January 8th … My Mother’s Birthday

January 8th … My Mother’s Birthday! Her birthday is always two weeks to the day after Christmas Day and one week to the day after New Year’s Day. It’s a special day to me, as my mother was an extraordinary person and she was a loving mom.  Her “momness”  didn’t take the form of hugs and kisses. Rather it was a blend of her willingness to defend me against the bullies when I was a young child, her support of my academic activities and special projects (she would sit and physically help me to paste segments of my little elementary school booklets that I would prepare and turn in for extra credits), and perhaps most notable of all, she promoted me and my musical abilities unceasingly and enthusiastically; she believed in me.There could never be a cheerleader more devoted, consistent, and sacrificing as my mother!

Today I’m thinking of her birth in1913, into a large and poor family; both her parents were immigrants. She came into this world a helpless, innocent infant and it seems odd for me to try and picture her that way. 

Her life was made very difficult by my only sibling for whom she made egregious, tremendous personal sacrifices … and she suffered prolonged periods of painful heartache over him. As the Universe is always aware, and often providing solutions and outcomes, a young man who was considered a “transient” came to my sibling’s California apartment a few months before his 41st birthday and murdered him on New Year’s Eve. My mother mourned his violent death, though her life gradually became her own again and I felt greatly relieved for her sake. 

She was a very friendly and generous person and a strong, resourceful woman whom I will always admire. She would be 105 years old today.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MA!

Memories Of Santa ...

Christmastime, for me, brings many memories of  childhood Christmases.   It was celebrated in our  home in a cultural, rather than religious way, although I was always asked by neighborhood churches to play piano at their holiday programs.  At our house -- full of hustle and bustle -- there were family members from both my parents' families, who would come by to visit and bring me gifts.  My mother, always the gracious hostess, would manage to serve a bountiful dinner to any and all who showed up.  I remember my great-aunts; they were ladies on my father's side who were elegantly dressed and coiffed; they almost always brought me coloring books.  My great uncles were scarcer and, when they were in attendance, were on the quiet side. My "regular" aunts and uncles, though, were quite lively and interesting ... they were from my mother's side. One such uncle, I clearly recall, was the bad boy of the family and brought with him an air of scary excitement when he appeared at the door.  Sometimes I would hide when he visited.  

As I grew up and into my teens, my own friends and their families became most of my Christmas and holidays weren't celebrated much anymore in my own home, due to family problems.  Later, I was married and holidays revolved around children.  So the essence of my own, personal Christmastime nostalgia centers on the magical years during which I was from about age seven through nine.  And the "event" that stands out in my memory and makes me smile was brought about by my father.

Daddy, though very personable and well-liked, was not a warm and fuzzy person; my relationship with him was one I'd describe as an aloof friendship; he would occasionally buy me a treat or spend a few minutes talking with me.  So I was greatly surprised and touched by the playfulness of his Christmas spirit, which appeared two Christmases in a row back then.  

Lying in my bed on Christmas Eve, I wanted to believe Santa Claus was coming, even though the logistics didn't make sense to me.  My mother would tell me to go to bed because she thought she had heard Santa's bells and she didn't want him to skip our house.  I would lie there with my own version of sugar plums dancing in my head :)  And this I was doing.  I had heard my parents' voices talking in muted tones in the kitchen.  All at once, I heard the sound of bells jingling outside.  They sounded very clear and sharp in the cold New England night air, especially as there was snow on the ground.  I listened --  the bells paused -- and then began jingling again, this time under my window and then moving toward our backyard.  How exciting! Could it be Santa?  But I resisted the urge to sit up in my bed, let alone look out the window.  I didn't want to break the spell!  I realized in those moments, that my serious, aloof father was playing Santa because his own inner child wanted to bring me Christmas delight :)  I was thrilled and so happy.  He repeated the performance the following year, running (my father was athletic) across our land jingling the bells  :)         

Now, many years later, the family scene has completely changed, and with it Christmas.   Now it's mostly a quiet time.  My dog, in her twelfth year, prances in her red sweater.  I dress Fiona, my ficus tree, in colored lights. We play some holiday music.  I make a quiche that has become traditional for me over the last 20 or more years.  I enjoy exchanging holiday greetings with friends and strangers.  But in the distant past lies that spark ... my memories of Santa, that warms the magic of Christmas Eve for me.    

Blue Sweater & The Surprise Box --

Recent cool weather brought out the smoky blue heavy-knit cardigan sweater that I’ve had and loved for many years. Its long sleeves have ample material that can be rolled up at the cuffs; its overall length is long enough to skim over and cover the hips and its waist is sort of fitted and nipped in. I don’t think a sweater like this could be found in stores today. Whenever I wear it or even look at it, I remember the "surprise boxes" my mother used to have shipped to me when I lived in Connecticut and she lived in southern California. A box would arrive periodically ... maybe averaging six or seven boxes per year, over a span of about four or five years. In each of these boxes would be an assortment of items, some new, many used ... from clothing and handbags to home decor items and novelties. Opening the box would feel like beginning a treasure hunt.

My mother was a generous soul and she was well-liked by everyone who knew her. She lived in humble fashion and that is probably why people tended to give her things, thinking she could use them. And she did. But more often, she shared them and gave them away. This sweater brings back all of those memories, so it feels warm and friendly and is a favorite piece of clothing.