H is for History

Me with my doll

I love history.... Well, I haven't always loved it.  High school History class seemed to be a vague collection of unrelated dates and battles which held no particular meaning for me and threatened my GPA.  I don't know whether it was age, wisdom (or both) which led me to the discovery that history is actually the interwoven stories of life.

Innately I must have had some sense of this all along, even though I didn't connect the dots. I have always loved "old things." When I was a little girl I went antiquing with my mother.  Being the youngest by five years, I was her ever-present side-kick.  While she examined the lovely wood furnishings (she has exceptional taste), I wandered here and there in search of treasure. I was always particularly drawn to phonographs and some times other amazing inventions of the post Civil War Industrial Age.  All I knew then was that there was beauty in its looks (design) and there was romance in its memories.

I went to college in what was then a fairly small town in Virginia. You could easily walk from the upper campus blue stone buildings to the town square.  And yes, it was a square with the county courthouse building symmetrically enclosed by perpendicular strips of road (thus "Court Square").  Main Street and its tributaries still contained proprietary businesses such as an occasional small antique shop, general store, and cozy college sandwich nooks.  Jess's Quick Lunch has been there forever.... best hot dogs in town.

Anyway, as a freshman I loved to walk downtown and scour a certain vintage clothing shop.  I found a wonderful cardigan sweater there with a deep front "v" of one black, one red, and one white stripe. I also bought a great black pencil style party dress.  My mom thought it was a little strange for me to wear someone else's old clothes (which is understandable for what her generation had been through), but I felt incredibly artistic and pretty.

Across the way from this shop there was also an antique dealer. His place wasn't large or plentifully stocked, but in a glass case on a small wooden shelf sat a tiny one-legged doll which I fell completely in love with. I had not yet read Rachel Field's Hitty Her First Hundred Years, but I found myself wondering about her history. Perhaps this is where my adult love for dolls was born.

Okay, so back to the present.  I  just finished reading A Vintage Affair by Isabel Wolff and, other than the premarital interaction, I found it to be an extremely well-crafted, enjoyable and sensitive story all about the magic of vintage clothing and the healing power of friendships. The unique characters along with their back stories compel you to appreciate and care for them; and the plot hangs delicately on the the threads of an unsolved historical mystery.

“What I really love about them (vintage clothes)... is the fact that they contain someone's personal history... I find myself wondering about their lives. I can never look at a garment... without thinking about the woman who owned it. How old was she? Did she work? Was she married? Was she happy?... When you buy a piece of vintage clothing you're not just buying the fabric and thread - you're buying a piece of someone's past.” - Isabel Wolff

I hadn't actually intended to mention the book in this post, but as I reflected on my fascination with "old things"... boxes with hidden compartments, 1950's wedding dresses, Ada Lum cloth dolls, vintage children's books, black and white photos... I thought again about this novel and how "objects" contain the mysteries of history... the interwoven joys, sorrows, laughter and tears of our lives.

 Josef Original figurines

I am linking to Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday.  You can find wonderful posts brought to you by the letter "H" here.

Christmas Memories

A comfortable, safe, fire-lit or candle-lit darkness.... Perhaps a faint, lingering remembrance of the sheltering, life sustaining environs of the womb.  Protected and cared for, warm and surrounded by love.  These are my early associations with Christmas.  Family traditions weaving a pattern of togetherness and belonging through the fabric of my life....  Like the rolling out and icing of sugar cookies that were cut into shapes of bells and stars, trees, angels and reindeer.  Forming the Mexican wedding cookie dough (my Dad's favorite) into crescents and smothering the fresh-baked partial moons in layers of powdered sugar while still warm. The small galley kitchen was a center for mother-daughter activity which included the production of fudge and cheese biscuit delicacies and small bread pans filled with sweet batters (strawberry and poppy seed) waiting for their day to be given as gifts to neighbors and friends.

Other than the one outing to the fir tree farm to cut our own holiday icon (which was an adventure); we typically searched the fire station lot diagonal from our home or the specially set up lot in the empty grassy plot by Ben Franklin and High's Ice Cream. Huge white bulbs hung from draping wires as we lifted one tree then another trying to agree upon which was the best.Then in a shower of needles and tumbling of branches the volunteer would stuff it in or strap it to the car; so we could bring it home.

There was always the event of my Dad trimming the bottom limbs and base of the tree in order to make what always turned out to be an awkward, twisted trunk fit into the stand.  We did have that one time when my Mom and Dad were out for a Christmas party and the tree tipped so dangerously that my sister had to stand precariously holding it for dear life while my brother telephoned some of our oldest family friends.  Mr. Gunter came right over to handle our tree emergency which if I recall correctly required a secure tether.  There was also that other time my parents were out and the front, wide bay windowsill caught on fire due to the large cylindrical candle and encircling holly, but all in all there were no serious decoration mishaps over the years.

My southern Mother has the gift of making a home truly welcoming and lovely for the holidays. Fresh greens: pine or holly with bright orangey-red berries or even magnolia draped along stair rails and mantels, around tall, thin Williamsburg candles and accented with stiff, full cloth ribbon bows. Between the smells of the kitchen, candle fragrance, cinnamon and clove bedecked pineapples, oranges or other fruit pyramids, flickering candles in the windows and Christmas tree lights, stockings hung and log fires; the house was magical.

We strung popcorn and cranberry chains, trying to eat less of the former than we put needle through; and watched seasonal specials like the stop-motion animation favorite "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer," fearing the Abominable (well, I did anyway) and never knowing the snowman narrator was the famous Burle Ives. We loved the original "A Charlie Brown Christmas" with Vince Guaraldi's incredible jazz-piano compositions and Linus' indomitable wisdom beyond his years.  I read on Wiki that Coca-Cola was the original television sponsor for this show, but all I remember were those Peanuts' cameos in the Dolly Madison snack cake commercials.

Every December 24th we shared a special, formal Christmas meal with the above mentioned family friends at their house or ours; and then, bedecked in velvet and curls (not my brother - he wore a coat and tie), we piled into the station wagon or current family vehicle and drove to Trinity Presbyterian Church for their Christmas Eve service.  The purple and pink candles were re-lit on the Advent Wreath and the white Christ candle finally flickered and burned.  I loved sitting on the dark wooden balcony pew surrounded by family, hearing the Christmas Story re-told in parts interspersed with the familiar holiday carols. The sweetness of the story, the excitement and anticipation of what the next day held, and the novelty of being at church at an unusual time swirled comfortably around me.  Finally the expected passing of candle light.  Each of us holding our own small white candle, receiving light from the one beside us and passing it along.  It's wonderful to watch the beacons of light spread and prevade the darkness.  Then we sang "Silent Night" raising and lowering the candles in unison to the music and finally filing out of the building, some times to freezing cold or even delicate flurries of snow, we blew out the tiny flames and exchanged warm Christmas wishes before heading into the crisp, star-lit night.

Once home my sister and I, if we didn't first watch "A Christmas Carol" (of which I was mortally terrified), climbed the stairs; donned our matching floral flannel nightgowns with yokes and edges trimmed in eyelet lace; and got into the twin beds in the room we shared, but would one day be hers alone. The room had three windows and the headlights of passing cars traveled through them in an arc across the ceiling.  From the side window we had a fairly good view of the winter night sky and my brother and sister assured me repeatedly over the early years that they could make out Rudolph's nose from a distance through it.  This is irregardless of the fact that a traffic light also stood sentinel in that general direction. It was hard to go to sleep that night.

I guess you can tell, my memories are all sweet.  Even from the Christmas when I was sick.  Year after year one of my favorite things to do was to lay by the fireplace watching the flames and eventual glowing embers and experience the warmth surrounding me, inside and out.  I also loved to sneak into the dark living room and position myself underneath the glowing Christmas tree looking up through the branches at the myriad of twinkling, blinking lights.  Of course, I enjoyed the ever growing number of red and green wrapped and be-ribboned packages under the tree.  And at times we were allowed to choose one to open on Christmas Eve. But in my quiet heart, I loved and love still the primitive hand-carved wooden nativity from the Holyland settled in the candlelight and Christmas greens of the coffee table the best. I could sit there suspended in time and surrounded in the comforting darkness, looking at and touching the figures, because the Light of the whole world shone in my little girl world.  And Love had come.

 This is not my Mother's own nativity, but almost identical. Thank you to Avondale Patillo UMC for this photo from their church display.

Hope you have a wonderful, meaningful celebration of this special season!

Focus on Christmas Past and Present

When we first moved to China 14 years ago, we had difficulty finding Christmas decorations to help make the season bright.  In fact the only place in town which carried any festive items was a Japanese department store strategically located beside the Holiday Inn (the only foreign chain hotel at the time). I managed to find two stockings and some wooden ornaments there, bears playing musical instruments; but passed on the expensive artificial trees.  My husband finagled a cedar tree from a nursery that grew plants for parks and roadsides, and we were set.

 Standing in front of the nativity scene we made in their usual dress-up attire.

 Second son playing at Santa on his sleigh.

 Singing Christmas songs.... If you know anything about our boys you will smile, as the one on the left still loves to sing and the one on the right loves to create music.

 Under our "Charlie Brown" cedar Christmas tree.

Things have changed since then.  While Christmas is still not a nationally recognized holiday in China, people have adopted some of the trappings of the season.  They know about Santa, Christmas trees, and presents; but very few know that Christmas has anything to do with the birth of Jesus or who Jesus is at all.  While chatting with my tutor yesterday, she said Christmas has become somewhat of a shopping event.  And that it most especially resembles Valentine's Day with young couples going out to buy gifts for each other.

I don't miss the pressure or stress that can accompany the holiday season in the states; but I do miss the music, decorated homes, greenery, candles, smells, the warmth of Christmas greetings, and the remembrance of the Christmas story.  It's a shame for China to receive all that is commercial in Christmas and none of the miracle and love.

In this modern, globally connected world if you were introducing Christmas into a culture, what would your focus be? Or would you do it at all?

Wishing you all that is Joyful and Meaningful in this season!

I am linking to Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday.  You will find many wonderful Letter "F" posts here.

 

Flashback Friday - Katie 1999-2000

Katie as a kitten.

When the boys were small, we lived two years in Thailand. My husband's work required that he travel quite a bit, and my oldest son started 1st grade. We acquired a very sweet and beautiful Calico which we renamed Molly. But I was still a little lonely. Often, after the younger boys and I finished grocery shopping at Carrefore, we would stop in the small pet shop on the bottom floor of the building. One little black kitten there, in particular, tugged at our heartstrings. Whenever we approached, she would come up to the side of the cage, stand up, and touch her paw to my fingertip. So one day, while my forbearing husband was away, we brought her home with us. It took our mature, senior cat, Molly, and Katie (our new kitten) a while to adjust to each other. Much to Molly's chagrin, Katie was quite playful and took great joy in pouncing on and generally irritating her. In the course of asserting her supremacy, Molly gave Katie a severe gash which necessitated a trip to the vet and stitches. From this incident on, our two pets were as mother and daughter.

Pregnant Katie

Both cats were dear to us, but Molly sort of drifted away (staying out for days at a time) as Katie grew up and had kittens of her own (twice). I'm not sure if Katie is typical of all Thai cats or not. She had sleek black fur and golden eyes. Her mew was incredibly loud like the sound of a crying toddler and she talked all the time. She had a warm, affectionate heart. Her "love language" must have been physical touch, and she was extremely perceptive and thoughtful. She birthed her first litter of kittens in the boys' sock tray and proved to be a very conscientious mother, grabbing her children by the scruff of their necks and attempting to drag them back upstairs when they had become big and frisky enough for us to take out to play.

The first litter.

When we moved back to China, Katie and Moses (her only kitten we had not given away) had to stay behind. They went to roam and explore the new smells and wild life at a friend's rural Thai farm.

Who Knew

With the coming on of the New Year (and completion of a decade at that), a few thoughtful friends have written reliving events we were involved in together 10 years ago. They referenced us being in the states during Y2K, and I looked at my husband and said, " I totally don't remember this." His reply was something like, "Sure you do, I was brought home for a meeting and we all went to celebrate Christmas and New Year's." Then it came back to me as fresh as yesterday. December 1999 was the year that we learned that our son had Asperger's Syndrome, a form of high functioning autism. We had been living in Thailand at the time and his terrifically sharp 1st grade teacher had noticed that he was just a little bit different - some times in his own world and some times taking all the other students along with him. His fine motor skills were poor, and during clean up time she would often find him under the childsize table examining the colorful scraps of papers left over from art projects. That was the year they started the "Bug Club" in his class; because he was fascinated with creepy crawlies, moths, and butterflies. We had always known that he was unique (as each of our children have proved to be); but he, particularly, had a world of imagination that he could move in and out of and share. Many times when he was imagining, he would run back and forth waving his fingers. We had asked a counselor about this before, but had never been given any reason to pursue it. Anyway, my husband was away at his meeting when I took my son to a wonderful lady psychiatrist in my home town. She confirmed a diagnosis of Aspergers, some thing we had never heard of before. We both googled it in our separate locations and, as at the time the only information available included the most serious and bleak scenarios, began to let the diagnosis sink in. Our responses were very different. I remember feeling some sort of relief like being given a key to better understand, discipline, and care for our vibrant son. I remember my husband broke down as we talked about it on the phone. He was thinking of all the relational experiences that our son would never have. As it turns out (10 years later), some things have been much harder than I could ever have imagined; but most things have been more amazing than we could have foreseen. We have three extremely special, unique sons; with varying and tremendous strengths and some weaknesses, and all have been blessed with great friendships.

Da Boyz Christmas 1999