Fridays at First Day: Longfellow's Christmas Carol

I love Christmas songs.  I equally enjoy the hokey carols you hear repeated incessantly on the radio and the quality versions of Christmas hymns and classics.  There is certain music I need to hear each season to ensure I feel holly and jolly.  I need to hear Andy Williams sing, "and woop dee do and dickory dock and don't forget to hang up your sock, because just exactly at 12 o'clock, he'll be comin' down the chimney, down."

And while I highly doubt Andy was trying to portray a profound piece of the holiday with the world, some carols really reach deep and pull at our belief.  A Christmas song that has come to speak to me in recent years is, "I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day."  As a child, I just let the words float over my head and dance about the twinkle lights.  As an adult, I could meditate on its meaning for hours.

Today, over at The First Day, I give a mix of commentary and contemplation on this well-recognized, but maybe not well-known carol.

Longfellow’s Christmas Carol

At this point in his life, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow had also survived his only two wives. The first died of a miscarriage, four years after they wed. The second died from burns sustained during an accidental fire that caught her dress. Longfellow, himself, extinguished the flames by smothering them with his body. He was so badly burned he could not attend his bride’s funeral. It is, therefore, not surprising that he ceases to praise the bells.  Read more.

Friday's at First Day: How the Grinch Saved Christmas

As promised, I am blogging over at The First Day.  My posts continue to be Christmas-themed for this online magazine which focuses on arts, culture, faith and practice.  Today, I tell a sweet story about what one Christmas was like at my house.  It did not involve the Elf on the Shelf.  It involved the Grinch.  And it was something I will never forget.

Please follow the title link below to read my article in full.  And, as always, let The First Day (and me) know what you think.  

How the Grinch Saved Christmas
My mom claims that my dad has become “grinchier” over the years. When they were first married, he was still a giddy kid, the one that made Christmas special for the two of them each year. But, as people do, he has changed a bit over the years. He is no grinch, but I agree that fewer sugar plums dance in his head. So, one year, my mom, who coincidentally has gotten a bit jollier over time, bought him a miniature, plush, “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” doll as a gift.  Read more...

Next week, my plan is to write a commentary type post on one of my favorite Christmas carols.  What are some of yours?  

Fridays at First Day: The Truth About Santa

I am thrilled to announce that I will be writing weekly for The First Day, an online magazine and quarterly print publication focusing on art, culture, faith and practice.  The content and collaboration excites me and I will be sure to share my "Fridays at First Day" each week here on my blog.

This week's post might stir up a bit of controversy, but more than that I just hope it gives you a glimpse into my life and how I am attempting to live it to the fullest.  Please follow the title link below to the rest of the article on The First Day and do not hesitate to comment over there, no matter how you feel.  Comments are always appreciated.

The Truth About Santa 

We still share Christmas stories and songs about Santa, but we don’t bring his character to life in the ways many parents choose to do. We don’t encourage our kids to write him letters or rile them up when he makes an appearance. We don’t build up the idea of receiving a huge pile of presents on Christmas morning. And, we never employ him as a behavioral tool, threatening that his affection would be based on “how naughty” or “how nice” the kids are during the year.  Read more.

Check back next week for another Friday at First Day, starring The Grinch!

Joy and Happiness

The tacky, plastic decoration must have sat out at least one year.  It is faded, no doubt, from the sun that shone through the bay window in the terrace kitchen.  I can almost picture it there.  After all, it was meant to sit where light would shine through it, the now dull colors ever translucent.

I remember buying it for them.  Choosing a gift for my grandparents from dozens of others laid out on tables set up on the school stage.  The heavy, burgundy curtains closed to protect the integrity of our workshop.  I bought my other grandmother a hat pin that year.  Not a pin for a hat, but a pin in the shape of one.  It was blue.

This gift is blue, too, a cool backdrop for faux-glass Santa.  I wonder if that influenced my choice.  Based on my cursive on the enclosed tag (they saved the tag - oh my heart) I was probably 8 or 9, maybe 10.  I doubt color alone could have swayed my purse.  Perhaps I pictured their window as I do now and knew they would have just the place.  Maybe not.

Mom says it should be mine.  I gave it to them and now they are gone, from the house at least.  Pop lives in a tiny apartment now and has not gotten this stuff out in years, anyway.  I don't want it, but I don't want to get rid of it either.  It wouldn't feel right.  I should just recycle it and let it give back after doing nothing for years in a box.  It's too junky to donate, I think.

It's message is nice if not a bit redundant.  The panel next to St. Nick reads, "May the joy and happiness of the season be with you."  Joy.  And happiness.  Wishing you profound and superficial emotions this holiday.  That feels right.

Maybe I do keep it.  Or maybe I just keep the note with my script.  I can't decide.  The last thing I need is another thing.

But here is the real gift: returning it to its original box to put the decision aside, I get a whiff of the terrace kitchen.  

I am keeping it.  The whole ridiculous thing.  It smells exactly like them.  And that makes me happy.

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Feeling "holly jolly" over at Yeah Write again this week.  Click on the button below to check out some other writers who blog and bloggers who write.  It'll make you happy - might even bring you joy.

She Shook My Hand

Peas.  I was feeding him peas.  Paw prints.  There were blue paw prints on his bib.  The rest was a blur.  A blur of brown sweaters dotted with dancing glasses filled deep with red wine.  The house was warm, cozy, I guess, and swimming in a din I did not discern.  All I could see was my very young son in a very old high chair eating chunky baby food.  All I could hear was everyone else enjoying themselves.

"Shaun and his new girlfriend are here."  My husband's voice snapped my glazed eyes into focus and I turned my head toward him.  He looked so good in a fresh cranberry pullover and dark blue jeans.  I needed to go shopping.  I had nothing nice to wear.

I returned my attention to the pureed peas.  My cousin always had someone new to show off during the holidays.  I was not particularly amused and I pretended my interest was not piqued.  When they finally entered the kitchen for introductions, I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs and casually waved the baby spoon.   

"Hi, I'm Lindsey!" She was impossibly tiny and tan, busty and blonde.

"Hi."  My eyes met hers.  They were blue, too.

After a rush of pleasantries flush with compliments, the air settled and I could smell the peas, again.  My husband leaned in close and whispered, "What was her name?"

"I already forget.  It's not like we will need to remember.  He'll bring someone else to Christmas."

* * * * *

Peaches.  I was feeding him peaches.  Snowflakes.  There were gray snowflakes on his bib.  I was sitting near the radiator and could feel both its warmth and the draft from the window.  My hands were cold.  The radio had just begun to play "White Christmas" when the phone rang.  It was my dad.  

"Sweetie, I have some terrible news.  Shaun and Lindsey were in a car accident."

"Lindsey?"

"Shaun's new girlfriend.  You met her on Thanksgiving."  My dad paused, probably displeased.

"I remember her, of course."

"Shaun is fine, well, he is not hurt, but Lindsey...they flew Lindsey to Shock Trauma.  She is in a coma."

My mind reeled in rewind, replaying that one moment I met her.  Her hair was in a bun.  She put her arm around my cousin.  She kissed my baby on the head.  She shook my hand.  She smiled.  Her eyes were blue.

"They were on their way to Aunt Sherry's for dinner or something.  It was last night, when it was raining.  Shaun was driving his truck.  It happened on Highland Parkway and Front Street."

I couldn't process what he was saying.  I shook my head to make sense of the words.  He was driving.  She might die.  But, I would never forget Lindsey's name now.

"Where?"

"On Highland, in front of the Dunkin' Donuts."

From that day forward, every time I drove past that street corner, I thought of her.

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This piece is a work of fiction loosely based on a true story and written in response to a weekly writing prompt.  Four and a half years ago, my cousin and his new girlfriend were in a car accident.  The real life Lindsey is alive and well, but I am unclear how well she is.  All I know was that her head injury was severe and her recovery process long.  She and my cousin did not remain together.