Madame DeFarge

We need a good snowstorm in order to have a white Christmas. Dead grass can still be seen amidst the crusted snow patches on the lawns. When I complained about this to J the other day he reminded me: "Mom, it's only BEGINNING to look a lot like Christmas. Ya have to give it some time to actually LOOK like Christmas." 'O little wise man. I picked up one of my fav. books recently: A Tale of Two Cities. The beginning of the book, with its dark shadows seems to epitome the somberness of cold winter evenings. Even if I can't read it intensely right now, or expect to finish it before Christmas, the memories from it are stoked simply by podering its contents. Without exception when the book comes to mind I am bound to initially think of Madame DeFarge. It isn't the exceptional mothering of sweet Lucie rehabing her father who has been in solitary confinement up in a tower making shoes for a couple decades. Or even the pompous lawyer, in love with Lucie, battling alcoholism and jealousy toward her perfect husband; eventually overcoming all these things to do the most selfless act of love by the end of the book. Yes, all these personalities make the story and supply me many wonderful parallels to life. But Madame DeFarge CRUSHES these characters' chance of being the first to be thought of. Her dominating persona ensures that the other characters come secondary in my mind when I recall the book. It is her that I must first think through before I can enoy the others. Which is quite a testament to Dicken's ability to write. Madame DeFarge appears in my mind in the same manner every time: exiting a pub and crossing a cobbled dirt road. Toward whatever it is she is after, the large, buxom woman moves hastily- her skirt swishes out of the way of her vengeful agenda. She narrows in on her prey with steely cold, laser-like precision. Even in crossing the landscape of my mind, she accomplishes her same goal in the book. No modern warfare technology can compete with Madame DeFarge's ability to annhilate what she deems unworthy to continue on in life. She is never empty handed. Or if she is empty handed you are aware that she has knitting kneedles somewhere ready to whip out and viciously create something. Which is quite the contrary activity you'd imagine someone of her nature doing. Knitting. Knitting is for nice people, warm cozy people. A calming, mothering/grandmothering activity. That produces dish rags and afghans you put over you when you are sick or cold and it warms you up. Knitting is all the soft and pretty different kinds of wool wound round spools in a shop downtown. NOT the sort of thing that would be connected with Madame DeFarge. Which is the exact sickening feeling Dickens is able to stymy us with in his book. A cruel, unrelenting bully of a person knitting while others squirmed and shrunk from her evil glance. But Madame DeFarge is larger in life than just herself. She can't exist in your mind as a solitary person with likes and dislikes, friends and hobbies. No, she is more. If Hitler himself had been able to pick up knitting needles, it would have not even reached the culminating evil that is Madame DeFarge. Ugh. Once Madame DeFarge crosses the road, knits while watching those sentenced to the Guillitine, then, only THEN can Carlton's ride in the cart staring into the eyes of the innocent and petrifiedyoung woman, doomed to the same fate, surrounded by all the noise and chaos, yet cocooned in calm and peace, enter into my mind. Dickens is brillaint. I think of him a lot when I take walks outside and try to imagine him weaving through London during the night, surrounded by dank fog. Witnessing the plight of the poor. Experiencing their plight. Did he wonder the same things I wonder? Like how to make a living, his family and their circumstances, the political nature at the time and what was to come? Did he realize the difference he could make? Did he know that his talent could create stories that would be so memorable and timeless that even one of his characters could become so large she seizes the stage of mankind and can only be compared to an evil that enters into the hearts of man? He was brillaint. Of course he knew. I love to re-read Dickens. Go get A Tale of Two Cities. His sense of humor is endearing and makes these larger than life characters easier to swallow!

Midnight

Whenever I come completely off prednisone, I feel like the part in Cinderella, when the clock has struck midnight and the carriage turns into a pumpkin, her beautiful dress is transformed back into rags and she now is afoot to get home.

 

  Prednisone is like a fairy godmother,

 

    it gives you all the abilities to accomplish your goals. No matter how many times I've been "left in the road in the middle of the night after a great night of dancing",

 

I can't approach and endure the time on it any differently. I go about making all of the things happen in my life that I WANT to happen. And with out fail I sit in the middle of all the mess at the end, after the dream is up, in a perplexed fashion.

 

  Being able to be up doing things like driving kids to practice, attending basketball games and even getting ready for the day, can be taken for granted. Being able to have a meaningful conversation with a friend, get onto your email account or blog and figure out why it isn't posting like it should are all activities that prednisone magically makes easy in your life.

 

  At least at first. Like Cinderella's night on the town, it is a short lived moment. And, unfortunately, no one comes later to tell you it actually can become real-if the slipper fits. The nightmare begins when you have been on it too long. The aches slowly creep into your bones and suck the marrow out of them. Literally.

 

  The adrenal gland is acting more like Snow White- goes to sleep while prednisone makes everything happen, and is rudely awakened to a bigger job than before. Trying to get up to speed and 'equilibrate' is a nightmare.

 

You'd think you could sleep like a baby when you haven't slept for days- but you are beyond sleep. I can sit wide eyed reading Shingles forums into the night trying to figure out an answer to the problem.

Or crying over other blogs.

 

 (A good one is dennyandwendy.blogspot.com= but only go there if you want a good healthy cry.) I sat by the tree last night, glad for the comfort of Christmas lights and village lit up in the darkness.

 

 Believe me, I am grateful for the fact I have parents that have stayed together, work hard and believe in family. They are a testament to why the family unit is so important. **last night I actually got some sleep. I still need to post about The Villages this month. Stay tuned because it's a neat story. And I putting some sweet recipes on here. I think about good food when times are tough. Odd. I know.

The Call of The Wild

I misprinted Jack London's book in my earlier post. 'Slips' that happen late at night. I confused it with Into the Wild. Read the one about the dog. The above decoration is made with a large brown pom pom, smaller on for the nose. It is for Abby's gift. Replica of her Blue Tick Hound Dog, Sonny. Jaden helped make it. They are easy.

Christmas Spirit

I love when the Christmas spirit comes unexpectedly. At the beginning of each December I

anticipate it and hope that I will feel it again. But like the seasons, I too seem to be nearing

the cold, harsh part of hope and so I initially wonder: "Will I feel it this year?" I don't

know if it is the Idaho weather that makes me go into that kind of state or if it is a natural

cycle that we all go through that only Christmas can satisfy. All I know is a surrender has to

proceed it. And sometimes that is hard. Really hard. The decorations go up, I start listening

to the music and think of gifts to give; yet that familiar feeling doesn't automatically happen.

It isn't until I get down on 'Little Drummer Boy' status that I can tap into the true meaning of

Christmas, look outward instead of inward, and allow God to carve out the space needed inside me

for Him to fill. And often it is really painful. Because there is always deep wanting to

overcome. -The aching I feel for whatever it is in my life that only the birth of the Savior can

satisfy. But when it comes! It is so worth it. Simple things like the sun shining becomes enough.

The needs melt away and you are left with an appreciation for life and what you have. And,

finally, when that moment the spirit of Christmas surprises you, hope is restored. And all the

twinkling lights around town and on the tree signify it. But it amazes me how you have to fight

to get it back because it doesn't stay. I was glad to have felt it the other day in a

conversation. About religion. Before the conversation took place I had been slow getting ready for

the day. A long, painful night had proceded it. I looked down and noticed the dust accumulating on

my bureau. so I found a rag, knelt down and clean it off. I carefully removed all the items,

dusted my typewriter, shook the doilies off, and finally ran the soft cloth over the picture frames

of my son as a baby. In front of one was a current smaller picture taken over at the school. This

tid bit comes into play later in the post. The conversation was concerning celebrating Christmas

at all. The holiday in general. The person posed to me that Christ is a King, that in her religion

they didn't dwell on Christ as a Baby. She gave an analogy of not putting on a diaper or handing

me a bottle, that those things were done away, now that we were adults. My mind went back to

dusting the pictures of my son and I shared that with the person. It wasn't a dramatic,

clandestine experience. Just a sweet, peaceful feeling that filled the empty space in me with joy.

A gratitude to be able to celebrate His birth at this time of year, no matter when He was born

washed over me. When I looked at the Christmas decorations

my parents have accrued, the villages, manger/nativity the boughs hung on the mantel fireplace, I

was so glad for the holiday. The symbolism in all of the traditions, that I have to consciously

keep in balance, all point toward Christ's birth. I am glad for the freedom to keep them in

balance and believe in Santa Claus. My favorite is the fact that God's gift to me, in addition to

His Son, is all He has. Can you imagine? I can't. And I have to remind myself of it. Even the

anticipation of opening gifts reminds me of the big surprise he has in store for me. (and you) I

need to think about that aspect more. It makes this part, here, on earth worth it. But I don't

think it is necessarily reserved for then either. It (the enjoyment) can happen now. Since that

conversation, Christmas has had full sway. Tender mercies are abundant. One evening I was across

town past my point of abilities and yet I was able to endure.-My head bobbled calmly down 17th

street, in 5 o' clock traffic while the Carpenters sang: There's No Place Like Home for the

Holidays. I am grateful to have those small miracles each day. Even the aspect of what book

Jaden and I read is a treat.(I recommend The Cricket in Times Square and The Call of the Wild by Jack London for this month! And of course anything Dickens.

Santa and Mrs. Claus

My neighbors look identical to The Claus' up north.

At the end of each summer 'Santa'begins to grow out his white beard just in time for the holidays and his wife, of course, simply wore her beautiful snow white hair in the usual done up way.

The two of them have costumes to wear around this time of year. Not cheesy, mall type Santa Claus outfits, but real white fur outlining just the right red colored suit for Santa. A black leather belt with a nice gold buckle. I have no idea where he got the charcoal boots but they are perfect. He even had a matching soft velvet sack. Mrs. Claus wears a green velvet skirt, white shirt and with her milky white complexion and rosy cheeks, she looks as cute as a gingerbread cookie.

They are the real deal. However, this year is different because Mrs. Claus has cancer.

We have gotten used to not seeing them because they had been gone on a mission. But after they had returned home the cancer took over within a short time. You don't expect that sort of thing- I guess I don't. They had been healthy, had served and you simply expect that you get some sort of temporal reward. Not cancer. It seems unfair. Although I know God has his reasons it is still difficult to understand.

It is even more difficult to know what to say to people, or do when they experience something so huge and you want to somehow bare their burden with them. Alleviate the pain somehow. But often the only thing you end up doing is thinking about them. Praying of course. But mainly wondering a lot. At least I do.

When my son mowed the lawn, I felt bad because I knew that the noise hurt her body. So in the uncertainty of NOT knowing what to do, I seemed to back off with my interactions. Whenever they would be out going to Dr.s appts. my initial reaction was to run up to her and talk but I figured that would make her tired so I settled with a wave and almost felt guilty for it.

Odd, isn't it? Maybe it is simply a way for reverencing life? I'm not sure.

Now her time is becoming shorter, and it is a special time of year, especially for the two of them, I am remembering the things that I wanted to say to her and they seem to pile up along with the lump in my throat. Whether in a letter or in person and am kicking myself for not saying so- sooner.

One experience was from the month of June when one little girl on J's baseball team, who barely could hold a bat, hit the ball. She came from a difficult situation and to see that made me simply think of hope and it epitomized life. She was ecstatic and so was I that she hit the ball! For some reason I had made a mental note to share this with Mrs. Claus thinking it would bring a smile to her face. But I didn't.

For myself, it seemed important to know that life continued in a joyous way just as simultaneously as the winding down moments in others' lives. That the cycle was repetitive and continues. Life doesn't end with death and either does that joy. Maybe Mrs. Clause already knows this.

I want to hug my neighbor and thank her for the talks over the fence while I weeded my garden, her bright cheery laughter and advice for me when I had concerns about Jaden. I want her to know that we will take care of Santa for her when he needs a good homemade chili or the Rhubarb juice that I made up a few summers ago and shared with them that they liked so much.

The vision of them both dressed up as the Claus will stick with me and Jaden throughout our lives. They brought a lot of memories. But another image that will stick with me, or does so more right now, is that of him taking care of her.

On some of my walks I would look up into the window when I passed by their house. to see how she was doing. They left the curtains open, always had a warm glowing light from the lamp on and you could see Mrs. Claus on the couch, Santa close by in his recliner. This was always comforting to me. That even though something as scary as cancer, losing your hair and death could be bound up in love.

That is how it is supposed to be in life- that we take care of one another. And I hope I can remember that.

BEWARE-ness Week

Well, I found out that the Senate passed a new week for December.. the 1-7 is now "Crohns and Colitis Awareness Week". I told J.

"So does that mean we need to get away from you guys or something and beware of you?" he asked sincerely. He'd just seen a Beware of Dog sign that must have prompted the misunderstanding. I tried to explain it. "Do they hate you?"

I laughed. "If I'm on prednisone, maybe they ought to 'beware'. I tried to explain more.

"What, I have to get you a present or something?"

"Yes."

The above pom poms are super cute, I had to put them on this post.

Who's Herod?

"Who's Herod in this play?" Claude Herdman

Gladys Herdman: "Uh, Herod isn't in this play."

Leroy Herdman: "You mean he's out to kill the baby, and he isn't even in the play?"

Oh, my. J and I laughed pretty hard at the scene The Herdman family conjures up during this holiday time as we read: The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. I see them slamming the garage door up and down on each other, their hair arranged like a rat's nest, and Imogene Herdman playing Mary in her hiking boots, newly pierced ears and smoking a cigar in the ladies room. Which the church members thought was a fire due to all the smoke. Which is what happened tonight when I realized more late than soon in the game that I failed to pull the flew open...

I simultaneously called Padre at a Christmas party to give him a "heads up" that smoke was rolling out into the living room and NOT up the chimney but not to be alarmed.

I quickly did some calculations on how fast it would leave soot on all the Christmas decorations, had J open the front door and turn on the fan. The padres came home fast, surmised the situation, and left for McD's or something.

When they asked about the fire later on, I said: "What fire?" as casually as I could.

"I sort of thought you recalled how to do that." Padre commented.

I thought I did, too.

Apparently the little latch on the right of the fireplace wasn't connected to the flew. Lesson quickly learned. So much for recreating cozy atmosphere from the other night. Isn't how it is? When you try, it fudges. When you let it happen...

I tucked J in tonight and we lamented about our day. It was a tough one. Besides the lingering smell of smoke in the house, school had gotten out early, friends couldn't play, and he had to go to bball. Which he usually is up for, but today he wanted to do other things- like play bball games, not practice.

Later he confessed he'd ditched the drill part by hanging out dribbling in the racquetball court next to the gym. nice.

I found this out right before parent teacher conference. It must have been a primer.

"I've been in hot water all day." he said matter of fact.

"Me, too." I replied and before I knew it, he was out.

I had to hug him extra tight and laugh at the newspaper print smudge on his nose still from the fire incident. Feeling like a Herdman I had to really wonder if I was stranded in the woods,I could get a fire going. Three days worth of newspapers, a couple of logs from the neighbors, that were dry as a bone, and... nothing.

Granted air helps. But still..... Sigh.

At least Madre's Christmas village isn't smudged over in soot, our house is still intact, and we made it through December 1. 24 more days to go.