Beautiful Day for a Birthday

Today would have been my mother's 75th birthday. Somehow I think spending it in heaven might be even better than spending it here, even though the sun is shining brilliantly. Happy birthday, mom.

The Truth About Santa Claus

My nearest sister called me yesterday with some tragic news: her youngest daughter, who is not quite 10, found out the day before that Santa Claus is not real. Or as her newly-enlightened classmate who told her put it, "your parents have been lying to you all this time."


My niece is the youngest member of our collective family, so this sad milestone is particularly grievous, as it is the stark demarcation between childhood and the Real World. This marks the moment in time when all her childhood beliefs and fantasies will come into question under the harsh light of reality and be found wanting. Innocence is set aside and is replaced with sly knowing and a gradual forgetting of that in childhood that is sweet and accepting. As Abby passes through this portal, the generational shift moves perceptibly further down the line. Her newfound knowledge reminds me of my own aging, my own loss of childhood joy, my own crumbling mortality.


The year she turned five, Dear Daughter turned to me while we were decorating our scraggly artificial Christmas tree. It was still just the two of us, living in a small apartment with our little bird and our hopes and dreams. "Mom," she said. "Are you lying to me about all of this Santa Claus stuff? Because if it's not true, I don't want to have a tree or presents or Christmas or anything."


My heart sank to my shoes. Who could have been so mean-spirited as to cast the shadow of doubt in the heart and mind of my sweet, trusting little girl, and at such an early age. I pulled her to the couch and we sat and looked at our tree with its polyglot of ornaments--pine cones rolled in glue and glitter, cut-foam figures coated in buttons and marker, a construction paper reindeer with a preschool photo glued to its flank, and assorted strings of beads and lights. We talked about Christmas--the infant Jesus in the manger, the gift of a loving God. We talked about Advent--the candles, the waiting, the time of examining ourselves. We talked about St. Nicholas of Myra and his care for children and how he came to be the figure we know as Santa Claus.


I told her that Santa is most certainly real. That even if there isn't really a man in a red suit with flying reindeer and sleigh, he is real in the love that makes the miracles of Christmas happen. Santa is real in the excitement and preparation that surrounds the season. Santa is real in the love that we share when we give and receive gifts. Santa is another reminder of the love we are given from God through the baby Jesus. Even though we choose to portray him as a portly old man with a smoking habit and questionable fashion sense, he really looks like love.

Dear Daughter was satisfied with this explanation, and even years later her own eyes were opened by an older cousin, it wasn't a traumatic moment, because she'd already rationalized it in her own mind. Santa still pays his yearly visit to Dachshund Downs, and she's every bit as delighted at 14 by the magic and sweetness as she was at four. I'm sorry to hear that my niece is upset about finding out the "truth," but I know she'll be all right. Santa will still come to her as well, because Santa is love. Santa is magic. Santa is real.

Resurfacing, or I haven't been there for the longest time

Hi, um, it's me again. I know I've been away awhile. I've missed being here. I've missed a lot of things, actually. For the past six months I truly feel like I've been floating inches below the surface of a murky pond. I could sort of see what's been going on above the surface, but not quite. The world kept turning after my last post, but I haven't truly been an active participant--I think "passenger" describes it much better. I don't know who's been driving the bus lately, but it surely hasn't been me.

At least not the me I mean to be.

I knew losing my mother would be hard, but I never dreamed it would be this catastrophic. I thought I would handle it better than this. I was wrong. I was so wrong.

I've had some very good days. I've even had what-passes-for-normal days. But the bad days have been beyond my wildest nightmares.

I'm better now. I hope that's going to last. It's two days before Thanksgiving and, thanks to a combination of a stupid not-quite-fall on our wedding anniversary in late September and a few even more old stupid accidents (what, indeed WAS I doing 12 feet up in a tree in 2004?), I'm entering week nine of treatment for spinal stenosis, spondylosis and a host of other unpronounceable neck and back issues that have left me so weak, exhausted and irritated that I can't safely lift anything more substantial than a spatula.

Still, we're going to have a happy and bountiful Thanksgiving surrounded by dear people and good food. I am thankful for so much this year: my dear husband, who has stuck by me when I surely wasn't any fun to be around; my precious daughter, who brings light, beauty and joy into my life every day; for my friends JenEMac, MelBoe, NavyK8t, MarciaMarciaMarcia, Annette, MelanieS, JenEstes, Cindy and so many more who were just there; for good memories; for the passing of time; that mother didn't linger...

I'm thankful that God has given me the kick in the rear end that I not just needed, but so richly deserved. And even more thankful that He is raising me up slowly enough that I can fully appreciate the scenery on the way back to myself.

I'm almost there. Bear with me just awhile longer. I'm thankful for you, too.

The End of the Journey

Mom died today. She had been living with us for three weeks. She was hospitalized twice for sepsis in April, and during the second stay they discovered four new tumours. She immediately requested hospice. We kept her in her home until the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, then moved her in with us at Dachshund Downs. This afternoon, she simply stopped breathing.

I don't have the words just yet to describe what caring for her has been like, or why it should matter to you too that she is gone. All I know right now is that my mother is gone and that's a void that can never be filled.

Golden Day

It's a very special day today, and the sun came up and was warm and sweet where I live. The trees are changing color, and the hickory trees and tulip poplars are a particularly rich and beautiful shade of gold right now. My morning commute involves a drive through the country just north of our city to the inland Navy base where the Norwegian and I both earn our daily bread. In the mornings and afternoons, the sun is at the precise angle to light the treetops. The entire woods look burnished and bright. It's breathtaking. We've been watching the deer, fearless in that area, step out into the open fields on the edges of the base. There's one small group, a few does and their young fawns, led by a regal buck with a nice eight to ten point rack, that we've seen a couple of days in a row now. I think they must know there's no hunting allowed on the base, and that even in the afternoon during the exodus past the south gate, they can feed in safety and peace.

On this day, fifty years ago, in a small town in north Alabama, my dad married my mom. They met at her workplace. He was a switchboard equipment installer for Western Electric, and the cotton company she worked for needed a telephone upgrade. My mom noticed him pretty early on in the job, and made excuses to frequent the ladies' room so she would have to walk repeatedly past the place he was working. One thing led to another, and they finally married at a little Episcopal church with red doors on Gordon Street. Everyone laughed about that last part, since that was my dad's first name.

Life and Western Electric took them all over the south. The first five years they were married they moved more than 30 times, in a tiny Airstream trailer--the littlest one they made. Dad had a penchant for big old Buicks, so at least they had a sturdy vehicle to pull their little home behind them. Year one brought Gordon, Jr., who left them almost as soon as he arrived. The near three years brought them my two sisters. I arrived six weeks before the assassination of President Kennedy. Our brothers arrived in odd-numbered years as well.

We stayed in the same city after 1963 and all of us grew up there. We had a backyard garden. Dad stayed with Western. We went to grade school and beyond, the Army, the Navy, and so forth.

It wasn't always easy between them. It wasn't always peaceful. The 1970s were rough on a lot of people and while we weren't devastated, neither were we entirely spared. The 1980s brought greater change--retirements and graduations; the 1990s brought grandchildren and war. And still they soldiered on.

I don't know what it takes to be married for fifty years. I look at the Norwegian and wonder what we'll be like at that milestone--he'll be 101 and I'll be 94 and 7/8s. I hope we'll be the complete embarrassment of the retirement home--still sneaking kisses and holding hands.

Dad died two years ago, suddenly, awfully. Mom was done with her treatment for lung cancer, but unfortunately, lung cancer wasn't done with her. Her third brain tumor left her in September with an esophagus so constricted she can neither eat nor drink. She has a feeding tube in her stomach now that she pours a concoction of nutrition that smells awfully like Carnation evaporated milk into six times a day. Her adrenal glands are both covered in tumors that have metastasized from her lungs. Today though, we took her flowers and a card covered in gold. It was so small a gesture to offer for 50 years of hope and love and tears and joy. This wasn't the golden anniversary we expected, but life isn't always what we ask for. The best we can do is to live and love.

Election Day At Last

Hello friends. If you're reading this within the confines of the 50 United States, then for you, as well as for me, it's election day.

Finally.

We've come a long way, baby, from the early primaries in New Hampshire 20 months ago, to the major party conventions this summer. We've learned more than we ever cared to know about the personal lives, financial condition, voting records, favorite colors, religious proclivities and bad habits of all of the candidates, and their family members as well. We've come to question knuckle bumping as a possible terrorist gesture. We've learned to equate visiting a National Guard armory as foreign policy. We've (hopefully) learned to be more careful about judging others by standards we might not so much wished to be judged ourselves.

There's a lot at stake today, both nationally and locally. If you voted today (and my fondest hope is that you did), then you probably were greeted with a number of referenda germane to your particular locale, and perhaps some Congressional candidates as well. I wouldn't presume to suggest you vote for a particular party or candidate, but I do pray that you found candidates in all areas, and positions on all issues that you could, with good conscience pull a lever, touch the screen, poke the chad or otherwise let "x" mark the spot.

Tomorrow, God willing, the sun will come up regardless of the outcomes, but let us dearly hope that whoever wakes up happy tomorrow also wakes up resolved to occupy his or her respective office with dignity, grace, fairness and compassion. We all deserve to be heard. This land is my land, but just as surely, this land is also your land.

Women of Note

Today is the birthday of Marcia, marcia, marcia. She's a strong, gorgeous woman and we're trying to encourage her to write more often. She also makes a marvelous marciarita.

I just watched a good bit of "The Devil Wears Prada" with Dear Daughter and the Norwegian's daughter. We laughed at the notion that a size 10 is the new 14. What a hoot. It's an hysterical movie although I must confess to loving the shoes, none of which I could ever wear.