New Year

Already, it is upon us. Forget the fact that the clutter I vowed to eliminate last year is still here (along with the 25 pounds--and a few of their friends--that haven't made it out the door yet either.) The novel-in-the-making is still half-made, and I don't think I've cleaned out the storage space either. Nor are the many journals--in fact, ANY journals--filled with daily writings. I am still the crabby, selfish, paper-hoarding, procrastinating, non-exercising slug that I was last year at this time, more's the pity, and now, here comes another New Year to rub it in my face.

On the other hand...This year I have become , truly become, a Nana--recognized as such by an adorable, preternaturally intelligent and beautiful child named Audrey. I have been part of an unusually talented, interesting, well-read and culturally-aware group of women (who somehow have not realized my lack of qualification) who meet for lunch each month. My writing group is still intact and provides a wonderful outlet for trying out ideas and writings. As my poet-laureate term draws to an end, I have finally convinced myself that I am a poet. Maybe not the Billy Collins of my time, but someone who has something to say that other people respond to. I even (by virtue of my unfortunate medical issue this fall) was allowed to see that I have more friends and well-wishers than I ever believed possible, who came out in force to help and support me and my family when we needed it most. I have seen the concern of my husband and family, and know, beyond doubt, that I have more than my share of love.

"Our reach should always exceed our grasp, or what's a heaven for?" --or words to that effect. I've always been good at making lists, but have never been much on following through. So. Clutter and weight and unfinished writing and unfinished cleaning be damned. It's been a pretty good year, by all the standards that count. This week, I'll add a few more goals to that New Year's list, with no guarantees that they will be achieved. Just letting everyone know that I'm a work in progress...

Snowing

I wake to unearthly quiet--

a distant jingle that could be Santa,

wending his way home--

but it’s a few days too early

and a more wakeful me would recognize the sound:

chains on snowplow tires,

gnawing on the pristine landscape of King Street,

making ready for the inevitable

daily influx from suburb to city--

a slow one today,

judging by the almost-silence,

yet to be broken by

newscasters

measuring, pointing, questioning,

warning, freezing, gesturing

reporting

the overnight everyday miracle

of snow.

Snowtravaganza

I can't really remember the last time we had a white Christmas...but I can guarantee that, at least in my memory, there has never been one like this. On Saturday, December 19, we watched it snow. And snow. And snow. We spent the day taking pictures of our disappearing patio furniture (why do people always take pictures of their lawn furniture when it snows?), the yardstick planted firmly at 8 AM in 8 inches of snow on the table. We (JC, that is; I was not allowed) ventured out occasionally to shovel the snow that was encroaching on the doors and threatening to seal us inside. The day ended with about 17-18 inches on the ground (and table)--a record for December snowfall.

It is pretty, and we have the pictures to prove it. But snow is also a phenomenal nuisance when it comes down to everyday living. All jokes about toilet paper, milk and bread aside, it gets difficult to do all the stuff we need to do on a daily basis, particularly when serious attention has to be paid to avoiding slips and falls and the possible disastrous results. Doctors' appointments, lab visits, even our furnace and heat pump check-up may need rearrangement. Parties have been canceled or re-scheduled, dinners postponed, and we are enjoying a strange variety in our own meals, which are dependent on what happens to be in the freezer and pantry.

Add to that the physical hard labor of shoveling this mountainous pile of snow that envelops the area....though we were fortunate in having some itinerant shovelers shanghaied by a neighbor into clearing a car-width path up our alley (now, of course, reduced to an ice floe by last night's re-freeze.) Still, even when we get out of the alley and onto a secondary road, the sidewalk paths are narrow and inexpertly cleared. Some are blocked with yellow tape, warning of potential roof slides of snow, along with icicles hanging from 3rd-story roof lines that could skewer the unwary passer-by if they took the notion to break free at the wrong time. Intersections are slushy and/or frozen into solid ruts that are slippery and irregular and dangerous to pedestrians (as well as the drivers) who traverse them.

BUT Christmas is coming, and though the stockings may not be stuffed as full as they usually are (Mrs. Santa having been confined to home and hearth by the blizzard) there should be no dearth of good cheer. Though Christmas dinner may be non-traditional if the cook can't get to the grocery store, Christmas will be as it should be: more attuned to who is around the table than what is on it, more concerned with the love around the tree than the gifts arrayed under it, and more focused on Who has come than on where we have to go.

God bless us, every one. (And please, please, please melt this stuff!)

Decking the Halls...

"I'm not ready..." I whine, but in the words of the Grinch, "..somehow or other, it came just the same." We're talking Christmas here, as you've no doubt figured out. My living and dining rooms look like an explosion at the North Pole, blessedly sans elf body parts. Boxes, bags, knickknacks, stuffed animals, Santas, ornaments, candles...and more boxes. No wonder we have a storage space as big as our house. Half of it is Christmas. And unfortunately, part of it is still in storage. I can't seem to locate my tree skirt, my Nativity set, my fake pine roping (did I throw it away last year?) or any number of other Christmas necessities. Jake, however, had no trouble finding his niche as I readied the big wreaths for the outside windows..Here is a cat in search of a Friskies modeling contract.

I haven't put out the Christmas dishes, or assembled any greenery--and somehow the sticks and dried flowers and berries of Thanksgiving don't say "Christmas" to me. On the plus side, the tree has been delivered and is smelling very Christmas-y. It looks like someone designed it for a Christmas card--perfectly shaped, with nice full branches: no 'holes' to be filled with strategically-placed lights and ornaments. It is the prettiest tree we've had in a couple years. Yet to be decorated with lights and ornaments.

I am now faced with the annual 15-puzzle task of moving our belongings around in order to make room for decorations. If the hydrangea wreath is moved to a box, I can take the red wreath out of its box and hang it. If the Thanksgiving candles are removed, I can put them in the space currently occupied by the red candles in the sideboard. If I empty the storage box with the Christmas stockings, will there be room for the rabbit from the mantle and the pictures from the shelves which need to be moved so I can put out the Santa collection...? And hovering over all these questions is the big one: if I put this away somewhere, will I ever find it again?

Fa-la-la.

Audrey

It doesn't take much to turn me into mush nowadays. I think I used to be pretty tough. I shed the occasional tear when E.T wanted to phone home. I was a little weepy at weddings and funerals, but never anything that a single tissue couldn't manage. Sending the girls off to college, graduations, welcoming Kay home for the holidays from Arizona...these were pretty standard events that would generate a few tears, happy or sad.

But last week, we were loading our granddaughter into the carseat, and she pointed her little finger at me with a grin as big as all outdoors and clearly said, "Nana!" Now I must admit that when she first arrived, the most exciting feature of her visit was neither me nor her grandfather. She made a beeline for Jake, signing and saying "kitty" simultaneously. I doubt Jake's heart was going pitty-pat at the recognition, however. His was no doubt screaming into 'fight or flight' mode, though he was polite enough to allow a few minutes of patting and petting, proving that his manners were at least as good as this child's.

But "Nana" is what she said when she saw me, and no single word has carried that much weight in a long time. Despite living a country apart, despite constant exposure to her other grandparents, despite our brief and frenetic visits, she KNOWS us. She is not afraid of us. She doesn't cower behind her mom and dad or cry when we come near. What a gift to be able to pick her up and snuggle her close! What a gift to see her face light up, and to hear her giggle at these foolish grown-ups who will do almost anything to make her laugh. What a gift it is to see this little blonde elf toddling off purposefully with a little red bucket filled with treasures she's collected in our house: a spoon, a bowl, a toy, some 'O's or some discarded peas she's found in her high chair. Even her constant efforts to climb the stairs (requiring adult pursuit) or to fiddle with the buttons of the laptop or the printer, or to explore the recesses of every unsecured cabinet and cupboard...these are reminders of her need to know and grow and practice all the myriad skills that we take so much for granted. From language to physical accomplishment to interpersonal relationships, she is absorbing information at a phenomenal rate, and in the process, generates a sort of electricity that captivates the people around her.

What a fabulous thing, to be part of this little human being's education process...How wonderful to be her Nana.