When Our Children Are the Age We Are in Our Minds
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Remember when we were six going on seven. Remember when birthdays were a joy, a cause for celebration, awaited with keen anticipation. Remember the excitement of twelve going on thirteen, becoming a teenager. Or counting the days until we passed that major milestone and turned twenty-one. Ah, the sweet expectations of youth. Then suddenly we were twenty-nine and heading over the hill.
A few weeks ago I enjoyed the Christmas feast with my cousin Shirley and her older son, Tim. While sewing gift pillows for Shirley’s grandchildren, Truth and Titan, sons of her younger son Terry, I pondered all the lost years when Shirley and I lived a thousand miles apart. We never got to watch our children grow up as playmates and friends. So I made Tim a pillow too, a quite large pillow, a consolation gift for the five-year-old Tim I never knew.
In the course of our conversation, Shirley mentioned that Tim had turned fifty. My head whipped around for an astonished look at Tim, who nodded his head, then back to Shirley. “No,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. With my keen analytical mind, I instantly did the math and agreed, “Yeah.” My oldest is forty-five. My youngest is thirty-four. How can that be? I myself have barely reached forty-five. Right?
Wrong. Oh, so sadly wrong. How can my daughter be forty-five? I think I am forty-five. I feel forty-five. I walk into my bathroom. I contemplate the stranger in my antique mirror, faded and spotted with age. The mirror. The mirror is faded and spotted with age. I don’t recognize the stranger standing on the other side looking back at me. The fat old baggage. No, I don’t know that strange woman. I know me. And she is not me. I know what I look like. I remember perfectly well.
I have not changed a bit. Well, maybe a little bit. But just the other day, let me tell you, I felt carried back in time. It happened like this. I was leaving the Big R pushing a cart full of cat chow and wool socks. As usual, the wind at the top of the hill was blowing, teasing my hair and mussing my clothes. But the day was balmy for December, almost like spring. And suddenly I was filled with such exuberance, such a feeling of vibrant youth that I wanted to run across the parking lot. So I did. I jogged behind my cart, hanging on, in case I lost my footing. For a few paces I ran. I laughed that I could do such a thing. Okay, so maybe it looked pitiful. But what if I had ignored the urge and walked sedately to my vehicle? I would have missed the joy.
Remember how our parents used to admonish us, “Act your age.” Did you ever answer back (silently in your mind, of course, so you wouldn’t be backhanded into next Friday), “But I am acting my age.”
A couple years ago I was in Mazatlan, Mexico, with my friends Kathy and Melanie. I wanted to go parasailing. I wanted to parasail so badly that in my imagination I could feel the sensations of flying as though they were real. My friends put up a fuss. “You can’t,” they said. “Remember your banged up leg. If you go, you are on your own. We are not going to nurse you when you break your bones.” Finally the day came when I could put it off no longer. I went up, up in the air, tethered by a long rope to a boat way down there on the water. Oh, it was the most beautiful sensation, flying with the pelicans and frigate birds, just like I had imagined, times twenty. I’m glad I didn’t let my dear friends mother me. Now I parasail every year.
I’ve got to confess this. Sometimes I see a handsome young man and I think, “Oh, if only I were twenty years younger.” Somewhere in the deep dark recesses of my mind the gears whirr, “Look again, Chickie.” “Okay, so what I meant is, if only I were forty years younger.” Thank all the gods that ever were that nobody can read my mind.
So enjoy your gift, Tim, you hunk. Listen, kids, we are not ready for the nursing home yet. Maybe when we are really old, like about one hundred twenty.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
January 12, 2011
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Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Today I Received a Love Letter
Today I Received a Love Letter
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Sunday, the first day of January. Today I received a love letter. It didn’t arrive in the conventional manner, tucked in my box at the post office, enclosed in an envelope with my name in the center and a cancelled stamp in the upper right-hand corner. It fell out of a book I was reading, a used book, “Garbo Laughs”, a novel by Elizabeth Hay, a writer from Ottawa, Canada. Who knows how long it had held a place between the pages.
I turned the page and a small piece of paper fell onto my lap. I instantly recognized it was special. I picked it up. “A love letter,” I said. My insides went warm and fuzzy and my face relaxed into a smile. A love letter meant for me. I wondered who sent it.
What conniving of the gods routed this special missive from a previous reader into my hands.
What other book lover knew that I would find “Garbo Laughs” entrancing, sweet and romantic. How did he know this copy would travel its circuitous route to me. Did he suspect that I might move the book from pile to pile for several weeks before I picked it up, opened it and settled into my chair to read. Did he know it would be days before I would reach the particular page, before the slip of paper would fall into my lap to delight me.
The paper is plain, ripped from a three by five spiral-bound notebook and measured by aqua blue lines. The spirals bind the top of the pages which then flip open from bottom to top. The page is unusual. Centered below the ragged spiral shreds and the first blue line is a hole. The page is from the kind of notebook that my father carried in the left pocket of his chambray shirt along with a stub of pencil. Several of these notebooks, tattered and smudged, hung from nails in Dad’s machine shop out at the farm where I grew up. Do notebook makers still make this old fashioned notebook, with the center-punched hole designed for hanging from a nail?
I have an embarrassingly large collection of notebooks, every style and size. They are everywhere, in every room, on shelves, a stack on my desk, in my purse, in my van. I make sure paper is at hand if I want to write down a thought, an idea, a task, a poem. Yet none of my notebooks are like the old-fashioned one from which my lover ripped this page so that this morning I could receive his tender thoughts.
There are no words on the paper. The page is blank. So how do I know it is a love letter? I know in the same intuitive way we know when the phone is about to ring. The way we know one of our children a thousand miles away is having a bad day. The way we know rain is over the horizon although the sky above is cloudless blue. This scrap of paper is a love letter. I know.
Does anybody write love letters these days? I doubt it. We should. An expression of love doesn’t come across the same way in an email or text message. No, a love letter, to convey the proper emotion, must be handwritten. It requires the movement of one’s hand holding the pen to translate thoughts and feelings from one’s heart onto paper. With a handwritten letter, the reader can tell from the slant, from the speed of writing, from the clarity of the letters what mood the writer was in; whether happy or angry or sad or exuberant. Even a scrawled note can be beautiful, a paper to treasure, to bind up in ribbon with other such letters, to be saved in a shoe box and hidden beneath the shawls on the top shelf of the closet.
Today, the first day of January, 2012, the day of my love letter, I walk with my head in the clouds. I put the milk carton in the bathroom medicine chest and my hair brush in the refrigerator. My socks don’t match. I burn the soup. I hum sappy tunes from old musicals. I’m in love with my unseen lover.
Somebody out there loves me. Somebody sent me words of love, unwritten, on a blank page, but easily read nonetheless. I love romance.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
January 5, 2012
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Sunday, the first day of January. Today I received a love letter. It didn’t arrive in the conventional manner, tucked in my box at the post office, enclosed in an envelope with my name in the center and a cancelled stamp in the upper right-hand corner. It fell out of a book I was reading, a used book, “Garbo Laughs”, a novel by Elizabeth Hay, a writer from Ottawa, Canada. Who knows how long it had held a place between the pages.
I turned the page and a small piece of paper fell onto my lap. I instantly recognized it was special. I picked it up. “A love letter,” I said. My insides went warm and fuzzy and my face relaxed into a smile. A love letter meant for me. I wondered who sent it.
What conniving of the gods routed this special missive from a previous reader into my hands.
What other book lover knew that I would find “Garbo Laughs” entrancing, sweet and romantic. How did he know this copy would travel its circuitous route to me. Did he suspect that I might move the book from pile to pile for several weeks before I picked it up, opened it and settled into my chair to read. Did he know it would be days before I would reach the particular page, before the slip of paper would fall into my lap to delight me.
The paper is plain, ripped from a three by five spiral-bound notebook and measured by aqua blue lines. The spirals bind the top of the pages which then flip open from bottom to top. The page is unusual. Centered below the ragged spiral shreds and the first blue line is a hole. The page is from the kind of notebook that my father carried in the left pocket of his chambray shirt along with a stub of pencil. Several of these notebooks, tattered and smudged, hung from nails in Dad’s machine shop out at the farm where I grew up. Do notebook makers still make this old fashioned notebook, with the center-punched hole designed for hanging from a nail?
I have an embarrassingly large collection of notebooks, every style and size. They are everywhere, in every room, on shelves, a stack on my desk, in my purse, in my van. I make sure paper is at hand if I want to write down a thought, an idea, a task, a poem. Yet none of my notebooks are like the old-fashioned one from which my lover ripped this page so that this morning I could receive his tender thoughts.
There are no words on the paper. The page is blank. So how do I know it is a love letter? I know in the same intuitive way we know when the phone is about to ring. The way we know one of our children a thousand miles away is having a bad day. The way we know rain is over the horizon although the sky above is cloudless blue. This scrap of paper is a love letter. I know.
Does anybody write love letters these days? I doubt it. We should. An expression of love doesn’t come across the same way in an email or text message. No, a love letter, to convey the proper emotion, must be handwritten. It requires the movement of one’s hand holding the pen to translate thoughts and feelings from one’s heart onto paper. With a handwritten letter, the reader can tell from the slant, from the speed of writing, from the clarity of the letters what mood the writer was in; whether happy or angry or sad or exuberant. Even a scrawled note can be beautiful, a paper to treasure, to bind up in ribbon with other such letters, to be saved in a shoe box and hidden beneath the shawls on the top shelf of the closet.
Today, the first day of January, 2012, the day of my love letter, I walk with my head in the clouds. I put the milk carton in the bathroom medicine chest and my hair brush in the refrigerator. My socks don’t match. I burn the soup. I hum sappy tunes from old musicals. I’m in love with my unseen lover.
Somebody out there loves me. Somebody sent me words of love, unwritten, on a blank page, but easily read nonetheless. I love romance.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
January 5, 2012
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Resolutions, Judgments and the “Could Have” Game
Resolutions, Judgments and the “Could Have” Game
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Once again we tuck Christmas back on the top shelf of the closet as the New Year gallops closer by the minute. These few festive days between the two celebrations I find to be a good time for reflection.
But I don’t make New Year resolutions. Why would I want to set myself up for failure? I know that I am unlikely to get gentler, younger, richer, skinnier or more beautiful just because I mouth the words that I will do (insert resolution here) and some magical something will change my life. I learned long ago that if I don’t get up and change what I’m doing, I will keep on getting what I’m getting. Frankly, right now I can think of nothing I am motivated to change.
My friend Chuck said, “But if you were going to make a resolution . . .”
“Chuck, I don’t need a resolution. When I want to change something in my life, I change it. Take this year. I walk a bit every day. I feel stronger than I have in years. I have made up my mind to not fear winter the way I did last year. I refuse to hole up in my house until I succumb to a virulent case of cabin fever. I’m active. I’ve joined a garden club. I have new friends. Life is good. I give myself a gold star.”
“Uh huh. But if you were going to. . .”
At that point, the telephone rang. Saved by the bell. It was my daughter. I decided to do something dangerous. I asked her, “If you were going to give me a resolution to follow in the New Year, what would it be?”
She hardly paused three seconds. “I would have you resolve to stay longer when you visit. At least a week with each grandchild.” I reminded her of the guests and fishes three-day rule. She growled at me, “That’s not long enough.”
Another friend called a few minutes later. I asked him the same question. “That’s easy. Work on your stubbornness.” He laughed so hard he dropped the phone. I thereupon resolved never to ask friends or family to make resolutions for me.
The truth of the matter is that I am a reasonably happy person, not perfect, but happy. I spent a lot of years striving to make myself better, to make my life better, to be “more”, to do more, to have more. What a lot of wasted energy. I know now that all I have to do is accept myself as I am, appreciate my life as it is and to do, as well as I know how, whatever is in front of me to do. How simple is that.
Despite what my children and my friends say, my greatest character flaw is not my stubbornness. It is my tendency to be judgmental, to label events in my life as “good” or “bad”. I have a hair-trigger judgment gene. Later, when I see the big picture, I soften my judgment. When something interrupts the flow of my day, I tend to immediately say, “That is bad.” Or if the interruption is welcome, “That is good.” In reality, an interruption is simply an interruption, neither good nor bad.
For example, on one of my trips back to Montana after visiting my children in Washington, my car broke down. It was mid-afternoon, mid-winter. I didn’t have a cell phone to call for help. “This is bad,” I said to myself. But three hours later I was in a tow truck on the way to Moses Lake. “This is good.” The driver deposited me at the repair shop. They closed in ten minutes. “This is bad.”
“The dingy-whichadoodle is shot, but I ordered a new one for special delivery first thing tomorrow. We will give you a lift to a motel and pick you up when your van is ready.” This was such a mix of good/bad even I couldn’t figure it out to label it. I could have been stuck on the road all night. I could have broken down over Lookout Pass. It could have taken the shop three days plus the weekend to fix my car. It could have cost more than the thousand dollars I paid. I could have played the “could have” game a long time. The reality is that my car broke down. I got a tow. The men fixed my car. My trip took an extra day. No good. No bad.
Like my broken car, I am neither good nor bad, I just am. I think I’ll leave myself alone and enjoy my day. Happy New Year.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
December 29, 2011
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Once again we tuck Christmas back on the top shelf of the closet as the New Year gallops closer by the minute. These few festive days between the two celebrations I find to be a good time for reflection.
But I don’t make New Year resolutions. Why would I want to set myself up for failure? I know that I am unlikely to get gentler, younger, richer, skinnier or more beautiful just because I mouth the words that I will do (insert resolution here) and some magical something will change my life. I learned long ago that if I don’t get up and change what I’m doing, I will keep on getting what I’m getting. Frankly, right now I can think of nothing I am motivated to change.
My friend Chuck said, “But if you were going to make a resolution . . .”
“Chuck, I don’t need a resolution. When I want to change something in my life, I change it. Take this year. I walk a bit every day. I feel stronger than I have in years. I have made up my mind to not fear winter the way I did last year. I refuse to hole up in my house until I succumb to a virulent case of cabin fever. I’m active. I’ve joined a garden club. I have new friends. Life is good. I give myself a gold star.”
“Uh huh. But if you were going to. . .”
At that point, the telephone rang. Saved by the bell. It was my daughter. I decided to do something dangerous. I asked her, “If you were going to give me a resolution to follow in the New Year, what would it be?”
She hardly paused three seconds. “I would have you resolve to stay longer when you visit. At least a week with each grandchild.” I reminded her of the guests and fishes three-day rule. She growled at me, “That’s not long enough.”
Another friend called a few minutes later. I asked him the same question. “That’s easy. Work on your stubbornness.” He laughed so hard he dropped the phone. I thereupon resolved never to ask friends or family to make resolutions for me.
The truth of the matter is that I am a reasonably happy person, not perfect, but happy. I spent a lot of years striving to make myself better, to make my life better, to be “more”, to do more, to have more. What a lot of wasted energy. I know now that all I have to do is accept myself as I am, appreciate my life as it is and to do, as well as I know how, whatever is in front of me to do. How simple is that.
Despite what my children and my friends say, my greatest character flaw is not my stubbornness. It is my tendency to be judgmental, to label events in my life as “good” or “bad”. I have a hair-trigger judgment gene. Later, when I see the big picture, I soften my judgment. When something interrupts the flow of my day, I tend to immediately say, “That is bad.” Or if the interruption is welcome, “That is good.” In reality, an interruption is simply an interruption, neither good nor bad.
For example, on one of my trips back to Montana after visiting my children in Washington, my car broke down. It was mid-afternoon, mid-winter. I didn’t have a cell phone to call for help. “This is bad,” I said to myself. But three hours later I was in a tow truck on the way to Moses Lake. “This is good.” The driver deposited me at the repair shop. They closed in ten minutes. “This is bad.”
“The dingy-whichadoodle is shot, but I ordered a new one for special delivery first thing tomorrow. We will give you a lift to a motel and pick you up when your van is ready.” This was such a mix of good/bad even I couldn’t figure it out to label it. I could have been stuck on the road all night. I could have broken down over Lookout Pass. It could have taken the shop three days plus the weekend to fix my car. It could have cost more than the thousand dollars I paid. I could have played the “could have” game a long time. The reality is that my car broke down. I got a tow. The men fixed my car. My trip took an extra day. No good. No bad.
Like my broken car, I am neither good nor bad, I just am. I think I’ll leave myself alone and enjoy my day. Happy New Year.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
December 29, 2011
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Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The Christmas Babe in My Family
The Christmas Babe in My Family
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Nearly every family has a Christmas baby, the baby born in December. It might be your grandfather. It might be your aunt. It might be your brother. It might be your second cousin twice removed. It might be you, a child whose annual birthday is nearly forgotten in the bustle of celebration surrounding the birth of the Original Christmas Babe. I have several friends who were born in December. They all say the same thing. “With all the fuss about Christmas, I might as well not even have a birthday. My birthday present and my Christmas gift seem always to be lumped together.”
In my family, the story of our Christmas Babe is a different story. She was born the first day of December, six years ago, in Yokosuka, Japan, where my daughter Dee Dee’s husband, Chris, a Navy man, was stationed. Antoinette Jean Marie Robart, was an early bird. She was born in trauma, not breathing, diagnosed with a brain bleed, and a concern of cerebral palsy. The Navy doctors rushed her to the neo-natal intensive care unit at the nearby Japanese hospital. There Toni spent her first weeks. Although she was still in danger, the doctors released her, figuring she had a better chance of recovery at home with her mother. Dee Dee, who had spent every moment at the hospital with little Antoinette, was physically, mentally and emotionally depleted. She needed help.
Fortunately I had planned to be there for the birth and had my airline ticket. I arrived in Tokyo late on the night of Christmas Day. I expected Chris to be the one to pick me up. Instead, the whole family arrived to meet me. Antoinette, swaddled in a pink blanket, nestled snugly in her mother’s arms only as long as it took for me to dislodge her into mine. That fragile little girl immediately stole my heart.
We rode the Navy bus back to the base where they lived in a high-rise apartment overlooking Yokosuka Bay. I had arrived with no agenda for the next month but to help whenever and however I could. Being there with my daughter and her family was my best Christmas present.
What do babies do? Babies cry. But the doctors had ordered that this little baby, who was in constant pain, was to be kept from crying. Crying could induce bleeding. We needed to avoid that at all costs. We took turns walking the floor with the little mite in our arms. Chris, when he did not have duty, could induce her to sleep against his chest. We were jealous that Chris had that magic touch. Jessica, just entering the terrible teens and gone a lot, took her turn when she could be corralled. I was the newly arrived helper. We took turns spelling Dee Dee, who though still exhausted, bore the brunt of baby duty. We sang to Toni, lullabies and love songs and rock and roll. We told her stories. We watched soap operas in Japanese and made up the plots, laughing as we inserted our own dialogue. Sometimes we quietly watched the twinkle of the Christmas tree lights.
Every day it was touch and go. Once, in a moment of insight, my daughter said to me, “Mom, I feel like she is trying to make up her mind whether she wants to stay or not.” I could only nod my head that I understood. We constantly told our baby that we wanted her and loved her.
The Japanese health care system is phenomenal. Every other week the hospital sent a physical therapist, an occupational therapist and other health care personnel to the apartment to work with our little baby. When I had been with them three weeks, it seemed that Toni had turned a corner. She seemed stronger. She slept more. She seemed to be in less pain.
By the time I had to leave Yokosuka for home, we could coax the occasional smile from Toni. Dee Dee was still exhausted. I knew it would be months before she got to have proper rest.
Thanks to the constant care and therapy, both in Japan and Stateside, today Toni is healthy and happy. As a precaution, she is periodically checked for any symptoms of cerebral palsy. Toni has one speed and that is full ahead. She runs to meet life fearlessly.
Our family will always have two big December birthday celebrations, one for our special little girl on December first and the other for The Special Little Boy on the twenty fifth.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
December 22, 2011
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Nearly every family has a Christmas baby, the baby born in December. It might be your grandfather. It might be your aunt. It might be your brother. It might be your second cousin twice removed. It might be you, a child whose annual birthday is nearly forgotten in the bustle of celebration surrounding the birth of the Original Christmas Babe. I have several friends who were born in December. They all say the same thing. “With all the fuss about Christmas, I might as well not even have a birthday. My birthday present and my Christmas gift seem always to be lumped together.”
In my family, the story of our Christmas Babe is a different story. She was born the first day of December, six years ago, in Yokosuka, Japan, where my daughter Dee Dee’s husband, Chris, a Navy man, was stationed. Antoinette Jean Marie Robart, was an early bird. She was born in trauma, not breathing, diagnosed with a brain bleed, and a concern of cerebral palsy. The Navy doctors rushed her to the neo-natal intensive care unit at the nearby Japanese hospital. There Toni spent her first weeks. Although she was still in danger, the doctors released her, figuring she had a better chance of recovery at home with her mother. Dee Dee, who had spent every moment at the hospital with little Antoinette, was physically, mentally and emotionally depleted. She needed help.
Fortunately I had planned to be there for the birth and had my airline ticket. I arrived in Tokyo late on the night of Christmas Day. I expected Chris to be the one to pick me up. Instead, the whole family arrived to meet me. Antoinette, swaddled in a pink blanket, nestled snugly in her mother’s arms only as long as it took for me to dislodge her into mine. That fragile little girl immediately stole my heart.
We rode the Navy bus back to the base where they lived in a high-rise apartment overlooking Yokosuka Bay. I had arrived with no agenda for the next month but to help whenever and however I could. Being there with my daughter and her family was my best Christmas present.
What do babies do? Babies cry. But the doctors had ordered that this little baby, who was in constant pain, was to be kept from crying. Crying could induce bleeding. We needed to avoid that at all costs. We took turns walking the floor with the little mite in our arms. Chris, when he did not have duty, could induce her to sleep against his chest. We were jealous that Chris had that magic touch. Jessica, just entering the terrible teens and gone a lot, took her turn when she could be corralled. I was the newly arrived helper. We took turns spelling Dee Dee, who though still exhausted, bore the brunt of baby duty. We sang to Toni, lullabies and love songs and rock and roll. We told her stories. We watched soap operas in Japanese and made up the plots, laughing as we inserted our own dialogue. Sometimes we quietly watched the twinkle of the Christmas tree lights.
Every day it was touch and go. Once, in a moment of insight, my daughter said to me, “Mom, I feel like she is trying to make up her mind whether she wants to stay or not.” I could only nod my head that I understood. We constantly told our baby that we wanted her and loved her.
The Japanese health care system is phenomenal. Every other week the hospital sent a physical therapist, an occupational therapist and other health care personnel to the apartment to work with our little baby. When I had been with them three weeks, it seemed that Toni had turned a corner. She seemed stronger. She slept more. She seemed to be in less pain.
By the time I had to leave Yokosuka for home, we could coax the occasional smile from Toni. Dee Dee was still exhausted. I knew it would be months before she got to have proper rest.
Thanks to the constant care and therapy, both in Japan and Stateside, today Toni is healthy and happy. As a precaution, she is periodically checked for any symptoms of cerebral palsy. Toni has one speed and that is full ahead. She runs to meet life fearlessly.
Our family will always have two big December birthday celebrations, one for our special little girl on December first and the other for The Special Little Boy on the twenty fifth.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
December 22, 2011
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Wednesday, December 14, 2011
‘Tis the Season: The Magi, the Santa and the Jaguar
‘Tis the Season: The Magi, the Santa and the Jaguar
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One night last week I risked the icy streets and walked downtown for the Harlem Christmas Stroll. The Harlem Civic Association sponsors this delightful annual event enjoyed by the entire community. It was a perfect night, neither too cold nor too windy. Harlem streets, stores and homes were festive with decorations. Chestnuts roasted over an open fire. A gentleman from out Chinook way had brought in a matched team of horses and a hay wagon and treated the children to rides around town. What most delighted me were the kids dressed up as Christmas presents. Businesses held open house. Several places served food. Over at the library a book sale was in progress. Many people had come garbed in costume. A group of children enacted a live nativity scene. And Santa held court at KB’s Deli.
One night last week I risked the icy streets and walked downtown for the Harlem Christmas Stroll. The Harlem Civic Association sponsors this delightful annual event enjoyed by the entire community. It was a perfect night, neither too cold nor too windy. Harlem streets, stores and homes were festive with decorations. Chestnuts roasted over an open fire. A gentleman from out Chinook way had brought in a matched team of horses and a hay wagon and treated the children to rides around town. What most delighted me were the kids dressed up as Christmas presents. Businesses held open house. Several places served food. Over at the library a book sale was in progress. Many people had come garbed in costume. A group of children enacted a live nativity scene. And Santa held court at KB’s Deli.
Santa was the reason I walked downtown. Lately I have been yearning for a special gift. There is scant money in my “car jar” (a line item in my budget). So I reasoned that Santa might bring my heart’s desire and leave it parked in my driveway. I stood back in the corner and waited until there was a break in the line of youngsters who, perched on Santa’s knee, tried to pry loose his beard or eyebrows, yanked his cap, giggled, cried, wet their pants and otherwise created mayhem. They were darling. A young woman took pictures of the little ones with Santa. Everybody beamed.
When my turn finally came, I scooted close and whispered, “Santa, I want a Jaguar. Bring me a yellow Jaguar.”
“A what?”
“You know, the car, a Jaguar. It is the car of my dreams. I want a yellow one.”
Santa held his fingers about two and a half inches apart, raised his right eyebrow, and asked, “Do you mean . . .”
“No, Santa,” I interrupted. “Not a Matchbox toy. I want the car, the real thing.”
Santa shrugged. A wild look came into his eyes. He frantically gestured for another baby to hoist on his knee, a distraction to rescue him from the predicament in which I had placed him. A young mother with a toddler stepped forward and placed her little boy in Santa’s clutches. I slunk out the door.
I am back to plunking spare change into my “car jar”. Many long years ago I learned that if I want a gift of impeccable taste, a gift of unparalleled beauty, I will have to buy it for myself. I cannot rely on someone else to give it to me. Then whatever gift I do receive is a bonus, a surprise. I am not disappointed if I receive an electric skillet instead of an agate ring, because the agate ring already decorates my hand. I bought it myself, just the one I wanted.
Listen closely, you Wise Men, muddling over what to get the special woman in your life. Seldom do I give advice, but since I am on the subject of gifts, I cannot help myself. I give you two rules. Don’t buy an item for her because it is something you want for yourself. Never will I forget the Christmas I received camping gear of the meal preparation variety. I don’t camp. But he did. And, secondly, don’t buy it because she will find useful. In other words, not the electric skillet, the new set of steak knives or the tire chains.
A good rule of thumb is, the more impractical, the better. One can hardly go wrong with gold (in any form), frankincense (translate that into a rare and wondrous perfume) or myrrh (although it might be rather hard to find around these parts and she’d probably rather you bought her cashmere).
Flowers are a great gift for any day. Always choose cut flowers over a potted plant. She might say, “Oh, you shouldn’t have. These blooms won’t last any time at all.” But you know that the center of her heart of hearts just melted into a puddle because you, possibly the stingiest man on earth, would buy for her, the one you love, a gift of such fragile beauty.
Meanwhile, I’ll keep dreaming of my yellow Jaguar. For my own practical present under the tree, I bought myself four pairs of woolen boot socks. And for my impractical gift, the gift to warm my heart, the gift of exquisite taste and unparalleled beauty, I robbed my “car jar” and splurged on an airline ticket to Mazatlan, Mexico.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
December 15, 2011
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The Christmas When It Was More Blessed to Receive
The Christmas When It Was More Blessed to Receive
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The year was 1980. I was recently divorced. I had been through a few rough years. I sold everything I owned and moved myself and my children from Chicago back to Harlem to make a fresh start. Ben was two, Esther four and Dee thirteen. I rented a tiny house in town, furnished it with items scoured from friends’ basements, attics and barns. A one pound Folgers can propped one corner of the broad-armed mohair sofa. Dee and I each slept on lumpy rollaway beds. The babies had bunks. A friend sold me, for fifty dollars, a 1968 Pontiac Bonneville, the size of an ocean liner, which I quickly dubbed the “Queen Mary”. Of all the things I have let go in my life, I wish I still had that sofa and the Queen Mary.
For Christmas I had just enough money to buy one special gift for each child and a turkey for our dinner. I wrapped the gifts and hid them in my closet high on the shelf. I would not start work at my new job in Chinook until after the holidays. We would have to do without a tree, I figured. Our lights and ornaments were among the things we sold so we could move back to Montana.
On Christmas Eve we went to church. When we returned home, a huge tree was propped against the front door. We eased it inside. I borrowed a stand from the neighbors and we set the tree in front of the living room window. The pungent evergreen smell permeated the house. Dee had begun popping corn to string when we heard a knock on the door. On the steps stood Blue Bear, her arms piled high with boxes of lights and ornaments. “I bought all new Christmas decorations this year,” she said. “I thought you might be able to use these.”
I thanked her profusely and explained that without her gifts, popcorn was the only thing we had to put on this beautiful tree that some anonymous person had generously given us. I told her that I had been unable to buy Christmas decorations this year because my new job would not start until January. The kids and I hung bulbs, icicles, strings of lights and popcorn on our new tree. I still have ornaments that Blue gave me that long-ago night.
Later that evening I opened the back door to check the turkey thawing on the porch and walked smack into the branches of another tree. This is too bizarre, I thought. I dragged the second tree into the house. We hacked off the branches with an old butcher knife I found in the basement, decorated each room with pine boughs and formed a wreath for the front door.
Christmas morning our gifts were piled under the tree. Santa had left for Ben, the baby, a set of giant Lego blocks and a plastic tool set, for Esther, a play kitchen just her size and for Dee, a longed for radio/cassette player. My friend Gail had mailed each of us an entire outfit of clothing, including shoes and coats for the children. She explained that when her mother was struggling to raise five children alone, a friend had done the same for her.
While the turkey roasted in the oven, Esther made “dinner” with her play kitchen. Dee and I prepared the rest of the Christmas feast while we listened to music on her boom box. I looked around to see what Ben was up to. He had quietly crawled beneath the Formica table and, with the plastic screwdriver from his tool kit, removed every screw from the legs. It is a wonder the heavy table top did not fall and squash him flatter than a bug.
Dee and I had just finished screwing the legs back on the table when we heard a knock on the door. It was Blue Bear once more. She balanced a tall stack of clothing in her arms. “You said you are starting your new job soon so I wondered if you could use some clothes for work. These are just some old things I don’t wear anymore.” When I invited her for dinner she exclaimed, “Oh, I can’t stay. My family is coming over.” And off she went. Later, when I looked through the clothing she had brought me, I saw that everything was in perfect condition.
When my children and I sat down to eat turkey and all the trimmings that Christmas Day, we bowed our heads in full gratitude for the gifts we had received. Our festive little home was truly blessed. I never did find out who gave us the two Christmas trees. Must have been Santa. I suspect he had too much eggnog that night and came around twice.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
Dec. 8, 2011
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The year was 1980. I was recently divorced. I had been through a few rough years. I sold everything I owned and moved myself and my children from Chicago back to Harlem to make a fresh start. Ben was two, Esther four and Dee thirteen. I rented a tiny house in town, furnished it with items scoured from friends’ basements, attics and barns. A one pound Folgers can propped one corner of the broad-armed mohair sofa. Dee and I each slept on lumpy rollaway beds. The babies had bunks. A friend sold me, for fifty dollars, a 1968 Pontiac Bonneville, the size of an ocean liner, which I quickly dubbed the “Queen Mary”. Of all the things I have let go in my life, I wish I still had that sofa and the Queen Mary.
For Christmas I had just enough money to buy one special gift for each child and a turkey for our dinner. I wrapped the gifts and hid them in my closet high on the shelf. I would not start work at my new job in Chinook until after the holidays. We would have to do without a tree, I figured. Our lights and ornaments were among the things we sold so we could move back to Montana.
On Christmas Eve we went to church. When we returned home, a huge tree was propped against the front door. We eased it inside. I borrowed a stand from the neighbors and we set the tree in front of the living room window. The pungent evergreen smell permeated the house. Dee had begun popping corn to string when we heard a knock on the door. On the steps stood Blue Bear, her arms piled high with boxes of lights and ornaments. “I bought all new Christmas decorations this year,” she said. “I thought you might be able to use these.”
I thanked her profusely and explained that without her gifts, popcorn was the only thing we had to put on this beautiful tree that some anonymous person had generously given us. I told her that I had been unable to buy Christmas decorations this year because my new job would not start until January. The kids and I hung bulbs, icicles, strings of lights and popcorn on our new tree. I still have ornaments that Blue gave me that long-ago night.
Later that evening I opened the back door to check the turkey thawing on the porch and walked smack into the branches of another tree. This is too bizarre, I thought. I dragged the second tree into the house. We hacked off the branches with an old butcher knife I found in the basement, decorated each room with pine boughs and formed a wreath for the front door.
Christmas morning our gifts were piled under the tree. Santa had left for Ben, the baby, a set of giant Lego blocks and a plastic tool set, for Esther, a play kitchen just her size and for Dee, a longed for radio/cassette player. My friend Gail had mailed each of us an entire outfit of clothing, including shoes and coats for the children. She explained that when her mother was struggling to raise five children alone, a friend had done the same for her.
While the turkey roasted in the oven, Esther made “dinner” with her play kitchen. Dee and I prepared the rest of the Christmas feast while we listened to music on her boom box. I looked around to see what Ben was up to. He had quietly crawled beneath the Formica table and, with the plastic screwdriver from his tool kit, removed every screw from the legs. It is a wonder the heavy table top did not fall and squash him flatter than a bug.
Dee and I had just finished screwing the legs back on the table when we heard a knock on the door. It was Blue Bear once more. She balanced a tall stack of clothing in her arms. “You said you are starting your new job soon so I wondered if you could use some clothes for work. These are just some old things I don’t wear anymore.” When I invited her for dinner she exclaimed, “Oh, I can’t stay. My family is coming over.” And off she went. Later, when I looked through the clothing she had brought me, I saw that everything was in perfect condition.
When my children and I sat down to eat turkey and all the trimmings that Christmas Day, we bowed our heads in full gratitude for the gifts we had received. Our festive little home was truly blessed. I never did find out who gave us the two Christmas trees. Must have been Santa. I suspect he had too much eggnog that night and came around twice.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
Dec. 8, 2011
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Holiday Traditions—We Create Our Family Culture
Holiday Traditions—We Create Our Family Culture
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My father, who dreaded Christmas, was happy to turn all the Christmas chores over to me, his elder daughter. I was a motherless girl. We lived far from the possible help of cousins, aunts and uncles. The first time Dad took me to the store to buy Christmas presents, I was seven years old. I had to choose gifts for everybody, including myself. So much for Santa.
My father, who dreaded Christmas, was happy to turn all the Christmas chores over to me, his elder daughter. I was a motherless girl. We lived far from the possible help of cousins, aunts and uncles. The first time Dad took me to the store to buy Christmas presents, I was seven years old. I had to choose gifts for everybody, including myself. So much for Santa.
I was in charge of everything. Decorating the tree meant I perched precariously atop a ladder. I placed the ornaments and layered on tinsel until the tree shimmered with silver. I was a little tyrant. I insisted that each strand be pulled out of its cardboard holder one by one and placed evenly over the branches. If I had to do the job it was going to be done my way, the right way. I stayed up late nights struggling with gift wrap, tape and curly ribbon. I kept the list and wrote a personal note in each Christmas card and addressed the envelopes. For days my fingers were smudged with ink.
As time goes by we change our family patterns. We move. Children marry. Babies are born. People die. The good news is that we replace old ways with new practices, some of which stick year after year, becoming tradition. Like me, my children also spent their holidays far from extended family. Unlike me, my kids never had to shop for their own presents. In an unspoken family agreement, we keep the myth of Santa alive. Ask them. To this day they will tell you, “Of course, Santa lives at the North Pole with his elves, busily making toys in his workshop. He’ll be coming down the chimney Christmas Eve. He’ll want his glass of milk and plate of cookies.”
Our family Christmas trees have not always been traditional. Sure, we decorated the usual cedar, pine or fir; then one year a naked Alder branch, and another year, a gigantic tumbleweed. In search of the perfect tree, we tromped through the woods, ax in hand, or drove to the Christmas tree farm. Other years we picked trees from the Boy Scout lot on the corner. All were glorious. Perfect, no. I lost my need for perfection somewhere along the way. Each child decorated the branches he or she could reach in a rather random way, tossing on handfuls of tinsel. The bottom of the tree was every bit as wonderful as Mom’s precise branches at the top. One lean year, our tree was a construction paper cutout my son had made in Head Start. For decorations he had pasted on confetti-like bits. I treasured that tree. After my son was married, I gave it to him. He still has that faded tree, and in the tradition we began years ago, tapes it to his refrigerator door every Christmas season.
Once my children were grown and on their own, I enjoyed dipping into our family past at our holiday celebrations. I gathered my adult kids around me and read to them their favorite childhood nursery rhymes from Stevenson’s “A Child’s Garden of Verses” and Kipling’s “The Elephant’s Child”. I have made sure my grandchildren have their own copies of these treasured books.
Even when I could, I never heaped gifts beneath our tree. But each child always had a gift Santa had left on his midnight run through the heavens, usually a much-desired toy. And a gift or two from Mom, always including clothing and some item I had made myself. The paper and ribbon were never perfectly done. Today my children are as apt as I am to wrap gifts in newsprint or brown paper bags decorated with crayons.
Our most memorable Christmas, the time I chose the very best gifts, was the year I sorted through my boxes of photographs and divided them into piles for each of my children, now adults with partners. I purchased albums and photo file boxes for each, put all this into larger boxes, wrapped them and placed them beneath the tree. When assembled for breakfast, I read those old favorite stories. Then we opened our presents. My kids spent the entire rest of the day sharing their photos. “Remember the day this was taken?” And “Oh, I’d forgotten about that.” Or “Look at the expression on my face.” Each picture triggered recollections. They especially loved their baby pictures, which gave me a chance to tell them about times they were too young to remember.
We are now scattered to different parts of the country. But I know each of my children carry on those family traditions that they loved most, blend these with the customs generated from their spouses’ families, and create their new customs along the way, continually building a living family culture.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
December 1, 2011
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