Merry Christmas Eve

This season has come too soon; the Christmas decorations, covering stores since before Thanksgiving, were so long ignored they ceased to register, carols were hummed but not digested, Christmas presents were left unsought until days before, and a grocery store bagger’s holiday greeting met a blank stare. Those decorations and carols are trappings, of course, string and glitter that can no more hold us together than December winds can drive us apart, but those trappings make a visceral impression I carry throughout the years.

I remember childhood Christmas Eves: long goodbyes at Granny’s house while I feared missing Santa Claus, belly full of potatoes and pies, counting the minutes until I could climb out of bed, the smell of oranges in my Christmas stocking and the turkey in to roast, and crawling into bed with my siblings, nestled beside Momma as she read The Night Before Christmas. Our copy of the poem was a pop-up book, similar to the one mentioned in Shelf Unbound’s childhood remembrances, and we each turned the wheels and slid the tabs to make sugarplums dance and Santa rise from the chimney. Those traditions altered as we grew and our family changed, but the memories are treasured.

Each tradition, whether decorating the tree, lighting the candles, or sitting down to a family dinner, holds the meanings amassed over holidays past and creates a frisson of excitement today. After spent wrapping paper is gathered up, broken toys are interred in landfills, and our time passes, we leave traditions for our loved ones and the memories they recall.  As I begin final preparations and settle in to the holiday, I need to pause, to laugh at the sweet potatoes splattered on the ceiling and the tree boughs bared by the cat, to share a moment and create a new memory, because the cooking and decorating and reading are traditions for my family, and our joy and love become the patina absence cannot tarnish.    

Yes, We Can Can

I had a post in mind all weekend.  I really did.  Scout's honor.  But then we had today off and a kitchen full of produce from my family's farm, and I wanted to try my hand at canning.

My grandmother canned food when I was a young girl.  Rows of snaps, butter beans, preserves, and pickles filled her spare bedroom.  In many ways, she was the most self-sufficient person I've known.  And I've always wanted to emulate that quality.

But I don't think I ever will.  My grandmother lived in a different culture, one that dictated her role as keeper of the house who raised and stored the family's food with little help.  My dad, sister, and brother raised the 25 pounds of tomatoes that went into the tomato sauce.  My mom was on the other end of the helpline and walked me through the process.  My husband and I worked together to core and slice and puree and drain and simmer and can.  Self-sufficiency is great, but it isn't dictated for me like it was for her.  I didn't realize that until today.

So I look at the few cans of tomato sauce cooling and I see a bit of magic a family made.  No one did it alone.  Yet, I can still say I satisfied my longing, experienced a rite of passage, and made a conscious effort to maintain my heritage, and it happened much sooner than I expected.  That is what happens when we don't go it alone.

  

Weekend Magic: Back to My Roots

The husband and I enjoyed a sunny Easter weekend back home with family. My sister Kimberly and I dug up daffodils and daylilies from the edge of Grandma’s yard to transplant to the flower bed here in Richmond. In Grandma’s yard the brick borders have fallen and lay covered in weeds, but working in her garden brought back memories I hadn’t thought of in years. I remembered childhood afternoons spent playing among the irises and hyacinths while Grandma created Eden inside brick borders.

My family has lived in our small town for about seven generations, a time spanning over two hundred years, and my parents' farm has been in the family about a century. It is our place. We see our ancestors as clearly in the creeks and fields as we do in the old portraits Kimberly and I found in Grandma’s spare bedroom. Are you rooted in a place? What about it draws you? Would you be the same person if it wasn’t for that place?