Oh, Christmas Tree...

It's that time of year, when our house starts to look for a date on which to cut down our Christmas tree.  This year we pulled out calendars through which we looked and looked, and then we discovered: Our lives are ridiculous.

The only spot the three of us could find open at the same time was a small window later on a Monday evening.  So, we withdrew the tradition of cutting down our tree, and decided we would go to the local dairy/Christmas-tree-seller in order to pick one up.

When that Monday evening arrived, we piled into the car.
We arrived at the dairy at 7:37.
We found out they stopped selling trees at 7:30.
And thus,

back into the car we went.  We drove all around town, trying to figure out where in the world we might be able to find a tree pre-cut and waiting for us.

When we ended up at Lowe's,

much to our chagrin,

we decided to choose a good attitude,

 and welcomed this little guy into our hearts.

We paid for him,

tossed him into the car,

and brought our little man home.

 We gazed at him lovingly,

and then got to work,

making him feel like he was one of us.

We decorated him right up,

right along with our other guy [while we were at it...].

We treasured the moments,

including the one tradition we didn't have to give up
[no matter the time of night].

And, when all was said and done,

we had ourselves a perfectly lovely little merry tree.

Whom now shall I choose?

One of the realities of living life is that there comes a time, every once in a while, when you have to make a life altering decision.  The kind of decision where you sit down, look at yourself, and say: It's time.  

I would argue that living life with skill means knowing when such a decision is to be made.  And that is why, over the past few weeks I have been forced to face the awful truth:  It's time for new glasses.

These faithful friends have been with me now for a while, 

guiding my way by day and by night.

They have suffered over the years--have been sat upon, spat upon, commandeered by children.  They have been super-glued, bent in inappropriate angles, fallen right off of my face.  And yet, they have never once complained.  

It is time to honor their service, and put them into retirement.  

That means that there is a hefty question set before me:  Whom shall I choose in their place?  Glasses are a commitment, as they can easily define your identity to some degree.  They are the things to greet people as you first meet, declaring elements of your personality you hadn't even thought to bring up.  

And so, I find myself at an important moment in my journey, choosing these new life partners. 

You can imagine my delight upon finding a company that sends out some trials, so that I can try them on, get to know them a bit, and make my choice wisely and well.

And, as you view the following candidates, you might also imagine the potential for fun we snapped right up:

There's these plum darlings,

 square,

somewhat large.

There's mallard green,

 not really all that different,

and large enough in order to clearly see.

 There's the rounder possibility,

 in striped sassafras

[reason enough to purchase: sass-a-fras...],

or the roundish ones,

in sandalwood matte.

And then,

[Remember the commandeering of children? 

 Well...guess what else she likes to commandeer?]

the squarish/roundish possibility, in greystone.

  The time has come: Whom now shall I choose?

Family, Stitches

Before I hit it out of town,
I stopped in for a light lunch at the retirement home.

Upon entering this room, I promptly burst into tears--suddenly, vividly, there right in front of me was the memory of one of the last times I ate lunch here while my grandfather was still alive.  It was the day I realized he was really going to die, the day I buried my face in his neck, and cried.

I cried then [and I cry now] because that man meant the world to me; I cry because his imprint is firmly on my heart.  And as we three sat at this table without him, our eyes were watery as we remembered: We miss him.

We miss him because he was ours.  He stitched us, and he is stitched into us.  And so we remember him, and so we remember to sit together, we three.  Because we're stitched together too, these women who raised me, who knew me before I knew myself.  We're a part of something bigger than ourselves, and we cannot be separated from it, even if we were to try.

And this reflection is fitting, because a while ago I had asked my grandmother to make me a baby blanket, 

which she gave me when I arrived for lunch. 

I asked because I realized that if ever I have the privilege to welcome children into my home, I want them to have a stitch from this woman who knew me first.

Whether those children be biologically attached to her or grafted into our line, I want them to have something to hold, to say: We belong, to this thing bigger than ourselves, tangible evidence that the stitching is a part of who they are, and that they cannot be separated from it without the whole thing falling apart.

For now, I will add it to the evidence that I hold,

reminding me that to be stitched in to something 

is to be made complex, beautiful, whole.    

To save us from disaster

As you may know, a good portion of my life is spent teaching little ones how to navigate this beast of an instrument.  Which means, a good portion of my life is spent shrieking: "Look at those wrists!"  The problem with little ones is that they are little; the problem with piano benches is that they are low.  And, hence, wrists and elbows and shoulders and hands get all out of whack while those little babies are learning to play.  From week to week, we find ourselves fighting a battle of hand position disaster.

My solution has long been a cushion, to bump those little bottoms just a little higher.  The problem with the cushion, however, is that it often slides to the floor.  In fact, the problem with the cushion in actuality is that often the child will slide to the floor right along with it...

And, thus, disaster is all around us.

Hence, after all the holiday festivity was over this past weekend, I enlisted my parental units to help me save the day.

Piano bumpers became our project,

and my father and I braved the frigid outdoors in order to carve up piles and piles of wood,

to great success.

We piled those boards on top of each other, 

 gluing

and drilling with great aplomb.

Then, we dragged them inside with our frozen fingers, 

for Phase 2 of saving the day.

 We enlisted the help of my hilarious mother,

 who is "a very straight cut" (or so she's been told), and proceeded to measure and cut while we chatted away.

We provided a cushion for those little bottoms,

[discovering along the way that the talent of the straight cut is not necessarily a hereditary one],

 and wrapped those bumpers up like the sturdy packages of deliverance that they promised to be.

 We worked very hard together, solving problems left and right.

And then, by the end of the night,

I was jumping up and down with glee at the excitement of those piano babies, who have been asking me for months:

"When are you gonna make those things?!"

 They're made babies, they're made--

and from disaster we are saved!

Birthday, A Treat

The birthday boy's actual day

  dawned the day after our family feast,

 so we gathered around that table again

for the best feast of all.

[It's not my birthday! Why do I get such tasty treats?!]

Then we had more time, 

 to chat,

to play.

Then, because a birthday isn't a birthday without some reminiscing of years gone by,

 Mom pulled out boxes of our childhood for us to dig through,

 full of things long forgotten,

perhaps even long longed-for.  [???]

Happy Birthday Davy-O!
Thanks for giving us a treat of a day!