Happy Christmas 2015!

Christmas Card 2016
The following is sappy sentiment perhaps, but heartfelt all the same.


May your days be merry and bright
May your heart be filled with joy and light
May the yuletide be generous to you and yours
May the season inspire memories good and pure
May your blessings be many and your troubles be few
Happy Christmas to all, Happy New Year too


With hope and love
Shel

A Christmas Wish

We've lost too many. Their memories haunt our hearts and make our celebrations bittersweet.

We've lost too much. Our freedoms are chipped for a promise of security that will never be delivered.

We've been kicked down, lied to, robbed from, deceived, and trespassed against. Every single hurt builds inside us like a pearl harbored in an oyster. If it grows, the oyster will die.

And on top of all this pain, the season seems to draw out the worst in some people. Snatching and pulling and pushing and shoving so they can feel better about their situations.

There are people who are left in the cold, made to freeze by cold people. And the cycle of winter in men's souls continues.



Let us make a promise, today, that the chain of winter will be broken. We can only get past pain pearls and other hurts if we learn to love one another and forgive.

My Christmas Wish for you this year is that you can let go of your pains before they become pearls, and find love in the shadows of despair, and discover in yourself the power to forgive.

Our Savior would want this as a birthday present, no matter the time of year we remember Him. Let's do our very best to give him this present from here on out.


With love and peace and hope,
I wish you and yours a very, very Happy Christmas.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

May the conditions be perfect for you to keep each and every one of your resolutions!

All the best,
Shel

Happy Christmas!

I wish you the best and brightest of the season and joy and love beyond measure through the coming year.

Love Always
Shel

Solstice Song (WoE week 50)

Write at the Merge seems particularly festive this week, challenging us with the word Sparkle and the song Sleigh Ride as performed by John Williams and the Boston Pops Orchestra.

I couldn't help but think of Sticky-Tagger and his pixie friends. I've been away from them too long, me thinks.


I offer the following in response: Solstice Song

“Sticky, it’s winter!” Glowing, Sellamina twirled beneath the falling snow. Her wings shimmered in the pale triumph of the waxing sun.

“It’s still too slushy,” Sticky held out a disappointing handful of wet, white sludge. “It’s close, but it’s not ready yet.”

Sellamina drifted towards his perch. “Can't you feel it?”

Sticky closed his eyes and listened to the hush of their woods, hoping to hear the hum. Gone were the familiar sounds of the woodland creatures as most of them hid in the warmth of their dens. Snow dampened the song of the world. Even the trees refused to break the morning calm with their chatter. He opened his eyes and sighed. “No. Not yet.”

She sat beside him on the branch and wrapped her golden wings about them, sharing their warmth. She stifled a yawn. “I know we stayed up all night waiting, but I’m still too excited to sleep.”

“Do you think it’ll come from the north this year?” He knew the answer, but the question came from habit.

“It always comes from the north,” his sister breathed, huddling closer.

Sleigh bells chimed several miles away, a mere whisper tickling Sticky’s ear from that distance. His mind wandered. He remembered those bells with laughter and the spiced, heady vapors of mulled cider and wine. Humans were predictable, arriving with the snows and collecting white berries in bunches. “Sella, why do you think humans collect mistly-toes?”

“Ug, you had to ruin it,” Sellamina growled beside him. “Can’t we just once not speak of humans and their stupid rituals?”

“Okay.” Sticky frowned, racking his thoughts. With his recent Fetcher training, he’d become quite adept at collecting roasted chestnuts from human kitcheries. It was his new favorite food. Well, favorite nut. Punkin pie crumbs and that wiggly food that was colored and transparent like gemstones but melted into soup in his mouth were his favorites. Oh, and the sweet and sticky corn…his tummy rumbled. “But you don’t think they eat the berries do you?”

“I don’t think so. Wouldn’t it be poisonous?”

“Well, someday, I’m gonna find out,” Sticky said. “You know what else humans do?”

“Sticky.”

“They bring trees into their homes and dress them up.”

“What, whole trees?” Sticky caught her sideways glance as she leaned forward. Her mouth crinkled to one side. “That makes no more sense than the mistly-toes.”

Goosiepimples climbed up Sticky’s arm as the breeze shifted. It came from the north and stirred the crystalline drifts of the woodland floor. The ground sparkled bright with energy.

“Ooh." Sellamina squeaked and jumped to her feet, fluttering her wings. “Sticky, it’s here!”

Sticky forgot his hunger, his lack of sleep, and the chill that seeped into his skin. As the first magic of winter kissed his face, he drank it in, feeling raw bliss swell around his heart. The drowsy woods sparked to life and hummed, sweet and low, and eternity was once again possible.

And with that, my dearest readers, I wish you a very magical season overflowing with wonder and merriment.

And a Happy Christmas to us all

May there be a light from within that warms you. May hope keep you and love guide you.
 

And may each new day bring you immeasurable happiness.


Happy Christmas!

Shel

A New Year's Promise

There is a line from the movie The Teahouse of the August Moon that I have been focusing on for the last few days.

Pain makes man think. Thought makes man wise. Wisdom makes life endurable.

2011 proved to be a challenging year. While I had several celebratory moments, I struggled to keep positive during some potentially crippling, life-changing events, the pinnacle of which was the reduction-in-force that descended upon my place of employment. The end of the year closed with the end of my job.

I found an amazing display of good wishes from those I worked with. Words of encouragement and support flooded my inbox during the last months of my employ, and without those words it might have been easier to walk away.

It wasn't easy. I put on a brave face and I walked out of the building for the last time with my head held high, a feat I am infinitely proud of. I learned my work ethic from my father and his philosophy has carried me through each employment setback. From a time that seems an eternity away now he instructed me to apply personal initiative and discretionary effort in every aspect of my job. "It will show without showmanship and it will prove effortlessly your value as an employee, and that is the reputation you want to echo in the corporate arena."

Thank you, Dad. If I haven't told you lately, you are my hero.

The reduction-in-force was a business decision. I don't agree with it, but as a company girl, I can't really argue with the reasoning behind it. Does it suck? Yes, it sucks big, monster, sour pickled eggs. The experience, however, of working in a critical function for a global company, was a remarkable one, and I leave a better person.

So, if pain makes man think, and thought makes man wise. I will endure..

The best part of the new year is that it's new. I have a clean slate. I have a million options, I have the world at my fingertips. And I have a new laptop. It still has the new laptop smell.

So, as many other people this year, I'm making a promise to myself. 2012 is going to be my year. Barring any unforeseen challenges, I intend to be a better person, a better writer, a better sister, and a better daughter. I promise to be a better wife, a better student, a better gamer, a better knitter, and a better employee. I resolve to take life as I find it, cherish moments I have found, and eagerly seek the adventures to come. I plan to ebb and flow with the tide, smile even when I don't want to, and ignore the insecure voice that haunts my self-esteem. I will stand against the wind, break through the walls I meticulously engineered, and above all else, I will be true to myself.

I will turn pain into thoughts, thoughts into wisdom, and wisdom into life.

Christmas Trees and Sweet Potato Latkes

Aging brings limitations.

I say this because the traditions that I thought would never disappear now only exist as memories. As I suppose it is with most families, my family has aged and scattered across the nation because of pesky adult responsibilities pertaining to life. Still, I cling to the moments that have shaped my view of what the holiday season means for me, and I delight in retelling the stories to those who are willing to listen.

First, I would like to share the magic of the Christmas tree.  The hunt would begin in the morning on a Saturday or Sunday just after Thanksgiving. There were only four of us, but we would pile into the Blue Bomber, our 1973 Ford Bronco, and off we would go. We hit every Christmas tree lot in a 50 mile radius in search of the perfect tree, singing along with Tennessee Ernie Ford, Nat King Cole, Johnny Mathis, Emmylou Harris, Anne Murray, John Denver and the Muppets playing on the 8-track as loud as my mother would tolerate in-between lots.

“That one doesn’t have a good top for the angel. We can’t take that one because it’ll stick out too far into the living room. Will the nativity scene fit under that one? Too dry. Too tall. Too short. Too crooked. That one doesn’t have enough chutzpah. Did we get a Noble or a Douglas last year? Are we going to spend the extra money for a fresh wreath as well? That family got our tree. We could follow them home and take it by force. No wait, there it is. That’s the one. Where’s the kid that takes this to the front? NO! NO FLOCKING!”

By the time night fell, we were back at the first lot purchasing the first tree we discovered, or so was the generally the case. The tree never failed to grow three feet on the way home. My father would have to re-cut, re-drill, re-straighten, and re-shape the poor thing on our postage stamp of a front porch, usually in the rain. When I hit my growth spurt in high school, I became the measuring stick to which the tree was compared. It still didn’t matter. The tree grew three feet and my father would have to chop off a significant amount off the bottom of the tree.

Then the boys struggled with the lights while Mom made hot chocolate from scratch and microwaved the little bits of things on sticks for snack stuff while we decorated. Again, Tennessee Ernie Ford and Johnny Mathis echoed loudly through the house while we scrambled for our favorite pieces to hang on the tree. Oh there’s the paper plate and gold-glitter dove I made in preschool. It desperately needs a new coat of glitter. Careful with the macaroni bulb the brother made in elementary school. It sheds a piece or three of macaroni every year. The little rubber guys are older than dirt, but they have to be there also, as well as the partridges that are losing their tail feathers and the dime store nativity scene bulbs that we’ve had for even longer.

And we’d eat. And we’d sing. And we’d argue playfully about who is placing what where. We’d watch all the movies we’ve seen before: George C. Scott’s A Christmas Carol, The Lemon-Drop Kid, Fitzwilly, Donovan’s Reef, Miracle on 34^th St (the old one, in black and white), The Bishop’s Wife, How the Grinch Stole Christmas and A Charlie Brown Christmas. It’s just not Christmas without any of that.

But a few years ago, my brother and his family migrated to Oklahoma, and I moved out and married, and my parents broke down and bought a fake tree.

From true Christmas tree magic however, the fake tree grew three feet by the time they got it home and my dad had to re-cut, re-drill, re-straighten and re-shape the poor thing on the postage stamp of the front porch in the rain. And the dove and macaroni bulb still shedding glitter and macaroni find their perches just below the angel. The movie marathon still takes place, happily, and returns me very quickly to each of my Christmas Pasts.

The potato latkes were relegated to traditional obscurity when my mother was told that she could no longer have potatoes. Up until then, however, we celebrated Hanukah too. “After all we are Christians, but Christ wasn’t,” my father would say. Of course, those of Jewish faith may have found our attempt as sacrilege but we always endeavored to represent the faith well. We’d light a candle of the menorah, say a prayer thanking Him for miracles great and small, and as we dug out the dreidels and the collection of pennies, Mom made potato and sweet potato latkes and served them with applesauce and sour cream. There is no better comfort food on a cold winter’s evening than sweet potato latkes hot from the griddle.

We still light the candle and say the prayer, but with all holidays, the absence of family and cherished friends makes the celebration bittersweet. The lack of latkes makes it a poignant tragedy.

When my friend Nemo introduced me to his significant other Karrie some time back, we became fast friends. Nemo and Karrie are two extremely intelligent and talented people who make up a critical part of my Zombie Apocalypse team. Karrie had a similar upbringing, but hers was a product of mixed faiths, her father a Methodist and her mother a Jew. Her parents are divorced now and subsequently remarried. When I spoke of my family traditions, she grinned.

“I have a latke story as well,” she said.

She was visiting her father and step-mother one Christmas season when they surprised her with a Chanukah celebration. “My step-mother thought it was impolite not to be sensitive to my religious diversity,” she explained. So she led a prayer and lit the candle and her step-mother made and served potato latkes.

“They were the best potato latkes I have ever had. The flavor was amazing,” she said, looking wistful at the recollection. Her step-mother was very proud, beaming from the compliment. She explained that she acquired the recipe from an on-line source but she thought it was a bit plain. So the decision was made to fry them in bacon grease.

“I didn’t have the heart to tell her about the ‘no pork’ rule,” Karrie said. “And I ate every one she put in front of me. Don’t tell my mother.”

I won’t. I promise. I’ve even changed your name in this post to help protect your identity.

So, as years pass and friends and family scatter on the far-winds, traditions evolve. Some are made richer through time, some disappear altogether. Some disastrous childhood memories are compounded by seasonal depression and amplified by the contrast of the joy of others. While aging has complicated my holiday season, I still feel incredibly blessed that I have memories I can cling to of Christmas past. My hope this year as in all years will be that everyone can know at least one happy holiday with family and friends, traditions dying in one household are renewed in another, and that Peace on Earth and Goodwill Towards Men is not a just fairy tale, but a way of life.

Happy Chanukah!

Happy Solstice!

Happy Christmas!

With love and good tidings throughout the coming years.

The Salvation Army and Other Red Buckets

From my earliest memories, the Salvation Army rang their little bells with joyful abandon outside the supermarket next their little red buckets. My mom would take a handful of change from her wallet and dump it just as cheerfully through the little slot. “Thank you and God bless you!” the Salvation soldier would say.

“Thank you, He has,” my mother would respond.

It happened at every red bucket, no matter where we were or how many we had been by that day. If there was a smiling Salvation soldier ringing a bell, we put change in the bucket. If the Salvation soldier wasn’t smiling, Mom made it her mission to get them to smile. My brother asked her why she did it in addition to her donation check every year. She just shrugged and said, “I can’t help it.”

There are other groups that collect donations during the holidays and we didn’t neglect them either. There are the toy donation boxes manned by uniformed servicemen. (Still a favorite, even though now I’m twice their age) and the food drives that would send us right back into the market to buy more canned goods. My mother didn’t use the food bank as an excuse to clean out her canned goods. She’d get them fun stuff alongside the practical stuff. A jar of strawberry jelly was purchased to go with the peanut butter. Canned pumpkin would not be gifted unless a jar of pumpkin pie spice, a box of pie crust mix, and condensed milk was also gifted.

Whether it’s from Nature or Nurture, I am my mother’s daughter. I’m a giver. I can’t pass a red bucket without dumping change in. I can’t clean out my cupboards for cans to donate to the food bank; I have to buy all new cans just for the drive. I can’t wait for the toy drive and those pretty, pretty uniforms. (Drool.)

But my compulsion doesn’t end there.

I decided one day to go to the corner drug store to pick up a few microwave items for lunch. Outside there was a young man with a backpack who asked if I had some change. “I’m almost to my sister’s and I need bus fare,” he explained.

“Where are you headed?” I asked him.

I wasn’t familiar with the town he mentioned, and when he described where it was, I gulped. He still had twenty miles to go. Small change just didn’t sound like it would get him there. “I’m sorry, all I have is this five,” I said, offering him the only cash I had on me.

He didn’t understand at first. I guess he had heard “no” too many times already that day. The light the flashed across his face once he realized I wasn’t saying no; that to me was worth every penny of that five dollar bill. I thought he was going to kiss me. “God bless you,” he said.

“Thank you, He has,” I replied as I watched him bounce like Tigger over to the bus stop.

I’m not perfect. I am deeply flawed. Is that why I’m a compulsive giver? Perhaps. Abraham Lincoln said once, “When I die I want it said of me by those who know me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a rose where I thought a rose might grow.” That is the sort of person I strive to be. I cannot singlehandedly end hunger in Africa or stop violence against children. I feel guilty that I cannot trust people enough to invite them into my home. I hate that we still have to lock our doors for fear of thieves and squatters. I hate that I’ve probably been a victim of a scam. If someone asks for my help though, I can’t walk away from him. I listen to what my gut is telling me and I help him the best I can. If that means I don’t get to eat out one night this week, or that I blew my entire shopping for kicks budget so that someone can make it to his sister’s house, I accept those terms. If they’ve lied to me, that’s on their heads, not mine.  It’s my responsibility to make my corner of the world a brighter, better place.

And if all I can do is bring a smile to the Salvation soldier freezing in front of the supermarket tonight, I will still see that as a mission accomplished.

Red Ink and Old Books

With the holiday season upon us, I am, like others, inspired to recall memories of seasons past. The laughter that erupted under the roof and made my sides ache for days, and the fervent, unthinking feuds that made my heart ache for years; both have served to fuel the fires to forge the steel foundation for the woman I have become.

What marks the start of the season for me is when Mom grabs her step-stool to reach the cookbooks stashed above the fridge. (Well, she used to. When the kitchen was remodeled, the cookbooks moved to a more convenient display at counter-height).

Of all the books my mother owns, however, her personal ones are probably the ones I cherish most. Earmarked pages and sticky-notes riddle my mother’s cookbooks. She has two she keeps now, one for savory and one for sweet, and both are busting at the seams again. One summer, before the computer made its way into our world, we painstakingly undertook the project of typing out each recipe on that brick of a typewriter. Did we convert all of them? No, we ran out of ribbon ink and patience part of the way through. By the time we sat down to make another attempt, technology had moved on and the typewriter never found replacement ribbon.

Those cookbooks represent my entire history. Every milestone of my life, my dubious public school education has a recipe to correspond with it. My third grade teacher gave us the Chinese Chicken Salad that my brother devours by the bucket load, as told by my mother’s red script penned in the margins. There’s a cookie recipe delightfully referred to as PTA Cookies with “rich and gooey” written in red ink across the top corner. Peanut Butter Play-dough was a big hit in kindergarten according to the red ink on its page. A random Pita Bread recipe we got from an in-class demonstration during cultural awareness week that we have never managed to recreate successfully is still found within the Breads section, again with the ubiquitous red ink notation that reads Grrr in frustration.

Editor, if you’re reading this: this is one of the reasons that I find your red pen a fantastic friend.

It’s not just the recipes I look forward to whenever I crack open the books. I swear Mom saved every single scrap of family notes we posted on the fridge. From the untidy child musings completed in crayon to the untidy swirls of teenage-angst-driven notes complete with happy faces and stars, each one remains stored between pages of these wonderful time capsules. My favorite is probably the collaborative effort between my brother and me, when we conversed in our butchered Italian phrases. He was a police officer then and awake during the hours the rest of us slept. I used to add to his notes the next day, and he would add to mine, taking days to exhaust a well-worn anecdote. I still laugh when I see the Italian note, and then I cry. It’s such a perfect moment, preserved forever, that it always strikes me as bittersweet. I’m grateful Mom could not bear to part with them because they grant me immediate access to my youth. Sometimes, I catch Mom with misty eyes over the same silly banter. We share a hug and a cup of forbidden cocoa, and then move on to the holiday baking.

It’s these sorts of gems that I look for when I peruse the shelves of a used book store or antique boutique. I remember my first-ever used book purchase was an 1814 leather-bound accounting ledger someone kept of their dry goods transactions. I was all of ten years old at the time, but found the hand-written, dry calculations so intriguing. I had a defined frame of one part of a man’s life, right down to the cost of the last 5lb sack of milled flour. It was when I got it home that I discovered an extra treasure. In the back of the book, where the binding had become loose and created a sort of pocket, I found tucked away within someone’s last will and testament, dated April of 1956. On a small sheet of ruled paper, David bequeathed everything in his possession to his wife Anne and remarked that there was no need to notarize or authenticate his signature. I was addicted then, and still try to only purchase old books if there is some sort of personal notations made within the decaying pages. Not all that long ago, I added a mightily abused 1800’s printed German hymnal to my collection, simply because someone had taken notes in the margins of the book. Although I do not understand the words, I feel a connection with that person, no matter what their background might have been.

So here comes the true point to this essay. As writers, we attempt a connection through the telling of a story, fact or fiction, to an audience of readers. As readers, we will devour volumes of any work that we feel a personal connection with. I think when we find notes like those aforementioned in the margins and on sticky-notes, we feel we’ve hit the jackpot. Or maybe I’m the only one who feels this way. It’s the most tragic sacrifice of moving to the digital age, I fear, as we may never be able to discover a forgotten pressed flower among the digital pages of an eBook.