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.

Going Home, But Not Getting Far

As I posted previously, we road-tripped the Deep South this past weekend. Living in the undisputed capitol of the Mississippi Delta, we occasionally have to get out and visit some of the other micro-cultures that make up this wacky part of the country. As the hysterical Florence King wrote in Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady that those not from the South often make the error that all southerners are the same, regardless of their region of nativity. This could not be further from the truth. Although the movie and television industry is the worst offender, this stereotype is all-too-frequently depicted by those who just don’t have an accurate frame of reference. To compare, for instance, a Memphian and a denizen of Nashville (a Nashvillian, if you will, and come to think of it, I know a few Nashvillians) brings to mind the old joke about comparing Americans and Canadians. If you want to know the difference between the two, just call them both Americans. Or Memphians. Or Nashvillians, for that matter.

We left home and headed in a southeasterly direction. It was a bright Saturday morning, cool and crisp. The farmlands are mostly brown at this time of year, with the occasional flash of green where a field has been sown in a winter crop of greens or winter wheat. The ride was pleasant. The Norwegian drove so I was relegated to the role of disc jockey (serving up the best of Guy Clark, John Prine and friends) and Chief Cultural Minister. I pointed out the clumps of deer, water birds, low-perching predators, abandoned farm implements, weather changes and funny signs. The best one we saw the whole weekend flashed by too quickly in a rainstorm for me to capture. The sign said “Historical Marker” and its arrow pointed straight at a dilapidated single-wide mobile home, rusting on its moorings and attended by a fleet of, ahem, vintage automobiles in various stages of repair. It looked like Jesco White’s home, although we were in the wrong state.

We reached our destination – a small town in northeastern Alabama situated on the Tennessee River. At least one horrific battle was fought here during the Civil War, reputedly over access to the railroad spanning the bridge. The old town itself is drawing in on itself. There is still a lovely district of old houses and part of the original business district is still populated by the usual purveyors of gentrification—law and architectural firms, boutiques, specialty restaurants (an oddity here in the land of fried green tomatoes). The “modern” business district—and by this I mean Wal-Mart, Target, Kroger, Best Buy and the like—are situated out on the Beltline smack in the midst of what was, in my own childhood, farmland and woodlands.

One thing that hasn’t changed in downtown old Decatur is C.F. Penn’s Hamburgers. I’ve searched the Internet for links to anything about Penn’s, but there just isn’t much out there, save musings from expatriates who miss the…um, experience. My mother was one such person. By the time we reached her sister’s apartment, Mom was pretty much starving and nothing would do but that we go to Penn’s on Moulton Street in old downtown.

The Norwegian –who grew up all over the country, and Dear Daughter were curious. I was guarded. Been there, done that. These two had never experienced anything quite like lunch at Penn’s, and I just didn’t have the words to adequately explain it.

In a nutshell, C.F. Penn’s is a classic burger diner, and this one (there are a few scattered across north Alabama) features the original neon signage, twirling stools at the lunch counter, and probably the same frying grease they used when the place opened more than 50 years ago. Dear Daughter, having been raised in the “have-it-your-way” land of burger dining, started to tell me how she wanted her burger dressed. I laughed and stopped her. At Penn’s, there’s only two ways to have your burger—all the way, or half the way. Your only other options involve number, sides (chips or fries) and the size and flavor of your Coke (remember this is the South).

“All the way” or “half the way” refers to how far across the three-foot lake of sizzling grease you want your burgers floated. Yes, I said floated. Penn burgers are cooked in advance and are reheated when ordered by floating it from the right to left side of a commercial fryer. The time it takes to float “all the way” or “half the way” is all you get to get your lunch reheated.

This, by itself, is pretty disgusting (at least to me). But wait (as they say on late-night infomercials), there’s more.

When you collect your lunch, served on white bread buns and wrapped in waxed paper translucent with grease, and accompanied by a complimentary sheet of double-ply paper toweling, the best is yet to come. I watched Dear Daughter’s face across the booth as she unwrapped her burger. She prefers “ketchup. ONLY ketchup” on her burgers, and at Penn’s, they always come with mustard and chopped onions. She quietly scraped the offending onion and mustard off and picked up the squeeze bottle of ketchup to remedy the situation. The ketchup—apparently also original equipment—did not make her much happier. The kicker was when she took a bite. See, at C.F. Penn’s, the name “burger” is kind of a misnomer. The amount of actual “burger” in each sandwich varies from “some” to none, at least none that can be tasted. What burger is present is mixed with something approximating Hamburger Helper (which it doesn’t, really), then formed into, well, not really a conventional patty; more like a lump, then first deep-fried and then reheated in the Grease-Lagoon when ordered.

I don’t know whose face was funnier—Dear Daughter’s or the Norwegian’s. I don’t think either wanted to chew, much less swallow. Fortunately, we had ordered conservatively. No one asked for seconds, except my mom, and I was glad to give her the half I was unable to finish. Dear Daughter played with my cell phone while we talked and finished up our lunch and got ready to leave.

The service at Penn’s is friendly and unique, in the way that only a Southern diner can provide. We had a good time. It made my mother happy. I like making her happy. It made Dear Daughter grateful for what she gets back home, and it made her and the Norwegian laugh, although politely out of earshot of both my family and the staff. Later on, though, I found this message on my cell phone notepad. Apparently, Dear Daughter is not anticipating a career in reviewing restaurants.

Get Yer Scorecards Here

Yesterday I attended a birthday party for a very dear little friend. Although the big day isn't actually until Wednesday, we celebrated the first birthday of Riley, the granddaughter of the Loved One, who although we no longer share the same space, is still very much cared for and loved in our hearts.

As first birthday parties go, it was fairly typical--crowded with adults and toddlers, lots of pink everywhere, and plenty of food. The birthday girl was rather uninterested in most of the proceedings. She needed a nap and the house was pretty crowded with lots of people making lots of noise. Still, when Dear Daughter and I came through the door, she laughed and toddled forward and relieved us of the bag we were carrying. It had bunnies on it, and she had a good time dragging it behind her.

The Loved One is back in Alaska, working, so it was somewhat awkward for us. This was our first encounter with his family since moving out. Naturally, there was a bit of confusion about how to introduce me to people ("This is Riley's dad's father's um, girlfriend, no, wait, um, ex-....ah. well,...um"). I just shook hands and said "Just call me Lalah. Riley does."

For the record, the guest list included the following: Riley's mother, Riley's father, Riley's father's new girlfriend (who is expecting in June). Riley's father's new girlfriend's dad (and his boyfriend), me (aka-Riley's father's dad's ex-girlfriend), Riley's grandmother (my ex-boyfriend's ex-wife), Riley's dad's stepfather, Riley's maternal grandmother, Riley's maternal grandfather (her grandmother's ex-husband), and Riley's mother's new ex-boyfriend.

Relationships and family used to be so simple. Contrary to appearances, I miss those days when parents and children all had the same last name and all lived in the same house, and at the same time. Actually, I know more couples and families for whom this is still true than not. I admire them and sometimes even have a little envy for them. I'm not good at this relationship thing. I try. I hope. I am always optimistic, but so far my average is pretty lousy.

Since Dear Daughter appeared in my life 12 years ago, I've kept a pretty stiff upper lip about it. She's had lots of questions about our family and why it's just the two of us, and I've always tried to answer them honestly and carefully. It hasn't been easy and we've both shed a few tears over the years about this.

Throughout it all, I've maintained the same position though. Family is blood, but it's also much more. We have so many wonderful friends who have, over the years, become very real extensions of our family. Luckily, we've discovered, family is so much more than just those with whom you share blood and DNA. It's the people who you co-op meals with, barter your hand-me-downs and extraneous furniture, you sing with them in church, you hold hands with at funerals, they yell at your kids, you pick up after theirs. You carpool with them, exchange recipes, crash on their couch, disagree with them about politics. You love them, you worry about them, they shake their heads silently over your latest relationship debacle.

For a while at the party I carried Riley around in my arms. I love that girl so much. She's so tiny and precious, and when she looks up at me and raises her hands for me to pick her up my heart almost bursts. We don't share anything except we're both hitching a ride on the same planet for a while. Still, she's my family, and that won't change, no matter what.

For David, in the rain this morning

The man in the rain that walked past the dumpster,
following the two dogs—one leashed and one not,
shuffled his feet as he trudged to the door
of the room that he rents
by the week
near the cloverleaf exit
where I commute every day.

He could have been anyone—
his blonde hair receding,
the height he once knew
is less than it was.
Weighed down by his years;
though not really so many,
each doubles or triples
with each drink he takes.

His shoulders are sodden
with rain and with anger.
His feet don’t remember
the days he would dance
through leaves with the careless
abandon of childhood,
or with a laughing blonde baby
atop of his shoes.

His pockets are empty
except for his fingers;
his dreams have all dried up,
his memories are gone.
Where have you gone to,
my blue-eyed brother?
And do you remember
the days we were young?

Food, glorious food.

I left work early today, and I don't feel terribly guilty about it. We had a spectacular thunderstorm last night--the kind with technicolor lightning and low, rumbling thunder. The bunnies were a little scared. I visited them a couple of times in the night and reassured them. Dear Daughter was away on an overnight camping trip with school so I had my evening to myself. I indulged in a good long swim, followed by a few minutes in the sauna. Wow. I had forgotten how good it feels to sit in a sauna after a brisk swim. Note to self: indulge more often!

I bought fresh strawberries (or "strawbees," as Arven the mischievous squirrel from The Pearls of Lutra would say) from a roadside stand on my way home from the base. Oh, all foods should taste as good as these strawberries! These are small, sweet, red'n'juicy to the core, and don't need the slightest bit of sugar. I'm never buying those silicone, red dye #3 gigantiberries from the supermarket again. There's a lot to be said for eating food grown in season!

We had a fabulous vegetarian feast tonight--edamame (a favorite at our house), green beans, fresh spinach, fresh carrots and a salad made from new Roma tomatoes, red bell pepper and cucumbers. We had a little Italian peasant bread with olive oil and herbs, and that was it. Light, satisfying and delicious.

Today is a leek-fast day. I'm not feeling well, probably from all of the junk I ate over the weekend. Trust me, I had fun eating out with friends and family, but I just feel poisoned when I eat like that. Time to clean out the system and start anew. Besides, it's only 27 days until MAUI! The Loved One's Number One Son is getting married in Hawaii, and we're very excited about the trip. Family vacations are lots of fun, and this is going to involve everyone, including Number Two Son and The Grand Grandbaby. It'll be a terrific way to jumpstart the summer.

Lord, what foods these morsels be!

First, I must confess, I outright stole the title for this post from The Joy of Cooking. Growing up, Mom would read to us from TJOC at the dinner table, and we’d laugh at the authors’ descriptions of cooking methods and ingredients, and her witty tales of food history and kitchen disasters. Mom says when she was a young bride in Danville, Kentucky, Dad went off to work and left her at home with nothing to read but the 1928 Book of Common Prayer and The Joy of Cooking. This explains why she’s such a good Episcopalian and an even better cook.

And please note, when I refer to my mother as a good Episcopalian, I am suggesting she’s one who has actually read and lives by what is in the 1928 BCP. Yes, we’re orthodox and unashamedly so. It wasn’t broken. It didn’t need fixing. And it certainly didn’t need the gutting that resulted in the travesty known as the 1979 BCP.

But I digress…

Mom is a very good cook, and what she doesn’t owe to The Joy of Cooking, she owes to growing up in a large family in the south, during the late Depression and World War II. My grandfather was a farmer, a hired day laborer, and, by all accounts, a heckuva fine baseball player. My grandmother was a homemaker, which in those days meant washing laundry with a mangle, cooking on a wood-fired stove, making clothes out of feed and flour sacks, chopping wood with an axe, milking cows, plucking chickens, planting and hoeing a vegetable garden, canning produce using that same wood-fired stove and helping butcher pigs (or sewing them shut, as the situation required, but that’s another tale I’ll tell a different day).

There were seven children to feed, so cooking skills were developed early and appreciated greatly. Our own family had five children, and both Mom and Dad worked hard to support us. While we didn’t eat out often, and we ate more frequently like peasants than kings, we had plenty, and it was good.

But growing up helping in the kitchen, watching my remarkable grandmother make biscuits and hearing tales from the cookbook all fueled my own love of cooking, as well as eating. I have my own copy of the Joy now, although a later edition than my mother’s. There have been a couple more iterations since I bought my copy in 1982. Pick up a copy—there’s recipes for everything from moose muffle to beef Bourguignon and just about everything in between. Check out the laundress’ tale that accompanies the recipe for apple strudel. It’s a good read while your dessert bakes.

The Loved One is home on interval from Alaska, which means we’re eating out too much. He’s gone three weeks at a time, and then home for about ten days. When he’s home, we strive to keep the “quality” in “quality time,” and do things that bring us closer together as a couple and a small family. We had out-of-town company over the weekend, which was wonderful. I cooked some, but we also had two special occasion meals out with the large, extended, blended and generally up-ended family we’ve become. It was all mostly a wonderful time.

Last Saturday, though, just the two of us went to a new place I’d seen in Collierville called Ashiyana. Dear Daughter was home “keeping house” with Best Friend, who is not quite older enough to be an official baby-sitter, but who is a good, sensible young lady whom I can leave in charge. Billed as an “Indo-Pak” restaurant, Ayishara conjures images of warm curries, flavorful vegetable stews and tandoori chicken. I didn’t have any experience with Pakistani cuisine, but I’m usually game to try almost anything new and unusual, so long as it doesn’t involve eat body parts that normally involve vision, digestion, rumination, cogitation or elimination. Call me a weenie, but personally I thank God virtually every day that I have never been hungry enough to eat the intestines of any living creature. Or the eyeballs, brains, pancreas, etc.

(I will confess to actually liking calves’ liver, but given the junk animals are shot up with during their short and unhappy lives, I can no longer bring myself to do it, and haven’t in decades. Dear Daughter has never eaten liver, veal or offal, and will not do so, at least not on my watch.)

But back to Ayishara. It had only been open for a couple of days so they are still working out the mechanics of running a restaurant. The greeter/server was a bit overwhelmed with double-duty, but she took time to talk to us about the dishes on the menu. We ordered some dishes with which we are familiar and some we’d never had before. Palak paneer is spinach in a spicy sauce with yogurt cheese, and something I would eat everyday if I could make or get my hands on it. We had the Pakistani version of samosas, which are wrapped in phyllo. The “puff pastry” we ordered was not a sweet, but rather a sort of Middle Eastern “chicken in a biscuit,” and a delightful one at that. The pastry was buttery and melt-in-your-mouth flaky, and the spicy chicken permeated each bite. What a treat!

As it turns out, in an “Indo-Pak” restaurant “mutton;” which we took to mean “sheep,” actually means “goat.” I grew up eating lamb and still serve it a few times a year, price permitting, but I’d never had goat before. The dish was basically the same as lamb aloo, just with a different animal. I have to say, I infinitely prefer lamb to goat, but it wasn’t bad. There were some interesting bone configurations to deal with, and I don’t want to speculate on which part we were eating, but the dish was good. I don’t think I’ll be cooking it at home anytime soon, but we left the plates shiny.