On the Fifth Day of a Feminine Christmas

As a lullaby, I often sang "Away in a Manger" to my daughter and not just at Christmas.  It was the only song I could sing on key and the melody is slow enough that I could do it with nary a croak and even whisper it softly when necessary.   Of course, she has no memory of this but in the car last week, she turned the volume up during a beautiful Julie Andrews' rendition.  "I just love this carol", she said looking at the dark road ahead as she drove me home from our Christmas shopping trip.  I told her I used to sing the carol to her as a babe but said nothing more about it.  I have to temper my "Mom" memories because they can be so ridiculously sentimental and sappy and I don't want to overwhelm her - she's young and practical and cannot yet know the strong feelings a new mother has for her baby.  They'll be plenty of time for that when she has a child of her own.  I have no doubt...

My daughter was born three weeks early on a crystalline Epiphany.  Our holiday out-of-state company had stayed until that very eve and when they departed, I thought how nice it was that I still had three weeks to pack a bag for the hospital, launder the new baby clothes we received for Christmas, and cook and freeze some meals.  Best laid plans cannot trump a baby that wants to be born.

It was an icy and blustery ride to the hospital and every nurse that entered my room commented on the wintry weather outside the narrow slit of a window I had.  Of course, the weather was of little concern to me but a frosty January night still has the power to tickle an internal thrill from that wondrous Epiphany.

And just as my daughter called recently for my grandmother's chocolate bread pudding recipe that I make every Christmas Eve, I know one day she will want to know the name of the lullaby I sang to her.  And it will be an epiphany that nudges her - a sudden pleasant insight into something long past.  I have no doubt...

Bright April (or Fringed Placemats)

"It's a book about Girl Scouts", said the book dealer as I lightly turned the pages of Bright April, a children's book by Marguerite de Angeli.  "Actually, it's a book about diversity", I quietly responded.

I am well-acquainted with Bright April as it is a story I read often to my daughter when she was small.  I spent a lot of time selecting books for my child's personal library.  If even one illustration seemed "off" to me, the book went back on the bookseller's shelf.  But Marguerite de Angeli's books filled up prime bookshelf real estate in my daughter's bedroom and she left them here for me.  For the time being.

Bright April had me at the fringed placemats in the illustration above, so enchanted was I with the details of the picture.  De Angeli's work is so vivid and cheerful and her stories are often about things dear to my heart - like home.  But in Bright April, she tackles a serious issue and she does it gently and with honesty.  Admittedly, the book is just a bit politically incorrect -  but there is only one line I would alter for today's audience.

I did purchase the bookdealer's edition - it is in much better shape than the one I have at home.  The spine and the boards of my copy have frayed and broken apart and are only held together now by strings.  But when I brought the new book home I found not one but two copies of Bright April on my shelves.  One was the 1945 edition that was falling apart and the other one, had a stamp on the inside cover from a church I regularly attended when my daughter was still a pre-schooler.  Suddenly,  I remembered I borrowed the book from the church's library and did not return it in the flurry of moving to a new state.

Right now, my old copy is at the bookbinder's being repaired - I discovered from the bookseller that it's a first edition and therefore, should be preserved.  When I collect it, I plan on sending it to the church as a gift along with their missing copy.  It will be dispatched with a note of apology.  Mine, I will keep on my nightstand to dip into for pure beauty and for the comfort of a bedtime story.

It will also remind me to resume my lifelong search for fringed placemats.

~

More beauty from Marguerite de Angeli:

A Golden Fall

I got a lucky break one early fall morning when a working mother from a nearby town called to see if I was available to watch her two little girls everyday.  It was a referral from a referral that somehow panned out and yes, I was available to be a "nanny" to her girls as long as I could bring my own daughter along with me.

It was perfect because her eldest, a four year old moppet with red hair would be big sister to my child and her youngest, a sweet toddler, could be baby sissy.  Mom was a nurse who fled out the door each morning for the early shift.  Dad was around renovating their beautiful old home and I was to be cook, chief bottle washer, and babysitter.

It's amazing how quickly I fell in love with my new charges even though the oldest could be a handful.  But it's not hard to become fond of small children whose fingernails you clip and baths you oversee.  I ushered the three girls outdoors as much as possible and fortunately the big old house was located on the expansive and ancient town green.  We spent hours upon hours that fall in the public gazebo playing games, having picnics and putting on plays.  I taught the girls my favorite rhymes and songs and read them hundreds of nap-time stories.  The hardest thing about the job was getting up early and putting my sleepy child in the car to drive the long country road to their place.  It's probably the reason why one of my daughter's first words was "silo" given all the farms we passed on those quiet misty dawns.

When colder weather settled in, Mom filled a trunk with old clothes, hats, and endless strings of beads for dress-up. The girls played so many imaginary characters that once I thought other children had entered the house. One day, the oldest was sporting a very pretty black onyx ring set in rose gold filigree on her finger. "Where did you get that?", I asked.  Apparently, it had been left on top of the toothbrush holder in the bathroom.  She balked loudly when I asked her to place it in my hand and when she finally did, I couldn't help but notice how lovely and unusual it was.  I gave it to the mother later that day and was told that it had belonged to the deceased Edwardian lady whose son the house was purchased from.   He didn't care to have the ring and so somehow, little hands pilfered it and then set it to rest on the holder in the upstairs bath.  During the year I cared for the girls, the ring would periodically show up on various small fingers only to be handed back to Mother again.

As a new fall approached, our days together became numbered - the eldest was to begin school and the work on the house was finished which meant Dad was free to take over the girls' care.  The timing was perfect because my house had finally sold and I was ready to move with my daughter to a distant place so I could work in the city.

On my last day, the girls and their mother had a party for me.  They made Wacky Cake in a flower pot from one of their favorite stories and gave me a small present wrapped fussily with bright yarn and covered with stickers of shiny blue stars. Inside was the onyx and rose gold ring.  But you knew that.

What you may not know is that I don't have to wear the ring to think of them.  In my heart's eye, where time forever stops, I see them playing in the blinding sunshine that comes only with fall's most splendid days.

They are with me still...

Paperdoll Worlds

I loved paperdolls as a child.  I thought they were the most precious things.  My mother tore out Betsy McCall's page from her monthly McCall�s magazine for me and I spent many afternoons on the braided rug in the living room, legs folded under, painstakingly clipping Betsy's dainty dresses with the fastening tabs.  Later, I graduated to Barbie paperdolls and then bride paperdolls that were so romantic and pretty, the dresses so exquisite and lacey - all the stuff of  little girls' dreams.  

I kept my dolls in a dented and chipped round metal cookie tin - a big cheery jumble of paper dresses, sweaters and skirts, coats, knee sox and patent leather shoes.  After I dressed my dolls, I made up conversations between them and trotted them off to make-believe parties and weddings where they would live happily ever after...forevermore...amen.  My plans for my dolls were as expansive as my fantasies.  I never had a friend who loved paperdolls with the same fervor until I met Kay, 40 years later.  Not that Kay and I actually played with paperdolls as grown single mothers - but we rejoiced the day we discovered we were both mad for them as girls.

 

Not only did Kay play with paperdolls but she drew her own.  She vividly remembers drawing a bride paper doll and a groom.  She was playing with them on a dock at her aunt and uncle�s cottage on Chesapeake Bay when a wind blew them into the water. Her uncle saved the day by fishing them out with a crab net, so beloved were they to her.

 

I read recently that empty nesters should ask themselves who they were when they were ten years old.  The theory is to recapture childhood passions and use them as a launch pad to discover what one should do when intense parenting is over.  I won't be clipping paperdolls from magazines anytime soon but I have been thinking a lot about what things will sustain me and feed my soul in the future.  Lately, I've been re-reading some classic childhood storybooks such as The Little Princess and Little Women.  I already know that books will always have a place in my life and after revisiting old favorites as an grown-up, I've observed that the very best children's books can be appreciated at any age.  But reading will not be enough.

 

Kay is a gifted image consultant and states that her clients are like grown-up paperdolls to her - she loves dressing and accessorizing them.  Perhaps her gift was born of all those happy hours spent on a braided rug at her house - or on a wooden dock.  As for me, I would love to have a peek inside that old beat-up cookie tin again.  Even better, find some new passions...but only ones that are as engrossing and thrilling as a paperdoll world.  

  

Come back when you grow up, girl

You've still got a lotta time left in the world

You'll some day be a woman ready to love

Come back, baby, when you grow up

 

Come back when you grow up, girl

You're still livin' in a paper-doll world

Livin' ain't easy, lovin's twice as tough

So come back, baby, when you grow up

 

~Bobby Vee

 

Consolation

In high school, I wanted to be a cheerleader more than anything.  I adored the uniforms:  black and orange wool skirts with wide pleats, cozy crewneck letter sweaters, black socks and saddle shoes.  I especially loved the oversized chrysanthemum poms the cheerleaders wore on their left shoulders at football games and how their maneuvers made the creamy petals fall like flakes of snow at their feet.

But our cheerleaders were not just enthusiastic sideline champions of the boys football team - they were fierce competitors in their own right who had been winning competitions all over the state for three years.  This meant that to be chosen for this elite club, one needed to be able to jump high, hold the weight of another girl on the shoulders and thighs, and make military precision arm movements in unison.

The year I tried out, I practiced every day after school in the driveway.  But no matter how hard I worked, I simply could not improve my jumps - I was always just an inch or two too low - a subtle difference but one that would not go unnoticed by the judges.  In addition, my mother had already spoken to the cheerleading coach who had told her that only one twin would be allowed to join the squad.  This meant I was competing against my sister, whose jumps were consistently higher than mine by those inches.

I felt no animosity toward my twin and fully expected her to win a coveted spot but I tried out anyway.  I was in good shape from years of ballet and was proud despite the fact that unless there was a miracle, I would not be selected.  So I was not too disappointed on the late bus that pretty spring afternoon and I was genuinely excited for my sister.  The noisy bus distracted me from my loss as I listened to other school stragglers like the girls field hockey team and detention inmates.

When we pulled up to the grassy field at the top of our street, I saw my mother sitting on the wooden bench near the road.  She stood up as the bus door opened for me and underneath her arm I saw a large white box tied with a yellow paper ribbon.  I remember the soft smile in her eyes and the words she said, "I didn't know who was getting off the bus today but I brought a present for her".  My mother said she could not see the differences between my sister's jumps and mine, no matter how many times I tried to show her but I was never sure I believed her.  A placid breeze carried the scent of fresh earth and early blooms as we sat on the bench while I untied the ribbon and opened the box.  Inside was a beautiful broadcloth peasant dress in the richest grape hue I've ever seen.  It was trimmed in large red rick-rack and had puffed sleeves and a small flounce at the hem.  "This dress will look so nice with your new red patent clogs", my mother said, still smiling gently.  She clearly felt much worse than I.

I don't think we spoke on our walk down the hill that led to our house.  I held the dress box and my mother carried my books and purse.  When we reached the backdoor, the warming sun was just dropping behind the town's massive water tower and I could smell dinner cooking in the oven.  When I passed the dining room on my way to hanging up my lovely new dress, I noticed the table had been set - one of the chores that was always left for me.

The Lovely Long Ago

As pretty as it is, this illustration instantly brought stinging tears to my eyes.  My daughter used to meet me at the door every night, our cat Buddy in her arms.  And surely you know by now that my daughter, my girl, my now grown-up compatriot, is to be married and will be leaving home.  It also seems quite possible that she will be moving to another time zone.  We are both trying to get use to that idea.

When she was six, I heard a country song on the radio one day.  I only recall one line of lyrics and that's plenty because the song is about a daughter leaving home.  "She'll take the picture in the hall", I think.  When my daughter was six, removing pictures from walls seemed far, far away.  Now, it is nigh upon us.

This week, a thousand echoes filled this house - memories in bits and pieces.  I even thought I smelled baby powder one morning and it nearly took my breath away.  A dear friend suggested I lean into my pain and so I did.  I cried.  And cried some more.

People are always telling me how wonderful my daughter is, how lovely and sweet she is, what a gifted teacher she is.  I don't feel I can take too much credit - I had excellent raw material.  She was born good.  And except for a brief period when she was four and I thought she might be possessed, she never gave me any trouble.

I'm done contemplating the lovely long ago, at least for now.  But I know I will be compelled to visit there again.  When I'm ready, I need only follow the whispering come-hither of baby powder.

My Girl