"Chocolate Necessities"

I'm a lazy blogger this week. Here's an excerpt of my Baby Boomer memoir, Ordinary Aphrodite.   
Call me crazy, but I don’t like chocolate. Never have, even as a little girl. I know I’m supposed to—how can I call myself a woman if I don’t splurge on a chunk of Ghirardelli’s dark when my hormones are raging? How can I pass by the See’s booth on my way through the mall without veering in for a little pick-me-up?

Theobroma cacao. The Aztecs called it “fruit of the gods.” Who am I to spurn the naughty little aphrodisiac their high priests fed the royal concubines? Who to decline an intoxicate so indelicate that Victorian ladies had to nosh it behind their husbands’ backs? I swoon to imagine! So stimulating, sexy and addicting it shouldn’t be legal without a prescription—Spanish fly, thy name is chocolate!

I beg a question—is chocolate food or medicine? After all, it took a Supreme Court to decide about the tomato. Whichever, do I owe it to my kids to indulge in a daily ounce of chocolate so I don’t end my life a half-baked, confused old lady? Like my guilt isn’t bad enough, am I endangering my mental clarity without a daily fix?

But vegetable, candy or fruit, I’ll have to pass. Truth is—my body doesn’t process theobroma very well. Call me lily-livered; I was born with a raging case of jaundice. Some of my kids are just like me; they don’t like chocolate, either. That’s where the blame comes from—motherguilt for messing up their chocolate gene.

My life was one gooey mess. Then I saw the movie, Chocolat.

Chocolat was one of those movies I decided to watch after I’d seen the trailer. I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but Johnny Depp was in it so how could I go wrong? Juliette Binoche wore a pretty dress and high heels, and she looked on the outside exactly the way I felt on the inside, so I knew she had something to teach me about myself. I was going to be glad I went.

And I went, and that’s exactly what happened. I emerged from the theater deliriously happy. I was in love with chocolate—and myself. I wanted to wear silk scarves in my hair and hug strangers, and meddle in everyone’s business and inspire them to be greater than they were. I wanted conservative men to fall into confusion when I was around. I wanted a wild young lover, and I wanted to weigh a hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet and eat truffles without consequence.

The movie made me crave a bowl of the wonderful remedy our family uses as a curative for the blues. We call it “runny.” Runny is hot-fudge sauce we cook up whenever one of us comes home with a problem of the heart. Tea and runny.  My Great-aunt Josephine started the tradition: Whenever one of her daughters had a problem with a man or his money, she would make a batch of runny in her heavy steel kettle. Depending on how many sisters and daughters crowded around the table, she would spoon the batch into cereal bowls or saucers. When I was eleven I was invited to sit at the table and eat mine with a teaspoon along with the women.   

After seeing Chocolat, I rushed home and boiled up a batch of runny. And fanaticized about a wild young pirate licking it off my belly.

One day the Fates conspired to give me a Chocolat moment of my own. Opportunity arrived in the form of a gift from a dear friend—a dozen decadent truffles made with imported Belgian Callebaut chocolate. From first bite it was clear we were destined to be together—the chocolate, not the friend. With one passionate nibble, truffles and I began a wild, passionate affair of the heart.

I remember it was Thursday, my birthday. My husband Steve’s friends had given him a gift certificate for a night at the Parkfield Inn, a rustic log cabin Bed and Breakfast in Parkfield, the Earthquake Capitol of the World—Ground Zero for The Big One!

We were in the car, pulling out, when the UPS truck pulled into our driveway. The driver jumped out, ran over with a package that needed signing for, jumped back in and drove off. I opened the outer wrapper. It was a gift-wrapped carton with a gold sticker from Chocolate Necessities in Bellingham, Washington.

I ran back into the house, grabbed a bottle of Brandy and two snifters, and packed everything in a basket along with my CDs of Govi’s “Guitar Odyssey” and Emilio Castillo’s “Modern Gypsy.”

Fast-forward to late night.

We are sated by steaks and wine from the Parkfield Cafe across the road. We have thumb-tacked our business cards onto a naked spot on the ceiling, along with a prerequisite dollar bill. Now it is time to adjourn to the inn, where our room is furnished with a queen-size bed made of lodge-pole pine, with iron ranch implements hanging from a chandelier over our heads.

Around ten we break out the bottle of Brandy and slip the gold cord from the exquisite box. I feel like royalty that my friend has sent such an extravagance. Inside, two rows of six fresh, stunningly lovely truffles fill the long, narrow box, each one more beautiful than the next. Each is decorated with a squiggle of icing to differentiate it from its neighbor. At first I can’t imagine breaking up the perfect set, but then I remember the reason for the gift is to teach me to embrace luxury.

With one sniff the bouquet of the Callebaut invades my limbic brain and I am lost.

I bite into an Irish Cream liqueur truffle. Steve chooses a plain chocolate. We exchange nibbles, but he prefers his. With my second bite the Universe hits me with a star-bursting, lightning strike of esoteric clarity. It is a Nirvana moment when all the hidden knowledge of the Universe accrues inside my brain. For a moment I am Juliette Binoche

AUNT JOSEPHINE'S RUNNY
2 cups sugar
4 Tbsp cocoa
2 Tbsp butter
2/3 cup milk
1 tsp. vanilla
Combine sugar, cocoa, butter and mild. Boil until mixture starts to thicken. Let cool slightly and eat with spoons. 
(Pirate Optional.) Enjoy. 

Ahoy, Matey, what's your secret passion? Your secret's safe with us.  

Singing Our Whine-Song

Not talking about a drinking song here. Every generation has something that drives them crazy about their mother. I call it the whine-song.   

My blessed mama probably won’t read this. And if she does, she’ll laugh. Because she knows there was one thing about her that drove me crazy. Her favorite theme was the twenty-seven years she went without a new coat. It was true. I was there and I saw her, always making sure her brood was fed and clothed—even if it meant doing without. 

Most of the time she was happy to serve. But every now and then something would remind her and out would come the pathetic coat story.  

Funny how things work out. Her lack of coat became a theme for my abundance. In college the family I cooked for gave me a beautiful red poncho that I wore through three years of college and another three pregnancies. On my first married Christmas, my brand new in-laws handed me a gorgeous Bullock’s box. In it was a fawn-colored faux-suede pants coat that made my heart sing.

In the intervening years a friend gave me her mother-in-law’s elegant emerald green overcoat (a serious East Coast wool garment.)  One Christmas I sewed five down jackets for Christmas presents. I live in Central California and it isn't even cold here! 

What is it about my mother’s lack that the Universe overcompensated with me? Was it some erratic force laughing at us? My mother-in-law left coats hanging in every closet. She hoarded them, child of the Depression that she was, and after her death I filled my car with them and distributed them to a homeless shelter.

So what’s my whine-song? Naturally it has to be different from my mother’s. And my daughters will have to find different yet. I think mine is the poor-me-I-don’t-eat-enough-to-be-this-damn-fat song. Yeah, that’s the one my daughters will remember. With a chorus of, “why me, why me.”    

They won’t remember the coats. Why should they—their closets are full of them. It’ll be something else, maybe plastic grocery bags or—here’s a good one—the unequal distribution of household chores.   

And, so the beat goes on.

What’s your whine song? Have a theme you’d care to share with us?  Come on--you know you want to!

A Room of Her Own

Does your secret heart yearn for a place that is yours alone? Where no one will intrude? My dream writing room promises to eliminate all my excuses.

As I write this a carpenter is putting the finishing touches on a 10x12’ writing room in my backyard, complete with a set of solid wood, double pane French doors that I found twenty years ago at a garage sale for $30, and a vintage leaded glass window I found at Edna Valley Antiques.

This little room, like Julia Cameron advocates in The Artist’s Way is my way of reclaiming creativity after a few years devoting too much energy to caretaking my mother-in-law and newly-retired husband. Everything in my little room will resonate creative expression because I’m a crazy woman seemingly incapable of compromise.

My husband thinks the white beadboard will make the room seem smaller, but I’ve carried a picture of wainscoting for so long that I’m intractable. Painted that very light green that changes to peach when the setting sun infuses shadows in the room, this room will ooze creative charm. The wicker furniture will be glossy white with airy cushions. A tole-painted makeup mirror from the forties will have a place of honor, its relic lightbulbs left unwired since the only lighting will be a battery powered, faux mariner’s lantern hanging from the open beam ceiling. 

Here it is the day I finished

We began calling it my writing room when it wasn’t a room at all, but a storage shed built by a college construction class and delivered on a flatbed trailer. It was a disappointment from the first day, its lovely eaves chopped off for some indiscernible reason so that it set like a forlorn outhouse in the pasture, slowly rotting from moisture until I asserted my claim.

My husband and I rolled the shed into the back yard on steel pipes, then jacked it onto concrete pyramid blocks. We built a free-standing deck to meet the requirements for a non-coded room and rebuilt the roof with real eaves. I hired a carpenter who shares my vision for small rooms and used lumber.

When Eric is finished I’ll paint it. I’ll seal the deck and rails. They’re old-growth redwood from a small barn we tore down years ago. I’ll polish the vintage brass hinges and doorknobs I've been collecting with this project in mind. I’ll install antique glass pulls on the leaded glass window and shine the crank-open window—the only thing in the room that is new—an Anderson crank window with a view of the creek.

Granddaughter Ava and Annie the hen

Every day is a delight, listening to the hum of the Skil saw, the splat, splat of the nail gun. The process makes my heart happy—not the bursting happy when something surprises, but the savoring joy that occurs when life is good.

 My writing room has become a metaphor for taking control of the things in my life that I couldn’t change even if I wanted to. It’s become a playhouse for me in middle-age, a replacement for the one built for my three sisters and me by our father so that—ironically—we could practice our homemaking skills. (Now we’re burned out and we wonder why we didn’t spend our childhoods riding horses or something.)  

Unlike previous projects there's no rush to completion. (see note)  The process is a journey, not a destination. Paying for it out of my writing income is part of my agreement with myself. Staying true to my vision is giving me a room of my own.

 Truth time. I'm such a liar! I wrote this last year and the act of writing it made me realize how anxious I was to finish it. I stayed up nights sanding and priming. I'm happy to say the room has already seen a novel born within its walls. Stay tuned for the particulars.

 My advice is to do what you have to do. Claim the bathtub, climb a tree, slide into Starbucks, but find a place of your own. In high school, with a family of nine, I used to climb into the front seat of the car bundled in a blanket and read. I didn't do this a lot, but the barn was too drafty and sometimes just I needed a place of my own.


So where's your secret place? Tell us where you go to create. 

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$2,500 For a Wedding? But Wait 'Til You Hear!

The guest list came to 150 guests. When I told my daughter that we were spending $2,500 TOTAL for her wedding, she thought we were nuts. But we did it and I have the receipts to prove it.

First the background: My daughter is a Peter Pan. I’m a Wendy. That’s the nature of our relationship. I was born to annoy her, apparently. But this time she was living in Seattle and she had only enough time to drive in the day before the wedding and had no money to contribute. Best of all, she said the magic words, “I trust you!”

Another bit of background: Months before she entrusted me with the task, I had found a stationery store/giftshop in its final three days of a closing sale. I stripped the store clean—invitations, plastic wine and champagne flutes, napkins and a ton of ribbons. I had them sitting in bags all around the house and when the call came, I wasn’t about to waste my treasures. 

Fair to say, I wasn’t wild about the groom, but that’s another story. We saw this as a chance to demonstrate the power of common sense. Actually, her father named the amount we’d kick in and he wasn’t about to budge. I had to agree; if they wanted a bigger wedding, they could contribute, but it seemed they didn’t care that much. “Surprise us!”

Did I mention, she wanted to get married in six weeks?

More than a vote of confidence, I saw it as a lark. I was a fabulous money manager. I had no fear. But now it seemed that my daughter was “untrusting” me.

Back to the phone call. 

“Twenty-five hundred dollars!” That’s how much the dresses cost that I’ve been trying on.”

“Then you better go back and try on some more,” I replied calmly, hoping the sweat on my brow wasn’t obvious across the phone line.

(Truth in disclosure—this all happened in 1993—we had phone lines back then.)

THE PLAN

The next day she stopped at a fabric store that was going out of business and bought 10 yards of silk dupioni at $16 a yard. The clerk recommended a seamstress—who made her a stunning dress from a Vogue pattern for $200. It had rosettes and a bustle, and they cut it shorter in front for a lawn wedding.

In the next week my hand molded around the phone. I checked event centers. Nada. The wineries wanted a fortune. After calling around for a few days I discovered that if I joined the Historical Society for $50, I could use the Dallidet Adobe and Gardens for a couple hundred dollars. Right in my budget. (I checked it out for this article. It now costs $2,900. I knew my deal was too good to last.)

Problem--the gardens were booked every Saturday in August. By some stroke it was still available on one Sunday, but the gardens were open to the public until 3:00. The decision took ten seconds; I booked the wedding for 2:00 and decided the guests could arrive early and tour the adobe for free if they wanted.

But Sunday was still a problem. The rental agency wasn't open to deliver the tables and chairs. We couldn't get them on Saturday because there ...was...a...wedding! It was like I was hearing, Don’t ask, don’t tell.

"What...are...you...doing with the ...Saturday tables?"

“Oh, we’ll Pick them up on Monday.”
"What if we..."
"We won't be picking them up until Monday!"

“UH HUH. Well, can I just rent tablecloths?”

I chose dark green cloths. They matched the lawn and I didn’t have to add any decorations. Now committed, I held my breath. This wedding planning business seemed to depend on luck and blind faith. But I was feeling lucky.

Let’s see—what's next? Photographer. I phoned around and got several bids for $700-$1,000. Yikes! (Remember, it was 1993 and there were no digital cameras, only studio photographers with film.) I decided to let that one go for the moment.

On to food. The caterer was over my budget. My daughter wanted Santa Maria style BBQ and his price was $15 a plate. So I asked him how much it would cost to just barbeque 15 tri tips, some linguicia and Swiss sausage appetizers? He was a friend of my husbands. He said Free. I said $100 and he’d pick up the meat for me. He said okay and agreed to toast the French bread and warm the beans—as a favor. What a gentleman.

I went to Vics, our local redneck diner and asked the chef if he could prepare four gourmet salads in my stainless steel commercial bowls. Sure--$25 each. Same for the homemade beans.

The week of the wedding I made dozens of deviled eggs, bought veggie trays, did a buffet of appetizers. Laid everything out on cookie sheets. Truth in disclosure—at the time I owned a take n’ bake pizza restaurant. I used my commercial refrigerators to store the deviled eggs, salads, and lots of the bubbly. (I happened to win a raffle at a winery where the prize was a case of sparkling wine. I added a case of mixed whites and reds and got a discount.) The lucky streak continued.

 

My daughter had always wanted to ride in a carriage for her wedding--but to rent one was $200 delivery. I phoned the Apple Farm. For $60 an hour I could book the carriage if I was a guest. So I booked a room for their wedding night. When it was time, the carriage driver drove across town (20 minutes), took all the children on rides around the block (20 minutes) and spirited the wedding couple back to their hotel (20 minutes.)

Remember the photographer? Well I forgot about hiring one until four days before. After panicking, and phoning everyone I knew with a camera, I redialed a professional who had seemed nice and asked him how much he would charge an hour. $25 dollars. So I hired him for four hours. He came to Grandma’s house, took the getting-ready pictures. Then he drove to the gardens and took photos until his time ran out. And gave us a 25 photo book of prints as a gift.

THE BIG DAY

On the day, the entrance to the gardens looked like a fairyland: Tiny gardens separated by hedgerows, bricked walkways and shaded pergolas. Hundreds of flowers tended by volunteers. It was magic. We hung garlands of ribbons on the pillars at the garden gates and let the ribbons festoon in the breeze.

The children? Well, instead of a bridal party we stopped all the children when they arrived and asked them to wear a wand of ribbons in their hair (girls) or on their wrist (boys). They went down the garden path in front of the bride waving their fairy wands.

 The bride’s younger sister was lovely in a strapless dress I made of Ashley chintz (technically a floral upholstery fabric. Remember the fabric shop that was closing out at the start of this story?) I made it with a generous zipper allowance. After the wedding (and before they left for the honeymoon) I removed the zipper, reset it and viola! Off went the bride on her honeymoon in her new dress.)

When we arrived at 8:00 am, the day of the wedding, there were 12 tables and 126 chairs stacked and waiting to be picked up. We took the bride's name off and promptly set them out again. I hired two of my pizza employees to don fancy aprons and keep the food refreshed so I could concentrate on the guests. We put the wine and beer near the buffet table and let everyone imbibe while the photographer took pictures.

My husband trailered an antique “hit and miss” engine onto the gravel area and cranked homemade ice cream in a five-gallon ice cream maker while the male guests stood around palavering like old farmers.We offered three varieties—maple nut, vanilla and strawberry. The cake—we ordered a lovely professionally decorated cake for 25 people and offered sheet cakes to go with the ice cream. (Served in little dishes I bought from the stationery/giftshop that was going out of business.)

During my early phone marathon I made a strategic decision to hire a magician/juggler instead of hiring music. The day of, I saw grandfathers and children "oohing" together while the magician tossed flaming clubs in the air. Other guests strolled the gardens. Some played croquette or used the over-sized wands in tubs of soap to make soap bubbles. Everyone was wearing weinerdog balloon hats and unicorn knobs. Contented ladies were discussing the adobe they had toured earlier. 

The young people danced to music tapes on a system we borrowed from someone (not my job.) A family friend sang. A former priest performed the service. The sun shone through the pergolas and people couldn’t stop telling me how it was the most fun they’d ever had at a wedding.

My stress level (as I remember) was about a 5—although there were a couple of spikes--like realizing the bride had forgotten to order the flowers. We ran to the market and bought a few bouquets and laid them around on the green tablecloths. Punched some into the lattice backdrops. Whatever. The place looked grand.

When we realized we had nowhere to put the gifts, someone found an empty wheelbarrow behind the shed. We draped it with something white and the gifts spilled onto the lawn as though we’d planned it.

THE WRAP-UP

At the end of the day we cleaned up. Collected the disposable cameras. Stacked the chairs and tables. Two hours later it was like we’d never even been there. (We even retaped the Saturday bride’s name back on the tables like we’d found it) and closed the gate as we left.

That night we joined our daughter and her groom at a local bar for a nightcap. I was more dead than alive, but we all agreed that it was the perfect day.

And the receipts—including the hotel room, our gift to the couple, came to $2,519.60. I swear. 

The only problem with the wedding came afterwards. The guy at the store where we took the photos managed to misplace the photos. The staff looked in every drawer. Not there. Never showed up. But at least we have the memories.   

My daughter had some photos, but she tossed most of them after the divorce. We cut the groom out of a few and she looks gorgeous. Like a...bride!  

Are You Anyone's Favorite Person?

This New Years I'm taking an idea from a YouTube video by Miranda July "Are You the Favorite Person of Anybody?" It has some timely thoughts for 2012 that may just possibly change your life. Check it out (but first finish reading my blog.)

Are you the favorite person of anybody?

Say what?

Are you anyone’s favorite person?

Uh, no.

How sure are you of that? Very sure? Confident? You think so?

Wait a minute. Yes I am. My sister. I’m my sister’s favorite person.

You sure of that?

I smile broadly. Yes. I’m sure. That’s what sisters are for. You can’t mistake favorite person-ness in sisters. We shared a room for years. We talk for hours about everything. We’re going to share a home when we’re old. And my husband. I’m his favorite person. Forty years and counting. He watches for me so he can share his adventures and his stories. We have each others back, Till death do us part and all that. And Mitzi, the young woman who worked for me for nearly a decade. For all those years I was her favorite person except for her father, and now he’s passed and she’s moved on, but the memories are there. Definitely her favorite person.

How can you be so sure about these guys?

Because…because…because they’re my favorite person right back. And my sister Laura because she’s so gentle and giving. And my nephews because they’re so strong under adversity. And my children because--wait there’s more….

I know I’m their favorite person because I put myself out there. And if I’m not #1 at the moment I’m at least #2, or maybe #3. I've definitely been on somebody’s  top 10 during the last decade. Anyway, who cares if favorite-ness doesn’t last forever? What matters is that I measured up at the time. 

It feels really good to know that I make a difference. Isn’t that the point of life? Something we can all agree on?

In the probability that I AM someone's Favorite Person, here’s what I’ve learned from it :

1.      Be sincere.

2.      Be of service.

3.      Be available.

4.      Reciprocate. Give back.

5.      Love without judging.

6.      Laugh without reason.

7.      If something needs fixing, fix yourself first.

8.      Put your best self forward consistently

9.      Apologize and mean it.

       Realize that you have the best half of the friendship.

How about you? Are you anyone’s favorite person? 

Keeping it Real this Christmas

One woman's campaign to keep it all together. 

Last night my husband and I attended the Vine Street lighting ceremony in Paso Robles. We strolled hand-in-hand down the twelve or so closed-off blocks lined with Victorian houses. It was a mood night—part romance, part nostalgia.

Non-profits, churches and youth groups handed out popcorn, cotton candy, cider and hot chocolate to thousands of visitors. Churches had living crèches, bands and singers along the route. Scrooge taunted the crowds from the second story of a Victorian, calling out bah-humbugs, with the crowd scoffing their replies. The Grinch was present along with giggling children and their parents. Lights on top of lights. Pure magic!

NOW I feel the Season. The Hallmark marathon I’ve watched the last five nights didn’t hurt, either. Maybe it’s a case of overkill—I heard myself actually debating the cinematic points of “The Christmas Card” today with my sister. She likes Debbie Macomber’s “Trading Christmas” better. Yikes! There was a time when those movies were too saccharine to stand. Now I plant myself in front of the TV at 7:00 every night to catch the new one. But it’s Christmas. Whatchagonnado?

I have to watch them pronto because next week it’s the Battle of the Nutcracker Ballet—each night a different one, and the viewers get to vote on their favorite. Last year I taped part of one. This year I’m going to tape them all so my four-year-old granddaughter and I can watch them when she comes for the holidays.

Thanks to Jennifer’s fabulous green website tips, I’ll be wrapping my gifts in newsprint this year. She’s a military wife with a great moral compass. My gifts are for the most part purchased from local venders I met at craft and art fairs while I was selling my books. (Relax, family, you’re not getting crocheted doilies or acrylic stretch booties.)

Not to boast (well, maybe a little), I bought locally from my writer friends, artists ( a little plug here for a deserving artist,) jewelers and carvers. It feels good to have a personal connection with the creative genius behind my purchase. I even like that my paper shopping bags have a signature on them. I’m breaking out the sewing machine and making a wedding dress for my granddaughter’s new doll. (Santa’s secret is safe because she only reads picture books.)

I just organized a cookie exchange with the caveat that some of them need to be gluten free. That should be fun—plates of goodies I don’t have to bake. I’ll look like Martha Stewart when my kids arrive. “Mom! My gosh, you’ve been busy!”

Gluten-Free Peanut Butter Cookies
1 cup peanut butter (or almond butter)
1 cup brown sugar
1 large egg
1tsp baking soda
1/2 cup GF chocolate chips

Beat first four ingredients in mixer. Stir in chocolate chips. Drop rounded tablespoons two inches apart on parchment lined cookie sheets. Bake at 350 for 10 minutes. Makes about two dozen.

Two weeks until Christmas. Plenty of time to burn my first batch of fudge. I’m humming carols, vacuuming and dusting spots I only catch when company’s coming. I have a new recipe from Susan Gaddis for easy crockpot oatmeal that I’m going to try out on my health-conscious kids this year, after they spent Thanksgiving mocking our Friday night reward trips to Foster Freeze for hot fudge sundaes. Who would have thought THOSE would ever be no-no’s? I’ve outlived my era!

Now for the annual Christmas tree lot argument with my husband who knows nothing about perfect trees. Then a day of pulling everything down out of the attic, decorating and swearing that NEXT year I’m either hiring it done or throwing half the decorations away. Christmas tends to build until I’m sick of the whole idea and nothing could live up to the hype. I’ve gone this route before and I know the signs. Not going to happen!

Where I used to have to budget my time, now it seems like it’s my energy. But I’m lucky this year. I have a bunch of appointments scheduled for the end of the year. It’s my way of not getting crazy about Christmas and ending up an emotional dishrag. 

This year I’m treating my daughter, niece and their kids to the Christmas show at the Oceano Melodrama and staying home. Seems like an old-folks thing to do, parking myself in front of the fire and living vicariously knowing the grandkids will come home glowing with excitement. And if that doesn’t put me in the Christmas spirit, nothing will. Eggnog, anyone?

How’s it going for you this season? Any thoughts on keeping the spirits bright?

The Hard Christmas

Here's a Christmas story that helps me remember the power of a mother's love. I'm sharing it as my gift to the Universe with my best Season's Greetings.  

Yesterday, I heard my first Christmas carol, "Silver Bells," on the car radio, coming home from Thanksgiving at my daughter’s. There’s a line in the song that grabs me every time— “Children laughing, people passing, meeting smile after smile…” It recalls the pure joy of Christmas shopping and furtive watching for my sisters while a shopping clerk takes forever to stow their unwrapped present in a plastic bag.

Holiday shopping will always be my favorite, a hangover from childhood when we would pile into our station wagon and head for town with our fistful of savings, and trudge through Cornet and Sprouse Reitz looking for the perfect gifts. A hardbound copy of Black Beauty cost fifty-nine cents, I remember because I spent long minutes considering the purchase.

A tube of Tangee Natural lipstick for my mother, going halfsies with my sisters for a foil sack of pipe tobacco for my father.

The three sweater girls and my brother
(I'm on the right.)

But there was a year that put everything into focus for later. Maybe everyone has one like that—the year when father was missing in action, or the crop failed, or mother lost her job at the cannery. Some of us are in those years now. Maybe the best we can do is to remind ourselves, this too, will pass.     

In 1959 we had just moved to Shandon, our family of nine squeezed into a tiny farmhouse on a frigid plain with half of our household possessions still piled under tarps in the yard. My father had left his steady job and bought a farm in late October, and any leftover cash was earmarked to feed us until the first crops came in.

The winter was hard. Ice crusted the water puddles and made our bare legs ache as we walked the quarter mile to the school bus. We were lonely and scared. That was the year I learned that poverty means you don’t even dare to want because you're afraid the desire might show in your face and it would hurt too much to have anyone know. My teacher read the “Gift of the Magi” that year in English, and I totally understood it  

Blessings were abundant that first winter, pots of soup and lamb stew and a square, squat propane heater that threw out enough heat to warm the living room, and a wood stove that took care of the kitchen. Fifty years later, the feeling of heat still engenders memories of coming out of frigid December wind and feeling love and safety as the door shut behind me.

I was eleven, in sixth grade. I wanted to be tall and thin, and shave my legs like the other girls, but I wanted my mother to know without my having to ask. We shared that special relationship that oldest daughters often do, and I was sure her warnings of a slim Christmas were exaggerations.   

Christmas morning I waited for my “big” present. When it was handed to me, the gift I opened brought a lump of disappointment I couldn’t disguise. It was a cheap J.C. Penney bulky knit cardigan to replace the one I was outgrowing, also white. I wanted a guitar and a pink poodle skirt, not a thick $2.99 sale sweater exactly like my sisters got. I remember holding it up to hide the tears from my mother, who was watching me. The sorrow in her eyes made it possible for me to fold the sweater with small, trembling passes and, finally, to look up and manage the brave smile. Later I tried my best to sound appreciative, but I knew I didn’t fool her. 

We made it through that Christmas. Mercifully, that ugly sweater wore out with repeated washings. The following school year I got a new car coat with our alfalfa money.

I have a soft spot for the “Coats for Kids” campaign in our town and each December I’m happy that kids get a new warm coat they can be proud of. But I’m even happier that “Toys for Tots” gives them something to play with, a reminder that they are children. That’s what grown-ups are for—to provide a promise that times will get better.

There were better Christmases for me—every one since has topped that bleak winter of 1959. Still, the memories of disappointment are softened by those of Mama making magic with a bottle of Karo syrup and a five-pound bag of C&S sugar from which she made popcorn balls and caramels—and divinity if it didn’t rain, Mexican orange candy if it did.

 What I remember most about that year is that Mama offered us a promise with every caramel walnut that came from her pan. 

 I now wear very warm coats. Thanks for donating to charities this season.

What’s the Christmas memory that keeps things in perspective for you?