Yesterdays

Come See the Baby!

“Shhh...Come see the baby!” Finger to her lips, my mother softly called me to the wicker bassinet where my new baby brother slept. On tiptoe, chin resting on the edge of the bassinet, my curiosity rising, I looked at his tiny ears. “Can he really hear me?” I wondered. Stretching over the side, I touched his little head and petted the softness of his hair. “Does he know who I am?”—a four-year-old’s question. “Put your finger in his hand and watch what happens,” my mother prompted me. Putting my finger in his soft little hand, I was amazed when his tiny fist opened up and closed again, around my own finger! He was MY baby brother; I was His big sister. When Christmas came that year, I remember feeling very proud because I had my own Christmas baby. Throughout our childhood, whether we were decorating the Christmas tree, shaking mysterious…

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Christmas Pasts and Presents

Once again, as with every Christmas, I believe that there is a great yearning that wells up from deep inside our souls to respond to the “great joy” of the angels’ announcement to the shepherds, to follow the beckoning Star to find the Holy place where Christmas miracles never cease, where every Christmas promise is fulfilled. However, even though we long for the comfort and joy of this sacred realm, we often look for it in stories about talking snowmen, magical reindeer, and Santa’s elves—all of the trappings but none of the essence and truth of the birth of Jesus. For years I have loved and collected Christmas books during Advent, but I have become increasingly concerned about the content and number of books that claim, “This is a story/book about the true meaning of Christmas”, but lead you farther from the truth with every page. So, this year, I…

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Hope Chests

They were called “hope chests”—those large cedar storage chests where we hopeful young girls stored what we would need for our future households. In years past, preparing for our future included embroidering dishtowels and tablecloth sets, crocheting pillowcase edging and doilies, and knitting afghans. Filling our hope chests was an expected and honorable pastime. We often started as early as 6 or 7 years old, coached in simple embroidery and crocheting techniques by patient mothers, grandmothers, and aunts. The time spent sharing the wisdom, experience, and knowledge of the older generations, provided the most valuable lessons of all. Needlework skills were incidental to the love, encouragement, and confidence that were woven into the fabric of our lives during those sessions. We prepared for our future days of the week by embroidering dishtowels with designs depicting a predictable work schedule, like a day planner on cotton. For example, Monday was wash…

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Jam Session

Jam Session

“Give me your ‘A’, Paul.I scoot onto the wooden stool and shift the guitar strap over my neck. The banjo twangs once, twice, three times—the solemn bestowal of the “A.”Another “picker” comes down the basement stairs as I am tuning up. He’s holding a guitar case in one hand and a mandolin case in the other.“Hey, do you think Mike’s going to make it? Will we have some fiddlers? What about a bass?”As if on cue, others begin to arrive, some carrying as many as three instruments. I drag out more stools and armless chairs to accommodate new arrivals. Empty instrument cases begin to pile up in the corner like cast-off cocoons.Another “A” is passed around with the conversation, intermittent twangs, plinks, and plunks sneaking up on it until each instrument is pronounced “within hollerin’ distance.”Anticipation building with excitement, the melodic strains of “Wildwood Flower” begins to emerge from somewhere…

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Key Contemplations

“I have no idea what this unlocks.” I muttered to myself as I examined the key in my hand. I had been working all morning on the tangle of keys piled on the kitchen table. Since one of my New Year’s resolutions is to organize and simplify my life, the key rack seemed to be a good place to begin. There were at least a dozen key rings. Some sported one key; others clutched up to 17—most were unlabeled. I started with the easy ones—the few that were labeled. These included keys to neighbors’ homes. We have an exchange agreement in case of emergencies and pet sitting. I put those back on the rack, along with the keys to my parents’ home. I recognized a couple of the unlabeled keys as possible extra keys to our front door. I locked the door and tried them. One work; one did not.…

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Snow Garden

I just filled out my seed order for spring planting, eighteen packets of seed for my one hundred square feet of garden space. Let’s see, I ordered sweet peas, the Early Mammoth, which will have “exceptionally beautiful, large ruffled blossoms with graceful curling tendrils.” It will climb quickly and produce “sweet-scented perfect big flowers in lovely colors.” I definitely need them to climb my white lattice trellis that canopies my white-slatted garden bench, like the picture in the catalogue. There I will sit among chintz cushions and reread Jane Austen during my leisure time on warm summer days. I also ordered lavender. “With its heady scent and gray-green foliage, lavenders make perfect landscape plants.” Barefoot, I will float through fragrant fields with the early-morning mist. Perhaps I’ll make my own lavender soaps and perfumes; at the very least, I will tie dried sprigs into tiny bundles to place among my…

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Aging is Hard Work

“Oh, would you look at that,” Della exclaimed, her face brightening with a huge appreciative smile, “Isn’t it just beautiful?!” I looked at the blank wall in the hallway where she was pointing. “What do you see, Della?” I asked. I stopped pushing her wheel chair and tried to follow her finger, my eyes straining to see what her vision had revealed to her. “See, over there in that lovely green meadow by the creek,” she persisted, “the cow and her calf--isn’t it a wonderful sight?!” I looked from the unrevealing wall to her raptured face. What she saw brought her so much joy and delight that it was contagious. I felt a smile spread over my own face. “Yes it is, Della,” I answered, “thanks for pointing it out to me. Now let’s get you down to the dining room for lunch.” On another routine day at my job…

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Boots

The boots had always been there, inside the back door at the bottom of the stairs leading to my friend’s kitchen. We all went visiting through her back door; the front door was reserved for formal visitors. No one remembered when the front door was last used. And so, after her smiling face, the boots were the next things I saw when she opened her door. Silent sentinels, worn and tired, they made no apology for their appearance. The alchemy of time had changed the composition of the soles, and they were brittle and cracked. In contrast, the high-top leather uppers had grown into soft molds of my friend’s feet and ankles. The gouges, nicks, and scrapes had not rendered them less serviceable through the years. In fact, it had been a rare day that they were not called into service. They were a tribute to the lessons taught early…

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Cereal Boxes

Maybe because it was green that it caught my attention, awakening a long-dormant emotion I had yet to identify. I continued to stare at the image on the cereal box. Imagine: a brain-shaped ball, like a small football, except that it was convoluted like a brain. The now-awakened excitement was surfacing. Wow, I could be the first kid in my neighborhood to have one! Besides, every kid knows that cereal boxes hold more magic than cereal. It was all coming back to me, like the chorus of an old summer camp song: When you hear the whistles blowing, and you see their wings of tin, you will know the Junior Birdmen have been sending their box tops in. Remember, it takes only one box top, plus 10 copper pennies, or two fat nickels, or one thin dime! Normally, I am a prudent and rational shopper. I save coupons, recycle, shop…

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Companions

Do you still fly by my window When the wind blows? I can't quite hear you and I can't yet see, But, I know you're there; I know you come.   I know you run in the morning sun; You prance and you dance; And you shout and sing— Spirits of childhood? Angels with wings?   Or, are you memories that mock me Of what is no more— Demons of glee who tap at my door, taunt me, Then hide, to laugh at my finding Nothing there?   Or, are you a part of me-- Forever young, longing To play in the Autumn sun, A part of me forever free, Forever strong and lovely, Forever one with you?   Ah, Yes! I see you now! Shimmering wings— Full of Light! Laughter! Joy Unending! I know you, my Dear Companions! Come! Take my hand; Carry me to that Promised Land!

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