Holiday

 We had a wonderful Christmas Eve. All our five living children were home that day and evening, along with our four grandkids. We had vegan chili for supper and opened presents. Our grandson, Andrew, led us in singing “The Sounds of Silence,” which he had just performed with his fifth-grade choir at school.

I decided to take Christmas week off, just take a full holiday. It was wonderful, including yesterday when, for the New Year’s Day (observed),  Sam and Savannah, Eliza and Link, came for a supper of Alexander's Pizza and a game of Five Crowns. I don’t even remember who gave the game to me, many years ago, but I’d never talked anyone into playing it before this holiday.

But today dawned, drizzling and grey, and yet again I didn’t have enough time to do all the things I hoped.

I realize, yet again, that it has been a story of my life: always fantasizing about doing more than humanly (or at least Mary-ly) possible. A few months ago, I sat in an Adirondack chair, gazing at my fall garden. I realized that sincere gratitude is a huge piece in the quest to find calm and peace. I trust that the serenity gained from deep gratitude will help me as I let go of the false idea that I can do everything.

This is a perennial topic between Jim and me. Jim has been self-employed since 1986. I've been a homemaker since 1981. You'd think we'd have figured it out by now, but we haven't. "Whereever you go; there you are." We realize we are bad bosses to ourselves. If an employer treated his staff the way we treat ourselves: constantly setting up unattainable goals and expectations, the employees would quit and the business would fail.

I don't have any answers. But it's a new year. I'll get up tomorrow and try again.

Baby boy

Living in Indiana and New Hampshire, back in the 80s, I watched with mild envy during Christmas programs while some other young mother held her newborn baby in the annual nativity tableau. Peter was born too late, in mid-January, Matt and Sam were springtime babies; David was nearly three months old by Christmas.

This month, while we tended two of our grandchildren: Eliza, age 4, and Link (Lincoln), age 1, for nine days, I started learning "Mary Did You Know". I was inspired by our friend, Marilyn Foley Jodoin, who died November 22nd. Many remembrances of her included how she sang that song each Christmas, accompanying herself on guitar, her long, red hair swaying to the music. Eliza sang it to us, impressing us with how much of it she knew by heart.

So, at four in the morning, I sang it, over and over, to soothe wakeful Link. I looked into his clear but troubled eyes and wondered at the miracle of this baby boy. I realized that I'd always focused on the story of one night, but that baby of Bethlehem grew up, day by day: one week, one month, one year. I'm sure his mother marveled each day, long after the shepherds and magi were gone home, just as I had for my own six children and as I do now for our dear grandchildren. I’ve never felt closer to the story of Bethlehem than while looking into the large blue eyes of our babe of Boston.

Marilyn Foley Jodoin

Last night Marilyn Foley Jodoin died. I was privileged to be her friend for nearly thirty years.

 

Before the local church boundaries changed a dozen years ago, Marilyn and I were in the Arlington Ward together. A few years before my mighty cross-country trip, I was the president of the children’s organization (Primary) and she was my counselor. She was always high energy and enthusiastic. She loved the children.

 

For a summertime activity, Marilyn organized a water fun afternoon for our Primary. A contractor-friend of hers lent us two (40-50 feet, maybe?) pieces of clear plastic sheeting to erect a giant slip-and-slide outside of the chapel. We laid them on a long, grassy hill and installed garden hoses at the top. Then we all lined up and slid down, over and over again. The day was warm and sunny. Of all the kids there, Marilyn enjoyed it most. She had a blast.

 

Marilyn had many hard things in her life, but she chose the joy.

 

How can I express my sorrow to her husband and her children and her grandchildren? Her daughter’s posts have been loved and commented on by hundreds. As many have said, Christmas just won’t be the same without Marilyn’s low husky voice singing, "Mary Did You Know?" while strumming her guitar. 

Pruning Christmas cacti

 Perhaps in response to the virus restrictions and more time at home, last summer I tackled my Christmas cactus collection. My mother gave me Christmas cactus clippings over the years: they are easy to grow: a single stem in potting soil will soon root, grow, and eventually bloom. I had one beautiful specimen that cascaded pink blossoms every December in a place of honor on our piano. But when we converted the front room to a library, with floor-to-ceiling shelving, the piano, which was hopelessly out of tune, was removed. I recognized that the cascade had become an awkward, overgrown tenant.

The library is five years old now, so it was high time to take all my cacti in hand. One by one I placed them on an overturned wire-mesh wastebasket on the kitchen island so I could objectively consider their cascading stems (cacti don’t have leaves). To produce a balanced and agreeable effect, I had to prune severely.

The cacti sat on our kitchen porch all summer, shaded from the hot summer sun. With winter approaching, I brought them into my office and David’s room, my adjunct conservatory.

The pruning had its effect: a flower on every last stem.

St. Davids

I’ve always loved the name of St. Davids in Radnor Township, Pennsylvania (outside of Philly). When my parents and sister came for my graduation from Bryn Mawr, they stayed at St. Davids Inn. Many of the original European settlers were Welsh and they named their church for the patron saint of Wales.

I suppose that’s why the tears sprang to my eyes as I drove past the Battlegreen in Lexington a few hours ago listening to “Ar Hyd y Nos” (“All Through the Night”), the Welsh lullaby we’d just sung as a women’s chorus at church. It’s another Christmas season and my David won’t be visiting.

I find I’ve developed different approaches to talking about my children to newly-met friends. I remember flying west a few months after David’s death. I didn’t mention my children; I had no interest in the role of the mourning mother. Then there was the phase where I’d describe my kids in a way to obfuscate their numbers: “We’ve got a few in New York, one in Massachusetts, and the rest are out west.” But sometime in the last year, I’ve wanted to talk about David. I want to remember him and let new friends know about him, about his existence in our lives.

Sometimes I hesitate, concerned that the other person, hearing about David’s death for the first time, suffers more in hearing than I do in telling. I talk about David without anguish, but I don’t want to cause distress. Do I also worry that I seem heartless and unfeeling in my delivery?

I had lunch with my good friend, Christy, the other day, and I talked about David. She asked if it was painful, talking about him. No, it’s not. In fact, I want to talk about him, keep his memory alive.

Five days after David’s death, we all packed up and went to a rented house in the Catskills. We’d planned our reunion for the customary third week in August, but didn’t know whether or not we’d use the house, since David was so sick. But he died and we used the trip as a time to be together for a week in new surroundings.

As I sat at the kitchen table, looking out a large picture window towards a forested hill, I made a chart for meal planning. Jim, Mary, R’el, Peter, Matt… A bottomless chasm gaped before me, and I struggled to keep from plummeting. For nearly twenty-six years, David had always been between Matt and Annie. I skirted that chasm, with varying success for a long time. Then I discovered I could switch the order of Annie and Sam, but was always distracted from the conversation, nervously counting and re-counting in my head, feeling that I was missing someone. The other day I used my five fingers to count my kids and and wondered that it took over four years to discover the method. But my heart resists fitting my children on one hand. I rebel. I have six children. I always will.