no facebook, no myspace

Really, the world doesn't need to see all of me...occasionally I have a thought that tugs at me and longs to be expressed and put out there for whatever reason. We all would like to be heard, noticed, understood...to a certain degree. I have no desire to lay my whole life out there. My family is my own and if you know me well enough, you know them. They baffle me, surprise me, delight me, disappoint me, but they are mine and I hold them dear. Occasionally tho, I will share them. I don't myspace or facebook. I twitter every now and then but often wonder why. You can tell by my lame and often akward blog layout that I am very low tech, but have to say, in person, high touch. So leave a comment if you will. I will see it and know you are out there...

MCHS/BLHS That was then This is Now

BLHS Fall 2009
MCHS Fall 1977


In the end, I got in by the skin of my teeth and some luck. She got in from the start because she has awesome skills. Its been a blast wathcing her these four years. She sparkles with those eyes and that smile. Saturday could very well be her last highschool football game. Enjoy it honey, I hope your memories are sweet.

MCHS/BLHS

I have been back in high school since April. Crazy to be 50 years old and going to high school everyday. Subbing for teachers every once in a while was one thing, but being here daily is something else. Not in a bad way, its a pleasant job, nice surroundings being able to watch modern high school life from a safe distance through the lens of the bookstore windows. On the surface it looks simple enough, kids are happy, safe, enjoying or not enjoying their lives. The ever present specter of the "FUTURE" hanging over their heads.

I work in the school bookstore which is often like holding the keys to the life raft on a floundering ship. On a daily basis I have the opportunity to throw some poor kid a lifeline to save his day. Lending a book forgotten, loaning a tie lost whereby saving a kid from starting his day with certain detention. Selling sweatshirts to poor students getting frozen to death in a classroom of a menopausal teacher who sets her thermostat according to the severity of her latest hot flash. Day after day chatting with the kid who comes in to ask the same litany of questions about a book he supposedly needs to purchase but doesn't really need to purchase, what he really needs is a place of escape during lunch to avoid the pain of having to sit at a table all alone.

It causes me to often rethink my own high school experience. What would it be like to be able to do it all over with the experience and wisdom{?) of my current self? Would I be more confident, more invested, more hardworking, more appreciative, more considerate of other people, more willing to take risks? Less fearful? Less concerned about what other people think? Would I still turn down that sweet but dorky guy who asked me to Homecoming? Would I still panic if a teacher called on me to stand up in front of class? There is soooo much that I didn't take advantage of at the time, too often paralyzed by fear. Fear is the WORST. Afraid of looking foolish, afraid of sounding stupid. So, opportunities were lost, who knows how many. But behind the scenes I WAS sticking my neck out, WAS risking failure, risking looking foolish. After two failed attempts to make cheerleading, I succeeded. My world opened up and I got a taste of how the other half lived. And it was over in the blink of an eye.

The Time Traveler's Daughter

I would like to think that this pristine underground tunnel with the approaching shiny new subway train would still exist were I to venture down below the streets of Chicago. But I know better, I saw it with my own eyes and smelled it with my delicate and easily offended nose. I imagine that it is not a subway train at all but a time machine that would take me back to the city in the late 40's, early 50's. When ladies wore gloves and dresses and men rarely went out in public without a hat or necktie, no matter the weather. The war was over and life was getting back to normal settling into an era of relative peace and prosperity for the average person.
Supper clubs and elaborate movie houses were scattered throughout the city. Streets were bustling with shoppers and business people, mostly still city residents rather than suburban commuters. That would come soon enough. Before long, many young couples ventured out for a little more room in the 'burbs to raise their families in the fresh new surroundings of affordable new first homes.

And the next generation would make their trips downtown courtesy of the solo family car or by way of the Illinois Central or Rock Island Lines that stretched out to meet the needs of the south and north suburbanites. Even in the late 60's and early 70's the IC still had the old "ironside" train cars that were a history lesson in themselves. They were single story heavy iron dinosaurs with worn wicker seats that would leave a waffled imprint on your backside in the summer.

I made my move to the city after college in the early 80's. My preferred mode of transportation was my own two feet or the 151 bus line (which was not without the occasional derelict/pervert/wacko), with a rare cab ride when the budget allowed and the evening was late. I saw the stairs that led down to the subway but hadn't a clue where they led! I wasn't brave enough to find out and figured I could live without knowing. My first subway ride came 20+ years later thanks to daughter and her incredible ability to find her way around any town, anywhere. Its like a sixth sense she has. Fearless and somewhat reckless I would say. I have to say I saw neither women in gloves, nor men in hats in that underground world. It was like a creepy movie with a cast of bizarre characters. Some harmless and entertaining, some sinister and unsettling. How she can skip over the puddles of pee and focus on where she's going is beyond me. She admits that she is often harassed and left to fend for herself even when surrounded by able bodied "men" who in another era would have risen to her defense. Gallantry is gone with the wind and crude behavior is the norm. As modern as she is, she would have fit right in to the earlier age of ladies in gloves and gents in hats. So if you ever see a petite young lady on a subway, a bus or a train, she won't be offended if you offer her your seat, tip her your hat, or give the bums rush to a masher. There are still ladies out there gentlemen, even if they are not wearing gloves.

Coffee with Jim

He looked a little startled by my offer but jumped up and walked with me through the drizzle to his favorite McDonald's on the block. They recognized him, he must be a regular in the neighborhood. He was taller than I thought he would be seeing him crumpled up there on the corner, he was older too. Although he had a baby face with cheeks rosy red from the cold turns out he was 26. Twenty six is old enough to have found out a thing or two about yourself and about life. He chatted almost nonstop which he attributed to the methadone he was on to manage his heroin addiction. Yes, I was having coffee with Jim the homeless heroin addict. He preferred a coffee with five sugars and an order of cinnamon rolls to a burger. Sugar addiction, add that to the list.
He quickly spilled out his life story as he saw it. Growing up bi-polar in a cushy suburb. Slipping easily into marijuana in high school to cope and fit in. Quickly transferring to heroin which was way too easy to come by. Explaining what a joke and a game rehab was. Parents at their wits end, throwing up their hands after years of trying to deal with him. Tough love I wonder. Who would willingly have their kid on the street? He offered more grissly details of his recent past. What life is like sleeping on lower Wacker in the winter. Life in the shelters. Life with his girlfriend the married heroin addict nurse that keeps him addicted. Lots of excuses, little ownership.
Quite a reality check for my bleeding heart. After a while I said good bye, I will pray for you Jim. I had nothing else to offer him. A short time out of the rainy cold, a sugar fix. He thanked me. Said people don't talk to him, I guess many don't even look at him after a while. A city dweller's coping mechanism no doubt.

I went back into Marshall Field's and I could see the colors that I couldn't see before, the splendor, the joyful riotous displays of spring flowers. I wandered around there for a while revisiting my favorite spots in that glorious building. It tells an age old story of glory days past, trying to hang on to its history while reinventing itself for its own survival. I peered into the Narcissus room envisioning what it was like in its hay day of prim ladies lunching in all their finery. The Tiffany ceiling, the Frango candy making machine silent for the moment, the children's department where Santa greets 4th and 5th generation visitors come Christmastime. The fascinating historical display a nod to Field's illustrious history graciously left on display by Federated. And of course a look into the soothing warm paneled walls of the Walnut Room.

And my peace returned. All of the tensions and agitation of the weekend left me. I ventured out once again reminded of my painful feet wondering what to do next. I couldn't pass up the chance to have a look inside the Burnham Building that was standing before me on the opposite corner. As I crossed the street, I looked back to see Jim once again positioned to work the afternoon and the passersby under the clock. The regal old Hotel Burnham did not disappoint. Elaborate elevator grates, mosaic tiled floor, a gem restored. I was able to forgive the newly installed, unremarkable fireplace since it was offering me comfort on a sad gray day. From there I hatched my plan to drop into a CVS to buy myself some cushioned insoles hoping to soothe my feet to keep me going a bit longer. Divine intervention that CVS was next door to the Palmer House. I ducked in remembering that old Potter Palmer constructed this gorgeous haven 100+ years ago in tribute to his beloved Bertha. I found the plush "ladies lounge" and deftly slipped the insoles into my boots. Then I figured I had earned the right to sit a spell in the lobby bar in a comfy high backed sofa. It was close enough to happy hour I reasoned and ordered myself a perfectly luscious bloody mary. It was filled to overflowing with lime wedges, gigantic olives, and flowery celery, practically a meal! Either the charming east Indian waiter saw my distress and took pity on me or they figure that if you lay down $12 for a drink, it better be worth the cash. He also brought me a generous dish of snack mix and I tried to refrain from devouring it all at once. There I sat taking it all in, the opulent surroundings, the historical significance, the events of the day. Sitting there as the tasty cocktail began to take affect, I decided that I was no longer so in love with my favorite city. I know daughter will enjoy her life here but it will come at a cost. Her heart is as soft as my own. She delights in all of the wonders the city has to offer but sacrifices a piece of her soul each time she encounters one of these sad sights. And she encounters them daily.
The poor will always be with us, whether by their own failings, bad luck, bad health, misfortune. No need to empty your pockets at each encounter but harden not your heart, look them in the eye, smile, say a prayer for them, and take the occasion to express in the silence of your own heart, gratitude for your life, your blessings, and the strength you have been given to bear your own crosses.

Rainy days and mondays was a sad song

So as you know, Monday found me back downtown to plead for mercy from the housing office. After being tearfully dismissed by daughter, I set out on foot once again to spend the afternoon entertaining myself. Not hard to do right? Did I mention the cold and the rain?! It was noon yet it was so gray that it felt like evening was approaching. The umbrella was moderately helpful as I headed north once again. My stomach was howling so I ducked into a Panera Bread for a steaming bowl of amazingly creamy and satisfying mushroom soup with a perfectly wonderful half panini sandwich. Although I am dismayed at the thought of a chain restaurant appearing before me on State Street, I took advantage of it none the less. I warmed up and relaxed, taking my time and feeling alone and anonymous wishing I had daughter sitting across the table from me instead of some stranger at the opposite table also alone.You know how it is when you are facing someone and you try not to look but they are right in front of you?!
Since I was within spitting distance from Marshall Field's (that's about two blocks in my book) I headed back out into the gloom, jumped a few puddles and found myself under the old clock. And right there under that old landmark was a shabby young man huddled against the rain begging for food. I walked a few steps past him and knowing I had a perfectly intact crusty loaf left over from lunch, I turned around and handed it to him. Now you never know when you do something like this if the gesture will be sneered at or welcomed. Is the begging a ruse for quick cash to feed a habit or a genuine call for help? I figured I got my answer when I saw the young man eagerly devour the bread. Watching him for that short moment sent my emotions spiraling out of control. My nerves were shot to begin with after the last few days watching my child wrestle with city life, so I proceeded to lose it. I ran into Marshall Field's past the elaborate springtime displays desperately searching for someplace private. It was all I could do to quickly find myself a quiet stall before I totally embarrassed myself by breaking down in public. Although with all of the characters that I encountered that weekend, it is likely that I would appeared to be just another oddball.
However....when a mother sees a young person in need, she instinctively sees her own child or a friend's child there. It's sad enough to see an adult street person, disheveled and in need. It's quite another thing to see a young person in such a desperate state. I had all afternoon to fill before I would meet my daughter. I had no excuse. I pulled myself together and went back outside into that cold, gray, wet mess to revisit that sad scene.

Jumping around the weekend's events

I digress, as usual...

So things are quite out of order here. Just wanted to go on the record to show the weekend was not totally bleek. But then again....

Saturday the Sun was shining...

After spending the night on daughter's dorm chair/couch, I decided to head up to one of my favorite places in the city, the Chicago History Museum, formerly the Chicago Historical Society on Clark at North Avenue. For those of you who know, if you start off at Congress & Michigan, you've got a long way to go. The morning was cold but sunny and a stroll up Michigan Avenue is a joy on such a day. My walking shoes were cowboy boots which normally are quite comfortable believe it or not. My pace is more like a commuter clip as opposed to a tourist stroll so off I went. Before I knew it I was at the river, hands freezing, feet getting a good pounding from the pavement. When the sun bounces off of the magnificent Gothic structures that line Michigan Avenue at the river, the affect is spectacular. Forget that the wind was living up to the legend, there is little that can prevent you from enjoying the sight except maybe one excruciatingly sore foot. I knew I had to give in and either find a bus or grab a cab. Not knowing the bus system well enough I opted for a cab. Thank goodness because I had a few miles more to walk to the museum. The museum is currently celebrating Bicentennial of Abraham Lincoln so the permanent Lincoln exhibit was even more extensive with one of the 5 handwritten copies of the Gettysburg Address. Wow. Also on hand was a stunning exhibit entitled Chic Chicago with gowns on display from the late 1800's to modern day. Gorgeous! I could just picture Bertha Honore Palmer in her finery aching to be as well thought of as the grand dames of New York society instead of queen of the barbaric and uncultured Chicago rabble. A widely held view of Chicagoans by New Yorkers in the 19th century (probably, still).
My yen for Chicago history temporarily satisfied, I was brave enough to set out once again on foot but knew I wouldn't last long. The sun was bright but that wind off the lake was slicing right through me. Yet, I walked. The Cardinal lives in the neighborhood so I wandered past his historic red brick mansion wondering if he was in town. State Street starts up there and its a great neighborhood of old brownstones and mid rise, mid century apartment building and hotels. Now if I could just get daughter situated in this neighborhood I would visit frequently. She needn't worry tho, its not in the budget! OK, feet are throbbing now. But after going through my cash fairly quickly on cab fare, I resist. A couple of more blocks gets me through the posh shopping district where you might find Oprah or Michelle. Suffering now, I head over to Michigan Avenue knowing I can get a bus in front of Water Tower to get me down to Randolph and the train station home at least that was my regular route 25+ years ago. And who should exit the 151 at Randolph with me but Memoir Girl. (See her very own blog entry at theLtracks.blogspot.com) Success and the aroma of train station popcorn greets me. Why does that smell so darned good?! Cheesy popcorn fingers for the ride home.

living for the city

Anytime I actually visit Chicago, I must report because it's always different. For starters, I've finally figured out the significance of my title, vintagechicago. At first I thought it would represent Chicago memories of myself and others. Since hardly anyone reads this blog, it has really been about mine. So vintagechicago is actually me I guess, an aging fragment of an earlier time with roots in and occasional recent experiences of that grand city.
I must say however my last visit was at times, heartbreaking. It should have been an uplifting early spring, Easter weekend. Realistically tho it was mid April in Chicago which could still mean snow. Not to forget the Easters of my youth that were spoiled by having to wear a winter coat over a perfectly wonderful new Easter dress. Especially fabulous was the year all three of us sisters had -get this- new dresses with matching coats, matching hats, lace tights, new shoes and probably white gloves. How the parents pulled that all off I'll never know, must have won the lottery that year. Bleak, gray, rainy weather aside, I got to encounter some equally bleak aspects of city life up close.
Daughter was desperate to find off campus housing so we enlisted the help of a professional who promptly told us what I already knew. To find an apartment for the paltry sum that we had budgeted would land her in a seriously sketchy neighborhood. (To qualify here, $1200/month-shared by two, is not paltry by any means, unless of course you're talking big city real estate) Not suburban sketchy which we are more accustomed to, neighbors that maybe don't cut the lawn as frequently as they should or park too many vehicles of various types on their property. No, we are talking seriously sketchy as in probable gang activity.
After an afternoon of viewing "apartments" carved out of 100 year old buildings which probably were never meant to house a normal sized human being, we regrouped and ventured out to the magnificent Opera House to enjoy a contemporary concert by local musical genius Andrew Bird. Funny how the two of us fret about what we will wear to such a special event. Obviously from the looks of the crowd, few others gave it any thought at all. I MEAN, you are partaking of a not inexpensive night out at a glorious historic venue. Give it the respect it deserves. Same goes (even more so) for the disappointing crowd at Easter Sunday mass. PLEASE PEOPLE, what rates a little effort anymore?! Are ratty jeans and a lame tshirt the new black?
Now by Monday time was running out to find daughter somewhere to lay her precious head for the summer and next school year. Consequently Mom heads over to the housing office to plead daughter's case even though she missed the application deadline by a mere month. They take pity and find her a spot in a 5-story vintage building which has actually been rehabbed to be inhabited rather confortably from my point of view. Daughter is upset since her dreams of being let loose to live the authentic city life have been derailed. Mom however, will be sleeping a little easier. She runs off to edit a film that is due and tells me through her tears she will be at it for hours and that I shouldn't hang around. Ya, right. I am not leaving my daughter in such a state. Five hours to kill downtown is nothing I tell her, I will see her at dinner time. Those next five hours are a story in itself.....

KUM-BY-YA YA'LL

You know I love to wander through the blog-o-sphere checking up on my favorite bungalow rehabbers and all things Chicago. It makes me crazy though because those people are thouroghly and utterly dyed in the wool democrats at the least and rabid liberals at the worst. I try to overlook all of that but it is getting harder and harder since I am finding it almost intolerable to stomach their enlightened view of the world in this post-Obama election universe. All of a sudden they are all enlightened about being bi-partisan and optomistic, and oh so generous about working together to CHANGE the world into a better place. OK, where has their generosity of spirit been for the last 8 years? Now they are willing to be cooperative and bipartisan since THEIR guy is in the White House. It is no great effort to be so when your side holds the keys.
I am happy to live in a town that has yard signs reading "Welcome Home Mr. President". I hope George and Laura will be comfortable here and able to live with peace and dignity after 8 years of constant criticism and hate. I don't care what you think about his policies. He governed according to his conscience just as Obama will. Just because his ideals and policies differ from your own is no cause for hate. Obama does not represent my ideals but he is my president. I will work and pray for the causes I believe in and I will not resort to hate. I think Obama is wrong wrong wrong on just about every issue. This is America, I am entitled to my position and so are you. Don't take away my right to express my views (Un-Fairness Doctrine) because you now have the power to do so. I don't ask for ABC, NBC, CBS, CNBC, Air America, countless big city newspapers, Time, Newsweek etc, to be silenced so don't you ask for FOX or talk radio to be silenced.
I am proud to live in this country, always have been but I worry for her soul. I see a constant battle between the darkness and the light with the darkness getting stronger every day. Government is not the answer to all of our ills, the people are the answer. Obama cannot save us from ourselves but he can facilitate our demise. The people's hearts united with the will of God is the answer.

Souls Connected

What is it about women blogging that draws snickering from kids, rolled eyes from husbands, disdain from intellectuals? Granted, it's not brain surgery. It's frequently self-indulgent musings, whining, ranting, self-reflection. But you know what? It's also a web of souls connected. Strangers who put their lives out there for whatever reasons, searching, seeking, living. People who are deeply touched by other's joys and sufferings, reaching out to lend love and support because really, your children are my children. Your heartbreak could easily be mine. I sat in tears today reading a friend's blog that told me about two year old Cora who recently succumbed to cancer. And last year I learned about little Gloria who also passed away at the tender age of 6. Her short life was remarkable. She had love and devotion for God that was supernatural. She taught so many people about life, and faith. A profound testimony that I was able to witness because of her mother's blog.
I have also "met" so many interesting, creative, faithful, genius, hysterically funny women wandering from one blog to another. In a very discouraging and often godless world I am lifted up by these incredible people. They are a light shining through the darkness. Because we know afterall that this incredible tool we use for our education and entertainment is also a conduit for trash and hate.
Of course it would be wonderful if we could have these encounters and "conversations" in person but life is what it is. Seek out the good and beautiful and humorous in the world because it gives life. Pass on the stories of suffering as well as beauty because there is God in the suffering too. An even if the story ends with death, it is just the beginning of the next chapter. The most beautiful one of all.

When They Used to call it Christmas

Carson's Main Isle (Notions Dept.) 1958
Marshall Field's Main Isle 1941
Marshall Field's Toy Department 1949 Candy Cane Lane

Remember when the Christmas season used to be called the CHRISTMAS SEASON? Not the "holidays", semester break, winter break, blah, blah, blah. Come see the Macy's holiday tree!!! Oh wow, a holiday tree! What other holiday has a tree anyway? Where did we go wrong? When did it become offensive to say Christmas? Last time I checked, all the "holiday" festivities and traditions that we still do today came from the celebration of Christmas.
The Christmas season these days really is the holiday season. In retail land, it's generic, impersonal and without excitement. We have lost so much of the fantasy, opulence, grandeur, and reverence for Christmas. Do families still go downtown to view the decorated windows of the stores? Now that Carsons is gone from State Street, that leaves Marsh...gag...Macy's. Are we standing in line for hours to sit beneath the Martha Stewart Tree in the Walnut Room? Dressing up the kids to wander through the elaborate Christmas village erected to keep the kids happy while waiting to sit on Santa's knee in the Cozy Cloud Cottage? Afterwards, prouldly displaying the red button on their coats which told the world "I SAW FIELD's SANTA",then off to the Crystal Palace to reward the patient little ones with a scoop of ice cream? My kids remember visiting the Crystal Palace and if we were lucky, we would get a table by the window to view the skaters in the rink below. I'm sure that rink was a temporary fix (which lasted a few years)for the hole created by a demolished vintage building. But it sure beats the new glass and metal monolith that has since replaced the rink. You could ride the shiny brass door elevators run by uniformed elevator operators to the 5th, 6th, or 7th floors to view the main isle from above. The Main Isle of Marshall Field's and Carson Pirie Scott were decked out in displays magical and elaborate enough to rival the efforts of Disneyland. The gleaming mahogany display cases held everything you could imagine. And the toy departments were a sight to behold. Try getting that kind of thrill from the isles of Target or Toys R Us.
I recently found a wonderful book that revisits the wonder of Christmases past. It is an offering from Arcadia Publishing from their Images of America series. These books are an absolute treasure to those of us who remember and appreciate days gone by that truly were special. I selected just a few of the hundreds of wonderful photos included in Christmas on State Street 1940s and Beyond . Author, Robert P. Ledermann.


Photos reprinted with permission from Images of America Christmas On State Street 1940's And Beyond, by Robert P. Ledermann. Available from the publisher online at www.arcadiapublishing.com or by calling 888-313-2665.

P.S. I correct myself. The holiday tree that I referred to at Macy's, formerly Marshall Field's on State Street, is actually called, and I kid you not, The Centennial Great Tree, by Martha Stewart. PU-LEEEEZE!

Having Super Powers does not make you a Superhero

I have super powers. I have the ability to be in two places at the same time. Actually anybody can do this and I bet alot of people do. Trouble is it's not really a beneficial power to have because it often is a result of restlessness and/or dissatisfaction. I refuse to admit to the latter because I pride myself in being a positive minded, glass half full type of girl. (Please refrain from snickering here upon my use of "girl".) It is more like looking at life as it is and imagining your life, very vividly, in great detail, as it might be. Some of us do this because we are miserable with how life has been. (That is not me, thankfully!) Some of us do this because we learn about who we are, what we are good at, what we enjoy, slowly, over many years. (Yes, that is me.)
Trouble is, and it is a good trouble to have, I love too much of my life to throw it over to chase my imagined life. Lest you start wondering what type of perverse, alter ego nonsense I may be imagining, let me explain. I live in an Oak Park architectural gem, or 19th century downtown brownstone, work as an exhibit curator at the Chicago History Museum and have a vintage summer cottage somewhere on the shores of Lake Michigan. My family is here too because I would never give them up for anything. But they are grown, living nearby, leading their very interesting independent lives. They can visit the Lake Michigan cottage anytime they like. My hobby is collaborating with my very talented, film maker daughter on documentaries of historic architecture or Chicago history. I also think I would have been a great set decorator for period movies. Creating all of those minute details, some never really seen by the viewers but employed to give a sense of time and place to the story. (Explained beautifully by the directors commentary in Miss Pettigrew Lives for A Day I might add.)Also daughter #2 figures in some creative way which I don't know yet because she doesn't know yet! Too much like her mother I'm afraid.
But I digress, alot. Back to the super powers...
I guess this doesn't qualify me for superhero status, because nothing really heroic is achieved with these so called powers. Bummer because I think I could come up with a really great superhero outfit that would start with some amazing designer pumps that would be totally useless but look crazy good. A superhero in a little black dress.
Boy this really didn't end up where I thought it would. I was going to get all philosophical about blooming where you're planted, etc. I was really inspired by a friend who is sort of a mess right now, unhappy with alot of things. And I see where he could be, where he probably will be before long. After he shakes off the hurt (easy for me to say) and focuses on where he's going in spite of where he's been. I hope his learning curve is faster than mine because he is very talented and as I've always thought, destined for great things. And great things can be just about anything and anywhere but they start with and appreciation for who you are and the gifts you have been given and the responsibility we have not to squander them. As I always say, Use Your Powers For Good!

Christmas

I guess it has to happen eventually. Here sooner rather than later. What goes up, must come down. I'm referring to the annual chore of taking down the Christmas decorations. Luckily we can count on the occasional 60-80 degree day to get the outside down before a cold snap comes through. Cold as in windy and 30-40 degrees. Big wup right? But we Dallasites are conditioned to our climate and pull out the parkas (wait a minute, this is Dallas, we don the furs darling) when the thermometer dips below 50. The tree came down last. I just couldn't give up the beautiful glow that tree lent to the daily routine. I only put up half as much paraphenalia as I could have. Several boxes stayed in storage because I just dread the take down. I have enough gorgeous, one of a kind ornaments for two trees which I have done many times in years past. When the kids were little we always had a real tree. Dad insisted on it and yes, though it was a mess that he literally wrestled into its inadequate stand each year the scent was intoxicating. Granted it never seemed straight and it actually came crashing to the ground one year, thus obliterating several of those treasured ornaments I had spent a lifetime collecting. Now with the girls grown the real tree has become expendable and the elaborate schemes to produce a magical visit from Santa are over, sadly and thankfully. I keep telling myself, next year I will have the energy to do the whole shabang to the hilt once again. But realistically, we have quiet Christmases here, no extended family to celebrate with, to owe the obligatory holiday visit to, to have dropping by to eat up the four dozen decorated butter cookies that still sit mostly uneaten.
But I have lots of memories of Christmases past, near past and long past. I think of Christmases to come with the kids scattered to the four corners (which yes, I was the first one guilty of flight in my family. Payback is hell.) Will Christmases become more lonely and fractured? Will they feel the pull to come home or create their own traditions? Whether they are with me or their own families, I hope they feel the joy of creating memories of their own, feel the love of their family from Christmases past, know the joy that only this season brings if they remember that no matter how simple or elaborate they make it, what they do with love remains in the heart.