Eek! I seem to be saying that a lot these days. The months have sped by so that Thanksgiving is over and Christmas is nearly here. I try to follow Thoreau’s advice and live my life consciously. However, the older one becomes, the faster time goes so it’s difficult to do that.
Our Christmas to-do list runnneth over! Christmas cards, packing knickknacks away so that there’ll be a place to display cherished Christmas items, buying and decorating a tree, presents to buy and wrap, cookies to bake, attending Benton House events and church on Christmas Eve, planning meals and cooking the feast . . .
Oh, oh, oh! Why do I do this to myself? Why don’t I admit that I’ve grown old? Why not just write checks instead of shopping? Why not buy cookies, eat out or buy a turkey dinner with all the trimmings at Krogers? Why not have a small tree rather than one that reaches the ceiling? I put myself through this because from the time I was a child I’ve loved everything about Christmas, that’s why.
I’ve risen in the middle of the night, drink coffee and stare out the greenhouse window. It’s as bright as day outside, and the snowscape is worthy of a Christmas card that I can paint only on the canvas of my mind. A curtain of snow dripping with a fringe of icicles is on the round top of the big window. My stress disappears as the hush and the pristine snow that no track has marred absorb me. Now that I’m up so early, I’ll get a head start on the list and turn the lemon of insomnia into lemonade.
Each season of my life brings rich days that add new memories my deep pool of experience. That’s one good thing about growing old: one has a trove of treasures that one can access at any time.
Life is circular and universal: Much that happens today has happened in the past, and others take pleasure from the same things that have brought me joy and peace: I’m sure that people will be out sledding on the hill at Irvington’s Ellenberger Park. Time was when Bill, the girl Vicki and I would have been there.
Deep down: On a day like this, my Knightstown chum, Wanda, and I would have gone out as soon as we’d gobbled breakfast. In those days before nylon and polyester, we bundled up in wool coats, wool leggings worn over our pants, wool mittens tied to a string that ran through our coat sleeves, two pairs of socks, and rubber boots pulled over our shoes.
We’d build a fort and throw snowballs at Rex Mattix or try to make a snowman. We rarely achieved a snowman because we rolled the balls too big so that we couldn’t hoist the second ball onto the base. Other times we dragged our sleds through town to the Adams St. hill, waddling because of the thick layers of clothing.
We wouldn’t go home until we couldn’t stand the cold any longer. When I opened the door I’d be enveloped in the house’s warmth and the scent of Mother’s comfort food. “Mo-o-m, I’m ho-o-me,” I’d call as I shed my sodden clothing that made the house smell like wet wool as it dried. So long ago . . . so long ago . . .
And now? And now, remembrance sings its old sweet song and beckons. Perhaps I should borrow a sled and fly down a snowy hill one last time. On second thought, I shall be content with what’s stored within me and remain inside our cozy home and set a kettle of soup to simmering.
At the center of my being, the child Rose Mary still comes in from the cold and rejoices in the warmth of home and her mother’s home cooking . . . “Mo-o-m . . . I’m ho-o-me!” wclarke@comcast.net