Gift Of The Magi

January 5, 2013 By
Christmas in Black Mountain, North Carolina, with Deena, Lisa, Zoe and Noah

Christmas in Black Mountain, North Carolina, with Deena, Lisa, Zoe, and Noah

My annual Christmas doldrums stayed away until the week before the big day. They slowly made their way into those early mornings hours when I worry myself awake. They like to sit on my chest, heavy and soggy with tears, insisting on staying put until I get up and take Sam for his walk.

It helps to watch the eastern sky begin to glimmer with the rising sun in the crisp air of dawn. Robins not yet chilled enough to fly south, greet us with cheery chirps as they scatter dead leaves and broken twigs, looking for a small breakfast morsel of worm or bug.  As the night fades my spirit lightens. The heaviness begins to drop away and when I catch my first glimpse of that brilliant orb of light, the burden is gone.

A few other early risers and their dogs, shuffle by, nodding and raising a sleepy hand in greeting.  When we meet in broad daylight, we often stop and share stories about what is happening in our lives. But early in the morning, it’s far too cold and blustery to stop and chat.  We all rush home for eggs over easy, bacon, and toast. The stretch of daylight before us won’t last long enough for all of the things we need to get done.

The days are hopscotch quick and this year it’s difficult to get things organized for the coming holidays. In order to avoid the madness of Christmas crowds, I order gifts online or buy them from friends who create simple things like bees-wax candles, gingerbread soap, or spicy brown sugar scrub for making one’s skin feel like the softest silk.

I sometimes make a few things myself, like the elderberry syrup that my son loves. It is medicinal and filled with the goodness of not only dark and delicious elderberries, but also elder flowers, rose hips, licorice, orange rind, all steeped together in raw honey and brandy for four to six weeks. Mark pours it over ice cream and other sweets. His interest tends toward the gastronomic, but if his luscious desserts happen to keep a cold or the flu at bay, so much the better.

This year I couldn’t seem to get it together and as the holiday grew ever closer the pall of the shootings in Connecticut stayed with me.  Christmas eve was especially difficult and I’m still bereft for the families who lost their loved ones that cruel, sunny day.

I did make Mark his dream syrup, but the rest of the things I told myself I’d get together didn’t really happen. Despite my sadness, somehow it all worked out and everyone is happy with the tidbits I did managed to gather and pass around.

When Mark and Lisa were little, Christmas often found too many packages under the tree. While unwrapped toys littered the floor, they preferred rolling in torn gift wrap or hiding in empty boxes. When they got beyond that stage, the looks on their faces were more confused than filled with Christmas joy, when they couldn’t figure out which toy to play with first.

As grandchildren have arrived on the scene I’ve become what some kids might consider a Grinchy grandma. I’ve sworn off buying them toys. I go instead for books, games, puzzles, art supplies, or once, it was a fun pair of dinosaur PJs for Noah and a frilly dress for Zoe. Last year, I asked their mom what they needed most. We gave Noah a new pair of prescription glasses, while Zoe got the running shoes, with pink accents that she wanted in order to participate in Girls On The Run.  It may not sound very exciting, but everyone was happy.

This year we gave them a few books and money that they are required to spend on helping others rather than on themselves.  We did that a couple of years ago and they spent their money at the local nature center, adopting wild animals that live there. The money helps pay for food and other expenses for the red wolves, otters, black bears, or other native species that they choose to adopt. Noah and Zoe loved the idea so much that they asked if we could do that again this year.  This proud grandparent thought that it was an awesome request. I was once again reminded of the true spirit of Christmas.

The kid’s handmade gifts to us are magical. Noah built a colorful hanging bird feeder with the help of Deena. Zoe created a small and hysterically funny version of our dog, Sam, using pipe cleaners and small fuzzy balls.  We’ll treasure them for years to come.

We especially treasure the few days we had to spend with them, seeing the fantastic one-man show, Marley’s Ghost, and walking around Lake Tomahawk, while trying to keep hissing geese from chasing us. The ease and simplicity of Christmas day itself was a gift.

Zoe, at age twelve, is suddenly as tall as I am. We now stand eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose when we talk. She has a fantastic eye for fashion, especially when it comes to shoes.  I’ve always teased her that once we wear the same size shoe, I’d be borrowing hers and maybe even taking them home with me if they are comfortable enough. This year Santa brought her a pair of black and pink zebra striped running shoes. I was sorely tempted to try them on, but even though I love wild shoes, I must say they were just a tad over the top for a woman of seventy.

Noah, at nine, is into Big Foot, looking for signs of the beast that so many claim really does exist.  When I told him that I’d probably be scared to death, if I met Big Foot in the forest, Noah told me that Big Foot is a guardian of the earth and would never hurt me.

Christmas is not about the glow and glitter that is touted in the media. It’s not about electronic gadgets, toys, and having more. Christmas is about the birth of one of the greatest teachers of all time. And though I do not consider myself a Christian, I celebrate Jesus along with all of the other great spiritual teachers, as I learn from their lessons in kindness. We all need to remember that when the Magi brought their gifts of Frankincense and Myrrh to the child asleep in the manger, they were gifts of spirit …  irreplaceable symbols of love.

Filed Under: Being Creative, Childhood, Christmas, family, Gratefulness, Kindness, Matters of the Spirit, Memoir, Travels Tagged With: , , , ,

Children And Guns

December 7, 2012 By
Looking down on Ivy Creek, where I often watch deer browsing.

Looking down on Ivy Creek, where I often watch deer browsing.

When I was a child, my parents kept shotguns and rifles in our home. My father had brought a number of them back with him from Europe after World War II and used them for hunting. My mother often went with him but I think she probably went along just to be in the woods. Though she did sometimes carry a gun, I doubt very much that she ever fired a shot at any animal. She could kill and pluck chickens, catch and clean freshly caught fish, without any problems. But there was something about mammals that caused her to hesitate before even thinking about pulling the trigger.

I remember one cold winter morning, as I watched them practice shooting at empty coffee cans. I was only five or six years old and was fascinated to see who was better at knocking the rusty cans off their perch on an old log. My mom complained about the “kick” of the rifle she used.  When she pulled the trigger, the gun would jam back into her shoulder, as the bullet shot out of the barrel, causing her to lose her balance, sending the projectile somewhere above and beyond those old Maxwell House cans.

I loved being with Dad when he cleaned his guns, attracted by the fruity, banana smell of the oil he used. It seemed a sacred ritual. The guns always had to be cleaned after they were used, and every time he’d tell me how dangerous they were. He always emphasized that one should never ever point a gun at another person even if you know the gun isn’t loaded.  I had no idea where the guns were kept and only saw them when preparations were being made to go target practicing or hunting.

During the same time, the meat on our table was most often, roasted rabbit or squirrel. We had only recently returned from spending a year or two in Germany after the war. My dad was getting his home building business up and running, and I imagine he was stretching every dollar that came his way.  Rabbits and squirrels were abundant and free for the taking, saving money but also providing a source of protein for the family.

I was a curious kid and loved to watch as Dad skinned the bounty, marveling at the layers of fur, muscle and fat that clothed those tiny creatures.  I had no problem eating them. It was what we did and how my parents fed themselves and their growing family.  But I had no interest in guns or killing animals.  And they never became an interest of mine. The only gun I ever held, was a cap gun I used when I played cowboys and indians with my friends.

Many years later, my dad took my brother, Reid, fourteen years old at the time, deer hunting.  He spent lots of time teaching him about the use of guns and again, how dangerous they were. Reid was very excited about the possibility of bringing down a deer, until the day he actually did it.  It was a large, twelve point buck, and since he was hunting alone, Reid had to cut the carcass into manageable pieces in order to bring it home.  He trudged back and forth carrying deer parts on his shoulders until all of rested outside the kitchen door. For weeks afterwards, he was depressed and unwilling to eat any of the meat. He had broken his own heart by taking the life of another creature. He never picked up a gun again.

Last week, as I dug into a big bowl of soup at a nearby restaurant, a young father and his two adorable children, sat at the table next to mine. The kids were probably five and six. They were quiet and well-mannered. While they had their lunch, their dad’s cell phone rang several times.

I find restaurants wonderful places to listen in on conversations for material that I might want to use in my writing.  But this one went further than just a good line or two. While he was cutting up his son’s meat, I heard him tell whoever it was on the other end of the line, that he was on his way to the gun show, in Richmond. He went further, explaining that he had two AK-47’s and another assault weapon he was interested in trading in.

This was one conversation I wasn’t expecting to hear. I sat there stunned and feeling afraid. I have mourned the loss of the many innocent victims of mass shootings all over the world. In 2007, it happened here in Virginia, just down the road, when thirty-two young people lost their lives in what is now called the Virginia Tech Massacre. To my knowledge I have never been in the presence of anyone who owns automatic weapons, until a week ago.  The thought of it still makes me shiver.

Why is it necessary for anyone to own an automatic assault weapon? While I have respect for anyone who needs a rifle for hunting, and putting food on their table, I do not condone the owning of automatic weapons for any purpose.

I fear for those two young ones and the world they are growing into.  The most unnerving part of the whole gun scene, is that when a mass shooting occurs, the sales of guns go up around our country. According to our constitution, we have “the right to keep and bear arms.” But this is a different world than the one those words were written for.  As we keep learning every time innocent people are killed, these weapons are far too easy to buy. And they too often fall into the hands of those who use them to harm others.

I don’t make it a habit of posting words of a political nature on this blog, but I feel this is an important issue for all of us to think about, especially if you have children. I do NOT consider it a political issue. It’s about keeping our families out of harms way. I hope and pray that if you do own a gun or guns of any kind, that you keep you and your kids safe, by educating them and keeping your guns locked up and out of reach.

I support, Hunters For The Hungry, who here in Virginia, help to manage an out-of-control deer population, while feeding those who cannot supply food for themselves.

Filed Under: Childhood, family, Fear, Navigating Through Life Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Tolerance and Generosity

November 23, 2012 By

Rockefeller Center, New York City, Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, 2007

Standing on what seemed like an endless line Tuesday afternoon at Wholefoods, I noticed my attitude beginning to slip and slide down a peg or two. I was impatient, judging what the person in front of me for buying foods that were really poor choices, and just wanting to go home and sit in my cave.

When I finally unloaded my groceries onto the belt, Ms. Attitude had moved further down a notch. I did smile and made happy holiday, small talk with the cashier. I’m positive I looked joyous, confident, and unbothered by what seemed like chaos surrounding me. Really! I’ve lived with my actor husband far to long now not to know how and when to put on a cheery face and be a comedian, while the world goes on its way, clinking and clanging around me, generally making me feel nasty.

But on the inside, my body wasn’t buying my “deck-the-halls” facade. The usual holiday dread was beginning to take hold and I was sure that I was going to blow it if I didn’t get home fairly soon. Even I hate me, when I get grumpy. As I sat in my car, at every single red light between Wholefoods and my house, I asked myself why I turn into such a grinchy curmudgeon every year at the end of November.

I don’t remember being that way as a kid. I was always excited by the holidays and started sneaking around in early December, to see if I could find the stash that Santa would eventually be leaving under the tree. I usually did find it, and even though I knew what I was going to unwrap on Christmas morning, I was still very excited.  The gifts I remember best were the Alice In Wonderland doll, with long blond hair that I could comb. And later, when I was getting into boys and rock ’n roll, a pink portable radio, I could take any where as I listened to The Platters, The Everly Brothers, and Johnny Mathis.

I spent the rest of my afternoon, thinking and trying to figure out my hang-up. I thought, “Maybe I’m just getting old and crotchety.”  Or, “Maybe I wasn’t an introvert back then and now I am, unable to handle the holiday wear and tear of being with all those people intent on getting the biggest turkey for the lowest price.”

Like Scrooge, I revisited Christmas past, when my kids were small and we stayed at home for the holidays, because Santa wouldn’t be able to find us if we went somewhere else.  I couldn’t remember any difficult times.  I loved watching them digging through wrapping paper to find their most wanted toys and usually felt a bit of melancholy as we took the tree down and packed up the ornaments until next year.  I do miss those times.

Then 1987 came to mind. My dad had died several years earlier. Mom and my brothers came from New England to the spend a week with us.  My kids were in their teens by then and Mom had started giving them money so that they could buy what they wanted.  They loved having dollars to spend and it usually didn’t stay in their pockets for very long. One year, Lisa, spent her’s on a boa constrictor and live white mice to feed it. Mark usually spent his money on books and recordings of music by his favorite musicians.

On that particular Christmas morning, while everyone was sitting around the tree happily opening gifts and eating Blueberry Boy Bait, my yearly holiday coffee cake, Reid, my youngest brother noticed that Mom had given his son, who was at home with his mother, less money than she’d given my kids. I believe Mom’s thinking was that she should give Jesse less money because he was quite a bit younger. When she tried to explain, Reid had a fit, tossing his own Christmas check into the fire and stomping out of the room.

I was in tears, Zed was yelling  at everyone, and the kids slipped downstairs to get out-of-the-way.  While Bill was trying to calm everyone down, Mom and I got into our own little argument. As a result, she insisted that she needed to go to the airport right that minute so that she could fly back to New Hampshire and away from this craziness. Filled with shame and anger, I was ready to leave for the Bahamas.

After discovering that there were no flights out of Charlottesville on Christmas day, she made a reservation for the next day. We spent the day quietly, trying to avoid each other and ate our usual holiday meal of roast pork and perogies, without saying much. Afterwards, someone suggested that we take in one of the newest blockbuster movies. Later, when it came time to choose which one, there didn’t seem be too much interest in going, until my brothers discovered, Danny DeVito and Billy Crystal’s, comedy, Throw Momma From The Train, was playing at the nearest cinema.

The title says it all. Mom naturally decided to stay at home and pack for her escape the following morning. Tired and feeling as though we were about to go even more crazy than we already were, Bill and I decided to go to the movie as well, just to get out of the house.

It was, of course, the makings of a disaster. It was mean, cruel and I spent the rest of the evening feeling down and miserable that Christmas had turned into a Holiday Horror Show.  But no amount of apologizing made it better. Still angry at all of us, Mom left the next morning and called us when she got home, as if nothing had happened.  My brothers drove her car back to New Hampshire a day later and life went on as it usually does in dysfunctional families.  You have a fight over something silly, blame the whole thing on everyone else, and then act like it never happened, until the next time.

As I ran it all through my head, I realized that I was diving into victimhood. My stomach gurgled and hurt. I was anxious. Exhausted. And living in a story that was over, gone, and so very unimportant. But I was the one choosing to replay part of the nightmare, I felt my life had often been.

So instead of allowing myself to get depressed about the holidays being here again, or railing at myself for being a complete idiot, I decided to quit creating another version of Mr. Dickens’, Christmas Carol, and stay put in Christmas present.

It matters not what causes me to go all weird at Christmas. I choose to celebrate myself and those around me for all of the growing we have done over the years.  I want the spirit of holidays to fill me with generosity and tolerance for all of those around me, including myself. I needn’t fuss and fume because somebody else chooses to shop at eight o’clock in the evening on Turkey Day, or how they spend their pennies. I need only to look after myself, and live by my own values, which includes something about not judging others.  Oh, well.

How do you feel about Christmas and the holidays?  Do you love it or do you have demons like mine that come to visit every year at this time?  How do you handle them and send them on their way?

Filed Under: Childhood, Christmas, family, Healthy Living, Memoir, Mental Health, Navigating Through Life, Thanksgiving Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

Living Simply

November 17, 2012 By

I thought yesterday was October first and here I am preparing for Thanksgiving.  Why do I feel like I’m living in a time capsule that moves forward at a gazillion miles an hour?

As a little kid, I felt time moved too slowly.  Adolescence was the worst.  All I wanted was to be grown up and out from under the boundaries my parents set up for me.  During my twenties it sped up a bit. But being the caretaker of two little people, I still felt pretty limited.  Once those little ones were in school, the pace picked up from that of a turtle to that of a hungry dog anxious to be fed.  Once Mark and Lisa left home there was no stopping the hours from rushing to the finish line.  These days I get up in the morning and before I know it, it’s time for bed.  There are never enough hours in the day to do all of the things I put on my list of daily intentions. It can be so very frustrating.

I want things to slow down a bit now, thank you very much and I don’t think I’m alone in feeling this way. Most everyone I know complains about there being too much to do in too little time.  While we whine about our computers being too slow, we wish for the time to take a nap, soak in a bathtub filled with bubbles, or simply lounge about, dreaming of what a real vacation might look like.

Today is my seventieth birthday.  It’s once more time for me to stop my craziness and think about what is most important to me.  Is it more pressing for me to spend my time and money accumulating more stuff and being seen at every community event? Or is it more important for me to slow down and smell the proverbial roses?  What about seeing friends for lunch or going for long walks in the woods or through streets crunchy with falling leaves? Do I need to go see every movie that is now playing at Charlottesville’s new fourteen screen movie complex this very week? Or might I stay at home, sitting in front of a fire, with a good book, snuggled up with my dog, Sam?

This past year, I seem to have opted for the long walks and the good book with sweet Sam at my feet.  And even though my pace is slowing naturally as I age, it’s not all that easy to stay in the slow lane.  If I’m running late for an appointment, I find myself swearing at the numerous red lights and the heavy traffic that makes me even later.  And if it’s too cold or too hot, I can easily find myself wishing that the season would move on and bring me more comfortable weather.  What I too often forget about, is living every moment as it arises.

I’m not one who is fond of this holiday time of year.  I do love being with my family and eating turkey with dressing and pumpkin pie, but I’m not happy with the consumerism that I sometimes feel wants to devour me.  Now Black Friday is set to begin Thanksgiving evening.  Will we now call it Black Thanksgiving? Those who have jobs in the big box stores that are so popular because of their low prices, are in many cases forced to work on one of the few days of the year that they have off to spend with their families.  A recent news report pointed out two women somewhere in California, already on line at their local Best Buy, so that they won’t miss out on the latest whatevers that they absolutely must have.

I could easily sit here and wish this season away, preferring it were March, and being able to work in my garden.  But where would that get me?  I’d have to skip tonight’s dinner at one of my favorite dining spots, and then hearing our local  symphony orchestra perform Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 in A major Opus 92.  I’d miss being with my grandkid’s on Christmas day and most likely miss out on a snow storm or two that could transform my world into a fantasy land dressed in white.

It’s true that there may also be some very painful and unhappy days that I might be able to avoid by wishing life away. But if I didn’t enter the darkness from time to time, I’d never appreciate the light and the joy that surrounds me.

Today, I’m reminding myself once again, that rushing my way through life is not worth it. I don’t want to miss the smell of wood smoke in the air, and early daffodils poking their frilly, yellow heads out in February.  Once Thanksgiving is over, I’ll sit down and listen to Handel’s Messiah, while sipping a steamy mug of mulled cider as I write down all of the things I am grateful for this past year.

I’m convinced that I need to live more simply, being present in every moment.  Time here is too short. It should not take cancer or any other dreaded disease to slow me down, forcing me to finally begin appreciating the littlest things that I too frequently overlook each and every day.

Happy Thanksgiving Y’ All!
I hope you enjoy every precious moment.

Filed Under: Animals I Love, Childhood, Dreams, family, Gratefulness, Matters of the Spirit, Music, Navigating Through Life, Thanksgiving, The Garden, The Seasons Tagged With: , , , , ,

Parenting And The Unfairness Of Life

November 10, 2012 By

Amaryllis, © Joan Z. Rough

I will be turning seventy years old next week, and one of the lessons I’ve learned over the years is that being a parent doesn’t end when your child walks out the door, goes to college, and then gets married.  Being a parent is a life long proposition.

There is a huge amount of letting go one must suffer through in order to live life with ease, once the kids are gone. But no matter how much I let go, I find that I’m still alert to the tone of their voices and body language. And by indelicately stepping over the line from time to time, I disturb their peace, as well as my own.  But like a little kid touching a hot stove, I tend to learn what not to do by doing it anyway.  At last, I’ve figured out that they are learning about life the same way that I am. If someone tells us the stove is hot and we touch it anyway, we get burned and learn to trust the signals we are given.

As parents, Bill and I have been very lucky. Our two grown children, have had happy and meaningful lives. When there are narrow roads filled of boulders to navigate through, I worry a bit as any mother would.  But I’ve learned that being mindful of boundaries, both theirs and mine is of the utmost importance. During difficult times, I might think about them more often than I usually do, and send positive energy their way. But other than that I usually feel my job is done and know they are perfectly capable of getting through their troubles. But there are times when their pain is so great, that I want to sweep them up into my arms, rock them like I did all those years ago, when they fell and got hurt. I want to tell them that everything will be alright, that the pain will soon be gone and the sun will shine once again.

I’m in one of those spots right now.  It seems that life can take turns that are not fair.  Hurricane/Super Storm Sandy, was not fair to all of those who lost their lives, their homes and are living without electricity as winter comes on.  I can send a donation to the Red Cross and make myself feel better, but it’s still heartbreaking and unfair.  So much of life is like that and I often join the ranks of those yelling and screaming about it. But it’s one thing if it’s a political issue. When it comes to the weather or illness, no amount of breast beating, yelling, threatening or screaming can stop what we deem to be not right.

About a month ago, Mark’s adopted daughter, Casey, was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer.  She has had a double mastectomy and is preparing for some eight months of chemo and radiation.  She is twenty-four years old and none of us, including her Doctors know what will happen.  Every day, I hear myself repeating that it isn’t fair. That one so young can be struck by such a horrible disease, makes my heart break.  But it also aches for my son, her mom, Jane, her sister, Trish, her brother, Dustin, her boyfriend, Ian, and all of the people who care so deeply for this beautiful young woman. Everyone who knows her is grieving and we all pray that she will be well again and be able to live out a long and happy life.

For most of my life, I have wanted to save the world from suffering. I find it almost unbearable to see those I love in pain.  Once in a while I’ve been able to bring a smile to a sad face, but it lasts only a few moments. Right now I feel paralyzed. I wish I could do something to help all of those I love ease their way through this life as it is. I wish I could remove cancer from the land and bring an end to all pain.

As a mother and a parent, I grieve for my son, a parent himself, going through what could turn out to be the unspeakable pain that no parent should ever have to go through … The fear of losing a child.

Healing thoughts and prayers are greatly appreciated for Casey, as well as for all those who also have had their lives turned upside down by cancer.

May peace be with all of us through difficult times.

Filed Under: Childhood, family, Fear, Life, love, Navigating Through Life Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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