I can put anything in front of her. A whirring mixer. Splattering dough. The most tempting of cookies — made with a French butter that could lure the strongest of wills. Even steaming loaves of bread. But she doesn’t look up. So engrossed in her book. Dazzled by the words on the page. And I know, but for the dress and the hair, she is me.
I don’t remember not loving it, reading. It started with the Golden Books. Books I still have sitting beside me. And so rightly named, Golden, for they were treasures indeed. I suppose it was my mother who taught me, not to break the spine. To cradle them with care. “Use two hands,” she would say. “Why?” I asked. “You’ll need the support when you crawl inside.”
So that’s the way I read. Immersed. Just like she taught me. And that’s the way I love. Deep. Just as she loved me.
I boxed up some of the Christmas cookies that I made yesterday and gave them to the neighbor kids. I held them out with both hands. Their gasps of delight went deep. I can feel my mother smiling.
We bought the wrapping paper years ago at Anthropologie. It was one of our favorite stores. The clothing. The scented candles. The “You look fabulous in that!” My mom and I could spend hours. And even when the items were too expensive, the compliments were free, and so easily given.
When we saw the artisan gift paper, we knew we had to have it. We could only afford one sheet. We cut it in two and wrapped tiny gifts for each other. The little green balls were like cheerleaders — jumping and dancing and spelling out praise with the letters of our names. I suppose we had always been that for each other — the one leading the cheers. And that’s what the paper did. Each year. We saved it for nearly twenty years. Sending it back and forth. From city to city. State to state. Country to country. I still have it. When I see the little green pompoms, I smile. I clutch my heart. The love my mother gave to me was always packaged and sent. Nothing wasted.
You won’t hear anyone say it — that it’s about the packaging. No, they’ll tell you it’s the thought that counts. The thought? Who cares? If you simply think about someone, and don’t let them know, what difference does it make? I would offer that it all needs some packaging. Some expression. Some action. Love, care, concern, joy, hope, congratulations, condolences, without the actual passing on, without the actual giving of these extraordinary gifts, aren’t they simply empty?
This year, let’s wrap everything. In smiles and hugs. In arms reaching out. Thoughts actually expressed. Let our hearts be ribboned and bowed and ever giving. Let the Christmas cheers be heard today and every day throughout the year! No thoughts wasted. No love unspent.
There must have been more of it then — the snow. I remember garage doors avalanched. Gravel buried. Yards that melded one into the other on Van Dyke Road. (Aaaaah, the great white equalizer.) And maybe it was youth, or inexperience, or lessons yet unlearned, but I don’t remember ever feeling that we wouldn’t come out from under. Even as abandoned snowmen clung to life beside Spring’s marigolds, I believed in the warmth ahead.
Perhaps it’s the reasoning for all the lights. On trees and mantles. Candles lit and windows outlined with blinks of eternal hope. I suppose we do everything to keep the warmth alive. We highlight memories. Not to relive the winter, but to point our way to summer’s embrace. To prove to our hearts, and mostly our minds (the heart is always the easier sell) that we can overcome. We can survive. And will. And WILL.
It’s ironic — this urgency to rush the winter, when it all really goes so fast. To slow it down, I remember the boots tipped over on radiators. Scarves half frozen from breathless gasps captured in the cold. And I think, what haven’t I survived? What haven’t we survived? And I gather in the light — warmed in the “out from under” — and I am saved.
We weren’t milk drinkers, so when it came to setting a treat for Santa, my mom simply put out a plate of Oreo cookies. “Won’t he be thirsty,” I asked, eating the cream out of the middle of one. “You’re right,” she said and went to fridge and grabbed a 16 ounce glass bottle of Tab.
I suppose our heroes are always formed from within. We offer love and respect in the best way we can. And when we get it right, it’s amazing. But it’s not a guarantee that it will work for everyone. People are so different. And complicated. And the gifts we have to give, might not hit the spot. What you bring today, even with the best intentions, may be as well received as Tab and Oreos. But it’s not a reason to quit. Love, with all of its faults and misgivings, is malleable (if we allow it). And if we can see the love in the trying, in the mere setting out of gifts, as crazy as some of them may seem, then I think we’ll be OK.
My friends brought with them a bag of Jelly Beans this autumn. We don’t have them in France, so it was something special. Am I a Jelly Bean lover because of my mother?Probably. The reds were her favorite. And mine too.
Still a believer, I begin decorating for Christmas. But there’s really only one visit I’m longing for. I place the tiny bowl of red Jelly Beans in front of her picture. She knew how to love me. She’s the reason I keep on offering to everyone else.
I wasn’t that close to my Aunt Mavis. There was just so many of us. You had to simply pick a few Hvezdas and go with it. When we gathered for Christmas, Grandma Elsie made sure that we each had something small to open. The certainty of her gift made it a little easier to wait as the packages were read, passed and opened. We didn’t buy for each family. There wouldn’t have been enough money or time.
I was around six years old when I received the somewhat questionable gift of red lace bloomers from Grandma, but I hugged her belly and kissed grandpa’s cheek, and returned to my mother’s lap. It was quite a surprise when one of my cousins handed me a second package. There must be some mistake, I thought, but there was my name. And the urge to question was far surpassed by the knowing of what it was. Its box shape, and heft told me that it was a book. A big book. Whoever gave this to me, must have known that I loved words on pages. The bright red Christmas paper torn open revealed a bright red cover. A giant book of Disney stories. The wonderful world of Disney. It was every Sunday night at 6pm on the only channel that we received on Van Dyke Road — right there, held in my hands. It was if Tinkerbell herself had waved the wand and released the magic.
I was holding it to my chest when she asked if I liked it. I beamed. Yes, yes, I do! She smiled, and limped back to a wooden chair in the dining room. In that moment, I wished I knew more about her than just her having a bad hip. I whispered in my mom’s ear, “It was from Aunt Navis.” My mom whispered back, “Her name is Mavis.”
I’d like to say we grew to be fast friends, but it isn’t true. I did save the book. It remains on my Christmas miracle list.
We don’t always return the gifts that we are given. Is it enough to pass them on, to others, who won’t return to you, but pass them on again? I hope so. I have to believe it. So I limp the words on the page, and maybe I give you a Christmas smile, and maybe you pass it on to the stranger on the slippery sidewalk. Maybe you hold a door, or offer a compliment. Maybe you say their name correctly, with enthusiasm, and they feel seen. And maybe, just maybe, the magic is sprinkled, and continues throughout the years.
Thank you, Aunt Mavis. You are part of my story, and it is beautiful.
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.
Perhaps my most equestrian act is pulling in the reigns of my excitement for the upcoming Christmas holiday.
I don’t take them off of my musical playlist, but for a good nine months, while painting in the studio, I skip through the Christmas songs. A few days ago, my hands covered in paint, (which is always the case so it’s not really an excuse), when Frank Sinatra declared he had in fact “heard the bells of Christmas Day,” I let it play to completion. Up on the horse, in full trot.
Visiting recently, she asked about the horse painting in the bedroom. She wasn’t sure if I was a rider. I explained my reason for painting it. She looked surprised when I began, “One of my favorite restaurants in Chicago was the RL — Ralph Lauren restaurant…” I continued the explanation. “All of the walls were covered in the warmth of these beautiful paintings and photographs. As I sat with my mom, pre-Christmas, sipping on a glass of wine after a full day of shopping on Michigan Avenue, the large horse on the wall watched over us, promising to keep the joy of Christmas alive for every year to come.” I suppose it sounds silly, but if you felt it, that warmth, if you were gathered in that love, that promise, I guarantee you would do the same — create anything to preserve it. That’s why I painted the horse.
I suppose that’s what art is, for me anyway, this preservation of warmth, love. And it’s not living in the past — I don’t want to go backwards. It’s more of a celebration. A celebration of a moment with my mother on Michigan Avenue. Or capturing the kids beachside, in a state of wonderment. Gathering in the freshness of laundry on the line — the promise of summer. Allowing the Christmas songs to remain in the playlist year round.
I guess it’s official, I have let loose the reigns. It’s time to feel it all! I walk out of the morning bedroom and proclaim — Let’s ride!
If the truth has to come at you like a ton of bricks, maybe it really isn’t the truth at all.
Grandpa Rueben didn’t say a lot, but when he did, we believed him. He was one of the hardest working people I ever knew, (other than Grandma Elsie), yet I never saw him labor with the facts. There was a quiet certainty that rose from his overalls. His right elbow raised from the table. His open hand began with the slightest of beats. Like a conductor, his rhythm held our eyes. Chosen carefully, the words, without fuss or fury, slipped into our hearts and minds and filled them.
I suppose that’s why today, if it comes at me too hard, I can’t let it in. It’s only noise. There are some who think if you say it loud enough, repeat it again and again, then it must be true. I still am of the belief that the real work has to remain in the fields. The truth, when balanced on the uneven legs of the kitchen table at day’s end, should come lightly, easily, ever without harm.
It only just occurred to me — they often say before you speak, take a beat. I smile. I see Grandpa’s hand gently keeping time, and my heart knows what’s real.
I read it every year — Maya Angelou’s An Amazing Peace. It is the manger of my Christmas decor. I don’t remember each word by heart, but the feeling, oh, the feeling that these words create — of understanding, of trial, of joy, of hope…and peace, well, they are permanently engraved in my heart. And those feelings latch on to memory and time. Of what was, what is, and what could be. And I live there, coddled in every word. Piece by piece. Peace by peace.
This is the first year that I don’t have the book beside me. It rests seven hours ahead in another country. But I am not without it. “I am not without.” I say the words slowly, truly, and perhaps learn the meaning of Christmas once more.
Isn’t it the same with love? It may not sit beside us. But we are never without. This is my truest peace. I hope you can feel it — on this joyous of days — ever.
Merry Christmas, everyone. It is amazing.
“ Peace, My Brother. Peace, My Sister. Peace, My Soul.” Maya Angelou
Before Walt Disney made him into a character, the phrase Jiminy Cricket was used as an exclamation of surprise. Of course I didn’t know it at the time, but I felt it — every time he sang us into the school movie, “I’m no fool…” he warbled, and we all, seated anxiously at our desks awaiting movie day, exclaimed under breath, “Jiminy Crickit!”
We were all hovering in uncertainty and hope in Mrs. Bergstrom’s first grade class. The snow had begun to pile up outside. Just days before Christmas vacation. Gerald Reed, the tallest boy in class, pulled down the long black shades. The movie monitor, an elected position, wheeled in the projector as we fidgeted in our seats. The click of the reel began. Jiminy Crickit sang us in, and the movie about the real Santa Claus, the true Saint Nicholas, began. A living Santa Claus, giving gifts. So he was real! All doubts instilled by older siblings and the high ranking fifth graders of Washington elementary were gone. Santa Claus did exist. Other than learning how to spell, this may have been the greatest gift Mrs. Bergstrom ever gave us — this one more year of believing.
As we drove the streets of the city last night, the lights were magnificent. One block outlit the other. Nothing but shiny hope. “Jiminy Crickit!!!” I said as we made our ways through the illumination.
Everyone in the house is asleep. Presents are unopened, but for one… I give myself the gift, once again — one more year of believing.
