My Christmas Hug

I received a hug for Christmas this year.  Technically, it’s an Irish Cable Pattern Pocket Shawl from Aran Crafts – Ireland.  But I don’t call it that.  I call it my Craig hug.  Craig is my oldest brother and we bookend the five children in my family with me being the youngest.  He was 11 years old when I was born and I've never stopped looking up to him.

We’re polar opposites in a lot of ways.  He’s an athlete and I am anything but.  He’s always been a risk taker while I've walked the safe pathway.  He’s a big, universe type of thinker whereas my thoughts are generally closer to home. 

What’s bridged that gap has been our talks and the honesty that’s always been between us.  I didn't really enjoy being a kid – always wanted to be older than I was and Craig recognized that and treated me that way.  He talked to me like an adult, about adult topics.  He always answered my questions, gave me a different point of view or just listened as I chattered away.  The greatest lesson he taught me is the difference between love and respect and that you always love your family, no matter what, but that respect…well, that’s something they earn.  He opened my eyes to the world of Thomas Covenant and the Hobbit and I’m sure I fell in love with reading in no small part to mimic his love of the same and my collection of quotes, no matter how large, will never rival his for sure. 

We haven’t lived together since he left home at 20 to join the service, but over the years he’s welcomed me to visit him wherever he called home, whether in Bradford, PA., Dunkirk, N.Y., or Harrisburg, PA.  Thirty plus years of my visits there and his visits home to Grand Island have always included some portion of alone time where we catch up, share confidences, advice and a good laugh or two. 

On one of those visits home a few years ago he shared he was in end stage renal failure.  It’s been an arduous few years for him as he’s progressed through some harrowing medical situations and thrice weekly hemodialysis.  There’s not a doctor who sees him that doesn't marvel at his tenacity and acknowledges he’s a walking medical miracle. 

When I opened the shawl on Christmas Eve, he said he could picture me wrapped in its warmth as I curled up on the couch with a book.  I love his thoughtfulness and as he often is, he was absolutely right and it's been a wonderful week of doing just that.  But the warmth goes further than he anticipated.  It goes to not only being wrapped in my shawl, but wrapped in the comfort, love and warmth of a Craig hug for life.   

Magic and Belief

I pull the Christmas music box string very slowly and wooden figures of snowman, elf, angel and Mr. and Mrs. Claus peek at me through the windows and door openings of their little yellow house as they travel backward, winding up in Ferris wheel fashion.  The small nails that hold them to the rotating board are delicate, allowing them to sway back and forth as they make their rounds… 

I’ve pulled that string, watched the figurines peek out at me and listened to the slightly tin sound of Jingle Bells, for just over 45 years now.   

I was three when my brothers gave the music box to our mom for Christmas in ‘67.  Three years ago when my parents passed, my siblings granted my wish to have the music box.  Now as I hang it on my kitchen wall, I don’t see the age it carries or the areas where the glitter, meant to be sparkling snow on the eaves, has long since rubbed off in the packing and unpacking over the years.   What I see, what I feel, is a direct link to my childhood Christmas and all the magic it held.   

Twenty nine years ago this Christmas, about to celebrate my first Christmas married and in my own home, mom gave Steven and I a ceramic manger scene.  In two words, it’s big.  With 18 pieces and camels and wise men that stand eight inches tall, it could be overwhelming, but her artistic talent shines through in the incredible detailing of each piece, the deep, rich colors she used and in the delicate features conveying the wonder of the moment.  Amidst the often hectic holiday madness, it never fails to make me pause and renews the spiritual meaning of Christmas for me.

Our home is not large.  These two very different holiday pieces are physically about five steps from each other.  Yet they bridge the years for me between child and adult, between daughter and wife/mother seamlessly.  There’s no theme to my Christmas decorations.  The house is not done in ribbons of blue and silver, in red and gold balls in glass vases, nor in country chic.  It doesn’t look like any spread in the pages of a magazine.  It’s much like my mother’s was; warm and comforting; a blending of pieces that hold more meaning in the history or memory of receiving them than in the purchasing of them for a “look”.  What’s developed is a blend of my Christmas past with my Christmas present.   

I pull the string and listen to Jingle Bells.  My eyes travel from the figurines in the music box to the figurines in the manger scene.  A final gift from mom, a mixture of magic and the wonder of belief. 

UNCLE TOM (A-Z April Blog Challenge)

Uncle Tom wasn’t actually an uncle at all.  He was my godfather.  And he was a part of my life until I was around 5 or 6 years old.  And then he wasn’t but that’s not what this post is about.  It’s about the time that he was there and how cool it was that he was in my life.  And it’s also written and remembered from the perspective of a five year old, so please forgive the self-absorbed indulgent tone….

My father had been an only child, so there was no aunt or uncle for us kids on his side.  My mom had a brother, but they weren’t close (at least not by the time I came a long), so there wasn’t any aunt or uncle there either.  So, it was just Uncle Tom.  And although all my brothers and sisters called him uncle, I knew that he was really there for me, because he was my godfather. And all the special things he did, well, that was because of me too.  And I always felt like a princess around him and for me that was unusual. 

I had three very favorite times with Uncle Tom.  I’m sure it was because they were repeats that I’m able to evoke the memory of them over a single incident or two.  First off, every Christmas morning, miraculously, Santa Claus always had to stop back at the house to drop off just one more present for each of us.  Surely, it was Uncle Tom behind that beard.  But when I believed in Santa Clause, as I did at 5, well, he was the real deal.

It was with Uncle Tom’s family that we vacationed for the two weeks in Alleghany in the summer.  There was not another vacation that I ever took with my family or my parents until I was an adult and planned it myself.  So those times sitting on his lap outside the cabin, or wading down in the stream to look at salamanders, well, they were magical times. And they provided me with the only vacation memories I have as a child with my whole family as well.   

The only pin that remains

And finally, were my birthdays.  Every year, he took me to the Ice Capades.  Just me.  I’d get dressed up and he would pick me up.  We’d travel the 15 minutes into Buffalo – the BIG CITY. It was a magical night at the Buffalo Memorial Auditorium – the place was enormous!   The shows were always magnificent, the skaters so incredibly graceful.  Every evening ended with him buying me a skater pin.  In mid turn, her skirt ruffled up around her.  The pin was the same every year, just a different color outfit on the skater, but always in the same pose, white skates and thin metal blades gleaming.  What I wouldn’t give today to have all those pins back.  But those nights, it was the company and the occasion, the feeling of being so special.  That is what I remember the most.  At those times, I was the center of the universe.   He always made me feel that way. 

And for that, I loved him and always will.

BARBIE (A-Z April Blog Challenge)



Photo credit:
http://www.fashion-doll-guide.com/
Vintage-Barbie-Extravaganza.html



Looking back, the penchant I had for biting off the fingers and toes of every Barbie doll I owned was a strong sign.  Of what, I don’t know, but I’m sure it wasn’t good.  What I do know is that Barbie never wore a swimsuit or a pair of short shorts and a tank top.  I mean, really… without any fingers or toes, she just didn’t have “the look” any more.  I was all about putting her in the long sleeved gloves that reached past her elbows, or little white ones with frilly cuffs.  She wore boots or heels – never sandals.  

Barbie lived a simple life and wasn’t surrounded by all her store bought hype and perfection.  There was no fancy pink car, no motor home, no mansion.  She rode around town in a cut out toothpaste box.  Her house was tastefully decorated with the Sears & Roebuck catalog as her bed which sported one of my dad’s hankies draped over it as her bedspread.  Her living room furniture was a variety of deodorant can tops for chairs, and other household items that worked for couches and end tables.  The rugs were easily changed out with whatever color washcloth I had on hand.  Pencils marked walls, hallways and doors.   

I never felt lacking that I didn’t have the fancy extras - it was all part of just playing Barbie and letting my imagination take over.  And it was great.  Many years before, Nana Wood, the grandmother I never knew, sewed beautiful custom outfits for the Barbies my older sisters played with.  Those clothes and the Barbies got handed down to me.  So mine was a real dichotomy, dressed to the nines with no fingers or toes, entertaining in her pencil lined living room as her guests sat on rolled up socks for bean bag chairs. 

So about those missing fingers and toes……………

1994 was a tough year for me.  I lost about 70 pounds, got down to a weight lower than I ever remembered being in my life and permed the hell out of my long, blonde, fine, bone straight hair.   It was my outward manifestation of working on some intensely personal and emotional issues.  And to hide what was going on inside, I made myself look totally unlike me on the outside.  I looked like Barbie. (Absolutely unattainable figure measurements not withstanding – let’s be real, NO ONE can look like Barbie in THAT way!)

For Christmas that year, my sister gave me a sweatshirt, meant in the most loving way, that I cherished.  It read:  I want to be just like Barbie.  That bitch has everything.  

Well, everything except her fingers and toes I guess. I’d purposefully ruined her perfection.  I’d carried Barbie’s dichotomy with me all those years, always projecting one person on the outside while another, different me, was hidden underneath. Over time, just like with my Barbie, I covered my flaws and scars.    

Since ’94, I’ve done my best to become more honest with myself.  To search out those flaws and scars, resolve or accept them and find a sense of peace.    

In Barbie-speak I guess you could say that the gloves have finally come off.  This summer you might even find me in sandals…………