HALLMARK MEMORIES

Well, I had my usual little pre-Christmas cry yesterday.  My mother, gone for 12-1/2 years now, always comes for a visit in December haunting my bittersweet memories of Christmases past.  Every year, now fully aware of the work and worry and love that went into creating Christmas magic for the family, I think of her with deep love and gratitude.  The decorations, gifts, foods, traditions, gatherings...all of it was basically hers to do.  My dad helped with the tree.  It was a division labor in tune with the times.  She didn't seem to mind, and likely couldn't have imagined it any other way, but I know now how much effort went into making the holiday season shiny and bright for a family who mostly took it all for granted.

I know because I've felt the same at times, some years more than others.  I used to go all out with gatherings, outings, and festivities that ran us all ragged and so many traditions we almost had no room for spontaneity.  If I didn't create the Hallmark Christmas and others didn't respond in kind, I'd feel a failure.  Thankfully, over recent years I've left that self-imposed pressure behind.  Less work, relaxed expectations, more help from grown sons and my daughters-in-law and an appreciation for all Hub contributes and always has; I just was too much in my own world of striving for perfection to see it.

Over the past few years I've cut back dramatically on the home holiday decor; this year even more.  I hauled all the bins down from the attic, sorted through them all and chose about 1/8 of the stash of holiday bric a brac to display.  I chose favorite things or things easy to get out and put away.  At first I thought I'd just skip it all this year, but that didn't feel right.  It's still Christmas, after all.  Even if no one will be here to see my home for the holidays, Hub and I will be here and a little Christmas cheer and a tradition or two is nice, even in this most NON-traditional year.

My tears were also triggered yesterday by deciding to turn on some Christmas music.  Alexa chose a "holiday favorites" station for me and right out of the gate there was Dean Martin singing "Let It Snow".  I was transported to my childhood, singing along with my dad to these oldies on the car radio.  I was in the warm kitchen, dancing with him as mom baked.  I was parked in front of the TV, watching the Christmas specials with my mom and grandma, who lived with us.  Mom loved the Andy Williams and Perry Como shows, my grandma loved Lawrence Welk.  I loved them all -- the songs, the decorations, the holiday outfits, the fake snow...

Which brings me to a new tradition this year for Hub and me.  We are watching Hallmark Christmas movies together every night.  There are dozens of them!  I had not been a Hallmark Christmas gal until last year when my daughter in-law's good friend, a New York actress/singer, had a small part in one of them.  Of course I had to watch.  And I loved it.  I watched a couple more and vowed that this year I'd go all in.  

I tried to get Hub interested, but naturally he declined with a bit of an eye roll.  "You go ahead; I'm not interested."  I continued to tease and cajole, until one night, in a moment of tenderness toward me I guess, he said he'd watch one with me, as a lark.  He liked it!  We've had a nightly date now for over a week and look forward to the most recent incarnation of the usual plot (a variation on about three themes), evaluating the Christmas decor, locations, sets, costuming, wholesomeness (every time the drink of choice is "hot coco" we laugh), the chaste love story (apparently it takes only one week to find the true love of your life) that is consummated with the final scene kiss.  It's silly good fun.

I think this Covid-19 holiday season we are looking for some escape from the sadness, the isolation, the loss of tradition, the grief of missing families and friends gathering.  Watching it play out in the fantasy of a Hallmark movie somehow makes me feel less deprived.  

I get up every morning in the early darkness, and sit by my tree, lit but to date still without ornaments, looking around at the sparse decorations and feel grateful for all I have.  And I think of my mom, so near to me this time of year, wishing she could be here for Christmas too, one more time.

At least, that's the view from here...©

SNOW, SNOW, GO AWAY...

We currently have about 4 or so inches of snow on the ground at my house.  It's breathtakingly beautiful to look out upon since I can see the city and port before me and the wooded ravine in the back and everything is covered in white. 

Now I want it to go away.

I'm having a friendly back and forth with snow-loving friends.  They tease me.  It's OK.  I understand that many people love the snow, especially here in the Northwest where the ski resorts beckon; many love the exhilaration of a downhill run or at least the cool factor of hanging around the lodge.  Some just like the look and feel of a wintry day.

Hub is a snowboarding fanatic and is making his slow way home today, through rotten driving conditions due to winter storms in the mountains, after 10 days on the slopes of Idaho.  Nope, I don't get it.  I don't like to be cold and I can't imagine putting slippery slices of wood under my feet, facing downhill.  I've never been athletic and have a visceral fear of the out of control feeling of falling which inevitably ends (gravity!) in a "thunk" that is painful at least in the moment and often for days and possibly weeks/months in a cast.  If I can choose not to do that, why would I choose otherwise?  Maybe the adrenalin rush just isn't that important to me.

I've tried cross-country skiing.  It's hard.  And cold.  I've tried snowshoeing, which is basically hiking on very big awkward spikes.  It's hard for while until you get the hang of it, but it's tiring.  And cold.  Both endeavors have left me in tears more than once, feeling like a wimp and a failure.  I've tried tobogganing and sledding but I'm not a fan of the go fast downhill, "omygod I'm gonna flip", feeling.  And it's cold.

Maybe it is the cold, more than the snow.  I dress appropriately,  but I feel so bound and restricted and just uncomfortable in all those layers of down and Gortex.  My feet never, ever stay warm enough.

Plus, I grew up in northern Illinois, where winters were frigid and the reason we left.

I have un-fond memories of years of scraping icy windshields, unfreezing door locks, shoveling out of parking places, sliding on icy streets (resulting in 10 scalp stitches after one car accident), falling in icy parking lots, enduring teeth-chattering windchills, jumping dead-battery cars, sitting on ice cold carseats, breathing such frigid cold air that my chest hurt as I walked to and from the el station. I recall crying while beet red skin thawed out from exposure, causing needles of pain to erupt on my face, feet, and hands, after walking to and from my junior high school, a little over a mile each way.  (No, not uphill, but still...)

Forty-one years ago today (I looked up the dates), I experienced the "Chicago Blizzard of '79" when 30 inches of snow fell with winds blowing up to 40 MPH.  We were all snowed in; cars not moving.  We trudged through drifts of snow everywhere.  The snow stayed on the ground until March.  That's when Hub and I decided enough was enough.  The following year we left Chicago and have only been back for visits -- mostly not in Winter.

Winter has been a sad time too.  I note that everyone in my extended family so far (expect my mom, who waited until July) died in the chill days of Fall and Winter.  My Sister-in-Law in October, older brother in November, brother-in-law in December, Dad and younger brother in January.  I stood at my dad's graveside, a howling wind swirling the snow at the old country cemetery on the edge of a cornfield, windchill 30-below zero.  Dreary days.

I was happy to settle in a part of the country that has a milder, maritime climate.  Not too hot; not too cold; snow but infrequently and it doesn't last long.  Living near the mountains, the athletic men in my family learned to love snowboarding and I got to stay home, warm and happy.  Win-win.

So as I look out today, I'm thankful I have nowhere I have to be; I have everything I need.  Living on a hill up a sloping 100 ft driveway makes me nervous about slipping and sliding my way anywhere.  I'm grateful for my cozy house and hopefully brief wintry view from my windows.  I understand others feel differently, but for me, snowy days are about museums, movies, friend and family gatherings, fireplaces, tea cups, books...you know indoor pursuits.

At least, that's the view from here...©

REFLECTIONS

I feel an urge, an obligation really, to finish up the posts about our Great Britain trip before the end of December.  I turn these blog posts into  physical book form, a sort of memoir, of each year.  I don't know who will ever read them; for now they line my bookshelf. I fantasize my grandchildren might one day find them after I am gone and will learn something about Grandma and her life.  Or they may get tossed away in the grand 'cleaning out' that inevitably happens at the old family home at some point.  At any rate, I forge ahead and  I want to get the trip documentation in under the 2018 deadline.  

The problem is I'm still having a hard time processing the whole thing.  I have snippets of memories and tons of digital photos I've skimmed through, but find the task of studying them and organizing them rather daunting.  I want to create a slide show as well as a hardbound photo book.  I wonder when that will happen?  Procrastination has been my go-to decision lately.  So until then I find the details of the trip hard to tease out of the impressions of the whole.

Still, as Christmas approaches I find myself conjuring images of Britain as the quintessential Christmas scene -- the winding narrow cobblestone streets of Scotland's Edinburgh and Oban, Wales' Conwy, and England's Bath and York, lined with shops, restaurants, pubs, and inns.  (Every one of which had advertisements about booking holiday meals and  get-aways even when we were there in September.)  I can imagine the sparkling lights, Christmas trees, and festive decor.  I see the soaring cathedrals, robed priests, angelic choirs -- all of which I am sure are now adorned for and anticipating Christmas worship.  I see the hustle and bustle international hub of London brightly lit and busy as ever as a meeting place of cultures and languages and religions gathered in one place, creating a holiday season of rich diversity.  I imagine all those places colder, wetter, and less crowded when we were there; more true to themselves.

I wrote about the trip immediately upon returning home with less than stellar reviews of my experience.  With time I have mellowed and have started to find more and more access to what I loved about it.  I recall the experience now with fondness and with rich, happy memories.  I never negate the challenges life throws at me, but I almost always (eventually) find a way to embrace those aspects of any situation that help me to grow, learn, and find joy in the experience too.

Hub and I were watching a Rick Steves "Christmas in Europe" special the other night and I even allowed as to how I might actually entertain another Rick Steves tour.   Hub was shocked.  I told him this time I would know exactly what to expect, how to navigate the rough spots, and to focus more on the positives than the negatives, knowing the negatives will pass and the positives will prevail in memory.

For now, we are content with planning some in-country travel in 2019, but flirting with the idea of doing one of those Viking River cruises, that I see on PBS, in 2020.   To even find myself at the point of not only considering this, but feeling not even a hint of anxiety about actually doing it, demonstrates my Britain trip this year was a huge success.  I've turned a corner.  I still may not be a world adventurer, but at least I'm willing to leave the confines of the county -- and country -- with my travel anxiety mostly in the rearview mirror.  Bon Voyage!

At least, that's the view from here...©
(I think you can click on the photos to get a larger image.
TOP to BOTTOM: 1. Edinburgh, 2. The Sheep's Heid Inn (Duddingston,Scotland),  3.Bath, 4. York, 5. Wells Cathedral, 6. Conwy (Wales), 7. Trifalger Square, London

DRUNK ON NUTTY LOVE

Do you know any sloppy drunks?  You know, the kind that after a few cocktails get all maudlin and sad and wax philosophic about the human condition, or express their deep and abiding love for you and every other living thing with the utmost sincerity (at least in the moment), as they cling to your hand, hug you too long, or gaze blearily into your skeptical eyes?

That's me at some point over the holidays, but without the booze.  It's short-lived.  Mostly I'm not a fan of the forced intimacy and expected good cheer of Christmas, but there is generally a moment when it all comes into emotional sharp relief and I get drunk on love and gratitude.

And that moment often involves a "visitation" from my mother.  She's been dead for 9 years, but around Christmastime she decides to float on back and hang out with me.  Even as I write this the tears are falling because she is punishing me with her love again.  She is forgiving me for being judgmental, rude at times, dismissive; for taking her for granted.  She is reminding me that she loves me anyway, in that Christlike way of mothers, and that her sacrifices were made from her heart and because she had no other choice.  Love just is.

She's also sort of smug about watching my pity party of longing to sit and talk with her.  "See?  NOW you miss me!  Now you're 67 years old and your "kids" are grown and you worry about them anyway, your grandkids are precious but exhausting, your eyesight is a struggle and for some reason you can't hear your husband quite so clearly as you used to when he turns his head away and keeps talking.  You nod asleep in front of the TV at night and you wake up way too early in the morning.  You try to keep your body healthy, but you share my sugar addiction and losing weight is hard!  The world is moving so fast and sometimes it all seems confusing and overwhelming and you think war, famine, and pestilence are just around the corner, especially with a crazy Republican in the White House!  You think a lot about the past and have some new curiosity about your genealogy.  You realize you are the only one left of your original family and that particular loneliness is completely unexpected. You wish I was around to talk to about all of this.  You wish you could tell me you are sorry for being so impatient with those very same issues when I talked about them.  Well, nope!  I'm dead!"  And she smiles -- with love, wisdom, and bit of quiet self-righteousness.  (She was not an overtly vengeful person, but she could "silent treatment" you into submission.)

So, there's all that and also the memories of Christmases she created, the food, the decorations, the gifts, all the usual family Christmas stuff that she pretty much did single-handedly (see: "taking her for granted" above).   Some of that I've retained, some I've let go.  But I have a deep appreciation for her, for all of it, and I do wish I could tell her so.

The other day I remembered a tiny tradition that I'd nearly completely forgotten over the years.  Mom used to buy mixed shelled nuts.  You see them in bins in the produce section:  almonds, hazelnuts, walnuts, pecans, Brazil nuts.  She had a wooden bowl, the same bowl each time, where she'd put the nuts and the nutcracker and picks.  The bowl sat on the kitchen table and I remember my dad, more than anyone else, sitting in his place at the table, bowl before him, as he cracked and ate with delight.

I don't think my granddaughters have ever seen nuts in the shell, have ever cracked open a nut to find the meaty prize inside.  Today I got Mom's bowl down from the top shelf where it has been ignored for years, filled it with nuts I bought at the grocery store, placed cracker and picks atop the pile, and now it awaits the arrival tonight of the family for our traditional Christmas Eve buffet.

Like those nuts,  Mom and I often bumped up against our unique tough exteriors, but inside there was the reward of dense, sweet substance, different each from the other but still a delight.

If she was here, I'd cry into that bowl, drunk on love.  I guess, actually, that's exactly what I'm doing.  Her spirit is here with me, happy to see me and asking why in the world I didn't bake any Christmas cookies?!?

At least, that's the view from here...©

EASTER MUSINGS

Stiff petticoats and white patent leather shoes.  Starched hats and tiny flower-festoons purses.  Hidden Easter baskets and hollow chocolate bunnies.  Peeps.  Ham, with jello salad.  My dad in a suit -- a rare occasion -- for the annual Easter trip to the Methodist church.  Sunday School.  Easter Lilies.  Alleluia!  Sunshine.

These images have been floating through my mind all day as I have spent the past several hours of Easter Sunday alone at home.  Oh, I'm not feeling sad or morose.  My family will be here later for an indoor egg hunt on this gloomy and rainy Easter Sunday.  We will all sit down to a salmon and asparagus dinner.  There will be plenty of chocolate.

But it's not like it was.  And that's OK.  I just feel in a nostalgic mood since this Easter couldn't be more different than those of my childhood.

Today, all the men in my family were up before dawn to get to the mountain pass ski resort by 8:00 a.m. for our 6 year-old Angel's first snowboard lesson.  It is a special "kids day" with free gear and lessons all day long and a snow-bank egg hunt to boot!  She was at first hesitant, then excited, and I just saw a video of her on Facebook looking like a pro gliding down a gentle hill of snow with ski lifts in the background making me wonder if we might have another snowboard fanatic in the making.  (Hub would be so thrilled!)

My childhood Easter was not spent on any ski slope.   In my childhood in Northern Illinois, it was a day for my family and my aunt's family to gather at one home or another (my mother, in our small city, and her sister, in a tiny country town, traded off hosting holidays), having a meal and entertaining myself while the grown ups talked.  My older brother and boy cousin were 10 years older than I and both ignored me completely.  My younger brother 4 years younger was around, but not interested in dolls or coloring or fingering the fabrics my mom and aunt and grandma seemed to delight in sharing around, with patterns they planned to sew.  I was pretty much on my own.

I was a quiet girl, content with hanging on the fringes of adult conversation, playing games, dressing dolls, creating a rich inner fantasy life of stories and songs.  I imagine Easter was a day for all of that for me.  And really, that's a bit what I've been up to today.  Quietly planning my dinner menu, preparing food, setting the table, meditating, reading, sending a few emails, reading, writing this blog post....

Just waiting for my beautiful family to come through the door with tales of adventures and two little girls eager to find baskets of gifts and eggs.  Their memories of grandma's house will be different from mine.  But I hope they will recall them as fondly.

At least, that's the view from here....©