I don’t know how many times I sang the song, “I wish I had a river…” Joni Mitchell was a staple in our house, so when it was “coming on Christmas,” she was on repeat. How many wishes did I make for that river, a river so long that I could skate away on, before I even knew what it would mean?
It wasn’t a river where I learned to skate. In fact it was a pond. Noonan’s Pond. And by “learned” I mean, fell and broke my arm. (Maybe that’s where all lessons are learned, in the falling.) All of my summers were spent attempting to fly. From diving boards to bicycle wheels, I was certain that my feet could leave the ground. It was no different with the change in weather. When the lakes ponds and froze over, I was certain, it was simply another way to take flight.
I wore my full plastered arm, like a badge of courage. Every fifth grader celebrated the attempt. All knowing, valuing, what that breeze felt like underfoot.
The needles are already falling from our tree on this sacred eve. But it’s ok. I learned it long ago on the ice. I learn it daily, simply loving. All the rivers to cross. There will be so many stumbles and falls, and letting ins and letting gos…all breezes under our hearts, under our feet, this love teaches us daily, how to fly.
We used to play croquet. Lawn darts. Frisbee. We’d throw or knock almost anything around the lawn on a Sunday afternoon. But it was horseshoes that my mother loved. That may surprise you. She, always so elegant. Bloused without a wrinkle. Creamed without a wrinkle. But once her church clothes were hung, folded. Her shoes put back in the original box. Her jewelry in the dresser. We would play. And she was good. Leaners. Ringers. She could really do it! And maybe it was the unexpected that added to the joy. This letting go. This letting fly. Tossing and clanking every “should have” and every “supposed to”.
Walking through Centennial Lakes park, I see them playing croquet and mini golf. Pedaling big ducks on the water. Not to win. Not to get anywhere, but just to be! The freedom of play. And I think, wouldn’t it be great if we allowed this for everyone. Allowed people to not just be one thing. Didn’t put them in a box. Label them. That if they had one thought, they could only have that thought.
I don’t want to be contained. I can still hear the mantra of the Stevie Nicks 45 that my mother played again and again, “Leather and Lace.” It could have easily been ruffles and horseshoes.
This trip I have shopped at the finest stores in the Galleria. I have thrifted at the Goodwills. Joy is everywhere. Not to be contained. I, we, can toss and clank the “rules,” and just enjoy!
It wasn’t that hard to piece together. I saw the publisher’s clearing house magazines open on the table, and the presents piling up under the tree. I was bursting with knowledge when my mother came to pick me up from Grandma Elsie’s house. “I know the truth about Santa Claus.” I told my mom while putting on my seat belt for the car ride home. “Oh,” she said, not sure of what my truth would be. “I know Grandma orders the presents and puts them under the tree.” My mom smiled, thinking I knew that all grandparents and parents did the same. But somehow she managed to contain her laughter when I pronounced, (not that Santa wasn’t real) but that I knew it was actually Grandma who was the real Santa Claus, for everyone.
I wish I could tell you the depths of my pride. I knew Grandma Elsie was special, but this, this was really something. To think it was my Grandma who brought presents to the entire world. If I had begun to question the existence of an actual Santa Claus — the ability of one person to pull off such a feat, I can tell you that all doubts subsided. Because if anyone could do it, it would be Grandma Elsie.
The roads were already covered in snow. My mom pulled the Chevy Impala into our driveway between the two drifts. I was staring out the picture windows. But for the snow illuminating the winter’s dark, I never would have seen it. But there it was — a streak of red. Santa was running across Van Dyke Road! My mom heard my screams of delight, but came just after the blur. “What?” She said. “I saw Grandma running across the road!”
We never found out who actually donned the suit and ran on our snowy road. So I can’t completely rule out that it wasn’t Grandma Elsie. If you ask me when I stopped believing, I would have to tell you, not yet.
I often wonder if my Grandma knows that I’m here. What my life is like now. But then I saw her yesterday in Marseille. I sat beside her in the magic of Christmas.
