December 31, 2020--Banished Word List Day
by Karen Schwabenland In these uncertain times, it is satisfying to know that some things remain unchanged. For example, every year since 1977, Lake Superior State University has published a list of words that shall be banished from our language for the entire year. The reason for this list is because the words have become trite, or overused. When this overuse happens, they loose their impact, or worse, their meaning. This list is where words go to die. For my purposes today and in an abundance of caution, I have used these terms as a final farewell to them and have highlighted them, so you, dear reader, will realize the depths of my efforts. English is a language that the entire world shares. Therefore, my hope is that after reading today's post, you will agree that these phrases are in danger of losing their effect. By agreeing to limit or not use these words, you will, in essence, help mankind to become a greater force. We are all in this together, after all. Perhaps, I should pivot this discussion to a more personal note. First and foremost, I am the one whose first name appears on this list. To have a woman's first name be used in a manner that indicates a privileged pain-in-the-ass female is practically unprecedented. The last time something similar happened was in 1958 in the Felix the Cat cartoon series with a character named Poindexter. Poindexter has come to represent a nerdy type male, without the scientific knowledge to back up his claims, ever since. I hope that my name gets replaced with another word soon in the national parlance. However, I must ask this question. What is so wrong about being a pain-in-the-old-patootie, anyway? I have accomplished some of my best work when I acted thusly. And speaking of keister pain, the one thing that has remained a giant hemorrhoid in our collective arses is this pandemic. I know I share with you the hope that Covid 19 (Corona virus or the more casual, Rona) will become a socially distant memory. No one will need to practice wearing masks, and hand sanitizer will lose some traction on the stock market. In the meantime, can we all agree to eliminate these words from our vocabulary? In the case of Covid 19, you may wonder what you are to use in its place. My suggestion is, "That Which Shall Not Be Named." Until this disease is eradicated, consider this phrase as a viable alternative. And just one more tiny, little thing. There is no literal grammar police force, no matter what Mee-maw may have told you. You do not need to worry about getting marked as a sus person of interest if you slip and dispatch a word on this list. However, by not using any of them, you will be an interesting person by my measure. Words are power, basically. So keep in mind what Plato said, "The measure of a man is what he does with power." Pretty handy and thoughtful quotation to leave you with and totally ingenious of me. I know, right? December 30, 2020--Festival of Enormous Changes at the Last Minute If you did not complete all of your New Year's Resolutions for 2020, it is not too late. Today you can have your very own Festival of Enormous Changes at the Last Minute. Here is a run down of my New Year's Resolutions for 2020 and a grade on how I think I did:
How many athletes have barely crossed a finish line? None. Because if you actually cross the finish line or throw, kick, or carry the ball past the goal post, then you are counted as scoring. And a score this year is what we all want because the game ain't over. It's only the second quarter, way too soon to make any predictions about the final outcome. December 29, 2020--Illegal Pants Day In kindergarten through second grade, girls at my school were required to wear only dresses or skirts. What did we wear in the dead of winter? I suppose dresses with tights. No one questioned the no pants rule. We all just simply obeyed it. In third grade, my school district changed the dress code for girls. For the first time ever, girls were allowed to wear pants to school, but they had to be worn underneath a dress. The year was 1970 and pantsuits were in style again. Contrary to what you might think, the pant suit was not invented by female politicians. It has been around for quite a while, and initially was seen as subversive. Emma Snodgrass was arrested in Britain in 1852 for wearing pants. Some sources say she was arrested for vagrancy and others say for cross-dressing. Suffice it to say that she created a ruckus and and needed to be stopped. I remember back-to-school shopping the year girls were allowed to wear pants to school. It was exciting. My mother picked out several pairs of gabardine trousers in nave blue, black, and navy blue. So much navy blue. "That way, they'll go with everything," she surmised. So school began and a day did not go by when there was a girl who was caught without her requisite slacks. Nothing changed for boys that year. They always wore pants. The big change for boys came in fifth grade. That was the year that their hormones began to kick in. Girls developed crushes. One of my friends, Angela, had a boyfriend, a kid named Robert. Their relationship consisted of walking to and from school together. I had a crush on Fernando, but it was hopeless. I rode the bus to school. There was no possibility of a relationship with a boy if you rode the bus to school. Another boy in my class, Brett, developed his own technique for attracting girls. He had discovered how to attach a mirror to the top of his shoe. He sat in front of me in art class. When I asked him why he had a mirror on his shoe, he told me it was so he could look under girls' dresses. By then there was not a girl among us who did not have on pants or shorts under our dresses, so we all just laughed at him. I think he was just playing a cheesy stunt to make himself look like "the man" among his male peers. However, having a group of girls laugh at you during class most likely canceled out everything that he could have gained from it. Our teacher asked why we were laughing. One of our group told her of Brett's little trick, and the mirror was confiscated, and he was arrested. He had to serve time after school for a week. Case closed. December 28, 2020--National Chocolate Candy Day
Nothing beats a gift like a box of chocolates. Especially if it is one that you get to keep all to yourself. Ever since I have had kids, and they have been able to feed themselves, I have not had a box of anything to myself, let alone the good stuff like chocolate. I don't mind sharing, though. However, there was a time period when you could look into a box of chocolates in my house and see little nibbles taken out of each one. They may have been pinches, but they looked like tiny bites. The first time this happened, I thought a rat had been at my box of chocolates. Then it dawned on me what happened. Someone wanted a guarantee of biting into a good one, or the kind they hoped to get. Only a kid would do something like that. I know I never like the fruity filled ones until I became an adult. Now there is seldom chocolate anything that I have not liked. I even like chocolate covered cherries. But I remember specifically not liking them much as a kid. The mystery of the pinched chocolates continued for a time. My husband and I each told our offspring to lay off taste testing the chocolates, but to little avail. Finally, sometime later, when my daughter had learned to read, I opened a box of chocolates that I had been given as a gift. I removed the inner liner and placed the lid on the table next to the box. My daughter looked at my display. She then looked at the lid and asked what all of the words inside it meant. I explained that it was a diagram of what was inside the box so that you could know what kind of candy you were getting. The next time a box of chocolates graced our table, it had no box with notes about the different flavors inside. My daughter came along soon enough and examined it. She looked at the front and back side of the lid and then the box. "You know what?" she said. "I like it when the box comes with a map." Recently, I found myself stocking up on chocolate at the grocery store. I came home with three bags of M&M's, two bags of mini peanut butter cups, and a giant tub of Nutella. My husband unpacked it all and wondered if I was feeling alright. "What's with all the chocolate?" he asked. "Well, someone is coming home from college, and I intend to keep it on hand at all times while she's here. In fact, I'm gonna create a special chocolate stash closet." "Why?" "Because you know, girls need chocolate." "Why?" "Because our serotonin levels get low." "Why?" "...." My husband waited for my response. He looked at me expectantly. "...." I thought hard about the complexities of the universe. "You know what? Give me one of those bags, right now." December 27, 2020--National Goal Setting Day I worked in education for twenty-seven years and every year it was the same old story. Write three smart goals. Every year, I just cut and pasted the previous year's goals to the document I was required to turn in in order to keep my job. Every year I hit about two of the three goals. Job kept. By the way, a SMART goal uses the an acronym for SMART to measure and quantify itself somehow. Basically, it goes like this: S=Specific M=Measurable A=Achievable R=Realistic T=Timely There are other ways to use the acronym, but this is the one that seems most common. For example, a SMART goal for retired me would be: On a girlfriend's weekend, I will drink no more than three glasses of wine in a three hour period by telling the waiter or bartender to not refill my glass at the fourth request to do so. This year, I would like to offer a different, but useful way to write a smart goal. This new method will make meeting set goals much easier. S=Sketchy M=Mythical A=Absurd or Absent R=Ridiculous or Raving T=Tardy Using this acronym, the same goal from above might be: When hanging with friends, I will drink what is poured into my glass, and when someone starts all of that "I love you" shit, I will know that it is time to order another round. Here is another example: When driving to an out of town city, I will the blast the radio at an unhealthy decibel level and sing along in my best voice while managing to still hit my mark and change lanes in time to find the exit ramp of the target town at about one out of six or seven times. And one more: When trying to close the bank account of a recently deceased relative, I will agree with everything the bank manager says and will thus avoid a confrontation and will not raise my fist at her face which might be way too close for comfort at that point in time, and also way too easily smashed. The short of it is that I have always hated setting goals. I suppose I have set them in my head, but I hate putting them out there in the public arena as people can be too judgy. And can also get all up in your grill. December 26, 2020--National Thank You Note Day Dear Daughter, Thank you for the book that I hinted at wanting for Christmas. I have already read two chapters. I love the chapter about myself the most. Especially the part where it says Sagittarius is a risk taker and the story playing inside my head is that I have base-jumping gear hidden on me at all times so that I can leap to safety. What is base-jumping gear and where can I get some? Love, Mom Dear Son, Thank for the gift that I picked out and told you to buy. I know the Japanese store we shopped at was overwhelming to you. I am sorry that they had no Anime merchandise at all. What kind of Japanese store doesn't carry one single Anime item? What a disappointment! Anyway, I can hardly wait to put my new phone holder in the car. It will serve you well, too, as I will never need to ask you again to dig my phone out of my purse while I am driving. I know that drives you crazy. Love, Mom Dear Spouse, Thank you for all of my Christmas gifts this year. You did an outstanding job in shopping considering that I did not give you a list, as has been customary. There was really nothing I could think of to ask for this go round as I have everything I need and then some. I particularly like the bar items. I think it may be time to throw out my coffee cup collection and replace it with all of the stemware and alcohol you gave me. When I said I could use a good stiff drink on Christmas morning, I had no idea you had read my mind before I even articulated my thoughts. What is in and out: 2020--Wine--OUT 2021--Cocktails--IN Love, Your Better Half Dear Loyal Reader, Thanks for tuning in to my daily musings. It has been a pleasure to serve you on my mission to write something every single day. Here is a hint as to why I started doing it. My maternal relatives have a problem with memory, in that they keep losing it. Just yesterday, we were all entertained by my mother's musings about her life. For example, she said she went to high school with my husband. This disease could affect me in my future, so I wanted a record of my current thoughts and memories before they get all mixed up. Not saying that it will happen, but just in case. I'm taking every precaution in the meantime to stay sharp. And why I made it all public is because I guess I am a great risk taker after all. Go big or go home. Love, Your favorite blogger December 25th, 2020-Christmas Day
A Visit from Santa Claus (With all respect to Clement Clark Moore) It was the morning of Christmas and all through the house, All the creatures were stirring, including my spouse. The stockings had been torn from the chimney with flair, Dumped out on the floor, one left on a chair; The children with gifts to their rooms had all fled; To play their new games and try their fresh threads. Dad in his sweat suit and me drinking a frappe-- We had just stacked some boxes and recycled the wrap, When there arose such a calling from within my grey matter That I opened my mouth to drown it with chatter. We had discussed this before--so I began to rehash, "What gifts for the guests? I've emptied my cache." The sun rose fast over the top of our compact chateau, And gave the luster of splendor to our tiny borough When what to my wondering inner eye did appear But a longing to shop--for a trinket, a gift, or souvenir. Out on the lawn, a sleigh was hitched to thirty-two paws, It was the Great and Most Powerful, the Santa Claus. More rapid than air planes, his reindeer they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: "Now, Dash! now, Arlo! now Zephyr and Exton! On, Milo! on, Karson! on, Zayden and Lennox! To the top of the tree top! to the top of the roof! We soon heard the prancing of each little hoof. And I, in my head, thought turning--expounds, Down the chimney shot Santa and casted around, "Who here expects guests, but your gifts are caput?" He showed his website, pages of in and output, While a bunch of shop merch he held in his pack. He peddled it openly, all kind of bric-brac. His objects--they twinkled! His prices, they varied. I picked out some items. He wrapped them with bows. The paper he used was as white as the snow; The stump of a pencil he held in his teeth, As he added up sales, and taxes bequeathed. He said, "Next time for a discount, just check on the telly. I came just in time, but now I'm off to New Delhi." The items I'd purchased, I stuck on the shelf, Awaiting our visitors to hand pick, themselves. A quick look around, and I took back aforesaid. I soon came to know I had nothing to dread; I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work, And filled all the tables with bread and beef jerk, And laying a fork aside of each plate, I waited for dinner guests, their hunger to sate. At the end of the day, they sprang from their seats, Grabbed a present to go as I packed them more eats. And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. As the door closed behind them, I gave a low whistle, But I heard them exclaim, as they drove out of sight-- “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!” December 24, 2020--Christmas Eve
Welcome to the longest night of the year. Not literally the longest night. By all measures, it is actually shorter than the night that came before it. It is the longest night because no one will be able to sleep tonight, and there will be miracles galore. Ebenezer Scrooge had three psychedelic dreams this night where he was visited by three different ghosts. By a miracle, he woke up a changed man, and just in time to demand that shops be opened so that he could complete his Christmas shopping. Only someone like Bill Gates could make demands like that today and have them obeyed. Tonight is also the longest night of the year because no child will be able to get to sleep. I remember trying to stay awake in my own bed as a child. However, I must have fallen asleep because every Christmas morning the same miracle of gifts from Santa had happened underneath my Christmas tree. Churches will host the usual as well as previously unseen guests tonight. The dutiful visitors will be there, me among them. However, by a miracle, tonight the once or twice a year church goers, or the first time attendees, will appear in multitudes. I always enjoy attending the latest service possible this evening because you can usually smell a great deal of alcohol, and I'm not talking about the Communion wine either. I always hedge bets with myself to see if anyone does something only a crazy drunk person would do during this service. And finally, there will be no or little sleep for the parents who will miraculously stay up and put together toys for their little ones. One year, my husband started putting together a Pottery Barn doll house around 11:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve. I stayed up with him as moral support, and we finally went to bed at 3:00 a.m., only to be awakened three hours later to cries of, "Did Santa Claus come?" It is a fine night for miracles. Merry Christmas! December 23, 2020--Festivus
Today is Festivus--a festival for the rest of us. Most of us know this is a non-holiday invented by the creators of Seinfeld. However, the idea of a festival that is sort of a non-festival has grabbed a foothold in our culture. You can even buy a Festivus pole at festivuspoles.com. Part of the Festivus activities is the airing of the grievances. A host is supposed to go around the table and tell each guest how they have disappointed him that year. To save my sanity and possible embarrassment, I will air my grievances, but I will leave out my immediate family. First is the obvious. Corona Virus, or Rona as you like to be called, you have overstayed your welcome. I am disappointed in you because you cannot see that the end is in sight. You will soon be ridden out of town on a rail, but yet you linger around. Even after your utter humiliation at getting wiped out, you may return to linger in our shadows and lurk on our hard surfaces. Secondly, Health Insurance Companies, you really disappointed me. Thank God I am relatively healthy. I only took notice this year when I kept getting billed for things that had previously been covered by you, Insurance Company. I recently had a armpit ultra sound that cost $700.00. Not much has ever happened between me and my pits, but if I wanted to spend that many greenbacks on them, you can bet it would not have been in a hospital setting. For seven hundred smackers, I could have stayed in first class hotel somewhere, flown to Canada, or taken my family to a Broadway play with really good seats. What I ended up spending seven hundred clams on did not equal the fun I had that day. And all for naught because there is nothing going on under there except some odious scar tissue leftover from surgery. Thirdly, fast fashion chains like Forever XXI, Zara, Urban Outfitters, and Hot Topic, you have thoroughly disappointed me in that you have yet to market any sustainable fashion. And in the case of Urban Outfitters and Zara, you have been accused of not paying your workers a living wage. Finally, American citizens, we have grown lazy in our efforts to recycle. My granny saved used Christmas wrapping paper from year to year. However, none of us would dream of doing so. Why should we when we can buy Hallmark wrapping paper at stores like Dollar Tree and Dollar General? I know paper gets recycled if you have the means to do it, but instead tossing every remnant of paper trash after the gifts are unwrapped this year, won't you consider reusing some of it? Also, it may be too late this year, but in the future, could you carefully consider what items you are giving as gifts? Will they end up in the dumpster? And if you receive a gift that isn't to your liking, consider other uses for it. Can it be recycled, re-gifted, or given to charity? There must be something you can do with it other than toss it into the trash heap. And speaking of recycling, isn't it ironic that you can purchase a Festivus pole? I bet you already have one hiding in your garage. December 22, 2020--Halcyon Days (December 14-28)
The two girls played every day that summer on the beach, splashing in the waves, building sandcastles, and collecting shells. As the late summer sun rose higher in the sky and their young bodies turned brown with time, they would often lie on their beach towels and make up stories about their futures. Or, how about....She wandered about the campus on her first day of freshman year, not knowing anyone. Fall was in the air at the beginning of that September. The leaves had already turned from green to golden orange and by October would be brown and dead and falling, much like her own life. Every modern romance novel I have ever read begins with a period of halcyon days for the heroine, a time before the storms appear. Halcyon means calm and peaceful or happy and golden. Halcyon Days can mean a variety of things, but to me it refers to a time of innocence when things were less complicated. When we are young, our belief systems are more concrete or black and white. Someone once told me I was idealistic. That struck me as odd because I had never considered it. Perhaps the person only knew me in my halcyon days. I now know the world is more grey than black and white. One of my favorite authors, Louisa May Alcott, offered her take on halcyon days in her book, Little Women. There is a chapter titled, "Castles in the Air," where the characters each tell of their own idealistic future. One of the characters suggests that they all meet again in ten years to see if their dreams have come true. Anyone who has read the book knows that (spoiler alert!) the dreams have not come true, but for most of them have changed or morphed into something new. When that book was published, it was thought to be a girl's romance novel. However, I think it is grounded in realism with tragic elements. It remains the only book I have ever actually cried over. I cried over it because it was the first time I saw that characters' lives (like people's lives) do not always end up like the younger versions of themselves would have imagined. Regardless, there always remains some semblance of our younger self in everyone of us--no matter what life has handed out. No matter what this year has handed you, my friend, I hope these next few days finds some halcyon moments. My halcyon moment is looking at the wrapped packages under my Christmas tree and knowing that the shopping is complete. The day after Christmas in my home, the den will look like a battle field after a defeat. There will be lost ribbons and bows, and packaging cut and torn to pieces. Bits and bobs of the newest products will leak about the house; non-directions here, a warranty paper there, cellophane and plastic wrap all scattered in a debris field of my preparation high. December 21, 2020--Breast Reconstruction Awareness Day
One thing that makes me so glib about surviving breast cancer is the reconstruction process. If I had not been able to reconstruct my breasts and had been left with the nothingness that was there, I would be a different woman than the one I am today. In 2009, I was diagnosed with level three breast cancer. The doctors recommended a bilateral masectomy for starters. If you are wondering, that means both boobs would be removed. There was an eighty percent chance that the cancer would jump over to the other breast which is why the case for ditching both of them was presented. Eighty percent seemed rather high to me. Plus, what was I going to do with only one boob? I mean I would be left lopsided. Even with reconstruction surgery one boob would be brand new, and the other would be the same old-same old. I didn't know if I would like that. So I opted for what the medical team suggested. In October of 2009, I underwent the first of several surgeries. When I awoke, the place where my boobs had been was tightly wrapped in bandages. I had no time to think upon this however as I was busy recovering in general. When I arrived home and had my first look in the mirror sans bandages, I appeared to be a monster from Mary Shelley's imagination. There were stitches and scars--and tubes hanging out of me. Also, I had no hair as I had undergone three harsh and bitter chemo treatments before the surgery. The loss of hair had been devastating, but the tubes coming out of me were the last straw. They had to be drained and kept clean. There possibly is no nastier business.... Eventually, I wore padded sports bras to give some effect of cleavage, and as soon as possible I was given a pair of fake boobs which I stored overnight in a drawer in my dresser. It struck me as odd as to how real these fake tits seemed. Underneath clothing, there was no difference. I also had a pair of swimming boobs. These were hollow, but weighted with some kind of special gel so they wouldn't float. Underneath a swim suit, only I was aware of their unique powers. I remained in prosthetics for the rest of my active treatment. One night at my breast cancer support group meeting, Dr. Sean Boutros spoke about breast reconstruction. I listened as he explained his Deep Inferior Epigastric Perforator (DIEP) flap procedure. Well, it may not have been his invention, but he engrossed himself in perfecting it. He had me at, "I wave my own fees for breast cancer patients." I made my first appointment, and several months later I sat in his office as my next set of bandages were removed. Dr. Sean is younger than me, or at least looks it by far. In the room that day sat me, my husband, the doctor, and his partner doctor--some kid who I swear looked like one of my former students. I wanted to ask this man child so badly if I had taught him in sixth grade because he didn't seem much beyond that age group from his appearance. However, I didn't because I thought I would be insulting him somehow. Instead I stared at him and tried to deduce in my head how young a doctor could possibly be. All in all, the moment of unveiling my new set of chi-chis was underwhelming. They are a good set, to be sure. They are everything a girl could want, but the moment was still surreal. If I had ever fantasized about three men looking at my naked torso and admiring it, that was not it. Suffice it to say, I am happy with the outcome of the surgery. My new bust is everything I ever wanted and less. They are real tissue from my own body and appear and feel like the set I had in my younger years, meaning perky. The downside is there are no nerve endings, and I was told I would not be able to feel anything. However, that is not entirely true and anyone with an ounce of creativity can work himself around this fact. December 20, 2020--Sacagawea Day I am a terrible navigator, although I am still often given the role and title. There are reasons for my lack of skills in wayfinding. Actually, I can find my own way. I don't know how or why, but I believe I do have an active internal compass. More on that later, though. When we are together in the car, with or without children, I sit shotgun to my husband who hates to drive, yet insists on doing so. The reason for this is that my driving skills are kind of meh. By that I mean my driving standards do not meet the margin of error created by Mario Andretti--I mean the man I married. As the navigator, I kind of suck as well. I used to enjoy navigating as a young person driving with my parents. My mother was like I am now. She could not see the map, but would not admit to it. Therefore, I used to read the map from the back seat when on family trips and enjoyed watching the miles lap by. Now I am my mother. When the eyesight goes, something else happens. When you can no longer see the map you either use bifocals, take off your glasses, or use your readers. I have tried all three. What happens is that the bouncing around, the road humps, the cars whizzing past, the pot holes, and the traffic all make it difficult to concentrate on a map. I think phone maps are worse than paper ones. You have to increase the size, and then you can't see the entire thing all at once. None of our cars have a GPS system loaded onto them, although we do use the google maps man. At least I do. Inside my phone lives a little man who will tell me how to get places. On my husband's phone lives a tiny female. However, he rarely ever awakens her. Instead, he expects me to activate my navigational skills which we both know are dormant. Also, I don't know my right from left. I never have been able to tell the difference between them. I am left handed when writing, but for everything else, I use my right hand. If I have to tell someone which way to turn, there is a fifty percent chance I'll get it correct. And people who allow me to drive and expect me to receive directions while doing so are unpleasantly surprised when I cross to the wrong lane to turn. I have been covering my entire life about my left-right confusion, and it feels good to finally open up about it. However, it's not my fault. My angular gyrus, a part of the parietal lobe of the brain, could be damaged. In my case, I don't think it's damaged so much as just depressed. I have a sluggish angular gyrus. Apparently, there are many others who share my uncertainty (17% of women and 9% of men). However, there is one thing I am certain about, and that is how to find my way home. On my first date with my husband, we got lost while driving. Even all the way back then, sitting shotgun, I fumbled with my navigational skills. When he didn't flinch from my confusing guidance, I knew I had found my true north. December 19, 2020--National Hard Candy Day/A Christmas Carol Day
My grandfather used to tell us kids the same thing every Christmas. After all the gifts were opened, and we were busy playing with our new toys, he would look around the room, give out a sigh of pure resignation, and say, "Just look at this. You children don't know what it is to do without." He would then launch into his predictable story about Christmas when he was a child. He told us that in their stockings, he and his ten siblings only ever got an apple or an orange. Maybe both if it had been a good year. Then, when one of us would say, "Is that really all you got?" he would proceed to tell us that all of the boys in his family would have been given a wagon that they had to share. And all of the girls would have received one doll, again to share among them. Once, when I was a little older, I said, "Really? A wagon every Christmas?" He replied that yes, a wagon every Christmas because his brothers would have broken the one they had by pushing each other too fast and down hills. When I was a small child, I doubted this story. It seemed unbelievable that the Santa Claus I knew and loved could have been so ungenerous. The story was told by my same grandfather who grew up on a farm, had returned home one day to see his house burnt to the ground, and had subsequently quit school in the eighth grade to help the family eek out a living on what was left of their land. He met my grandmother at the farmer's market where he was selling vegetables and she was shopping with her sisters. After they knew each other for six weeks, they married and remained together for over fifty years. Grandpa also did a stint in World War II, serving stateside in the army. The man had seen his share of hardship in his life, that's for sure. More than serving in the War, I would say his beliefs and attitude stemmed mostly from his impoverished beginnings. But that is how it was during the Great Depression. Grandpa never talked much about his childhood. Maybe because he didn't have one. At least not one like we had as kids, and certainly not like our children have today. All of this leads me to the memory of a gift my diabetic dad received one Christmas. He had saved the party favor from his December lodge meeting and had subsequently delivered it to me and my children. It was a brown paper bag, and inside it was an apple and and an orange with a scattering of hard candy. I have read that the candy found inside that bag was the same kind that parents (who couldn't afford an expensive Christmas for their children) would buy back in the day. Penny candy. The same kind of candy Dolly Pardon sings about in her song, "Hard Candy Christmas." Grandpa never said, but I hope maybe once or twice he and his brothers and sisters received some hard candy in their stockings with their apple or orange. I have a silver belt buckle on my Christmas tree today that I have turned into an ornament. On the buckle is engraved, "Lane Texas--45 Years." That was grandpa's retirement gift. He worked for the same company for forty-five years with his eighth grade education. It was an oil drilling company that no longer exists. Probably sold to some corporation. Grandpa would have something to say about that. December 18, 2020--Flake Appreciation Day
I like to challenge scientific research. For example, Wilson A. Bentley took 5,000 photographs of snowflakes in 1885 with some kind of microscopic camera, and from his photography scientists around the world have held to the belief that no two snowflakes are exactly alike. While this may be entirely true, I would like to point out that his 1885 camera could have been flawed. Furthermore, is 5,000 snowflakes a true scientific sampling? How many snowflakes fall in one snow storm? Way more than 5,000. What if snowflake 5001 was the same as snowflake 1? We were told as children that his findings were facts, but this is an era of non-facts, factoids, and fake news. Why should we believe a guy who had nothing better to do in the late 1800's than to take a bunch of pictures of tiny snowflakes? I think he should have been out sledding. When I was in second grade, my teacher instructed us on how to fold white paper to cut a snowflake out of it. Of course she told us then that no two snow flakes are alike. Her information had no meaning to us, as none of us had actually seen snow. Like children everywhere, we just believed her because she was the adult. And speaking of adults, one of my New Year's Resolutions this year was to stop flaking. By that, I mean stop telling someone I will show up for something, and then not doing it. I lack follow-thru. This has been true throughout the course of my life. In bowling, tennis, and baseball, my swing sucks. But my poor follow-thru more recently has been signing up for zoom meetings and then just not showing up. Who can blame me? There are no free snacks or drinks in a zoom meeting. And no down time to chat with friendly neighbors and/or acquaintances. I hardly ever have learned anything from a presenter in a meeting. Most of the good knowledge at these events comes from when the speaker gives everyone a break. But in a zoom meeting, there really isn't a break. I would like to know what the scientific research would point out about that. In the past few months I have flaked on zoom meetings about setting up special needs trusts and accounts, becoming a special needs advocate, leadership in the special needs community, and so forth and so on. Even if these meetings had not been on zoom, I still would have flaked. I have history of flaking in person meetings of the same kind. Oh, sure, I attended some of them in the past. After so many of these things, I have found that the information doesn't really change. I guess, I can't be 100 percent certain of that fact, however, until I've attended 5001 meetings, though, can I? And I intend to just keep on flaking. December 17, 2020--National Regifting Day
It's December and if you are like me, you are getting ready to spend the next week or so running around town trying to find just the right gifts for the people on your list. If you are done with your Christmas shopping, then kudos to you. It's time for you to sit back and watch the rest of the world go crazy. Next week I plan to visit a couple of different shopping malls. Not to shop necessarily, but to people watch. Everyone and his dog should be out and about by then. It is one way to feel like you are in the spirit of Christmas. If you haven't trailed behind a slow moving family for a block of mall real estate or so, it just ain't Christmas. If you haven't seen a group of people who looked like they literally hailed from the hills, it ain't Christmas. A few years ago, I saw a family who looked like they had never been to the city before, much less to a shopping mall. The dad had a beard the length of a member of ZZTop, and the women in his entourage all wore skirts with rolled down socks. Not that there is anything wrong with a skirt and socks. You could just tell by looking at them that there was no effort put into the outfits. It was more utilitarian apparel than artistry. I saw them standing outside of Victoria's Secret one Saturday in December while people whizzed around them. They all looked rather lost. Now what, I wondered, are they going to possibly purchase? Directly across from Victoria's Secret was a Sephora--the store dedicated to high priced make-up, and next to that was a Bath and Body Works. And adjacent to Victoria's Secret was Forever XXI. (That's Forever Twenty-One for those of you who do not read Roman numerals. It took me forever to figure out that this store was the same one my daughter was talking about visiting when the chain first opened.) I wanted to shout at them, "Just go to Macy's. Or better yet, Sears." And I mean that in the kindest way. I used to buy a great deal of my purchases at Sears. And you could practically guarantee a generic piece of jewelry or box of candy from that retailer. I hope they had a merry Christmas, though. And I hope their visit to the mall gave them stories to tell each other. When I worked in a department store a long time ago, you could see the husbands wondering aimlessly about at this time of year, unsure of where to go or what to purchase. My first two Christmases with my husband, I received the exact same serpentine gold necklace. It was not the same literal necklace. He just gave me the exact same gift two years in row. I guess his man brain registered that I had been pleased with the first one. I have also been out shopping this time of year when strangers have asked me to try on a coat or a jacket because I looked about the same size as their wife, sister, or daughter. How? What? I obliged the person willingly, but I secretly wondered if their vision of their loved one was skewed somehow. All in all, none of it matters. A gift is just a way to tell someone you care for them. Stores open at regular hours the day after Christmas. Save all of your tags and receipts. December 16, 2020--Stupid Toy Day I called him Zip because that is what my grandmother told me his name was. Also, it was written on the bottom of his shoe. I could not read yet, but that is what my brother had told me. Mr. Bim Zip Zippity was a chimpanzee who appeared on television in the 1960's, apparently becoming a regular featured guest on the "Howdy Doody Show." In fact, he was so popular that a line of stuffed toys was created and marketed to kids. The "Howdy Doody Show" went off the air in 1960, a year before I was born, but somehow I had a Mr. Bim Zip Zippity stuffed toy. He had a yellow shirt and black pants held up by red suspenders. He was also wearing baby shoes. While this is not really a stupid toy, I was stupid in my knowledge of it. One day I was walking Zip around the house in my doll carriage. My brother looked at me with disdain and said, "You know that's a monkey, don't you?" "No, it's not. He's my little boy." "He's not a little boy. He's a monkey. Can't you tell?" "He is not a monkey. Look, he has hands. And he's wearing shoes." "He is a monkey. Chimpanzee's have hands like that." "No, they don't," I insisted. He was calling my child a monkey. This was outrageous. "What about his ears?" I persisted. "You are so dumb. Chimpanzee's have ears like that." I was about to get emotional. My brother persisted, "I can show you in my book." "I don't care what you say," I said. "He's my little boy, and his name is Zip!" Before I could appeal to higher authority, my brother beat me to it. "Mom, would you please tell her that thing is a monkey? She thinks it's human." Luckily, my mother came to my rescue. "She can pretend he's human if she wants to," she said. However, that was not the rescue I had counted on. Did she say pretend? He was a little boy. I started to cry. My mother noticed, and asked me what was wrong. "I don't want Zip to be a monkey," I said. "I want him to be my little boy!" My mother hugged me. I felt a little better. She repeated that he could still be my little boy if I wanted him to be. My mother continued to reassure me, and I began to feel better. However, I couldn't look at Zip the same way anymore. After my mother left to go about her chores, I sniveled, "But I thought he was a boy." "Don't worry," said my brother. "Eventually, he will be." December 15, 2020--Friendship Day (Pakistan and Turkey) Hello Friends, This year, besides worshipping at the alter of Marie Kondo and writing this tiny daily blog, I have also been trying to reconnect with many of you. Ok, all of you who ever meant anything to me. If I have not reached out to you via social media, and we are not already friends in real life, then one of three things may have happened.
I looked after my Dad's affairs for the past six years until he passed away this last May. And yes, it was frustrating at times. When you are burrowed in the throes of something like that, you often don't believe the ending is near, even when it is. Dad had bounced back so frequently from illnesses that I thought he was indestructible. However, none of us are. Did you know that you can find out if someone has died through Legacy.com? That is how I found out about my friend from college. And you can bet that if I have tried to find you on social media, and I have not been successful, then I have put your name into the search engine of Legacy.com. Good news is that you are not dead, yet. The bad news is that I will not give up on you. I wouldn't be a good friend if I did, now would I? December 14,2020--Biscuits and Gravy Day
If the above photograph does not appeal to you as a breakfast menu item, you are not alone. Very few people and places in the world can get away with serving and/or eating the delectable treat known as biscuits and gravy. I used to like traveling throughout the deep South because it is a place I knew I could order biscuits and gravy and eat to my heart's content. Today, I consider it more like a heart attack for breakfast. If you eat biscuits and gravy as your opening meal of the day, you will not be hungry again for a very long time. It is the perfect meal to serve to anyone who will not get a chance to eat again before they die. If I am ever on death row, I think I'll call for biscuits and gravy as my final meal. It could possibly add another hour or two to your life just waiting for it to be served. When I have breakfasted in the deep South, I was always the last to be served if I had ordered this meal. I don't know if that was due to the time it took to prepare biscuits and gravy or to the fact that eggs get cold faster. I think the popularity of biscuits and gravy may have waned a bit in recent years. Another Southern staple that has taken its place in popularity is fried chicken and waffles. I have never ordered fried chicken and waffles in a restaurant nor have I ever served it to awaiting guests. Truth be told, I've never served fried chicken to guests. I have learned to perfect the oven baked chicken, but my only guests have been family members. Nor have I served waffles to guests, and if I were to attempt that, I would just recruit my husband for the job. His waffles are better than mine. I can't ever get a sense of the waffle iron's inner workings. I have been told that waffles are ready when there is no more steam coming out of the waffle iron. Well, sir, I'm sorry, but I'm gonna need something a little more specific than some nebulous quotient such as a lack of steam. This methodology for testing a waffle's doneness is akin to ciphering negative numbers in my opinion. Finding that there is a lack of something is never a good way to diagnose anything. Does the lack of a heartbeat denote death or is it the lack of brainwaves? Your car will not start? Perhaps there is a lack of petrol in its engine. Or perhaps the battery is dead. Or the starter won't turn. Maybe all of the wheels are flat. Maybe you are drunk and it is not even your car you are trying to fire up. If that is the case, than it is a good thing that it will not turn on. It could be any of these scenarios or more. One simply just does not know without further investigation. Biscuits and gravy are served with grits sometimes. I find that grits offer just the right amount of fluidity to keep the biscuits and gravy from sinking to the bottom of the stomach to remain there until Kingdom come on earth, God's will be done. And should it be God's will that a person should cease to exist and should there be an autopsy performed, the coroner may be perplexed as to how and/or why the patient/corpse ingested cement and bricks as their final meal on this planet. December 13, 2020--Santa Lucia Day
My favorite class in elementary school was music. One year we learned all about different Christmas traditions by singing the songs of Christmas celebrations around the world. The song and country I liked the best was Sweden. In Sweden, Santa Lucia Day is celebrated on December 13th, marking the beginning of the holiday season. The tradition is for young girls to wear white robes with a red sash and a wreath of candles in their hair. They parade into church singing the traditional Napolitano hymn/folk song "Santa Lucia." It is a sweet sounding song with the notes lingering on the last line of the chorus. My mother had a plastic wreath of holly and red berries that she kept on our coffee table during the Christmas season. I put the wreath on my head and wrapped a bed sheet around me as a robe, and asked my mother if she would stick some lit candles in the wreath. My mother looked aghast at me. When I tried to explain it to her, she still was not beguiled. What is remarkable, however, is that the real St. Lucy/St. Lucia was tortured and killed because of her religious beliefs in 403 CE, making her one of the earliest Christian martyrs. We were not told that in school though. However, it would not have made much difference to me. I still wanted to reenact her. I just wanted to walk into church with a wreath full of lit candles on my head. Only a kid would find that seducing. What, I wonder, are these Swedes, thinking? How many girls have been burned or singed their curls from this tradition? How many fires have been started? Which churches have burned to the ground from a girl with candles lit in her hair? Instead of Santa Lucia, I was placated with getting to be an angel in our church's traditional children's pageant with all of the other girls from Sunday School. I wore a white children's choir robe and some fake wings made out of card board and aluminum foil. We marched in to the song, "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," and that was a kind of an o.k. substitute. It was not Santa Lucia, but we were out front and center of the congregation. That is until all of the boys from Sunday School marched in to the tune of "While Shepherd's Watched Their Flock" dressed in their fathers' bath robes. It started to get very crowded up there on that alter, especially when three of the older boys came in to the tune of "We Three Kings." Other than Mary, the angels are the only other females in that scene, and we really don't know that the multitude of angels were female. Probably they were not. I thought on these things while standing up there and began to feel cheated. However, all was not lost because at the end of the service, they passed out the candles which we all got to light and hold during the singing of "Silent Night." I really wanted to put mine on my head, though. December 12, 2020--Gingerbread House Day I purchased my first boxed, ready-to-assemble gingerbread house when my children were small. While I admire those folks who can bake their own walls and rooftops of a gingerbread house lovingly and willingly, I admit that extra bit of work makes a daunting task even more so. My kids were too young to judge much difference between a home baked house and a prefabricated one anyway. And only complete gingerbread purists would do so. To me the fun of a gingerbread house lies in the decorating, so I never intended anyone to actually eat our first one--which is why the off-the-shelf one was a wise choice. Gingerbread cake is tasty. Gingerbread walls and roofs are like eating hardtack biscuits--with flavor. Before the decorating, however, comes the assembly. It is far more difficult than I thought it would be. Royal icing is the cement-like frosting meant to hold the walls of a gingerbread house together. I have learned since the first one we built that the secret to good royal icing is cream of tartar. And here is my confidential advice. No matter how much cream of tartar the recipe calls for, double it. Double. It. After a frustrating hour or so on our first house, my building site crew, which consisted of a son and a daughter, began to lose interest. They had loitered nearby the construction site, full of anticipation for as long as the candy flowed freely. However, as the walls of the house collapsed over and over again, one by one, they walked off the job. Finally, when the kitchen had emptied out, I got out my hot glue gun. By God, I was going to build that gingerbread house if it was the last thing I did. Several burned fingertips later, I had a house. I called the children to the kitchen. We painted the exterior of the home white and added curb appeal by the way of what was left of the candy and sprinkles. When we ran out of the prepackaged icing, a quick phone call to my mother-in-law assured me of a fast method to make more, with the secret ingredient of course. In no time at all, it was a turn key, sturdy home ready to grace the front cover of House Beautiful magazine. I gave it a place of honor in the center of our our holiday dinning room table. On the day after Christmas, I thought I should throw it out, or turn it into dog biscuits. However when I announced this idea to my husband, both of my children overheard and cried, "No!" in protest. They wanted to eat it. I was aghast and worried for their teeth, not in the way of cavities but of breakage. However, I gave in to their protestations. When dipped in a hot cup of cocoa or coffee, gingerbread is more palatable I have found. But that particular gingerbread house had been assembled with hot glue. Lacking guidance in the digestibility of this toxin, I got out my electric knife and cut off the portions with glue on them. And then watched as Hansel and Gretel ate what was left of the candy house. December 11, 2020--International Mountain Day
The day started in the usual way for a vacation day. Those who were inclined to hike a mountain awoke early, ate a hearty breakfast, and took off for parts unknown. That left my son and me alone in our rental cabin in Colorado. The two of us gradually awoke and ate breakfast. Then, I began to clean up the place a bit. I was at a loss as to how to spend our time for the rest of the day. We could take a shuttle to town and visit the shops, but we had just done that the night before. We could find a restaurant and eat a fancy lunch, but that didn't appeal much to either one of us. We could walk around the lake and look at stuff. I could have simply read a book on the couch, and my son could have played with his phone and his Nintendo 3DS. However, what would he be learning by doing that? Those are things we could do at home. It is never easy planning and executing a vacation for a family with varying interests and capabilities. My son loves museums and tours. For example, did you know that you can find out about rhyolite rock and see Molly Brown's bedroom in Colorado? Well, I do. As for me, I try to just go with flow, although recent health events have made hiking difficult. At the risk of sounding full of excuses, I need to say that I completed my last cancer medication this past May. Letrozole is an estrogen blocking pill that I took for ten years because that is what the latest research suggests and because my particular cancer was not estrogen adverse. Consequently ladies, I'm here to tell you I have seen and felt eighty, and it is not pretty. Off the medication for seven months now, I feel like a new woman. I think I lived with feeling bad for so long that I had forgotten what feeling good was like. On the Letrozole, my joints ached. My bones ached. Walking long distances was difficult. And to top it all off, I never knew it was the medicine. I mean I knew the medicine was part of it, I just didn't guess to what degree. For the longest time, I just figured, well, that is what my life is like now. That is just another gift of cancer. But guess what? It was always the pills. All of this is slightly off topic, but not so much really. I knew I would be stopping the Letrozole for good the following year of that trip to the mountains. You might say I was mentally preempting the effect of that. On this day in Colorado, although my estrogen was still blocked, I decided to take my power back. I got out maps and brochures. With some skillful navigation, my son and I were able to take a shuttle to town, transfer to two more shuttles to eventually arrive inside the Rocky Mountain National Park. And from there we took another shuttle up into the mountains. The shuttle dropped us off at the furthest drop off point it could. You might say that was cheating, however, we would not have been able to hike the entire mountain--me with my nonexistent estrogen and my son with his Crohn's disease and autism--without the boost from it. We found our trail head and began walking. I immediately realized we had not brought enough water. But I told my self it would be fine, and tried not to think about the fact that no one actually knew where we were. I don't know name of the trail we hiked, or the area of the park we were in. However, we were high up, and we saw and touched ice. My son was beside himself with excitement. He had finally gotten to participate in a mountain hike at a high elevation. I was feeling so cocky about the day that I stopped, interrupted some strangers' picnic lunch, and asked them to take a picture of my son and me. The mother obliged willingly. As I instructed her on what to push, I noted a French accent. She took several shots of my son and me standing by a lake. When she handed me back my phone, I did something else surprising. I thanked her and wished her well, in FRENCH. "Bonne journée et merci." Except I probably didn't say exactly that because I probably got it wrong. I took French in school, but like so many things you learn there, I've never used it. Whatever came out of my mouth that day however made the lady smile. It was one of those smiles that people give when they want to say, "Thanks. You noticed me." At the end of the day, we were the last ones to return to our cabin. It was quite a different outcome than our usual reunions. This time, we had as many tales to tell as the best mountain hikers. We could go story for story for as long as anyone was willing to talk. It felt good to be in command once more. It had been a day for 'bonne adventure.' December 10, 2020--Dewey Decimal System Day I first met Mr. Dewey of the Dewey Decimal System in elementary school, but he had no meaning to me then. We were merely acquaintances until I found him to be extremely useful while I was pursuing a degree in higher education. You might say he gave me good directions. When I would need to find an article or a book, for example, I would go to something commonly found in every library back then, but entirely unexplainable by today's cultural standards--the card catalogue. And in this wardrobe of cards, I would find thousands of listings of books kept on shelves. What is this nonsense of books on shelves of which I speak, you ask? Perhaps I should explain Mr. Dewey in another way. Let me begin again. And so it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from professors of lit-disgustus that all the world should know of their brilliance. And so a research paper was assigned. And all students went to the library, each one to his own university. And I also went up from my own home, out of my comfort zone, into the library, unto the card catalogue, which is organized by the Dewey Decimal System (because it was of the house and lineage of Melville Dewey); To look up research with notes and photocopies, being great with anxiety. And so it was, that while I was there, the paper should be written and then delivered. And I brought forth my research paper, wrapped it in a clear plastic file folder and laid it in my hands because there was no room for it in my backpack. And there were in the same library, classmates wandering around in the stacks, keeping watch over their own research papers by night. And low, the angel of the library, aka the Librarian, came upon them, and the glory of the Dewey Decimal System shown around them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said to them, "Fear not, for I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all students. For unto you exists this day, in this library, a system of looking stuff up. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the information you need in the card catalogue, residing on the first floor of this library." And suddenly there I was, with completed research paper in hand saying to my nomadic classmates, "Nanny-nanny-boo-boo, guess who has already completed her essay?" And suddenly there was with me, a multitude of students praising my efforts and saying, "How did you do it? Can you show me how to use this thing? Where do I find stuff for my class?" And on and on. And I owe all of my library popularity to Mr. Melville Dewey. How sad to find out now that in his actual lifetime, he was a racist and an anti-Semite, having penned the policy that banned blacks, Jews, and others from membership in the Lake Placid Club which he had helped to found. December 9, 2020-Christmas Card Day Every November I say I am not going to send out Christmas cards, but every December I break down and do it. The reason I say I am not going to send them out is because it seems to have become a quaint tradition that is not observed by everyone anymore. When I was growing up, getting a Christmas card from someone every year was your family's way of keeping up with distant friends and relations. Some of the the handwritten notes you could read on the inside front cover could be quite humorous: Ed seems to have recovered from his hernia surgery. I had my first colonoscopy last week. I was worried about it at first. Everything seems to have come out alright in the end, however. Nevertheless, the ones that are really outstanding are the ones with the Christmas letter inside. I admit to having penned a few of these myself over the years. People often scoff at the Christmas letter because it usually implies how wonderful the superior family is doing. I like an honest Christmas letter, however. A good Christmas letter should register in the writer's own voice. For example: Rained here last week flooded winter garden good wondering if you all need any cabbage or onions? I'll be visiting Ma on the week of Christmas will bring some by then also my potatoes had a good bumper crop of them this year. Today social media has pretty much done away with the need for an annual Christmas message or card, but I still like to get them. I have often been told that, "It is better to give than to receive." Consequently, I feel myself breaking down again. I will send Christmas cards this year, but no letter. I may bring back the letter next year, though. If I had written a letter to go with my Christmas card this year, it might have gone something like this: Everything in our household is going o.k. We have been stuck together here for a while now, like all of you. We have taken on new hobbies to pass the time. For example, I like to yodel. Daughter is collecting lint from the dryer for a knitting project. Husband has begun black market day trading in the commodity of toilet paper while Son has set a personal goal to watch every Ted Talk ever made. And for a really great evening of forced family fun, we paint a wall just so we can watch it dry. Dear friends, if you do not receive your Christmas card from me this year, I probably will have run out of stamps, or you will have moved and left no forwarding address. And finally, I am here to tell you that my status this year has improved immensely. Not only did I get a Christmas card from my insurance agent and my dentist, but now I am also on the AARP list of persons of interest. However, only on a need to know basis. December 8, 2020--National Christmas Tree Day
"My tree's up." "Got your tree up, yet?" "My tree's up, but not decorated yet," says everyone during the month of December. So many of our holiday preparations seem to surround the Christmas tree. When do we put it up? How and when do we decorate it? Every year I'm astounded that stores are so full of more and newer holiday decorations. It's unbelievable, but there must be people out there who simply throw away Christmas decor after only using it for one season. No wonder our planet is in trouble. I know textile waste is now measured by the tons, but I wonder if anyone has measured and quantified holiday waste? I know someone who knows someone who throws out their fake Christmas tree, lights, and decorations every year. Every single year. Since 1991. I always thought these friends of a friend were rather unique, but now I wonder if the fact of throwing out their artificial tree every year is shared by others. If this is you, then I ask you to please donate it to a charity shop, for the love of St. Nicholas. I share the frustration of having a prelit tree have all of its lights up and die on you. However, when that happened to me, I always just threw on an extra string or two of them. A few years ago, I bought a used artificial tree from a facebook trading site. Well, actually, it was free which explains why I didn't bother to return it. The lady and previous owner of it swore to me that it was only a year old and that all the lights worked. I looked inside the box it was in, and I could see lights on it. It was heavy, but I managed to get it into the back of my van and drove it home. With some help, I got it inside, set it up and plugged it in. Not one single light on it worked. Not a one. By the time I made this astonishing discovery, I was too invested in it. Furniture had been moved to accommodate this holiday monstrosity. So, I went to the store and bought tons of lights and worked them on it here and there the best way possible. It is always better to put new lights on a tree before any decorations are on it, but I suppose we have all been there when the fully decorated tree just burns out a string or two. At that point there is nothing to be done but to throw new lights on branches that have gone dark. This has happened so often to me that I'm going to design a new type of ornament for such branches. The ornaments will be old drafts of my electric bill with the 'balance due' area highlighted and some holly and berries scotch taped around it. Each darkened branch will get one such ornament. Finally, my friends, today is my one day of Christmas reckoning. By that I mean that I reckon I will have to become a yuletide arborist once again. This year, I am taking my nine foot slim tree that has served me well for the last three years back to the thrift store where I bought it. If I keep my mouth shut they may not recognize it and take it as a donation. Then, I am off to hunt down that perfect, smaller brand new tree. No matter what you may have been told over the years, I have learned the hard way that size is not everything. December 7, 2020-National Letter Writing Day
Dear Santa, Do you remember the first time we met? I think I was two or three years old, and you wore glasses. Why did you wear glasses? It threw me into a tailspin. You did not look like the Santa Claus I had seen in pictures and story books. I am sorry I screamed at you then. I just wanted you to remove your glasses. But how could you have known that? One of the best Christmases that I remember was when you brought me doll furniture for every room of my doll house. I had been given an antique wooden doll house from a lady who knew my mom. I'll never forget that mansion for as long as I live. It came with three stories, nine rooms, and a fenced front yard. The name plate above the door was "Allison Butler." I never knew who Allison Butler was, but since her first name is my middle name, I felt a special kinship toward her. When I first got the house, it was a sort of dilapidated flop house, with no rhyme or reason to it. The initial inhabitants did not know each other and had no vested interest in it. Also, it had no furniture. I had fun for a while trying to create furnishings out of small cardboard boxes, construction paper, and bits of material. However, when I found room after room of doll furniture for my doll estate that first Christmas morning after my acquisition of that prime piece of real estate, it was like I had won the lottery. It was one of my best Christmas presents ever. After that, I always made sure the inhabitants celebrated and kept a good Christmas. I saved small Christmas trees from the tops of cupcakes for the home's interior decorations. The fenced yard had string lights by the way of strands of yarn that I carefully placed around the awning that led to the front door. I hung onto that furniture for a very long time, even after the lady who gave me the doll house had called it back to her. She said she missed Allison Butler and her toy house. It was torturous for my doll house family to have been evicted like that. That doll house was like an inheritance or family owned manor house. And when it got pulled out from under the doll people like the homemade rugs I had cut out of bits of wool and calico, it did them in. That family never fully recovered, but I did. However, I wonder what losing it did to my own psych. I had become a homeowner, afterall. I had taken great care of that chateau, cleaning and rearranging the furniture when new people joined the family or paid a visit. Santa, you are full of surprises. Sometimes you and your gifts are not what we expect. This year, Santa, I hope I have at long last learned to go with the flow and embrace your surprises. Whatever the next year unveils for us, I will not be like the younger version of myself, screaming because it is not what I expected. I will not be undone like the family who lived in the Butler Hall, either. Maybe your gifts are sometimes sent to teach a lesson. If that is the case, then bring it. I'm ready. Yours truly, Karen K. Schwab |
AuthorKaren Schwabenland--Keeper of a daily blog of written matter, reporter of events large and small, and charlatan extraordinaire Archives
September 2022
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