Two more days of Christmas--for liturgical folks

                On Christmas Day, I sat quietly—except for scolding Greye about his constant short forays into the frigid attic and back, leaving the door ajar—and reveled in Sunday’s, Christmas Eve day, “Christmas at Couchwood.”

                My four adult children, spouses, and five grown grandchildren—if you can call age 16 “grown”—spent the earlier part of the day with their dad, and the later part with their mom—moi.

                I had already traveled to Tull to church, returning at 11a.m. to finish last-minute cleaning, and perhaps have a chance to sit with the newspaper. Didn’t happen. Oh, I got done what I intended to, with twenty minutes to spare.

                 That included making a batch of mac-and-cheese for a granddaughter who, last Christmas, betook herself to the kitchen, opened the cupboards, spied a box of said product, and—without consulting me—proceeded to do just that. This year, though she knew it was waiting, either she ate too much other stuff, or she forgot. Not to worry, her cousin Billy ate it later that night.

                Everyone came laden with gift bags and Walmart sacks of left-overs from their noon meal in Bryant--as well as additional food–in case we didn’t have enough. My black eye meant explaining (despite the advice from my Canberra blog friend to “don’t explain”) how it happened. I also didn’t do like several Facebook friends jokingly suggested and make up a doozy of a story.

                I tripped over a box of Billy’s stuff that he’d moved “out of the way instead of to his room as I’d asked. He’d do it when he returned from “hanging with friends,” he said, closing the front door behind him.

                I forgot it was there and on my way into the middle of the room, I fell over it, literally sliding face first into the 3-legged tree stand, the tree and the fishbowl-full-of-marbles holding the tree’s stem. The piano leg on the right stopped me as the heavy fishbowl landed above and to the side of my left eye. It felt like my head was in a vise and someone was squeezing.

                Someone asked me if I cried. No. Someone else asked me if I cussed. No. When I stopped sliding, I thanked God I didn’t pass out. I turtle-crawled around to turn off the tree lights because I’d spilled a bottle of water on the hardwood floors, and remembering what the floor folks said, I pulled myself up—I could walk OK--and towel-dried the wood. The table was toast, its three legs akimbo and disembodied from the circular top.

                I’d immediately emailed all children and siblings and BFF (but not Billy) of my accident and assured them I was OK. That happened Thursday night and by Sunday morning, well, it would be my first Christmas with a black eye.

                Once the family was satisfied with my story and my well-being, admired the re-doing of the tree set on an oak TV table, and after we’d decided to share gifts before another round of eating, we settled in. Fireplace was burning (I can’t say “roaring” because gas logs don’t roar), window, snow village and tree lights were glowing, as was this matriarch.

                Three-and-a-half hours later, the Conway bunch left, then the Hot Springs bunch. The local folks stayed a while longer, but not much. Several seemed to think it was bedtime. But it was only 6:30.

                Christmas came a day early at Couchwood, and all was well in my world. I hope it was good for you, too, and continues to hold sweet memories. Blessed Epiphany, and Happy New Year.

c 2018, PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR

Thoughts and sayings about January

                                                          Ice in front flowerbed last year

Now that the Christmas things are put away and the snow has come and gone, I’m ready for warmer weather—at least 50 degrees warmer, please, Mother Nature. Then I can get the front door painted, the back screen door re-screened, the frozen mums cut and composted and other cosmetic stuff around here, both inside and out.

Alas, I know it’s not to be, except for an occasional warm-up, and that the coldest part of winter is still ahead. In Edward F. Dolan’s The Old Farmer’s Almanac: Book of Weather Lore (purchased at the Higdon Ferry flea market some time back) I found these older sayings about months and their weather: predictions, both optimistic and pessimistic.

“January warm,
The Lord have mercy.”

“January wet,
No wine you get.” (grapes won’t produce?)

“If you see grass in January,
Lock your grain in your granary.”

If the following proverb/belief ever works out as true, credit goes to coincidence, Dolan says: “The date of the month on which the first snow falls gives the number of storms that the winter will bring.” Oh-my-goodness! If that be so, we’re looking at six more winter storms! Let’s hope . . . . [insert your own hope in this space.]

Contradictions in much weather lore makes for a fun read, but four other factors played a part in these adages about January weather: local weather, times of the month, religious hopes for what the weather on a feast day portended, and local interpretations of what was intended by certain wordings.

“March in Janiveer (January), 

Janiveer in March, I fear.”

“Remember on St. Vincent’s Day, (January 22)

If the sun his beams display, 

Be sure to mark the transient beam, 

Which through the casement sheds a gleam; 

For ‘tis a token bright and clear

Of prosperous weather all the year.”

“If St. Paul (St. Paul’s Day January 25) be fair and clear, 

It promises then a happy year; 

But if it chance to snow or rain,

There will be dear all sorts of grain; 

Or if the winds do blow aloft, 

Great stirs will vex the world full oft; 

And if dark clouds do muff the sky, 

The fowl and cattle oft will die.” 

According to the Trivia feature in one year’s Arkansas Living, celebrating the arrival of a new year dates back 4,000 years to ancient Babylon.

The first New Year’s Eve celebration in Times Square took place in 1904 and included fireworks. In 1907, because of a ban on fireworks, a 700-pound iron and wood ball that was illuminated with 199 25-watt lightbulbs was lowered in the square at midnight, marking the beginning of a celebration that continues today, albeit with a different ball.

Other years’ trivia appropriate for the new year are, “There are two seasonal diversions that can ease the bite of any winter. One is the January thaw. The other is the seed catalogs.” –Hal Borland, and “What the new year brings to you will depend a great deal on what you bring to the new year.”—Vern McLellan. Another one makes me smile in sympathy: “I need my sleep. I need ‘bout eight hours a day, and about 10 at night.” –Comedian Bill Hicks. I’ll add, ‘especially during the winter.’

Finally, a quote from Abraham Lincoln: “My dream is of a place and a time where America will once again be seen as the last best hope of Earth.”

Goodbye to 2016 and hello to 2017

Table laid for the new year: blue & silver. journal, newspaper and Orwell's 1984

  An early poem of mine is appropriate this week: Titled “Farewell,” it is a double-form piece, an Acrostic and a Farewell pattern. 

Galloping swiftly, as on fire;
Over minutes, hours and days, 
Obeying nature’s agenda,
Dashing through time down the
Backstretch of December, 
You daze us with speed – an
Entire year gone.

            Winter has definitely arrived, and for a few days, at least in central Arkansas--both in late December and early January, it was bitterly cold. At least for us in mid-country. I wore two layers of clothes (and socks) as well as a jacket. And that was inside! But during the Christmas weekend, it was more like spring or early summer.

            The week before Christmas, I put on my baking persona if not an apron. Mincemeat and pumpkin pies, and a recipe for Holly’s Cranberry Chocolate Cookie Bars I’d clipped earlier from an issue of The (Amity) Standard. Here it is, with my observations in parentheses.

COOKIE CRUST: 2 & ¼ c flour (before measuring, I aerated it with a big spoon rather than sifting it), ½ tsp cream of tartar, ½ tsp baking soda [regarding the use of cream of tartar, online sources said cream of tartar along with the soda provided the acid needed for leavening. One could substitute the same amount of baking powder as the two others combined.], 1/2 cup powdered sugar, ½ cup (white) sugar, 10 whole graham crackers (I used 9—an entire sleeve of cinnamon grahams), ½ tsp vanilla, ½ cup vegetable oil, 1 stick butter (I used margarine), 1 large egg.

             DIRECTIONS FOR CRUST: (It doesn’t say so, but I put the crackers in a gallon zip-lock bag, searched until I found a rolling pin, then crushed them.) Mix all dry ingredients well, add wet ingredients and mix very well. Press into greased (I used olive oil spray) 13 x 9- inch pan.

           TOPPINGS: 1 can cranberry sauce (I would suggest 2 cans of berried sauce, but I wouldn’t bother with “running them through a food processor until smooth.”), 1 cup chocolate chips, 1 Tbsp. shortening. Pour sauce over cookie crust and level out over all. Bake in a 350-degree oven for about 20 minutes (it took longer for my oven) until crust is done and cranberry sauce is a little bubbly. (Mine never bubbled.)

            While it’s baking, add chocolate chips, and shortening to(gether in a small bowl and microwave in short bursts until melted.) a heavy pot and melt over low-medium heat stirring constantly so as not to burn. Pour chocolate over cranberry sauce and cookie crust, cover and let set 4 hours or overnight. (I refrigerated mine, then later, cut into small bars; very good, but better with more cranberry sauce.)

            Since it’s too late for a New Year’s gathering, perhaps a Valentine’s party would be a good time to bake a batch of these.

 The two Couch-Paulus-Laster Christmases at Couchwood were fabulous, as usual.

Ready or not, it’s now 2017. May it bring you and yours more than just worry and wonder about our country and its direction.   

Daughter Annamarie's recycled pumpkins

Looking Ahead: CHRISTMAS BOOKS for 2017

Iced Holly at Christmas: a new (possible) book if someone would write it.

              In the far-off days before the ease and cheapness of buying books on Amazon—which I now do after I received a gift card for the same amount as my age at the last birthday––I bought, or was presented with, several Christmas-themed books. The seven smallish volumes adorned the coffee table last year and included one I’d found at Dollar General, Agatha Christie’s Star Over Bethlehem. A trade paperback of “Poems and Holiday Stories,” it’s not at all the expected mystery genre. The first poem and the first short stories are all the holiday fare I could discern. Available at Amazon from $4.29 and (way) more.

Politically Correct Holiday Stories—For an Enlightened Yuletide Season by James Finn Garner, 1995, is a ninety-nine-page hardback volume of humor. Retold stories are “’Twas the Night Before Solstice,” “Frosty the Persun (sic) of Snow,” “The Nutcracker,” “Rudolph the Nasally Empowered Reindeer,” and “A Christmas Carol.” Amazon’s prices vary from used (.01) to Kindle ($2.99) to audio/cassette (.49).

A gift from friend Linda in 2007 is an unpaginated hardback with dustcover, Christmas Wishes: inspiring sentiments for the festive season, edited by Tom Burns, 2004. Black and white photos of polar bears and other animals in the snow accompany each sentiment. Examples from the first, the middle and the last follow. “The perfect Christmas is a frozen land full of warmth.” “There’s nothing sadder in this world than to wake up on Christmas morning and not be a child.” “May peace be your gift at Christmas and your blessing all year through!”

The Christmas Box by Richard Paul Evans, 1993, has become to some a classic. Unlike most generic Christmas stories, Evans manages to bypass triviality, imbedding these pages with humble truth and emotion. One-hundred-twenty-five-pages, hardback, dustcover—I have no idea where or when or how I came by this book. Amazon shows over 350 reviews. And since I Googled Amazon, an ad for the book appeared on Facebook--$10-something as the price.

“Creative Questions to Illuminate the Holidays” is the subtitle of Bret Nicholaus and Paul Lowrie’s book, The Christmas Conversation Piece. Hardback, red-spined, the small book contains 302 questions to use for prompts—either written or spoken. The first one is: “In your opinion, what would the ultimate winter wonderland look like?” The 100^th one is: “If you were going to create and market a holiday cologne or perfume, what would you choose for the fragrance?” The 200^th question is: “You have two options for where you can spend Christmas: a ski resort in the mountains or a tropical resort on a Caribbean island. Which would you choose?”

The 300^th one is: “If snow could somehow fall and accumulate in a warm climate, would you enjoy it more?” As with the other books, I have no annotation about where this little book came from. On Amazon, it can be bought for $.01 plus s&h up to $8.99 on Kindle.

John Grisham’s 2001 novel, Skipping Christmas, offers “a hilarious look at the chaos and frenzy that have become part of our holiday tradition,” according to the book jacket. Amazon’s prices range from $1.65 to $14.00. It later appeared on my FB page advertised at $5.68.

Last but not least, is the Hallmark Book’s, The Joy of A PEANUTS CHRISTMAS: 50 years of Holiday Comics.  Hooray, there’s an inscription: “To Billy, March 22, 2003, from Susie Leird, (friend from Benton’s First Christian Church), whose birthday was the same as Billy’s. If you don’t have this book, it’s available at Amazon for one cent!!! Hie thee to Amazon pronto! It’s not too late to begin stocking up now for Christmas, 2017.

Happy New Year. We hope.

Hello, world! I'm back!

 

                The title sounds egotistical, I know, but stay with me for a bit. From Valentine’s Day—after a trip to Conway for one of my writers’ groups—till Sunday, February 22, I didn’t get out of the house, except to retrieve the papers (when they came) and the mail (when it came).

                On Sunday, February 22, I accepted a ride to west Little Rock’s St. James UMC with a choir member who lives in the Congo-Avilla area. The liturgical season of Lent had begun—this was the first Sunday of the 40-day period of contemplation, prayer and preparation to coincide with Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness.

                I needed to sing great hymns, to listen to the bells and the anthem, the sermon and the organ postlude, which was scheduled to be a Bach piece. Bach and organ equal heaven on earth for me.

                As soon as we walked into the sanctuary about 10:30, of the four folks already there, I knew three of them!  Talk about blessings! Felix and Martha Lynn Thompson, they who started the well-known and beloved hand bell program at St. James, were already seated.

I knew Felix when we both taught music in the schools. At that time, we were in the same Region, so we saw each other at Festivals (called Contests now) and at various music-reading clinics.

I knew of Martha through her hand bell arrangements, some of which I used during the first decade of this century.

The third person I knew was Joyce Potts Faulkner, who grew up in Benton, but who now lives in Little Rock with her husband. Though we attended different high schools, we both took piano lessons from Mrs. Lorene Houston. I had seen and visited with her once before at a concert. We visited again on this day and I met her husband.

Folks were coming in quickly by this time, so I headed back up the aisle and sidestepped into Martha and Felix’s pew. It filled quickly. People visited with each other as happens in all churches.

Long story short (so I can tell another story), it was an uplifting, praiseful, joyous service. But during the postlude, I sat while the other worshipers sidestepped beyond me to the center aisle.

Finally, I arose and moved down toward the choir door to wait. Lo and behold, here came another person up the same aisle. Not realizing until we got closer who we were walking toward, when recognition hit, we screamed (well…) each other’s names and hugged. Turns out that we had talked via email a day or two before. She’s a poet friend of many years.

A wonderful experience; a wonderful day.

Not until Friday, February 27 did I venture out again. The snow had melted except in north-facing patches of shade. This trip was to Bryant for the “Bryant Bunch Lunch,” a half-dozen friends who meet monthly.

While I had been hibernating, gasoline had risen by 25 cents a gallon; buildings at the monstrously-large Hurricane Village mall had gone up; streets had been laid and curbs built. 

Last Saturday, two outings were scheduled: one, a breakfast meeting of a group of 1954 Bryant girl grads, and in the afternoon, a meeting of the local poets. Since I was the speaker, I had to be ready before the breakfast excursion. After poets, I stopped at Sue’s to deliver some information, and we enjoyed a great, rare visit.

Again, a wonderful experience; a wonderful day.

                Bored? Cabin fever?  Not on your life?

Preparing for winter—and Wynter

 

 

        Time to bring the plants in, says Ms. Janet Carson, the horticulturist. Where do I put them? I ask myself. By windows, I answer.

 

        Now, I have plenty of windows but not all of them will host a plant--be it small, tall, narrow, H-UG-E, like the schefflera that's 3-feet wide and 2-feet tall. OK, narrow it down to possibilities: the breakfast room/green room on the southwest corner. Three windows, two doors.

        First, take down the pear-motifed curtains to let in more light. Wash, dry and fold.

Second, wash the exposed windows. Done. Now, how to hide the upper window where sash meets frame? Think, girl, think. You are creative. Aha! Take the clean curtain panels one at a time. Fold them into 4ths. With white thread strung through a teeny-eyed needle, baste a place for the curtain rod. Hang, Voila!

 

         Another possibility for those of us who have our mother's and grandmother's crocheted lace from worn-out pillowcases or the embroidered part WITH the lace still attached. Do the same--perhaps on the door. Now, you have a reminder of the dear ones who've preceded you and helped make you what you are and who you are still becoming.

 

        Since this is an old house with thin-paned windows, time and weather have messed with the casings, etc. If air can get in anywhere around, lay lace into the flat loose places, then arrange clear or colored glass pieces on top. One winter, I used fake snow fabric. That way, I could imagine an inside, but never-melting, snow scene.

 

         But I digress. At the south windows, on a two-by-twelve, hand-built-by-Dad, bench we used to sit on at breakfast (yea, many years ago), I arranged pots of jade plant, a dish garden, a drunkard’s dream plant, then placed the huge schefflera at the end.

 

        At the west window, I stood a fern in a tall metal plant holder. Perfect. On the table are two African violets, one that needs dividing, and one that had been divided and is having a hard time recuperating.

 

         But that left two tall angel wing begonias, another fern, a mother-in-law’s tongue, a split-leafed philodendron, a large container of peace lilies, a corn plant and the infamous Norfolk Pine that finally recovered from serving as last year’s Christmas tree. Oh, yes, the money plant the church gave me when I retired.

 

         All are now positioned in front of windows—some in the living room, more in the office/sunroom, and the latter, in the west window of the guest room.

 

            But that was just the beginning of readying the house for winter. Now, Wynter was arriving soon. That visit required sweeping, dusting, cleaning off and redressing the dining table, cleaning (and decorating-for-autumn) the bathroom, mopping the kitchen floor, shaking the rugs and sweeping off the front porch.

          Just in time, too. “Hello, friend Wynter! How was your trip?”

A fictional tale based on a true story

[Google image]

                During the early evening of Valentine’s Day, two young women dressed in red frocks stood in the side door of Gram’s farmhouse. They’d heard something outside, and chattered like crickets.

                “There’s somebody . . . in that tree!”

                “That’s just a cow that got out of the feed lot.”

                In the dark, neither wanted to investigate and the men were in the back room sprucing up.

                Next Monday, Uncle Budd would be leaving for the Navy and Uncle Rollo, the Marines. Tonight, they were taking their girlfriends to a dinner-dance.

                A light snow had fallen since noon, whitening the trees, garden, chicken yard and outhouse. The lane to the main road was still safe enough, Gram said, for Uncle Budd to drive.

                Because the women said something was outside, I crawled into Gram’s lap. She rocked fast and hummed loudly. It would be morning before I knew why.

                I slept with Gram. The front door of her old unpainted house opened into her bedroom, and every night, she forced a table knife into the door frame for protection. Grandpa had died years ago.

                I awoke to breakfast smells. Bacon sizzled, and Gram’s coffeepot stuttered on the wood stove. Biscuits baked. Gram was humming a song I had learned in Sunday school: “If I have wounded any soul today; if I have caused one foot to go astray . . . dear Lord, forgive.”

                A sob grabbed her voice. Tears rippled down and dripped onto her apron. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and turned away when she saw me looking. I drank my cocoa and bit my lip, trying not to cry myself, hoping it wasn’t anything I had done.

                From the kitchen window, I could see my uncles out by the oak. They bent down, pointed, and then tracked through the snow out to the lane.

                The women came out from the back room, bundled for a trip to the outhouse.

                When the grownups came back in, Uncle Budd was carrying a pair of snowy shoes with holes in the soles. Someone HAD been in the tree, and he’d left his shoes on the back porch.

                Gram couldn’t hold her secret any longer. “When you were getting ready last night, Mr. Ubergang came to the door hoping to get warm. He was in such a state he could hardly talk. I was afraid and shooed him away.”

                The old dairy farmer must have walked from his home in the woods, across the nearby creek, past Gram’s, up the lane and then down the highway to Tucker’s Grog Shop. A neighbor said the owner had closed down before the weather turned bad, and that Tuck had sent his customers home.

                Mr. Ubergang had stopped at Gram’s and when she refused him entry, he lay down on the lowest tree limb. Sometime during the night, he must have found a spot on the back porch out of the wind, taken off his shoes and lay down.

                At daybreak, Mr. Ubergang had trudged home in his stockinged feet. My uncles followed his footprints to the low-water bridge.

                We heard later that his feet had frozen and had to be amputated. 

We never told Gram.