Yolanda’s daughter Yoli made me this whimsical planter with succulent in it for Mother’s Day. Thank you, sweet girl!!!! I had to display it in front of this painting given to me for my birthday two years ago by my friend Glenda, and the wooden frog wanted in on the photo as well. Happy Mother’s day to all mothers and to all of the childless who are lucky enough to have friends and family willing to share their children with you. oxoxoxo
“What’s all this hoopla over eggs and animals with furry legs?” My father chortled every year, just loud enough for us to hear while we lay scheming in our beds, visions of rabbits in our heads and candy eggs and chocolate, wondering just where and what we’d be hunting in the morning, when, early and with no warning we’d descend the long back stair the earliest that we could dare and set upon the living room in the early morning gloom to satiate that yearly lust. We must have chocolate. We must!
Year after year, we slipped our gaskets seeking to fill up our baskets. Even now, that longing swells when I hear those Easter bells. So many years since I, a seedling, commenced my yearly candy wheedling.
How many days, how many nights did we anticipate delights well into our lower teens of Peeps and eggs and jelly beans. and, best of all, that chocolate rabbit became our yearly Easter habit. Sitting regally on its ass amidst the bright green Easter grass in the baskets overflowing with our coming and our going, searching out that Easter stash of candy, chocolate and cash. A dollar hidden in one nest was the very very best find of the whole Easter season, and in fact it was the reason why Easter Sunday was the best— our favorite of all the rest.
Later, to church, to sing and pray,
remembering just why this day
was celebrated, though I fear that for us, year after year there were more than one or two kids sequestered in a pew who were not thinking of the prayer, but of layer upon layer of goodies that awaited them in baskets filled up to the brim. For, though our hearts were pure and pious, they could not dispel the bias of a child’s rumbling gut yearning for more chocolate!!
This morning as I did my blog, Christina and Fred worked diligently on their music, but earlier I had awakened to find her having a great time completing a task I’d set out for her the night before. A few days before, I’d colored one of the wonderful drawings Ansley had drawn for Isidro and me in thanks for our using her and her family for the models for our newest book, “Sunup Sundown Song” and for dedicating the book to her. In the picture I’d colored, I was riding the pig, Isidro was on the goat and Ansley was on the elephant. In the one I’d left for Christina to color, I think I was standing on my hands on the surfboard, Ansley was in the water and Isidro spread out at rest on the tree, but I’ll leave it to Ansley to tell me if I was right. Her drawings were just too much fun to resist coloring them in.
Later, we had Xmas dinner and played Mexican Train, but I was too busy to remember to take photos. Our friend Gloria came to spend the day with us. A wonderful time, all-in-all.
I’m playing host this holiday. Prospects are in the air. Christine is at the table and Fred is up the stair. She’s making lovely art and he’s sawing rhythmic dreams. Everybody’s active on this Christmas morn, it seems.
The dogs are pacing jauntily. The air is crisp and still. They’re hoping I’ll give them a treat. There’s a good chance I will. The carcass of a chicken and the scraps from last night’s feast would make a lovely picnic for a canine beast.
I’m putting words together when I should be giving pats. They knock against the doorframe. They fidget on their mats. I can hear the scraping of Fred’s key in the door. It’s a human intervention. He’s advancing ‘cross the floor.
The dogs are his companions. They’re demanding my attention. Christine joins in with their demands. I give in to the tension. I’m going to have to socialize with people I can touch, and I admit it’s company I enjoy very much,
But still I had to come here to spend some time with you bloggers and Facebookers and you Tweeters, too, for daily keeping company and keeping me on track. I’m going to the real world now. Tomorrow? I’ll be back.
Fred woke up and is writing his poem, Christine got her picture colored.
Diego got his treat and Morrie got his ball thrown. All is right with the world.
I’m not dreaming of a white Christmas bedecked with tinsel and mistletoe.
That bougainvillea spilling down the wall is festive enough. Who said a Christmas had to be composed of personal memories decades old?
I like a little sand in my Christmas, good friends and not a holly sprig in sight— our memories being made, not dwelled upon.
Where was the snow in Bethlehem? On what day did Santa finally arrive, bag laden with gifts more frivolous than gold, frankincense and myrrh?*
What we celebrate at Christmas is more than anything Bing Crosby might have devised.
The warmth of friendship. Finding those things, in spite of our many differences, that are the same.
That first Christmas celebrated in the desert, there was a star. The animals were its first celebrants.
Only afterwards came those wise men who in their gifts predicted its ending.
*The three gifts had a spiritual meaning: gold as a symbol of kingship on earth, frankincense (an incense) as a symbol of deity, and myrrh (an embalming oil) as a symbol of death. This dates back to Origen in Contra Celsum: “gold, as to a king; myrrh, as to one who was mortal; and incense, as to a God.”
Who cares if it is dark and dismal and the weather is abysmal. Why don’t we leave and take a walk. We need to have a little talk. If we’re lucky we might get lost in this weather tempest-tossed and have to find a little pub to loft a glass and eat some grub.
Sure, at home the food is free, but at home is also family! Grandpa’s drunk and Grandma’s scolding. Mother’s busy triple-folding napkins into Christmas trees and worrying Aunt Beck will sneeze into the cranberries again, ‘cuz bird without them is a sin.
The kids are wrestling and biting, as usual, their acts inciting scolding mother, shouting father. I always wonder why they bother to gather every holiday? Once all the tawdry facts I weigh, I wonder why they come together every year, despite the weather.
So come on. Put your muffler on. They’ll barely notice that we’re gone. We won’t be yelled at, questioned, bossed. I’ll pay the bill, whate’er the cost. I need that extra Christmas cheer that can be purchased beer by beer, as we ponder that conundrum dumb of why, each year, we also come!