No Eye Deer

I don’t think I know one single woman who can tell a joke. Most men can’t tell them either but they don’t seem to realize it. In my earlier days, I remember standing mute, drink in hand, while some fool monopolized the conversation with a long drawn out story beginning with “Did you hear the one about…?” That doesn’t seem to happen to me any more, but I don’t think it’s because men have stopped telling jokes.  Instead, it seems to be based on a confluence of two things: one, I no longer frequent cocktail parties, and two, I no longer hang out with all that many men.

To me, the funniest stories are the true ones about real people doing stupid things, especially when I know the people doing the stupid things. For example, I love the story about my friend, Cindy, who, when she saw an errant shopping cart heading down the street toward her car, she honked at it. Or the one my ex tells about visiting a small-town doctor’s office as a pharmaceutical rep and sitting for quite a while in the waiting room, being eyed by the patients as they all viewed Jerry Springer via their peripheral vision on the mounted TV in the corner. That was until one of the patients asked the other patient sitting next to him on the naugahyde couch, “Hey Myrtle, didn’t this used to be a doctor’s office before we moved in here?”

I also like the stories where I’m the one doing the stupid things. For example, there was the time my daughter, Melissa, who was about eight, talked me into taking her to the only movie Rick Springfield ever made. As we were walking down the aisle of the theater, I spotted the cute little blond who was our dental hygienist. Since I was a busy multi-tasking mom with little time to spare, I dragged poor Melissa down to the cute little blond dental hygienist and then stuck my fingers into poor Melissa’s mouth so I could show the hygienist the weird things Melissa’s teeth were doing. It turned out the cute blond dental hygienist was, instead, the cute blond lifeguard at our neighborhood pool, a girl who knew nothing about teeth and wasn’t all that interested in looking in my daughter's mouth. She was, instead, quite interested in backing up as I came honed in on her, dragging my slobbering child teeth first with my soggy fingers.

Back to jokes, which I generally don't like and can't remember.  I do, however, recall a few jokes and they are all dirty.  The first joke I remember was from Junior High.  I won't relate the joke itself as it's enough to know that the main character was someone named Johnny F^*kerfaster.

Then there's the joke my father-in-law told me just after I married  his son.  My father-in-law was a small-town doctor, esteemed, no, I should say beloved, by all who knew him.  So it would have to be said that he was a stand up guy in all ways, but that didn't stop him from telling me this joke about the female Hell's Angel who was being interviewed by a newscaster.  The joke goes like this:

Newscaster: Have you ever been picked up by the fuzz?

Hell's Angel woman:  No, but I've been thrown around by the tits a few times.

And then there's this one about when Tarzan first met Jane.

Tarzan:  What name?

Jane: Name Jane

Tarzan:  What whole name?

Jane:  Hole name Pussy.

And here's my last joke.  No, don't walk away to refill your glass.  This one is really good.

What do you call a blind deer?  No eye deer.

What do you call a paralyzed blind deer?  Still no eye deer.

What do you call a paralyzed blind deer with no sexual organs?  Still no f^*king eye deer.

Get it?

The Electrocution of the Bookworm

The bookworm has been electrocuted, but don't be sad. There's a happy ending.

At my request, my brother gave me a Kindle for Christmas and I have to say I like it better than I thought I would. I was intrigued with the notion of an electric book but withheld judgment, waiting to see if it would do the reading trick for me, and so far, it has.

My only problem centers on heft. The Kindle is pretty light weight, which is good. The heft problem has to do with the fact that I apparently gauge the length of a book by its weight and girth, not to mention the number of pages. My Kindle doesn’t give me page numbers and it weighs the same, whether I’m reading War and Peace or a memoir by someone who hasn’t yet lived very long. It does give me the percentage of what I’ve read. For example, my Kindle will have something like 38% written at the bottom of the screen. But percentage of what? Thirty-eight percent of 200 pages or 1000? So, what happens is I’ll be barreling along, happy as that legendary worm eating its way through a real paper and ink book, when all of a sudden, I’m at the end. Okay, the climax was there and the ending was satisfactory and the little percentage sign did say 98, but I’m still nonplussed and undone, and that’s because I couldn’t count the number of pages I had left as I was moving along.

Who would have thought, when I was a little girl, that I would someday read an electric book? I remember hearing about how, one day, we would be able to see the people we talk to on the phone.  This has obviously already happened with Skype and that latest IPhoney thing. I also remember laughing about the notion of smellivision, technology which would enable us to actually smell what Mrs. Cleaver and Aunt Bee were baking in their cozy kitchens.

But an electric book! Who could have envisioned such a thing and why would anyone want one?

I've been a reader almost as far back as I can remember. I recall sitting in the back seat of my parents' car, book in lap, knowing I could read. I like to think I was somewhere around four, but it may have been later. I do remember it was after second grade  when I finished one of my brother's Hardy Boys books, which was too hard for me to fully enjoy, but I still took great pride in my feat.  And then there was the great joy I had as a child, which emanated from my being able to eat the occasional sandwich meal, not with my family around the dining table, but while lying in my bed with a book as my dinner companion.

Other reading memories as a child include:

• 365 Bedtime Stories.  I read this book for years, even when I was too old for it.  My kids have tried to find it to give me as a gift, but, so far, no luck.
• The Secret Garden.
• Those biographies of famous people with the silhouettes on the front cover.  I only read the girl ones: Martha Washington, Clara Barton, Juliette Low.
• Trixie Belden.  I loved Trixie and Honey and the Gang and so wanted something exciting like that to happen in my life.
• The Diary of Anne Frank. Whatever goodness I have in me was bolstered by reading this book at a relatively young age.
• Lost Horizon.  I don't remember how old I was when I read this one but I knew it was one of my mother's favorite books and it became one of mine too.
• Born Free.  My mother actually read this book to me when I was about ten and we spent the summer at my grandparents' house in Phoenix.

In fact, many of of my childhood memories have to do with reading, coming back from the old Savannah Public Library on Bull Street with a load of books, picking through them, deciding which one I would read first.  I was a child who lived a dual reality, one of my own making and the other based on whatever book I was reading.  I could say the same about my adult life, a life made richer by the books I've read. 

And so, I think I'll juice up the Kindle and browse my digital stacks to figure out what I'll read next.  It's nice not to have to make my way to the bookstore or the public library.

But wait, I just found my mother's copy of Lost Horizon, all dusty and forlorn on a bookshelf.  I think I'll pick it up, and read it again.  It feels good in my hands; not too light, not too heavy and it has just a right number of pages. 

Make-Do Manor: The Land of Misfit Crafts

The other day, Molly and I were talking and, as is often the case, the TV show, Hoarders, came up. Now, Molly and I spend a good bit of time assuring ourselves that, despite our poor housekeeping, we are not hoarders. In this particular conversation, we agreed that we couldn’t possibly be hoarders because we don’t like to shop.

However, as I was talking, I looked around my living room and, in doing so, I had to  remind myself  that I can’t seem to get rid of anything that I have glued, snipped, sewn, or thrown. And the worst news is that I give away or sell the good stuff. It’s the failures that I keep and use in my home décor.

Some examples:

On my kitchen floor sit two bowls I made when I was part of a pottery class. One of the bowls was so ugly, I went back and tried gluing small ceramic tiles to it. The bowls are on the floor because I use them for my cat’s water. My cat has been dead for two years.

Hanging on my living room wall are two purses I created during my obsessive purse-making stage. Apparently they are hanging next to my front entry in case I need an ugly purse in a hurry on my way out the door.

Speaking of purses, I have two that I knitted (in my knitting era) hanging next to my computer desk in case I want to put my computer in a knitted purse, I guess.

Just recently, I’ve discovered the craft of making flowers out of organza circles. The best thing about them is that you burn the edges of the circles with a candle, which gives them somewhat of a last year's prom corsage look. I gave a few away to the very tolerant people with whom I work, but, alas, the others are now adorning a couple of my lamps and one ceiling light fixture.

Oh dear, I almost forgot my pillow-making phase.  About ten years ago, I made pillows out of reclaimed tea towels and table cloths.  I'm proud to say that I sold quite a few of them.  However, the leftovers are with me to this day, still attached to their little tags, in case somebody stops by and wants to buy one.

Finally, there's the wire angel on a shelf near me and the three pound pitcher I made out of clay sitting on my desk.  I remember my pot-throwing instructor telling me that you can tell the worth of pottery by how light it is.  Speaking of the worth of pottery, I also remember offering Molly one of my creations as a gift.  I told her she could choose and she did.  She chose the one piece not made by me.

And so, I make do with what's left, fashioning my own unique style and living in the luxury of my own creation.

Snow Day!

Today is a snow day for many of the Georgia schools and the hocus pocus that led up to this wonderful occurrence was almost epidemic, what with the flushing of ice cubes down toilets and wearing PJs inside out and backwards for good blizzard karma. Some prayed to the snow gods and others promised the Real God better behavior if they could just have this One Day.

And if you think I’m talking about kids here, you're wrong. I’m talking about the teachers.

Teaching school isn’t a glamorous job. After all, we work with children and working with children, while often fun and entertaining, isn’t something that you hear about on E!. I can’t imagine Lindsey Lohan doing it or even George Clooney (although I wish he would and that he would do it at my school). The pay is okay and the holidays are a bonus, but the days are pretty grueling, starting out early and ending just when you think you are going to pass out.

But every once in a while we get a Snow Day and a Snow Day trumps martini lunches and expense account dinners every time.  But we teachers must do some work first to earn our Snow Day.  The afternoon before, as the weather prognosticators are wooing us with their predictions, we must high five each other and say things like, "Hope I don't see you tomorrow!" and "Call me when you find out for sure even if we are three feet deep in snow."  Then, as afternoon moves toward evening, we have to get on Facebook and do some minor bitching about our system and our superintendent and how we are always the last to have school called off.  My favorite post from last night was this by an unnamed teacher who happens to teach across the hall from me:

"2 bits, 4 bits, 6 bits a bucket..... If we don't get a snow day, APS can suck it!!!!"  

We finally heard the good news around nine pm and the raucous rejoicing could be heard all over greater Atlanta, some of which actually emanated from the kids.

And so, I haven't changed out of my pajamas today, although they are now on right-side-out and frontwards.  I slept late and took a nap and, so far, my electricity and cable are intact (knock wood).  There's a chance we will have to make up this day some time in the future, but I'll worry about that later.  

Wait! The news people are starting to to announce closures for tomorrow so I need to get back to Facebook.

On a sad note, I did get an email from a retired teacher friend, who said that, although she enjoys not having to work anymore, she sure does miss having a Snow Day.

Stopping by the Sky Mall at 40,000 Feet

My daughter, Molly, and I fly together at least once a year to see our far-flung family in Portland, Oregon. The trip takes forever, especially since I tend to buy cheap tickets that require layovers in places like Phoenix, Denver, or, more often than not, Vegas Baby. So, with the extra two hours for security clearance and then the run from Gate A to Gate Z at any of the aforementioned airports, what should be a five-hour trip often takes nine or more.

By hour eight, we’re full of our complimentary soft drinks, pretzels, and Biscoff cookies; we’ve watched our little television sets and read our little books and we’ve snickered at the other flying weirdos making their way up and down the aisle. In addition, we’ve tried to eavesdrop on the couple in front of us who are fighting like the Sunnis and the Shiites, and we’ve poured over the electronic movable map, wondering why the front end of the little fake plane is in California while the back end is still in Arizona.

Hour eight is when we finally become miserable and punch drunk enough to pull the Sky Mall catalog from the seat pocket in front of us, all the while wondering just what type of people would actually purchase items they couldn't possibly need or even get any time soon, many of them quite expensive, while careening through the stratosphere.  We then rank our favorites from the merely sublime to the outrageously ridiculous.

Below you will find my rankings from our last flight (with Molly's input), employing David Letterman’s reverse scale to indicate people's mile-high decision-making, veering headlong from bad to worse, or more likely, from drunk to drunker.

10. The Lord Byron Wooden Side Table (made of faux books) for $249.  In addition , you can purchase a William Shakespeare Resin Sculptural Bust to go on top for $24.95.  Who needs real books when you can have a side table made of giant fake ones,?

9. The Thomas Kinkade Pop-Up 6 Foot Christmas Tree for $199.96.  Six foot tree pops up instantly and is pre-decorated with original artwork by Thomas Kinkade - This item manages to be easy to use and tacky at the very same time.

 

8. Bigfoot, the Garden Yeti Statue, captured in designer quality resin and hand-painted for startling realism. $98.95.  This one is Molly's favorite.  Startling realism in a Yeti?  Seriously?

7. You Don’t Have to Hide this Litter Box - Our Hidden Litter Box looks like a real clay pot, complete with an attractive Artificial decorator Plant for $129.95.  From the picture, it'd say the looking like a real clay pot isn't actually true.  It looks more like one of those rubber things outside restaurant doors where last-minute smokers park their cigarette butts.

6. The Hollywood Cookie Diet for $19.99. “I am in the Marine Corps and I lost 10 pounds and 2 jacket sizes in 2 days.” Walter M., Beaufort, NC. The personal testimony says it all.

5. Electronic Feng Shui Compass for $199.99  Working with electromagnetic fields,this hand-held feng shui compass helps you find favorable energetic conditions at home or anywhere needed.  Energetic conditions? What does that mean?  I thought if I placed the head of my bed opposite my door, I'd be okay.

4. Your Names in the Sand for $39.99. Personalize your passion for the beach with one of these unique prints.  This is a fake picture of fake people's feet in fake sand and you can add your own fake words in the middle of it .  Why would you take a real photo of yourself and your loved ones on vacation when you can pay these people for a fake one?  Plus, the feet are white.  I guess if you are a person of color or if you tan well, you can pull out your crayons and fix that.

3. One Dozen Roses, Hand-dipped in 24 K Gold for $598.99 (Save $120).  John Gotti is the only person I can think of who might actually buy these and I think he's in prison.

2. King Tutankhamen's Egyptian Throne Chair for $950.  I don't think I need to add anything to this, other than assuring you it's not an original.

1. Potty Train Your Cat Faster than most People Can Potty Train their Kids – Three Step Cat Toilet Training System for $59.99.  I ranked this number 1, not because it has to do with  urination,  and not because I don't like cats. In fact, as a cat lover, I understand the problem of the truly smelly sand box.  I even understand deciding to buy something as stupid as this.  What I can't understand is deciding to buy something as stupid as this while hurtling through space in a giant human-filled winged thermos on your way from Daytona to Dubuque.

Okay, you've seen my list. You now know how I feel about shopping at the Sky Mall.  I do have to say, however, that on my last trip, I did find a cute step ladder than folds into a chair.  It was only $149.99 and it's based on a really famous library chair belonging to Benjamin Franklin.  If I can't have King Tut's chair, maybe I can have Ben Franklin's step ladder.  

But I think I'll wait until the next time I fly to Portland to buy the really cute real replica of a Ben Franklin step ladder.  It just seems to be the easiest way to do it.  But I wonder: Will the flight attendant bring my chair/step ladder to me in mid-flight or will I have to wait until we land?  I do hope it's mid-flight so I can use it to get my luggage out of the overhead bin as we taxi toward the terminal.

Looking for the Awesome

The other day, my daughter, Melissa, and I were heading to the local outlet mall with her two kids, who also happen to be my grandkids. Miles and Georgia were in the backseat, legally secured in their newfangled, regulation, impossible-for-Grammy-to-buckle-without-cursing, car seats. Georgia was asleep, holding best stuffed bud, Beary Manilow, in a death grip, and Miles was complaining because it was taking too long to arrive at the restaurant where he was going to get the juice we had promised him.  This delay was based on the scenic route we'd embarked upon, out of Portland, through Troutdale, where Melissa and Trevor had celebrated their wedding, then down by the Sandy River, and up the side of a small mountain.

“Juice! I want juice!” Miles reiterated the iteration he’d iterated quite a few times during our journey. Truth be told, he would have been much happier at home riding his Christmas bike, but, at three, he doesn’t really have much of a say about how he spends his days, other than belting out “Juice!” every few minutes.

In an effort to hold our squirmer off for while longer, either Melissa or I had promised, at some point, that we were going to see something really awesome at the top of the mountain, yes indeed, employing the overused term that’s become such a cliché. What that awesome thing was we had no idea, but what we wanted was for him to stop fussing long enough for us all to be able to take in the beauty of that mountain and that river and the time we were spending together, just the four of us snugly snapped into our warm seats in Melissa’s mom-mobile on a wet and cold Oregon December day.

A bit more time went by and we discerned that the complaint department had apparently closed down in the back and we thought Miles, thumb in mouth and Gankie tucked under arm, had dozed off to snore in unison with Georgia by his side.  With new confidence, we drove a little higher up the mountain, enjoying the quiet and the companionship, mother and daughter all grown up. 

However, just as we were lulled into a faux serenity and some entry-level contemplation, a little voice emerged from the back seat.

“But where’s the awesome?”

After a chuckle at Miles’ cuteness with his childish but point-on question, I stopped to consider the fact that we often spend so much time overusing a term based on a dearth of a more varied and thoughtful vocabulary and  attempting to make the mundane noteworthy, that we overlook the minor miracles, the real awesomeness we happen upon, but often fail to note, in the hurry up of our everyday lives.

So, with that in mind, I challenged myself to notice and document the truly awesome for the rest of that day.  And I did.  

It included:

• the deli lunch with the promised juice and hot dogs and lots of crackers, many on the floor, while the kids, in turn, sat on the table.
• shopping for light-up shoes and packages of socks and finding one-year-old Georgia sitting, legs straight out, on the floor at the front of the store trying on a Norwegian knit hat from the sale bin.
• fifty-cent rides with a serious Spidey and mirthful Big Bird.
• driving back over Portland's gorgeous bridges with both kids asleep (and quiet) in the back.
• walking in the rain to Pattie's Home Plate later in the day with son Billy and granddaughter Cami for a most unusual dinner.
• coming back home, wet and happy, to listen to Cami's two-year-old patter about her day and her papa and her mama named Mary.

 

Cami after our walk in the rain

I know there was more to that day that I could have commemorated, but I'm still new at looking for the awesome.  I'm hoping this Omar Khayyam treasure, recently shared by a friend, might help me to stop and ponder the wonderful.

Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.

Awesome.

Henry and the Runaway Christmas Tree

Henry was our early marriage dog. As with many newlywed couples, anxious to nurture something but knowing it was too soon for that thing to be a baby, Gary and I adopted Henry. Gary was doing his pharmacy residency at McCook’s Pharmacy in South Macon, an area known as the Rutland Community. Being a good old boy, Gary fit right in at McCook’s, a place where patrons brought in cooked-to-perfection turnip greens and warm-from-the-garden tomatoes to share with the people who worked there. At some point, someone mentioned that a lady had some pure-bred beagle puppies she was going to sell for next to nothing, so we went and picked one out .

I have lots of stories about Henry, about our moves with him to South Carolina and back, about the fence we bought to keep him in, about all the flowers he pulled up in that fenced-in yard, about the many times I had to bail him out of the pound when he dug under that fence. But the story I’m going to tell now is one that’s appropriate for the season and one that exemplifies what typically seems to happen to my best laid and made holiday plans.  And that story is the one about Henry and the runaway Christmas tree.

Henry was a sweet dog, but stupid. When the human babies started arriving, he accepted those annoying hiccups in his life plan pretty well as little ones grabbed his hairy nose and black dog lips and tried to ride on his speckled back. However, I do believe that all this mayhem did serve to make poor Henry a little nervous. If he’d been a person, he might have developed a nervous tic or perhaps a smoking habit. In addition, the more crowded the house became, the less attention Henry received from the people who had promised to cherish him just a few years earlier. Whereas, before the kids came along, he could depend on a bowl of clean water and fresh gruel each morning and evening, that expectation eroded as changing diapers and spooning baby food took energy and focus away from caring for the dog.

But, in spite of his less than stellar cerebral cortex, Henry adapted.  He took to eating off the floor, taking advantage of the messes the children made, the milk-engorged Cheerios, the dust-covered cracker crumbs, a tasty bit of pre-chewed weenie.  As for water, he got it wherever he could find it, from mud puddles, toilets, the occasionally-mopped kitchen floor.

As the holidays approached one Christmas and preparations were underway, Henry was in dog heaven with actual baking going on and butter and chocolate dropping in giant glorious globs upon the floor.  And then there was the real tree, adorned with candy canes, chewy and delicious despite their cellophane wrappings, and the tree itself sitting in its very own reservoir of water.  Not stopping to reflect on the unfairness of a newly-arrived stalk of future pine straw getting preferential treatment over the family dog, Henry, pragmatic soul that he was, decided to feast upon the waters that sustained that Christmas tree.

This water poaching went on for quite a while with my knowledge until ultimately the irresistible force met the immovable object when Gary happened upon Henry in mid drink on none other than Christmas Eve, its divine self.  A chase quickly ensued as Henry's collar, striving as we all do to make a some kind of connection to another entity, linked itself to one of the strings of Christmas lights that gave the tree its shine.

All I saw as I arrived from the kitchen, covered in sugar and sweat and wondering just what this particular ruckus could have possibly been about, was Henry and the Christmas tree rounding the corner and careening down the hall in an attempt to find refuge under a bed. 

At that point, if he could have, if he'd just had the words and the cultural history and a brain large enough for rote memory skills, Henry might have had the courage and the abandon to render the following from Clement Moore:

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

And although he didn't, I do have all those things and, since I'm not hiding under a bed with a Christmas tree ruefully attached to my collar, that's exactly what I offer to you.

A Christmas Walk

In thinking about a Christmas memory, several come to mind. I remember my mother making us listen to Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol via 78 rpm recordings each Christmas Eve, a story that should have been more interesting than it was. Of course, on Christmas Eve, pretty much nothing was as interesting as looking for Santa's feet landing on our hearth followed by all the presents I'd asked for and was confident I deserved.

I also remember another Christmas Eve when my brother set his bed on fire. Too nerdy to smoke and too smart to play with matches, Sandy decided to try to lull his excited self to sleep by reading under the covers while I slept in the next bed, having had to give up my room to Aunt Susie for the holidays. He took the shade off the lamp before he entered his private reading fort, one that unfortunately turned out to be combustible when the bare bulb met the cotton sheet. However, it seems that there wasn’t too much of a conflagration as I slept through the entire emergency. From then on, our holiday tradition was to open presents on Christmas Eve to keep my dumb-ass brother from burning the house down.

A Christmas Day memory I have is one that happened a bit later. It was 1964, I think, which made me 14, a difficult age for the holidays, too old to play with the toys Santa had brought me and too young to borrow the family car to escape from the heat produced by too much food and too many relatives. I had already received all the compliments I was going to get about how pretty I looked in my new Christmas sweater and I couldn’t watch TV because Uncle Walter was sitting in front of the television set nursing his highball. When the phone rang and my new friend, who’d just recently moved to Savannah, bemoaned her similar circumstances, we decided to get together and take a walk around the beautiful island that was our home. We met up by her house and agreed to walk down by the bluff, a gorgeous spot adorned with moss-hung oaks, genteel old homes, and quaint river docks. I wore my Christmas sweater and she wore her new navy pea coat, something I immediately added to my upcoming birthday wish list. My new friend’s name was Allison and I’d been looking for her for a quite a while, even though I hadn’t known it. I’d skipped a grade in junior high and had been at loose ends ever since, as the kids I’d played with my entire life were now a year behind me in school and we no longer seemed to have much in common.

Beginning with that Christmas walk, it didn’t take long at all for Allison and me to bind our friendship through our outlandish senses of humor, our budding liberal views, and our love for saddle oxfords. We went on to become college room-mates, bridesmaids in each others' weddings, and, years later, that same other was right there when each of our marriages ended. And then, just a few years ago, fate would intervene once again when we both had the opportunity to move to Atlanta around the same time.

And so, forty-six Christmases later, my new friend is now my old friend. Although I never got my pea coat and we no longer yearn for saddle oxfords, which, by the way, just might now work wonders in covering our bunions and veiny feet, we are still pretty darned silly and annoyingly liberal. Just ask anybody.

 

Still friends (and silly) after all these years.

Star Light, Star Bright

First star I see tonight.

I wish I may

I wish I might

Have the wish

I wish tonight.

I don’t remember my first night sky memory. Perhaps it was a warm summer evening when my parents took my brother and me out in the yard to lie on our backs, hands behind our heads, to ponder the moon. I see the moon and the moon sees me. Or maybe it was Christmas Eve, gazing up to look for the Star of Bethlehem on that silent night, holy night - or Rudolph’s nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?

Several things have happened lately to make me think of the night sky and all of its wonders.

First is a current REI ad on television.  Although REI is a company that sells hiking and camping equipment, items I'm not all that interested in, their latest ad is a good one.   It makes me want to step back and contemplate my life, which is a lot to ask of a television commercial, especially one touting something I don't want.  In it,  a woman is perched on a dusk-lit cliff in the great outdoors, eating a piece of bread slathered with peanut butter. By the enthusiastic noises she's making, you can tell she is thoroughly enjoying that peanut-buttered bread, as the narrator says something like, "Jane Smith has just discovered that a four-star restaurant can't begin to compete with one having four million stars."  All I can add to that is "Isn't that the truth and where can I buy a sleeping bag - or at least a big old jar of peanut butter."

And then, there’s the teaching of second grade and our current curriculum unit centered around the moon and the stars. For this unit, we usually have the students keep a moon-phase calendar for a month, an assignment that causes no small amount of angst for parents and children alike as they try to find the time each night to locate the moon not only in the midst of a cloudy evening, but also in the middle of homework, baths and bedtime stories.  So, this year, I asked the parents to simply help their child to take a moment during the busy holiday season to go outside and look up at our beautiful night sky, to think about the moon and the stars and what they mean to us, to marvel at the wonder of it all.

As soon as I asked that, I had to stop and consider just when was the last time I marveled at the gift we get for free most nights if we just stop and look up at the magnificence of our universe.  For those of us who live in Atlanta, when we gaze toward the heavens, we often can't get past our city view, with its skyscrapers lit up like Christmas trees all year round.  It takes real focus and commitment to take note of the glory of our earth and its suburbs, the neighboring galaxies.

And finally, there's this season we're in, when we humans add twinkly lights to trees, homes, bushes and the occasional dog in an effort to emulate the celestial bodies. And don't forget the story we tell all over the world about that special star that led the wise men to that certain babe.

And so, my promise to myself this holiday season is to take my own moment to go out into the brisk night air, to stop and look up in wonder at the sky and think about what a gift it all is, how the stars have guided us throughout time, how the moon moves the oceans, the miracle that is our universe.  I think I may take along a jar of peanut butter.

A Gospel Christmas

A sea of red, a vocalized tsunami, an undulating mass, and the assertion that God is, indeed, in the house. That’s what I get each year when I’m lucky enough to attend the Atlanta Symphony’s Gospel Christmas Concert.

Although the orchestra gets first billing, make no mistake about who owns the night.

The Atlanta Gospel Choir is made up of about a hundred folks who can certainly belt out a tune, but it’s more than that. The term gestalt keeps coming to my mind as I consider the sum of all those very human parts. The great majority of the members are African American, with just a few pasty faces punctuating the throng. I’ve wondered just how talented a Caucasian has to be to infiltrate a group of dynamic singers who’ve undoubtedly been experiencing the mightiness of God’s Own Personal Music in their churches since they arrived that first Sunday as little babies tucked into their mothers' necks.

The city of Atlanta has a vast and powerful Black population, and why wouldn’t it, with its history and its strong connection to Dr. King. It’s long been a place where African Americans have come because they believe they can find a good and safe place for themselves and their families, a place they can call home. And that home has often revolved around church - and church means music.

Now, keep in mind that I'm the pastiest of pasty faces and I'm certainly not in the choir.  In addition, I'm pretty sure some of my black friends will tell me I'm being simplistic here and that not all African Americans are church-going choir members.

I know that, but this is my story so I get to say it the way I see it.  And the way I see it is that the sum of those singing parts in the Atlanta Gospel Choir is certainly greater than what it would appear to be at first glance.  Those people perform not only with superb talent and abundant energy, but also with an assuredness that could come only from some kind of big old belief in something even more important and lasting than standing up, en masse, and singing along with the Atlanta Symphony. 

And being enveloped in that belief and that authority for a couple of hours each December makes me want to believe too.

Oh no! Here comes Marcia with her Christmas basket.

I am a happy woman. I just got back from the fabric store and I’m deep in thought as to what I’ll be making for Christmas. Every year, my poor work friends are besieged and beset and not so besotted with me following them around asking which gift they want to choose from my basket.

When I was younger, I made almost all of my presents. I remember one Christmas when I made my mother, my grandmother, and my three aunts flannel granny gowns. For some reason, they never seemed to wear them when I was around. Another Christmas, I created nativity scenes out of dough made from flour, salt, and water. I sculpted Mary, Joseph and Sweet Baby Jesus in his manger, and even a few sheep to graze around and then gaze upon the little baby. I was really proud of those Tiny Tidbits of Godly Art until my preacher asked why I’d included turtles along with the Holy Family.

I’ve made lots of ornaments, including little fabric baskets with reindeer poking their antlered pom-pom heads out to see the world, knitted wreaths with yarn accessories, surprisingly heavy angels made of tiny flower pots with Christmas balls for the heads and moss for hair, little what-nots made from leftover potpourri that looked like miniature dirt dauber nests, and perhaps my strangest creations ever: tiny hanging pillows with pictures of Paris on them. There were very good reasons for all of the brilliant creations mentioned above, although I can’t think of any of them right now.

Last year, I hit the jackpot when I figured out a way to make festive coaster sets out of fabric and polyfill layering. I even came up with a great tag, which read “Roller Coasters: Putting the Fun Back into Drinking!” If that doesn’t say Let's celebrate the birth of Christ, I don’t know what does.

When one of my gifts turns out to be even more lame than usual, I tend to write a poem to go with it. One year, I gave my colleagues muscadine jelly from grapes I’d gotten free from a friend. Although home-made jelly would normally be a great gift, I managed to screw up the recipe somehow. But, that didn’t stop me. I just added a poem, which, I’m sorry to tell you, I can’t find. But I do remember it ended with something like this:

Since I had no money to splurgil,

I got my grapes from Virgil.

The poem would have been much easier to write if my friend’s name had been Bob or Frank. But, then again, real art is never easy.

Back to this year. Since I’m finally seriously considering retirement, I’m thinking this may be my last year for workplace gift giving. I’m definitely leaning toward ornaments again, this time trees stuffed with chopped balsam I ordered from some place that actually grows balsam trees. Maine, I think. 

I hope my latest gifts turn out okay, but if they don’t, I have a poem percolating in my head. I just haven’t yet figured out what rhymes with balsam. Wait a minute.  How about this?

My trees are awesome.

They smell like balsam.

As to what I’ll do when I no longer have work friends to entertain and annoy with my baskets of home-made gifts, I’m considering  giving to those who may not have access to a lot of Christmas cheer. So, if you see the pimps and pros from the corner hightailing it down Ponce de Leon Avenue in midtown Atlanta some time around the next Yuletide Season, just know that what they're screaming isn't "Cheese it! The cops!" Instead, it will be “Oh no! Here comes Marcia with her Christmas basket!"