It was a double whammy. I had been fighting a cold for weeks. Everyone around me was getting sick with the flu, but I had had the shot, and so far, other than mild symptoms like a slight sore throat and tiredness, I managed to keep going.
I have to admit though, the long car ride, the girls' play and the constant activity of DJ's little farm wore me out and I had to take naps. I couldn't seem to warm up either. You would think that North Carolina would offer some weather amenities, but they had gotten 4 inches of snow and the air, though mild, was chill.
Now I am paying for the privilege of seeing my girls. I lie in bed fully dressed with a warm fuzzy blanket over me. Sugar lies beside me, glancing at me from the corner of her eyes and sighing. Thank God the Library is on break hours and closes at 5. For a change, I come right home, slurp a bit of soup, then head to bed to read. Or so I thought. No reading tonight, despite the 4 volume set of new books I got for Christmas.
My eyes refuse to stay open. I feel old. Perhaps this is what "twilight years" means. Too tired to move. I don't even bother to undress. I close my eyes and drift off, not caring about anything. Sometime after I fall asleep, I know the boys will walk the dog and turn off my light. And I will not even know it. A small price to pay for sweet hugs and kisses.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Bethlehem Buried
Years ago I stumbled across a huge "village of Bethlehem" set at a SAM's Club - in the middle of July no less. The price was phenomenal - as I recall, something obscene like $20. I debated about whether to get it since I was on such a tight budget at the time and this was far from a necessity. I wandered about the store deliberating, and finally decided not to get it.
We paid for our food and I got clear to the car before my insides demanded that I go back in and buy the set. I realized that such a bargain would never come my way again, and there was only one set there. I grabbed it up, telling myself that it was a once in a lifetime deal. And indeed it was. I have never seen such a set in SAM's or Walmart's since. I have seen sets like it elsewhere in specialty shops that cost hundreds of dollars though.
It is a huge set with buildings and walls, wells and bridges, lots of people and animals. Not to mention the palm trees. Five of the buildings are lighted. There is a rug weaver's shop, a pottery shop, a synagogue, the stable (of course), complete with inn, and a carpenter's shop. There are also an oasis, a humble home, a footbridge, a well, and a broken down wall with gate to the city, all populated by people in the midst of taking care of life's business - herding cattle, driving ducks and geese, collecting eggs from chickens, carting a rug, caring for sheep, drawing water from the well, carrying straw, sawing a board - all the activities that must have kept Bethlehem humming.
Every year we set the village up on the coffee table/blanket chest. It consumes the whole top surface. I spread out a Christmas quilt Mom made me to keep the clunky nearly foot high plaster houses from scratching the wood, and move the table to within easy reach of a plug so we can light the village.
The effect is stunning, and different every year since we can alter the order of the houses and place the people in different locations. Especially at night, the soft glow of the light is quite romantic, and I wonder if Mary was as touched by what she encountered as I am. Probably not since she would have been smelling the smells, hearing the clatter and noise, scared by the unfamiliar surroundings, not to mention in labor and possibly alone and maybe very young, a girl without her Mommie!
This year, Drew set up the village. He had fun deciding where each piece ought to go. When he finished he stepped back to admire his handiwork. I agreed - it was wonderful. But as the season wore on and people got busy with activities and gift giving and end of semester crunches, the poor little village got ignored. Not only ignored, but buried in the aftermath of all the hubbub. I survey the wreckage.
Plunk in the middle of the idyllic scene stands a huge white poinsettia rescued from oblivion after the library closed. On one corner of the coffee table is a booklet of gift stickers splayed open revealing gold and silver To: and From: tags. Several half empty rolls of tape impede the progress of the wise men. A Popsicle stick with remnants of an ice cream bar has knocked a shepherd flat on his back, his hands raised as if in surrender. Crumpled receipts lay scattered about near the empty ice cream bar wrapper. A plastic grocery bag completely obscures the creche. Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus cannot see out any more than I can see in. A half open booklet of Advent devotions lies sandwiched between the manger and the rug shop.
I am shocked and saddened by the scene. Worse, I am alone. The boys are out with friends, enjoying post holiday doings. I look at Sugar and she whines and gazes at me with sad eyes. I sigh. I don't have much energy, and if I take care of this, the dishes will just have to sit. But I cannot leave Bethlehem buried. Gently I pick out the trash and junk, righting the poor shepherd and moving the plant. I brush the crumbs off the quilt and straighten the houses. Yes, that's better.
I sit for a few long moments, thinking about the story of Jesus' birth, about the events of that time that have filtered down to us. I have often wondered what Mary must have felt, what she thought and experienced. Tonight I wonder what it must have been like for Jesus. How awful and confining it must have seemed to squish eternity into the confines of flesh and blood. How painful it must have been to be unable to speak when you are in fact THE WORD. How terrible to be unable to even control you own body much less anyone else's.
I never realized that the birth experience for Jesus was as traumatic as his death experience. In fact, the birth experience, the uniting himself with humanity - that was permanent. There was no resurrection from his choice to become fully human. I have always cried about the crucifixion. Now I see that I ought to weep at the birth as well. For what he went through. Not just for the hardship on Mary and Joseph and their families. But for the incredible wrenching pain of choosing to become permanently handicapped by becoming human.
This is not romantic. I wonder if all generations since the birth of Christ have painted such a tender scene when they considered the nativity. Did the early church fathers make little manger sets and put them up every year? Was there soft romantic lighting? I suppose not. Maybe now that I have cleared the trash from my manger scene, I can think more clearly about what happened that night so long ago. I wander off to bed dreaming of the Father watching his Son who is crammed into a womb be expelled into the cold night air, hearing his screaming cries but knowing he can do nothing about them - yet.
We paid for our food and I got clear to the car before my insides demanded that I go back in and buy the set. I realized that such a bargain would never come my way again, and there was only one set there. I grabbed it up, telling myself that it was a once in a lifetime deal. And indeed it was. I have never seen such a set in SAM's or Walmart's since. I have seen sets like it elsewhere in specialty shops that cost hundreds of dollars though.
It is a huge set with buildings and walls, wells and bridges, lots of people and animals. Not to mention the palm trees. Five of the buildings are lighted. There is a rug weaver's shop, a pottery shop, a synagogue, the stable (of course), complete with inn, and a carpenter's shop. There are also an oasis, a humble home, a footbridge, a well, and a broken down wall with gate to the city, all populated by people in the midst of taking care of life's business - herding cattle, driving ducks and geese, collecting eggs from chickens, carting a rug, caring for sheep, drawing water from the well, carrying straw, sawing a board - all the activities that must have kept Bethlehem humming.
Every year we set the village up on the coffee table/blanket chest. It consumes the whole top surface. I spread out a Christmas quilt Mom made me to keep the clunky nearly foot high plaster houses from scratching the wood, and move the table to within easy reach of a plug so we can light the village.
The effect is stunning, and different every year since we can alter the order of the houses and place the people in different locations. Especially at night, the soft glow of the light is quite romantic, and I wonder if Mary was as touched by what she encountered as I am. Probably not since she would have been smelling the smells, hearing the clatter and noise, scared by the unfamiliar surroundings, not to mention in labor and possibly alone and maybe very young, a girl without her Mommie!
This year, Drew set up the village. He had fun deciding where each piece ought to go. When he finished he stepped back to admire his handiwork. I agreed - it was wonderful. But as the season wore on and people got busy with activities and gift giving and end of semester crunches, the poor little village got ignored. Not only ignored, but buried in the aftermath of all the hubbub. I survey the wreckage.
Plunk in the middle of the idyllic scene stands a huge white poinsettia rescued from oblivion after the library closed. On one corner of the coffee table is a booklet of gift stickers splayed open revealing gold and silver To: and From: tags. Several half empty rolls of tape impede the progress of the wise men. A Popsicle stick with remnants of an ice cream bar has knocked a shepherd flat on his back, his hands raised as if in surrender. Crumpled receipts lay scattered about near the empty ice cream bar wrapper. A plastic grocery bag completely obscures the creche. Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus cannot see out any more than I can see in. A half open booklet of Advent devotions lies sandwiched between the manger and the rug shop.
I am shocked and saddened by the scene. Worse, I am alone. The boys are out with friends, enjoying post holiday doings. I look at Sugar and she whines and gazes at me with sad eyes. I sigh. I don't have much energy, and if I take care of this, the dishes will just have to sit. But I cannot leave Bethlehem buried. Gently I pick out the trash and junk, righting the poor shepherd and moving the plant. I brush the crumbs off the quilt and straighten the houses. Yes, that's better.
I sit for a few long moments, thinking about the story of Jesus' birth, about the events of that time that have filtered down to us. I have often wondered what Mary must have felt, what she thought and experienced. Tonight I wonder what it must have been like for Jesus. How awful and confining it must have seemed to squish eternity into the confines of flesh and blood. How painful it must have been to be unable to speak when you are in fact THE WORD. How terrible to be unable to even control you own body much less anyone else's.
I never realized that the birth experience for Jesus was as traumatic as his death experience. In fact, the birth experience, the uniting himself with humanity - that was permanent. There was no resurrection from his choice to become fully human. I have always cried about the crucifixion. Now I see that I ought to weep at the birth as well. For what he went through. Not just for the hardship on Mary and Joseph and their families. But for the incredible wrenching pain of choosing to become permanently handicapped by becoming human.
This is not romantic. I wonder if all generations since the birth of Christ have painted such a tender scene when they considered the nativity. Did the early church fathers make little manger sets and put them up every year? Was there soft romantic lighting? I suppose not. Maybe now that I have cleared the trash from my manger scene, I can think more clearly about what happened that night so long ago. I wander off to bed dreaming of the Father watching his Son who is crammed into a womb be expelled into the cold night air, hearing his screaming cries but knowing he can do nothing about them - yet.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Half Cent New Year's Day
Even though we put our Christmas tree up on Christmas Eve, it always came down on New Year's Day. Perhaps because the trees dried out so quickly in the hot air heat system we had, perhaps because Mom was ready to move on with life. Whatever the reason, we undecorated the tree in the morning while the parades played on the television (and I mean the black and white little square box of a thing that was often fuzzy and out of focus).
Strands of tinsel floated everywhere, and Mom did her best to vacuum up all the dead needles and tinsel and broken branches without sucking any ornaments into the canister. All the while we were cleaning up the living room and parlor, the ham was cooking in the oven. Mom always basted the outside of the bone ham shank with brown sugar, cloves, pineapple and maraschino cherries in a checkerboard pattern. The tantalizing sugary smell made your mouth water.
I loved watching the parades, hearing the marching bands, seeing the floats and balloons, watching the TV personalities explain all the work that went into the floats, all the various flowers, how long it took to put together, what drove the floats. It was fascinating. I didn't even touch my Barbie dolls while the parades were on.
By the time dinner was ready - complete with sweet potatoes and veggies and rolls and pickles and olives (black and green) and all the fixin's, Gramma and Grampa would show up in the red truck, toting more goodies including nuts and dried fruits and pies and other tempting treats.
We gathered around the huge dining room table with all the leaves and extensions added, the good turkey pattern china with the special salt and pepper shakers, the milk and creamer bowls, the real silverware, the candles, the cloth tablecloth, the folded napkins and the hand decorated place namecards.
We stood behind the chairs, held hands, and said grace - and not the mindless "God is great, God is good and we thank Him for this food." but one of my Dad's special official preacher-type prayers chock full of "thee's" and "thou's."
I always tried to sit near either Gram or Gramp. Sometimes Grampa would measure hands with me to see how much I'd grown. He would hold his hand up, the one with the short finger (he had lost the top part in a work accident), and I would hold my hand up, and he would grin and whistle and exclaim at how much I had grown. I ate it up. He would pile the food on my plate and then egg me on to eat more and more, yakking about strong bones and healthy muscles.
After we ate, the men adjourned to the living room to digest their meal while we women (and of course, as the eldest daughter, I was included) would make our way to the kitchen to address the carnage. Mom usually washed and Gram dried and we girls fed the dishpan - and in a particular order, thank you.
Glasses first, then silverware, then tea cups and saucers, then salad plates followed by dinner plates and dessert dishes and serving dishes. Last would be the pans. Always wash the least dirty items first so your dish water lasts longer. This would be at least a three sink draw. Maybe four. Sometimes we had two dish dryers whipping through towels at lightning speed, staying just a half step behind the dish washer.
At last, the counters and stove would be wiped down, the floor swept, the food tucked away in the fridge, and order regained in command central. Then and only then would we wander exhausted into the living room and join the men who were engaged in napping or light conversation. What peace reigned as we sat together, saying nothing in particular, just being together. No one felt much like doing anything.
There we stayed until darkness blotted out the windows and we had to consider maybe a bit of Jello or a small sandwich of leftovers before Gram and Gramp headed home and we made our way up to our rooms and into our flannel jammies. It was a great way to begin a year.
I miss them, my family who are no longer here to sit around the table with me. - Gram Appleby who patted her husband and affectionately called him "Hub," and Grampa Appleby who was a mechanic and worked once at the Watervliet arsenal making canons. And more recently, Dad who no longer carves the meat and relishes the dates and figs.
Now, I am the Gramma who drives over to spend the day with my sweethearts. It is just the way of life.
Strands of tinsel floated everywhere, and Mom did her best to vacuum up all the dead needles and tinsel and broken branches without sucking any ornaments into the canister. All the while we were cleaning up the living room and parlor, the ham was cooking in the oven. Mom always basted the outside of the bone ham shank with brown sugar, cloves, pineapple and maraschino cherries in a checkerboard pattern. The tantalizing sugary smell made your mouth water.
I loved watching the parades, hearing the marching bands, seeing the floats and balloons, watching the TV personalities explain all the work that went into the floats, all the various flowers, how long it took to put together, what drove the floats. It was fascinating. I didn't even touch my Barbie dolls while the parades were on.
By the time dinner was ready - complete with sweet potatoes and veggies and rolls and pickles and olives (black and green) and all the fixin's, Gramma and Grampa would show up in the red truck, toting more goodies including nuts and dried fruits and pies and other tempting treats.
We gathered around the huge dining room table with all the leaves and extensions added, the good turkey pattern china with the special salt and pepper shakers, the milk and creamer bowls, the real silverware, the candles, the cloth tablecloth, the folded napkins and the hand decorated place namecards.
We stood behind the chairs, held hands, and said grace - and not the mindless "God is great, God is good and we thank Him for this food." but one of my Dad's special official preacher-type prayers chock full of "thee's" and "thou's."
I always tried to sit near either Gram or Gramp. Sometimes Grampa would measure hands with me to see how much I'd grown. He would hold his hand up, the one with the short finger (he had lost the top part in a work accident), and I would hold my hand up, and he would grin and whistle and exclaim at how much I had grown. I ate it up. He would pile the food on my plate and then egg me on to eat more and more, yakking about strong bones and healthy muscles.
After we ate, the men adjourned to the living room to digest their meal while we women (and of course, as the eldest daughter, I was included) would make our way to the kitchen to address the carnage. Mom usually washed and Gram dried and we girls fed the dishpan - and in a particular order, thank you.
Glasses first, then silverware, then tea cups and saucers, then salad plates followed by dinner plates and dessert dishes and serving dishes. Last would be the pans. Always wash the least dirty items first so your dish water lasts longer. This would be at least a three sink draw. Maybe four. Sometimes we had two dish dryers whipping through towels at lightning speed, staying just a half step behind the dish washer.
At last, the counters and stove would be wiped down, the floor swept, the food tucked away in the fridge, and order regained in command central. Then and only then would we wander exhausted into the living room and join the men who were engaged in napping or light conversation. What peace reigned as we sat together, saying nothing in particular, just being together. No one felt much like doing anything.
There we stayed until darkness blotted out the windows and we had to consider maybe a bit of Jello or a small sandwich of leftovers before Gram and Gramp headed home and we made our way up to our rooms and into our flannel jammies. It was a great way to begin a year.
I miss them, my family who are no longer here to sit around the table with me. - Gram Appleby who patted her husband and affectionately called him "Hub," and Grampa Appleby who was a mechanic and worked once at the Watervliet arsenal making canons. And more recently, Dad who no longer carves the meat and relishes the dates and figs.
Now, I am the Gramma who drives over to spend the day with my sweethearts. It is just the way of life.
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