I Hope My Poinsettia Is Still Alive
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The day before I left Mexico I
bought a poinsettia, my Christmas “bush”. I expected to celebrate Christmas in
Mazatlan.
I certainly never anticipated
Christmas in Glendive, Montana. I certainly never expected to sleep so many
nights at a hotel that I began to call it “home”. But when my daughter called
for help, I took the next plane out of Mazatlan.
I certainly never expected to shiver
and quake with cold several times a day while waiting for my car heater to warm
me enough for me to quit huddling into myself. Ah, Montana winter.
All work and no play is not my way.
My favorite dips into community fun have been the two Christmas Pageants, the
Deer Creek School play and my family’s church presentation, starring, of
course, my granddaughter. I am as delusional as all the other grandparents who
think their precious little grandchild starred.
The first Christmas event was a play
having something to do with a Christmas road trip. All aboard “Uncle Nick’s”
magic school bus—constructed of yellow cardboard. The cast included the entire
country school of twenty students, kindergarten through eighth grade. They
experienced Christmas festivities in Florida, California, New York City, New
Orleans and Texas. Texas?
Uncle Nick, of course, was Saint
Nicholas, Santa Clause. At the beginning of the trip he was rather tall and
thin and tugged at his chin hoping for whiskers. Somewhere along the road he
morphed into a stout individual with a full set of glistening white facial fuzz
which refused to stay in place. Being practical, he discarded the whiskers. I
predict he will go far.
My granddaughter as Carmen Miranda
shed grapes from her straw hat and didn’t quite know what to do with her pink
flamingo. Who would? With others she danced the fandango, a sort of jitterbug,
sang the blues, kicked her heels with the “Rockettes” and danced the Texas
Two-Step. Texas?
The performance was dysfunctional
beginning to end. I enjoyed every moment.
But the absolute best Pageant was
the traditional trip from the back of the church up the aisle to the manger in
Bethlehem. Antoinette, draped in swatches of blue fabric and scarves, followed
“Joseph” up the aisle to take her place as “Mary”, serenely seated by the baby
in its crib.
Next came three shepherds,
identifiable by the crooks on their staffs. All the, er, men wore the requisite
bathrobes and appropriate headgear. We all know the story.
For some reason, the angels followed
on the heels of the shepherds. I thought the angles preceded the shepherds. The
order—or disorder—might have been caused by costume malfunctions. Angels have
wings and halos and more drapery than a showroom.
A couple little angels had
difficulty dressing. I sat in the last pew so I was privy to a backstage
drama. In fact, one little
angel-in-training refused her wings, refused to follow angelically to adore the
Babe. She preferred her mother’s lap to stage and stardom.
But the angel who stole the show was
a mid-sized fireball, also sans wings. This reluctant angel stood in place
throughout all the readings frowning. She seemed a tad rebellious for an angel.
From time to time she made furious arm gestures, swishing her white robes while
giving the entire congregation the stink eye. I predict a future in politics.
Finally two kinds arrived, attired
in bathrobes, crowned with foil. Two kings? One carried a flask of myrrh and
the other a box of gold. There were lots of verses read, lots of songs sung.
The king carrying the gold brought the box close to his face, opened the lid,
and surreptitiously stuffed something into his mouth, more than once.
Chocolate?
My Christmas gifts included two
pageants, below zero weather, snow, wind and family. This time next week I will
be home in Mazatlan. I surely hope my poinsettia is alive.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
December 24,
2015
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