Column

My mother used to say she dreaded the day she returned to school after Christmas vacation. The standing assignment in that small country school was to write about their holiday and the gifts they received.

Growing up in a large family during the Depression, her family didn’t always have gifts.

“So, what did you write about?” I asked.

“My many Christmas gifts!” she exclaimed.

My mother never suffered from writer’s block, even as a schoolgirl.

Her story of not having much at Christmas as a child, then growing into a woman who took the holiday over the top and embodied the joy of Christmas, has the hallmarks of a classic Christmas tale.

The good ones grip your heart and bring you to tears—the stories and the storytellers.

O. Henry’s “Gift of the Magi” is about a young couple strapped for cash. He sells his prized watch to buy a comb for her hair. She sells her beautiful long hair to buy a chain for his watch. The story of sacrifice and love culminates in joy and tears.

In 1965, CBS took a huge gamble airing Charles Schultz’ “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” What many executives thought could well be a dud has become a cherished holiday tradition.

One of the newer additions to our collection of classics is “The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey.” It belongs under the Grumpy Old Men category. It is the tender story of a woodworker with a cold and grieving heart, melted by the love of a small boy and his mother who ask him to carve a nativity set.

First place in the Grump category will forever belong to Charles Dickens’ Scrooge in “The Christmas Carol.”

All the components of a classic are in place—the haves and the have-nots, the thankful and the unthankful, an awakening from death to life.

Hans Christian Andersen’s “Little Match Girl,” is a two-tissue cry. The story about a poor young girl who freezes to death trying to sell matches while beholding a vision of her grandmother escorting her to heaven is a good read and even better antidote for a culture flush with comfort and material goods.

But the true Christmas classic is the oldest one. The story is told in verses, not chapters. The simplicity is stunning.

A peasant couple is alone in a strange town and she is about to deliver a baby.

There are no familiar faces, only the unknown and the uncertain. Finding no place to lodge, an innkeeper directs them to a stable.

“And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths and laid Him in a manger.”

Nearby, shepherds keeping watch over their flock trembled with fear as a celestial being appeared in the sky declaring, “Do not be afraid; I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.”

Still wondering if they could believe their eyes, a multitude of heavenly hosts joined the angel declaring, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among people with whom He is pleased.”

And so it was, in the dark of night, long ago, in a place far away, stars blazed in the heavens as a baby boy whom angels declared a Savior, was born to a humble couple in a lowly stable.

And that’s not the end of the story—only the beginning.

Nothing tops the original. It is always the best.

One of our granddaughters just asked if I knew Merriam-Webster announced their word of the year.

“No,” I answer. “What is it?”

“Gaslighting,” she says.

“Wonder why they chose that?” I muse.

“Are you kidding?” she yells. “The price of gas! What else?”

“Gaslighting has nothing to do with the price of gas,” I say.

“I think it does!” she says.

We race to the computer (it’s a highly competitive family), go to the Merriam Webster website and begin reading about gaslighting. Her eyes light on an opening paragraph, which she quickly skims. “It says right there ‘2022 saw a 1740 percent increase—’ ”

“Keep reading.”

“Oh—2022 saw a 1740 percent increase in lookups for gaslighting.”

I try to explain what gaslighting means but the best example may be right before us – trying to make someone think what they think isn’t true.

Meanwhile, across the pond, Oxford Dictionaries announced their word of the year is “goblin mode,” which has nothing to do with trick-or-treating or Halloween.

Goblin mode is defined as, “a type of behavior which is unapologetically self-indulgent, lazy, slovenly or greedy, typically in a way that rejects social norms or expectations.”

The rise in goblin mode– not bathing or grooming, binging on chips and pizza and living like a slob—is often attributed to excessive use of social media and the pandemic, all of which wonderfully illustrates the principle of goblin mode of not taking responsibility for oneself. Consistency is everything.

In other alpha-developments, Scrabble has added 500 new words to the official Scrabble Dictionary, including – brace yourself—proper nouns like Google and Boricua (a person from Puerto Rico by birth or descent).

Also added is “bae,” which is short for babe with a nod to those in goblin mode lacking the strength to add that second b. Oh, the exhaustion of it all.

Likewise, for those too weary to spell out adorable, “adorbs” has been entered into the Scrabble dictionary.

Another entry Scrabble is allowing, is Fauxhawk, a haircut like a Mohawk, but the hair on top is waxed and pointed toward the front of the head instead of straight up. This one (the word, not the haircut) is exciting, as it contains both a high-scoring x and k.

Another addition of interest is “welp” not to be confused with “whelp” which refers to a dog giving birth. “Welp” is a feeling of weariness and resignation, a combination of “help” and “well.”

Meanwhile, Gaslighting’s younger sibling, listening to our discussion about new words, says, “Grandma, do you know what the last word in the dictionary is?”

“What?” I ask, taking the bait.

“It’s zyzzyva. That’s z-y-z-z-y-v-a; a beetle in South America.”

I had no idea.

Welp.

I’ll let her have the last word.

Sometimes life simply gets ahead of you. By a few minutes, a few hours, maybe even a day. Or let’s say your entire fall has been action packed and life has gotten ahead of you by weeks.

The holidays arrive with the usual clamor and you wonder if you’ll ever catch up. Your late-night online shopping packages begin arriving. FedEx, UPS, mail carriers, Amazon. Such nice delivery people.

Of course, you know what you ordered so you stack the boxes in the corner of a bedroom and will get to them later.

Time passes, days turn to weeks and later finally arrives.

I pick a box, open it and have no idea what I am looking at. Well, I know I am looking at a pair of shoes and a jacket, but I have no memory of ordering shoes and a jacket.

When did I order this?

Why did I order this?

What else have I ordered that I don’t remember ordering?

Will any live animals or heavy machinery be arriving?

The next thought that comes to mind is: “Do I need Prevagen?”

I wonder if I am really losing it, then put the contents back into the box and see it is addressed to my neighbor.

What a relief, although the relief quickly turns to angst when I realize I have not only opened my neighbor’s package, but it has been sitting in our house for more than two weeks.

Has she been going without shoes and a jacket?

I quickly text her and she texts back “ha-ha” saying she complained to the company weeks ago, and they resent the merchandise. She will return the merchandise that was sitting in our house and says it is no problem. She is most gracious. I only hope the company doesn’t ask for the name and address of her neighbor that was sitting on the goods.

All is well.

Then it hits me. We are going out of town for a few days. Guess who we ask to watch for packages when we are gone? Do I really have the nerve to ask the neighbor whose package I sat on for nearly three weeks if she will keep a watchful eye out for our packages?

Maybe I can strike a deal. I could suggest that she keep our packages at her house for a few weeks, even open a few and see if there’s anything she likes.

She is more than welcome to enjoy the Nerf Blasters or the giant stuffed unicorn. It’s probably been years since she played with a Slinky. Maybe she’d like to make a volcano and watch it blow up.

My neighbor is free to do whatever she likes with the packages. All I ask is that I have them back by December 24^th. I’d really appreciate it.

 

Despite the cost of everything shooting through the roof, we know someone making money. Even better, we are related to him.

He is our grandson, which should be a close enough bloodline to provide some comfort in our old age.

He’s only 9, but  I just read about three kids under the age of 10 making millions on YouTube. They wow viewers by partying on yachts, riding in Ferraris and traveling the world.

Our grandson isn’t on the internet; nor does he ride on yachts, or in Ferraris, or throw big parties. He floats on a pond in an inflatable raft, rides in a four-wheeler with his dad and grandpa and prefers being alone to big parties.

And he’s making money hand over fist. Well, make that hand over hot pad.

People usually have a dream in mind when they set out to make money. This boy was no different. His dream was a jigsaw. Aisle 22 at Harbor Freight.

Jigsaws aren’t cheap, especially quality ones, which the boy is sure will last longer. He has long shadowed his dad in the woodshop, watching, helping, sweeping up and working on his own projects, most recently a guitar.

The base is a rectangle of 2 x 4 blocks stacked 2 deep and bolted together. His dad helped him cut a face for the guitar with the appropriate curves. The boy attached a neck, also made from 2 x4 s, carved frets into the fret wood and attached tuning pegs someone gave him. It is a nice-looking guitar, albeit on the heavy side and still needing strings.In any case, he wanted to buy his own jigsaw. He saved allowance money, birthday money and asked for extra chores. The cash began adding up, but he was still short.

Then his oldest sister was selling frozen cookie dough for a fundraiser. He saw how much his brother and sisters wanted them, so he bought a box of 48 mounds of frozen dough for $17. That’s a big capital investment when you’re 9.

He baked a tray and “let them sit out for a minute because they smelled super good.” His four siblings quickly materialized, all clamoring for a cookie fresh from the oven.

He said, sure – for 50 cents.

A few days later, he baked some more. Not long after that, he began running a “special” – two for a dollar. His dad paid a full dollar for a cookie.

Next thing you know, the kid was purchasing a jigsaw.

He’s already made lot of things with the jigsaw but can’t reveal what because they are Christmas gifts.

With the leftover cookie dough, he bakes a few at a time for himself and eats one a day for Advent, which in his mind is something like the opposite of Lent.

The family is on their own for cookies.

Meanwhile, he has found a hollow log in the woods and plans on using the jigsaw to create a bird feeder. The birds will eat at no charge.

 

Lunch, anyone?
If you live in the Indianapolis area, and would enjoy a festive holiday lunch with an uplifting speaker (I will be that speaker!) at Second Presbyterian on N. Meridian,  Thursday, Dec. 8 at 11: 15 a.m. Tickets are available here: https://secondchurch.org/story.aspx?storyid=2149

 

I recently snagged a cheap flight on an airline known for being “economical.” I told one of the kids the airline I was flying and she exploded. Just like a volcano—molten lava flowed out of both her ears.

“Mom!” she shrieked.  “Don’t you know they’re the airline with issues?”

I asked if by “issues” she meant those videos of people throwing punches in the aisles. I informed her it was a predawn flight and people who brawl on airlines are still in bed that time of day.

She said it wasn’t that I would be in a viral video, it was that the airline is known for never leaving the airport.

I told her that an economy airline doesn’t mean you don’t leave the airport—it only means you may leave the airport in a teeny, tiny plane and have to flap your arms to keep it airborne.

I paid for my flight, which was amazingly cheap. Then I was asked if I’d like to pick a seat, which meant an additional fee. Did I want to pay extra to take a bag on board for a small fee?

It was a la carte. Some of your finer restaurants are a la carte.

A week before my flight, an email said for a small fee I could have priority boarding, which would mean early access to overhead bins.

I thought about it, as I think the fighting often breaks out when the overhead bins are full.

Four days before departure, I received an offer to bid on more leg room. As a matter of fact, I could make multiple bids on more leg room.

I wondered if the multiple bids were for individual legs, a bid for the right leg, and a bid for the left leg. Or maybe you could just bid for more space for your right leg and let your left leg cramp.

I didn’t need more leg room, but the bidding concerned me.

Three days before my flight, an email asked if I’d like to purchase an extra wide seat. My first thought was, who’s been talking? I immediately jumped on the bathroom scale. I am not wider, which is why I stopped by the ‘fridge on my way back to the computer.

Would I have to pay for an oxygen mask? Was there a fee for a safety floatation device? How about the restroom? I haven’t used a restroom on a plane for decades, but what if?

Two days before departure, another email asked if I would like to buy Wi-Fi, which “would last for the entire duration of the flight.” Not Wi-Fi just during take-off, or just during extreme turbulence, but for the whole flight!

Despite pre-flight anxiety—free of charge; no fee required—the flight was wonderful. I define wonderful as when the plane stays in the sky.

I took a different airline on my return flight, one that gives you a seat, overhead storage, leg room, a beverage and snack, and Wi-Fi all for one price. The all-encompassing price and my budget a la carte airline were less than a dollar apart in cost.

Sometimes what looks like a savings isn’t a savings. Hence the old saying, “Let the flier beware.”

____________________________________________________________________________________

Below is part of President Lincoln’s Thanksgiving Proclamation written in November 1864, the year before the end of the Civil War. It is worthy of reading and reflection and truly puts some meat on the bones of this holiday. I’m am thankful for every reader whom I am connected to through cyberspace. I only wish I could welcome you to the table and offer you a piece of  pie.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Happy Thanksgiving!

One of our daughters recently said the thought of making dinner every night for the rest of her life can nearly trigger a panic attack.

I feel the same way each year as Thanksgiving rolls around and I have to cook a turkey.

To prep or to panic, that is the question.

Every fiber of my being longs to be a woman who awakens Thanksgiving morning giddy with excitement at the prospect of transforming a big naked bird, with creepy goosebump skin and a disgusting little bag with the neck, gizzards, kidneys and gallstones deep inside its cavity, into a culinary wonder.

But I never have been that woman and never will be.

I have learned to accept this. I only hope those who sit at our table have learned to accept this.

I awake Thanksgiving morning and prepare for battle. It will be me and the turkey—and only one of us will win.

 

Step 1: I pull the bird from the refrigerator and am shocked that it is still partially frozen. Every year for nearly 40 years the bird is still partially frozen and every year for nearly 40 years I am shocked.

Step 2: I check that the turkey hotline is in my cell phone under favorites.

Step 3: I begin sharpening knives hoping some visual intimidation will give me an edge over the bird. I even say so aloud throwing in some trash talk. “You’re fowl,” I hiss to the bird.

The turkey’s entire body shakes with laughter.

Step 4: I don my apron with big bold letters that say, “IN IT TO WIN IT!”

The turkey again responds, shaking with laughter. This time it shakes so hard that it bounces toward the edge of the counter and nearly falls to the floor.

“See if I care!” I shout as I lunge and push it back to safety. The bird and I have a long-standing complex love-hate thing going.

Step 5: I regroup, do some deep breathing, slowly circle the bird three times, then abruptly grab it, putting it in a half Nelson, or a quarter Nelson, whatever. The bird slips from my grip. I attack again; this time using a hammerlock. We tussle rough and tumble. The ruckus continues and the outcome appears uncertain.

I’m sweating, turkey juice is smeared all over the countertop, cookware is scattered on the floor and a turkey gizzard is sliding down a cabinet door—but I have prevailed. I have set a record, having ripped the plastic wrapper from the bird in under 7 minutes.

I take a short break and recaffeinate. In only four more ugly takedowns the bird is stuffed, basted and planted in the roaster.

I can taste victory. It has hints of sage, celery and yellow onion.

 

Each year it starts just a little bit earlier than the year before. There was a time when the hoopla didn’t begin until November. Then it slowly filled October and spilled over into September.

Pumpkin Spice. It’s an all-out invasion.

Coffee shops and doughnut shops have traditionally led the charge, but now pumpkin spice is in Cheerios, cheese curds and face masks.

Perhaps you would be interested in some Native Pumpkin Spice Latte Deodorant. Yep, you can pumpkin spice your underarms. If that doesn’t say the holidays are around the corner, I don’t know what does.

Even dogs are lapping up the pumpkin spice craze. You can buy pumpkin spice dental treats for your pooch.

Oh, there now kitty, kitty, don’t get pouty. There’s pumpkin spice for you, too – pumpkin spice scented litter boxes.

Seriously? Do we really want to take all the fragrances of warmth and goodness associated with fall and the holidays and dump them into the litter box?

Yes, we do!

Pumpkin spice is all you can taste, see and smell everywhere you go—pumpkin spice ice cream, pumpkin spice Werther’s caramels, pumpkin spice Life cereal, pumpkin spice Cliff bars, pumpkin spice yogurt pretzels and pumpkin spice applesauce.

Oh, and, drum roll, please . . . pumpkin spice Kraft Mac and Cheese. It was such a hit in Canada that it is coming to the U.S. Yes, cheesy goodness with notes of cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice may soon be available near you. Perhaps the blue box mac and cheese will come in orange.

How about some pumpkin spice marshmallows on that s’more? Or in your hot chocolate? No? Maybe some, pumpkin spice coconut milk, a pumpkin spice bagel, pumpkin spice peeps or pumpkin spice mini-wheats?

Spam and hummus now come in pumpkin spice, too. Ditto for Pringles.

If you still don’t have enough pumpkin spice in your life, try some pumpkin spice toothpaste.

Salmon? Yes, pumpkin spice salmon. It’s so odd, it might be good.

Kale chips and Toll House chips have also jumped on the pumpkin spice bandwagon. Sounds like a party mix to me.

Burt’s Bees lip balm—pumpkin spice. Seems the bees ought to have some say in promoting a squash instead of honey or beeswax.

Even concrete comes in pumpkin spice. That’s color, not scent. (I think.)

Welcome to our pumpkin spice home, where you will be inundated with the color of pumpkin spice on the driveway and walkway, overpowered by pumpkin spice fragrance from the kitchen to the bathroom and our armpits, and every single food in the house will taste like pie.

At the rate we are going, in another few years pumpkin spice latte will be the national drink and a pumpkin will replace the eagle on the national seal.

As that short kid in the zig zag shirt who helped launch this whole trend would say, “Good grief.”

 

We have been without a clothes dryer for approximately 24 days, 6 hours, 44 minutes and 22 seconds. But who’s counting?

When the dryer stopped working, we did what we always do when an appliance fails. I informed the husband. He then pulled the dryer out, checked the plug, flipped the breaker a few times, hit the dryer’s start button a half-dozen times, shoved the dryer back into place and matter-of-factly said, “Nothing lasts like it used to.”

Those are our home repair skills at full throttle.

I proceeded to step two, which is calling appliance repair people. Call after call, it was the same story—short staffed, customers back-logged and the onset of cold weather had generated a lot of furnace tune-up and repair calls.

The earliest anyone could get to us was three weeks out. I snapped it up like the last chocolate chip cookie on a warm baking sheet.

In the meantime, I considered rigging something up on the patio or in the backyard to dry laundry, but we like our neighbors. They aren’t the sort of people we’d traumatize with our personal things flapping in the wind.

I remembered a friend who had lived overseas talking about hang-drying laundry because most of the places they lived did not have clothes dryers. She would routinely hang lines in the living space and hang-dry laundry.

Our best hang-dry spots are in a bathroom that gets a lot of sun (the shower rod can hold 15 hangers) and the utility closet that houses the furnace and a recently purchased folding rack.

It is a workable system, providing you don’t mind bath towels that feel like steel wool.

I’m not saying hang-dry laundry is stiff, but we no longer fold clothes—we bend them.

We no longer need a scrub brush for food stuck on baking dishes. An air-dried dishcloth is rough enough to clean any baking dish and sand down the kitchen table we’ve been meaning to refinish.

The real bonus is that our complexions have never looked healthier. We have roses in our cheeks. You would, too, if you washed your face with a Brillo pad.

We may be wearing our clothes a day or two longer than usual. Who knows, maybe three or four. What I do know is that last night the husband’s jeans walked themselves to the laundry basket.

The appliance repair people were to arrive last week. They called 8 a.m. sharp on Monday – to say they couldn’t come. One tech injured a knee over the weekend, one has Covid and another is starting vacation.

I’d bury my head in the sleeve of my sweater and cry, but the sweater is so rough it’d probably scratch my face.

We rescheduled. We were fortunate enough to find someone who can come in two weeks.

My better half has a mind for dates, numbers and details, and enjoys family history and genealogy. There are many people who enjoy genealogy, and they have many wonderful conversations. Usually with one another.

Because I do not have the brain capacity for infinite details, dates and numbers, we have guidelines about him sharing his vast wealth of knowledge with me.

First, he is to share interesting findings in brief, condensed, modified form. Further, he is never to share generational history with me when I have my car keys in my hand or when I am working in the kitchen with the blender and the mixer simultaneously running full speed and I’m trying to take something out of a 450-degree oven.

He has ample time for these activities as he is retired. I am not.

He recently cut out a headline and put it on the ‘fridge: “Wife still working while retired husband travels.”

He finds this hilarious.

I asked him where he plans on going.

The other day he revealed that he had found something stunning on a genealogy site that a second cousin, 59 times removed, or something like that, had directed him to.

Instinct told me to grab my car keys, preheat the oven and start the mixer, but heard myself say, “What is it?”

He said, “There is documentation that my 12^th great grandmother’s sister was a queen consort of Henry VIII.”

He begins moving from screen to screen to screen on his computer demonstrating how the hip bone is connected to the thigh bone and the thigh bone . . . no, wait, the screens are showing how one generation is connected to another generation, when suddenly there we were among Lords and Ladies and his 12^th great grandmother’s royal sister, Anne Boleyn (who, incidentally, the king had beheaded for treason).

I tell the husband that I find it hard to believe that records from that long ago were kept in such detail, let alone preserved. How is it that paper lasted almost five centuries? Not a single water leak in the castle? No termites or silverfish? Surely the records were moved from time to time and papers were shuffled. How is it they weren’t accidently thrown out with someone’s junk mail in the 1700s?

I’m going to need something more tangible than a computer screen before I start decreeing myself a shirt-tail relative to royalty. Perhaps a memento of some sort that has been handed down through the generations. A key chain would do, a refrigerator magnet or even a ballpoint pen that says, “Consort of the King.”

When my maternal great grandfather came as a teen stowaway on a ship from Germany, he had some marbles in his pocket that are still in the family.

Likewise, I’d find the 12^th great grandmother’s story more believable if someone had passed down the king’s shaving cup, or perhaps a signature ring. A jewel-studded crown falling into our possession would be fine, too. I try to stay flexible on these matters.

The husband is skeptical of my skepticism. (Is there no end to the cycle?)

“Show me an ancient carbon-dated hand towel or little soap stamped with VIII and I’m all in,” I say.

I wonder if people long, long ago would be as interested in finding us as we are in finding them.

 

 

 

The fine print describing the rental I secured for a leaf peeping jaunt to Maine said the cabin had everything we could possibly need. All the reviews said that, too.

The pictures showed a charming old house with original wood paneling, wood floors and exposed beams. It could have been next door to the place that Henry Fonda and Katharine Hepburn stayed in “On Golden Pond.”

Pictures showed a small kitchen with a small stove and small fridge, and an adjoining sitting area with a sofa, a chair and a wood stove. What a clever idea to add a charming piece of décor like a wood stove, I thought to myself.

One of the reviews praised the place for maintaining its “vintage” character. Vintage is often code for no updates. We haven’t been updated in years either—we’re vintage, too. It would be a perfect match.

“Great choice!” the husband said when we pulled up.

“I can smell the wood paneling!” he said as we lugged in our things.

“Where’s the heat?” the husband asked when the sun set and the temperature plunged.

“I think you’re looking at it,” I said, nodding to the wood stove.

I’d already looked around and realized the wood stove was not for décor or ambiance, it was for heat. Who would have thought a vintage cabin would come with a vintage heat source?

We enjoyed the fire until the hour grew late, hesitating to go to the bedroom upstairs since the heat was downstairs.

“I’m sure it’s toasty up there,” I said, lying through my teeth.

“Heat rises,” the husband said.

“Yep, heat rises,” I echoed.

Except when you count on it rising. Then heat doesn’t rise; it hovers around a wood stove. And then it dies out—at approximately 2:30 a.m. by our calculations.

The bigger problem was that I am the early riser and it is an unwritten rule that the early riser stokes the fire. And, if all the kindling and wood was burned the night before, then the early riser must venture out in the pitch black for more wood where hungry bears, territorial moose, aggressive deer and killer squirrels lurk in wait of easy prey.

I am torn between a desire for heat and a desire not to be maimed in the dark. A faint outline of the woodpile at the edge of the woods appears by the light of the moon. I calculate the distance between the woodpile and the cabin, multiplied by the odds of me falling in a divot on uneven ground running at breakneck speed with arms full of wood fleeing my four-legged attackers.

It is simple math. I put my big puffer coat on over my thick terry cloth robe, long pjs and wool socks—and wait until the woodcutter awakes.

I make coffee but am unable to hold the cup as my hands refuse to leave my coat pockets.

The woodcutter finally awakes, gathers wood and restarts the fire. What’s more, he traipsed downstairs in the middle of the night for the next two nights to keep the fire going.

The colors were so gorgeous that I returned home with 100 pictures of red, orange and yellow foliage on gorgeous hillsides and 500 pictures of red, orange and yellow flames flickering in a wood stove.