Memoirous

I have on a side table a little Christmas crèche scene surrounded by plastic angels. It was Jack who noticed that one of the three golden-haired cherubim was missing its wings, on her back a little glob of exposed glue. Hmmm. Did they fall off? What happened? Are they lost? Are they in the garbage? I’m presented with questions—each a metaphor for how we treat people with differences. But, before, I can use it as a teaching moment, he’s moved on. To touching other things, all breakable and liable to losing heads, halos, wings. I tell him, We’ll have to go to the wing store and get her a new pair. Would he like me to get him wings? He nudges the wingless lass closer to the manger. Another metaphor, without wings we stick close to home. Soon will come the day when he’ll fly away. Until then . . . he drops an angel. Another wing down.   Merry Christmas.

Another Christmas memory is setting up the card table. I remember Mom at the beginning of December setting up a card table in the living room, where she’d sit and write Christmas cards. The warped cardboard-ish top pockmarked, no longer used for gaming, relegated to crafts and other projects, the metal legs uneven, wobble. That card table. Later she’ll bring out the wrapping paper and a box of leftover bows, bits of ribbon, scraps of tissue paper, etc. Nothing was wasted. Remnants were kept, like how frayed clothes became quilt squares. Like how now I do the same thing. I have a small fold out table and my own box of bows. The tiny house is cluttered—until I’m sick of the mess. Already I’m thinking this weekend I’ll put it away and relax, hopefully, the few days left before the big day.

 I'm reposting from Dec. 2019 a memory from the early 80s. I was reminded (re-reminded?) of this memory the other day as I received in the mail a newsletter from Assumption Abbey , Richardton, ND--a refuge I stayed at on my cross-country bike trip. The brothers were very welcoming despite it being a pandemic. I felt a great affinity for them and their work. I've continued to financially support the Abbey and love receiving their newsletter. Monastery Christ in the Desert Nearly 40 years ago I went to visit my sister who was spending her Christmas break at Ghost Ranch, a Presbyterian conference center outside of Taos, New Mexico. She had spent time working there as part of the college staff the summer before. Soon after arriving we grabbed snowshoes off some pegs and trudged back into Box Canyon where our voices echoed off the icy walls. During the long twilight, we slowly made our way back to the house following a trail of twinkling lights, like sparkling crystals in the haloed...

Another Christmas memory . . .  O Holy Night is a well-known Christmas carol composed by Adolphe Adam in 1847 to the French poem "Minuit, chrétiens" (Midnight, Christians). I remember it as the finale to the Christmas Eve program at the Presbyterian church we attended in Kettering. It can be a long night until the next morning to hold off on opening presents. At least the car ride and time at church filled those tense, anxious hours. O Holy Night seems to be the perfect vehicle for a soloist, and, indeed, the woman who sang it annually was a trained professional, the daughter of one of the congregants, who came down from New York City. I remember one snowy Christmas in particular when there was speculation whether she would make it in time. Yet, always, in the end she rose up from the robed choir to take her place at the podium. The lights in the church were dimmed, lit mainly by the Advent candles, all of them now burning. The coughing and fidgeting ceased—in expectation. Or...

During the 1960s and '70s, the Goodyear and Firestone tire companies peddled annual Christmas albums in their stores, usually for a dollar each, to customers who waited to get their tires changed or wheels aligned. I remember going with my mother to pick up the Firestone Christmas Album. We might have also stopped by the S & H store to redeem stamped books—but that’s another blog post. My mother was a sucker for all deals and promotions. The fill up the tank and get whatever the gas station was offering or buying heavy boxes of soap detergent that contained--yes! for real!—water glasses. We also went for the prize in the cereal box—again, worthy of another blog post, another flash memory. I’m trying to think of why I was always my mother’s buddy for these errands and the only thing I can think of is that I didn’t object. I was the youngest and couldn’t be left alone at home, but also the other kids could have watched me. But, I would tag along and store up all these things ...