Missing Pieces

Each Christmas season, Alivia and Lucas have enjoyed playing with my Nativity set, but I could not find it in its usual place in the storeroom this year.  I then remembered that my brother-in-law had passed on my childhood Nativity set, which I had packed away with other family "heirlooms."   Alivia and I took it carefully from its wrappings and I placed it on a table.  It is obviously well-worn and missing figurines, but beautiful in my eyes.

As I look at it, though, I also feel a deep sadness.  I am the only one left of my original family of six -- parents, grandparents and younger sister.  We lived together in a small house in a rural community, and my childhood was happy and secure.  It feels strange, though, to know that they are all gone.  There is no one to tell me what happened to the missing figurines.  There is a tiny ceramic Mary looking down lovingly at a sweet little ceramic Baby Jesus; she doesn't fit with the larger, unbreakable figurines.  Are these two figures original to the set, and if so, I wonder if the remainder of these ceramic figures were broken or lost.  I don't remember -- I felt a flash of recognition as soon as I unwrapped the little Mary, but only questions remain.  There is no one alive now who knows.

This happens frequently -- this feeling that I can't quite put all the pieces together.  Fleeting memories or names drift through my consciousness, but I cannot bring them clearly into focus.  After my mother's death almost twelve years ago, my sister and I relied on each other to share the family stories and sift through the confusing memories that sometimes surfaced.  Usually between the two of us we could somehow unravel the mysteries of long-forgotten names and moments.  And then, in 2009, a month shy of her 53rd birthday, my sister passed away.  Suddenly, I felt like an orphan.   There is no one left to remember the little questions that come to mind -- where is Great-Grandma's portrait that hung in the stairway; who were the couple that our grandparents were friends with for so many years; where is my father's recipe for waffles; what happened to the Nativity figurines??

I miss them all -- my grandfather's teasing, my grandmother's soft, warm lap, my father's strength, my mother's gentleness, my sister's laughter.  But, most of all, I miss the relationships -- of being someone's granddaughter, someone's daughter, and someone's sister, a continuity of sorts.  There is a security in being loved just because you belong to someone -- because you are part of them -- and that security is missing.  What I wouldn't give for a few moments again with each of them to ask the simple questions that have arisen, as well as the deeper questions that sometimes haunt me.  I look into the placid face of my tiny Mary figurine and feel the pull of a long dormant memory that will not quite surface.  Maybe the memories of this old Nativity set will find their way into my consciousness -- or maybe they, too, will remain just beyond my reach -- missing pieces of my past. 

Snow Dreaming

I rose early in the morning, pulled back the curtains, and was thrilled to see a light dusting of snow dotting the neighborhood.  What a lovely surprise!  I wrapped up in my soft robe, grabbed my camera, and slipped outside into the cold dimness of the late autumn dawn.  I desperately wanted to capture this snow before it disappeared from sight.  Years ago, snow began to fall in late November and continued throughout the winter months.  We were blessed in the Northeast with consistent snowcover, lakes and rivers covered with thick ice, and the promise of crisp, cold air each day.  In the 1970's slight changes in our winter weather began -- less frequent snowstorms, less snow volume, and slightly higher temperatures that melted the snows between storms.

 

Now, due to the global warming which is finally being acknowledged by those who denied it for so long, our winters in the Hudson Valley are shorter, warmer, and much less beautiful.  I miss the snow.  I miss its capacity to smooth the contours of our landscape, to provide protection for the roots of my perennials, to soften the harsh noises of the world.  There is nothing so peaceful as a winter evening walk with fresh snow underfoot, and snowflakes falling gently -- the earth is hushed and so is my soul.  I miss the traditional Northeast Christmas, with its twinkling lights and evergreen trees against a backdrop of white.  I miss moonlight reflecting on a snowy landscape as I take one last look out the window before snuggling under my quilts.  

 

And so, I am wishing for snow.  Today the temperatures were cold and the air was brisk -- it felt like late November should feel.  But, the weather forecast for Sunday and Monday is predicting temperatures in the high 50's.  So, I wait and wonder.  Will it snow for Christmas?  Will it snow at all?  Will my grandchildren be able to make snowmen and slide down snow-covered hills?  I realize that global warming is bringing with it much more serious problems than the lack of snow in my little corner of the world, but this dearth of snow saddens me.  Maybe my wish will come true, and we will have a few snowstorms this winter -- we have had some winters with snowfalls close to normal.  Maybe one of these mornings I will wake to a snow-covered world; maybe we will walk out of church on Christmas Eve to snowflakes drifting down to gather on the sidewalks.  For now, I will hold my memories of snow-covered winters past closely to my heart.

 

And Christmas Begins --

As the Black Friday mobs trekked through the malls, my Friday was a gentler, quieter day.  By tradition, I always begin my Christmas decorating early.  On Thanksgiving Eve, I place a single candle in each of my front windows, and I rise early Friday morning to once again carry boxes of my treasures down from the storeroom -- the Christmas season has begun.

When my children were young, my decorations were chosen with them in mind -- I recall a cardboard fireplace, a handmade Advent calendar, a Santa that squeaked, angel chimes, reindeer galore, and a tree decked with colored lights, tinsel and children's ornaments.  Each year we made a special trip for each child to pick out one ornament for the tree -- a collection that they would take with them to their own homes when they were grown.  Christmas in our home was child-centered.

I reminisced about those wonderful years as I carefully unpacked my "grown up" ornaments today.  My tree is small now, with tiny white lights and Victorian ornaments in tones of ivory and mauve, and lovely fabric ribbons cascading from the top.  My collection of St. Nicholas figurines graces the sideboard; a small group of delicate angels resides on the tea cart, tiny birds snuggle into the greenery, and miniature frames holding baby pictures of my children and grandchildren hang from delicate ribbons on the tree. 

While I loved those chaotic family Christmases, today I find much peace and contentment as I sit quietly and savor the beauty around me -- the greenery, the tiny lights, the candles, the music.  I am glad that I labored this morning with the many trips up and down the stairs and the careful placing of greenery and decorations.  My home is filled with the warmth, the beauty, and the spirit of Christmas, and I am content to sit here alone and savor it all --

Heart of Home

My library nook

 

 

For years I have sought to determine the elements that elevate a house from a mere building to a home.  As a child when I visited school friends and relatives, I was drawn to certain houses much more than others.  In retrospect, I realize that the homes that spoke to me were the ones that felt warm and welcoming to a child. 

 

As an adult, I have come to realize that there are many different opinions on homes.  Some people view their homes as a measure of their success -- they want new, upscale and large.  There are those who love the serene look of a pared down decor -- a few quality furnishings and accessories.  Ease of entertaining is a requirement for many -- an open, flowing floor plan.  Cozy log cabins are a popular choice.

While I can appreciate the beauty of many different houses and styles of decor, what I find most appealing  personally is warmth and comfort, and the look of a home that reflects the personalities of its owners.  I love to see a little "clutter" here and there -- books, magazines, a piece of knitting in a corner, family photos -- something that leaves clues to the everyday living that takes place within its walls.  I love kitchens with children's paintings on the refrigerator and counters lined with well-used utensils.  I love cozy throws in the living room and plants scattered here and there. 

Several years ago I met a woman with the most beautifully decorated apartment.  I loved it.  However, as we became friends I realized that the apartment did not reflect her personality at all.  She had hired a decorator, and while it was lovely, there was nothing in it that was "her."  She was an interesting, vital person, and yet there was no trace of her life and interests in her perfect apartment.

My home is an old Victorian that has been in my husband's family since 1924.  I have loved it since I first saw it, and now it is a comfortable little haven as I grow older.  It shows its age, just as I do, and it has sheltered my children, grandchildren, friends and family through all of these years.  The refrigerator is covered at this moment with my grandchildren's precious drawings; the kitchen cabinets and floors are in dire need of updating; the dining room is graced with a large table which is a bit rickety now, but has been in the family for generations.  The books that I love have overflowed my little library nook; every room could use a fresh coat of paint.  But, it has tremendous heart -- no one could walk into this house without feeling welcome.  It is obvious that I love teacups and flowers and books.  Often, there is something simmering on the stove or baking the oven -- wafting aroma through the air.  It may not be a showplace, but it definitely has heart, and, in my opinion, that is one of the most important elements in the transition from "house" to "home."

What makes a house feel like home to you?
  



 

Moments

"Life isn't a matter of milestones, but of moments." -- Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy

 

 

My mornings are a tightly scheduled dance -- out of bed and ready for Alivia's arrival at 6:30 AM, a few minutes of cuddling and reading with her, preparing breakfast together, and leaving in time to arrive at Luke & Emma's house by 8:00 AM.   We are greeted with hugs and kisses when we arrive, and then we have about a half hour to be sure everyone has been fed and dressed, enjoyed a bit of playtime, and gathered together schoolbags, coats and hats.  I hurry them all to the car, buckle them into their seats, and we drive to Alivia's house so she can catch the school bus for kindergarten at 8:57.  As soon as Alivia is safely on the bus, we drive across town to Luke's preschool, which begins at 9:15. When Emma and I finally arrive back home at 9:30, I am exhausted.

We soon realized that we were arriving at Luke's preschool a little early, so instead of waiting in the hallway for the door to open, one morning I took a slight detour over a lovely country road nearby.  Luke was immediately captivated.  That first morning the sun was shining brightly, the trees were showing off their magnificent autumn colors, and the dusky mountains rose behind them -- a blue so deep it was almost purple.  There are farms dotted along the road -- some well-kept and others with tired old buildings and machinery lying about.  Luke loves the barns.  A tiny green valley lies at the heart of one farm -- with cattle scattered about and sheep grazing lazily on the hillside.  A small family cemetery sits atop a hill.  Luke calls this the "pretty road," and it has become our morning destination each day. 

One morning we spotted a farmer's field filled with Canadian geese sunning themselves.  It seems there is always something new to see on this quiet old rural road.  Luke points out each of his favorite places and asks the deeper questions that rise in his mind as he travels through this serene landscape.  Yesterday morning we stopped for a group of wild turkeys who couldn't quite decide which side of the road they wanted to explore -- the cornfield or the shady stand of old trees.  We have both grown to cherish this little detour.  I love watching Luke's response to the natural beauty around him, and he loves the old barn that is falling down.  And, I know that this year will be over quickly and Luke will be getting on a school bus next year.  Our little drives over the "pretty road" will be a thing of the past, but, for today, these are moments that we both treasure.
 

 

 

These Hands

I sit beside Lucas on the couch, and he gently rubs his fingers along the wrinkles and loose skin on my hands, and I am reminded of sitting beside my grandmother in church and playing with the veins on her hands as my attention wandered.  I loved her hands -- tiny and soft, though old and wrinkled.

My hands have never been pretty -- for years the nails were bitten to the quick, and they have always been less than graceful.  My cousin had beautiful hands, and I was so jealous as a teenager of her delicate fingers and long fingernails.  My good friend also had lovely hands.  When our children were little and we spent much time together, I loved watching her expressive hands as she cooked, sewed and tended her little ones.  But, mine were always a disappointment -- too wide, with stubby fingers.

Now, though, I look at my hands with gratitude -- they have served me well all these years.  They have done work I enjoy -- chopping, stirring, kneading, providing sustenance for those I cherish.  They have done heavy work -- painting walls and laying stone in my garden.  They have earned money -- typing quickly and accurately and organizing files and records.  They have held my newborn babies close, rubbed tired little backs and sewn Halloween costumes and fancy party dresses.  They have decorated, baked, and wrapped gifts for many Christmases.  They have massaged the feet of dying loved ones, stroked hands and faces of friends and family, touched, caressed and loved.  They have arranged flowers and planted gardens and written words of love and comfort.  They have held the hands of my children and grandchildren as they toddled into the larger world.  They have been folded in prayer.  They have held books.  They have comforted, and they were stroked gently once when I needed it most. 

They will never be as lovely as I would have liked, and with each passing year the wrinkles and veins are more prominent, but they are hands that have known both the joyful heights and devastating depths of emotion, and each wrinkle is a testament to the full life I have lived --

Perplexing Questions

As the Presidential debates ended on a late October evening, I pondered much of what I had heard in all of the debates.  I have questions in my mind -- none of which are particularly political.  

The stress is on creating jobs.  My concern is that the world has changed considerably.  The jobs that will be created will most likely be jobs that require technical skills.  No matter how we spin things, there are still many Americans who do not have the basic intelligence to learn the skills required for these technical jobs.  In the 1950's through the 1980's, there were good jobs in manufacturing, municipalities, construction and utilities which provided health insurance, pensions, and security to people who had limited intelligence, but were willing to work loyally every day at mundane jobs.  Obviously, this is no longer the case.  What is to happen to these people who are willing to work diligently, but do not possess the basic intelligence to compete in our high-tech world? 

I also question -- and this is a controversial view -- who has the right to determine which countries can develop and possess nuclear weapons.  Personally, I strongly oppose nuclear weapons, as well as nuclear energy, due to their capability to annihilate life as we know it.  But, I wonder why we are so determined that Iran not be allowed to develop nuclear weapons, yet we seem to be fine with Pakistan possessing nuclear capabilities.  Please don't misconstrue my question as being in any way supportive of Iran -- I just wonder what gives the more powerful nations of the world the right to decide it is okay for some nations to possess nuclear capabilities and not okay for other nations.

During the debates there was much discussion about the Arab Spring uprisings.  It seems like we heartily encourage all nations, particularly those in the Middle East, to rise up against totalitarian governments and create democracies.  However, we are unhappy if the electorate chooses leaders who do not meet our standards.  It seems to me that either we support the democratic process or we don't.  Who are we to choose what is best for the citizens of another country?

These are complicated questions, and, as I said, not directed at either party or candidate.  I would be interested in hearing others' opinions on them, as I find them perplexing.