be born fully grown? As I went through the day, the concept continued to tickle my imagination. Who would I be if I had no childhood? The older I get, the more I realize how my childhood shaped me. I find myself thinking more about those earlier years than I ever seem to reflect on those spent working and raising a family.

We lived in the country—not the countryside you might think of with rolling hills and other houses nearby, but the isolated kind of country in one of John Steinbeck's books. Our house stood surrounded by fields of weeds. And to reach our nearest neighbor, we had to walk down the dirt road in front of our house to get to a paved road to a huge farm.


Until I went off to first grade, I didn’t see too many other children. In today's world, I guess that would sound grim and lacking in socialization, but I had my imagination and daydreaming to nourish me. I spent hours alone in the fields and the woods. Wild strawberries grew in some of the fields and I can still see myself in suspendered overalls eating them, alone but not lonely. That time spent in solitude, I believe, made me self sufficient, but perhaps a little bit of a loner.

Each spring, I followed my cat to find where she'd hid that year's litter of kittens. I'm not sure how I knew she would have them every year but I think it was because she grew fat, then thin. The question of how the kittens came to be within her never occurred to me. I think it was trust—the innocence of a child who assumes all will continue to be the same in her world.

That simple, artless time of growth is why childhood is not something to be missed. What would it be like to be born fully grown? To be without that time to be, to think, to daydream? It's a treasure we carry our entire lives, but often holds pain, too. My childhood, like most people's, is an amalgam of good and bad memories. For me, the good news is that the distance of time helped put the unhappy moments more in perspective.

My wish for you is that if your childhood was laced with more sadness than joy, you will reach that moment when the sadness is like the sting of a bee, intense when it happened, but short lived in your memory.