Not a very Christmasy Christmas Post

A Bah Humbug

This is a bit unlike me. This might be the closest thing to a political post I’ll ever have on this blog. I love Christmas . . . it’s certainly my favorite holiday. And I’m loving my first married Christmas. But I just had to share.

If you’re enjoying the warm fuzzies of the holidays and want to hold on to them, you might want to stop reading and wait for my next post, which, I’m sure, will be a whole lot more jolly.

Without going into a whole long rant over things that people normally complain about during this time of year, let me simply share with you a few images from my Christmas season so far.

One. I was driving to work this morning when I looked over at the car next to me to see that the driver was wearing a Santa hat. “How nice,” I thought. Someone in the spirit of the season. Then I got closer and saw a cigarette hanging from his mouth. There was something very ugly and very wrong about that.

Two. I was finishing my Christmas cards the other night when I had to ask myself when wrapping and decorating and Christmas cards became something to “get done” rather than to enjoy. Don’t we all (well, the women, at least) have lists of things to “get done” before the holidays and complain that they’re coming too quickly?

Three. Last week sometime, I was listening to my Christian radio station, enjoying some Christmas music, when one of the DJs announced that she was going to read a heartwarming and touching email she received from a friend . . . and, of course, it turned out to be one of those sappy forwards that we all get . . . all too frequently. “Lord, let me remember that the person who cut me off in traffic might be a single mom who is rushing home to make dinner for her children, help them with their homework, and spend some precious moments with them before they go to bed. . . Lord, help me remember . . .” Ick. I can’t go on. Lord, help me remember why I listen to that station.

Somehow, what irritates me more than anything else about the holiday season (more than the commercialism, the way people spell it “x-mas,” and the crowds of hassled and rude people) are the reminders we get of the “reason for the season” (does that phrase make anyone else gag?) – are we really so stupid that we need watered down versions of real messages? Do these things really help? Because, I can tell you, when someone cuts me off in traffic, I don’t really care where she’s going (although I usually have a suggestion).

With all this in mind, I’ll share a poem that has stuck with me since I studied it in college. I guarantee you’ll never find this on a Hallmark card. It pretty much sums up the “reason for the season.” And yes, it lays on a pretty heavy coat of guilt, but, after all, this is Robert Southwell . . .

THE BURNING BABE.
By Robert Southwell

As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear;
Who, scorchëd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.
"Alas," quoth he, "but newly born in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I.
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defilëd souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood."
With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I callëd unto mind that it was Christmas day.

Ok. So, sorry for the unusually bitter post. I’m sure after another cup of egg nog, I’ll feel just fine . . .

For Bourbie

We have lost a dear member of our family, our beautiful dog, Bourbon. Bourbon had been Steve’s family’s dog for fifteen years. She came to live with us in May when we moved into our home, and though she was fading, she still had a lot of life and a lot of love in her.
Steve’s family has shared many memories of Bourbon with me, from her puppyhood forward. She was dear to them, as they were to her. I first met Bourbon on my first date with Steve, and I think I loved her even before I loved him. Over the past four years, she and I grew very close, and she was a sweet, gentle, and intelligent friend. I will always remember the evenings she kept me company while Steve was in class, the times she stole my food (particularly the egg roll she nabbed right off my plate once), and our (slow) walks around our new neighborhood after my surgery this past summer. My family loved her, too. She stayed with my parents a couple times while Steve and I were traveling, and she shared many family dinners at their house with us. She quickly found out that I wasn’t the only pushover when it came to sharing food, but anyone related to me was a pushover as well. Most of all, I will remember how much she loved all of us, and how we could see her love in her eyes.
On November 30th, she began to fade faster, and we had to give her up. It was difficult for all of us, and it has been hard to grow accustomed to life without her. We will all miss her. She was an angel.


"Until one has loved an animal a part of one's soul remains unawakened."
Anatole France

"We give dogs time we can spare, space we can spare and love we can spare.
And in return, dogs give us their all.
It's the best deal man has ever made." M.Facklam

Dangerous Crossing

Warning: Hula-Hooper Crossing!

Maybe not the best, but still a fine example of culture jamming, this appears in Virginia Kendall park near the Octagon. We thought it was so funny when we saw it a few months ago that we went back to take pictures.

That's better . . .

Goodbye Autumn

What a lovely autumn this was! I’m sad to see it go. Even with my annual bout with bronchitis, I was still able to experience the delights of the season – the occasional whif of dying leaves through my congested sinuses – that distinct crispness that makes me smile no matter what. The cool air in the evenings. The crunch of the leaves underfoot on walks with my husband. And, call me crazy, but I just love carving pumpkins; I love digging my fingers into the goop inside and smelling that rich smell of pulp, then, of course, toasting the seeds.

I traced fall’s gait in the brilliantly colored trees just outside my entrance into work, which greeted me every morning. First, they only had a bit of red on the edges and were still a dark green in the middle. Gradually, the red grew and the tree caught fire. Finally, though, after a blustery weekend, the trees that greeted me Monday morning looked much more naked, but were still proud and holding on to those last few leaves. Now the wind comes stronger and the rain is heavier, and the forecast says snow in a couple of days.

Fall is all too short, but it remains the season that makes me happiest. This autumn was particularly special, with our wedding in September and us settling into our new home. There was something about the cool air and the dim golden light at dusk that always made the house seem that much cozier.

Our first fall in our new home also brought other firsts. It was the first Halloween that we could pass out candy from a front door that was our own, and even though it didn’t quite live up to the Romantic concept I had in my mind, I loved it. Candy shopping was a bit of a challenge; I guess I was a bit late, and some of the stores had already begun to stock . . . gasp . . . Christmas stuff. (I could go on, but I’ll save that for another post.) Then I filled my Disney Villain ice bucket (the Evil Queen always points outward when displayed – she is, after all, The Best Villain Ever), put away my own private stash of candy (at least I know Steve will leave it alone) lit the candles in the pumpkins on the porch, turned the porch light on, and waited. I imagine I looked like a toddler on Christmas morning, standing on tiptoe to peep out the windows in our front door for the first visitors. I didn’t have to wait long; they started to come early. We saw many little Batmen, Darth Vaders, and princesses. One little girl, probably about four, explained when I opened the door for her, in a voice that was both exasperated and matter-of-fact beyond her years, "I can’t reach your doorbell." She was still stretching for it when I dropped a Kit Kat into her bucket. I gave her a DumDum sucker, too, because I liked her so much; it was little ones like her who were my favorites. I realized that, while there weren’t many like her, weren’t many who said both "Trick-or-Treat" and "thank you," weren’t many who seemed to enjoy the getting of the candy as much as the candy itself, it was the ones like her that made it worth it – even when I had to dip into my private stash when the ice bucket was empty.

Steve and I also got to vote together for the first time, finally living in the same district. We drove the whole minute and a half down to the park lodge that was named on my little voting card. There, walking in, I was reminded that voting is so important, so responsible, so . . . quaint. The lodge smelled like the kindling stacked next to the fireplace, and also a bit like my grandmother’s house. Nice little old ladies asked for our names and directed us into curtained booths, where, carefully and responsibly, we cast our votes. Then said little old ladies dropped our punched ballots, sans hanging chads (which we had dutifully removed per the sign inside the booth), into locking boxes . . . that were unlocked. We at once felt both proud of ourselves for having done our civic duty and sadly pedestrian.

In honor of the passing season, I was going to attach some photographs that I took a few weeks ago when Steve and I went apple picking, but I'm having technical difficulties. But apple pictures will be posted as soon as I figure out what's going wrong. But in the meantime . . . anyone want a pie? I have plenty of apples left . . .

Mini Review: Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife

I had heard of this and found it among the books on cd at the library. I’m always been a little leery of audio books because they are abridged, but sometimes I get one when I don’t think I’ll have time to actually read the book. So, instead of curling up with it in bed, I listen as I drive to and from work. So, I usually look for floofy books that won’t get me so involved that I’ll steer off the road, and that won’t make me ashamed that I didn’t actually read the book.

Something about this book – I think (I’m embarrassed) it was the cover – made me think it was floofy. It turned out to be quite intelligent and beautiful. In fact, I had to take the last disk into work to finish it because I was so entranced I couldn’t wait for the drive home.

Henry is a time-traveler; Clare is his wife. They first meet when she is a child and he visits her from the future. They marry when the meet in the "present" and the story of their lives together is told, skillfully, in the scattered moments they share when he travels to her, and in the longer moments while he’s not travelling. It’s not science fiction; it’s an absorbing and poignant love story.

It’s a gorgeous story, and certainly worth reading (or listening to). The audio book has two voices, one for Henry and one for Clare. Easy and enjoyable listening. I think I might pick up the print version so I can actually read it next time . . .

And now a word . . .

If you haven’t discovered Il Divo yet, it’s time. I just got their new Christmas album, and it’s amazing. Their first (self-titled) cd is one of my favorites. They sing like angels. I don’t believe they’re human . . .

Mrs.

Last Monday, Steve and I made it to our one month anniversary – though Steve insists there is no such thing. I say it’s a "monthaversary", but he seems to think that if we have to make up a word for it, it’s not real. I don’t care. I’m just looking forward to our second monthaversary.

Married life is wonderful! While I don’t think either one of us felt any different at first (I remember muttering, as "Ode to Joy" surged for our recessional, "I don't feel any different. When will I feel different?), I think we are settling in and getting used to the idea that we are married! (Nothing brings it home like seeing the ring on his finger.) We have made a home for ourselves, and it is a true comfort to just be together there – to just be. We don’t even have to be doing anything in particular – just watching a movie or cooking dinner together – no matter what, we feel like we are home. But this isn’t a surprise. Steve told me before the wedding that we’ve had this strong a relationship for quite a while. We certainly felt married – united and committed – long before our wedding. It is a beautiful idea, and one I agree with wholeheartedly.

I am still wrestling with the reality of my new last name . . . I’m slowly getting it changed officially, but I still write and say my old name sometimes out of habit. It’s so hard to get used to the new one! I’ve changed it on a few things at work, ordered my new ssn card (two last names, sans hyphen), and made a surprisingly painless visit to the BMV for my new driver’s license. I imagine my new name written on a page with branches coming from it as the name spreads over my existence. Men are so lucky.

Before the wedding, the house was the victim of a flurry of planning activity. Now, it has quieted but has the remains of the wedding and reception lying about. The gifts are all unwrapped, sitting in our living room waiting to be put away. At least I was able to get rid of all the wrapping paper, much to George’s disappointment.

I know a few of you are wondering where all the pictures are. Stay tuned. I will soon have some posted, as well as more on the adventures and misadventures of Sir George. Every day is an adventure!

Come In

"If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer . . .
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire,
For we have some flax golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!"
~Shel Silverstein


Welcome to my One Little Room, an exploration of my everywhere, inhabited by my husband, my friends, my family, and a menagerie of pets. The walls are covered with pictures, and the bookshelves are stacked to overflowing. There are a couple unfinished crochet projects tucked into the corner, and if you look closely, you’re likely to find some orange cat hairs here and there. The fire will keep you warm, as we curl up in the big comfy chairs, listen to the mingling of voices, and watch the crossing of many paths and personalities, tastes and desires. I hope you enjoy exploring with me.

What does your everywhere look like?

Here is a website worthy of note: I stumbled upon this website in my search for the poem above, http://shelsilverstein.com. Mr. Silverstein has been one of my favorite poets ever since I was old enough to read, and possibly even before.