Soapbox

   Once upon a time there was a tiny little girl with strawberry curls, a determined chin and a deep belly laugh. She slept in a crib in the corner right over there with 5 brightly colored elephants called "The Temptations" in a dancing mobile over her head.  I remember the first time she took a 3 hour nap in the afternoon and I came in here twice to make sure she was still breathing.
   I painted this room a very pale mauve, made her curtains in a darker shade and all around the walls galloped a wallpaper border of antique carousel horses.
   For her second birthday she got  a big girl bed'- a red toddler frame that I found discounted at Service Merchandise. I snuck it into her room at night and tied mylar balloons to the head and foot so that when she woke and peeked out of her crib there it was, in that corner, over there. Years later I found an old answering machine casette that still had a message on it accidently recorded that day when my sister called to wish her happy birthday.
         I got gaboons, Aunt Beggy, and a big girl bed!!
   Oh, she was such a big girl!

   On the wall around her bed I put a set of 101 Dalmations wall decals that I found: a smiling Perdita and several inquisitive puppies who explored that corner of the room, leaving footprints behind. Sometimes she would stand on her bed and talk to them. And on the ceiling, of course- glow-in-the-dark stars, because her brother had a wonderful collection over his head, and nothing would do but Katie had the same.
    By now she was a bigger girl, with platinum blonde curls which she hated to have brushed, so I corralled them into the sweetest little braids. She climbed trees and rode her bike and played with dolls, as bigger girls do. By 3rd or 4th grade she was bored with the decore in her room- said they were too 'baby' and she wanted something else.
   So I started well in advance- bought a dresser and chest which I finished and painted wedgewood blue with natural wood tops and hid in the garage under an old quilt. I found a beige carpet to replace the pinkish carpet remnant she had, and arranged for her to spend the day and night before her birthday with the White family down the street.
   As soon as she was out of the house I dragged furnitre, laid down drop cloths and started peeliing off decals and wallpaper border. I hung new curtains and painted the walls a very pale blue- except in the closet, because there just wasn't time to take everything out to paint in there. ( and so it is that those beautiful carousel horses still run across the back of her closet. )
   I barely managed to get the drop cloths up, rug down and new furniture in place before Donna and Larry, unable to think of any more reasons to keep her away, had to bring her back. When she walked in and saw her birthday gift, I was quite proud of myself, and I hope she was pleased with the truly big girl room I made her.

   Now that the Dalmations were gone, that wall by her bed became home first for a dozen pictures of American Girl dolls that she cut from a catalogue. Then, one shocking day, I saw them crumpled in her trash can and looked up to reallize that Samantha and Addie and their friends had been replaced by pictures of NSync, cut from a Tiger Beat magazine. Ok, NOW she was a big girl!
    But some things didn't change. She still had a determined chin, a she still wanted to rescue every stray she ever found, from the baby birds who spent one hapless night in a cardboard box to the pit bull mix she found who spent almost a week with us.
    I spent a lot of nights in this room, sleeping on the fold-out chair when Katie had a fever or one of her vomiting spells (which she, thankfully, outgrew) so I could reach out and stroke her forehead, or hold her hand. But of course that ended as she got older and her room door was closed to me. Just as I did at that age, Katie wanted to study and relax by herself in her room rather than downstairs, and long periods of time would go by when I wouldn't see either child unless they were at the dinner table or the computer.

   And then one day, as big girls do, she packed her things and went off to college and left this room behind. I was a little blue without her wonderful companionship, but she wasn't far away. I started to use her room as a sort of den, retreating to her bed to read and nap on quiet afternoons. I think I felt close to her here, in her room; both the room and I waiting for her to come home.
   And so she did move home at last, though between work and being at Lindsay's house she wasn't home much, and when she was, she was usually in her with the door closed and the TV on. I knew she didn't want to be living here with her parents and brother- she wanted to be in her own place, with Lindsay, just as I had chafed to get my own place with Ted after college. I knew her time with us was short now, and I wanted to spend as much of it with her as I could- but didn't want to be in the way- the old lady, hanging around, thinking she was so entertaining when really, they just wanted to be with each other. She liked to go shopping with me though, so we did that a lot.

   And in the fullness of time, she found a place to live in Athens and some job prospects, and she did exactly what every parents hopes their child will one day do: she packed her things for good this time and moved away. I helped carry things to the truck and waved them on their way Drive carefully! Call me when you get there! and walked back into my house. I looked at the dogs, loungeing in the kitchen.
   "She's gone. She doesn't live her any more" I said. They wagged their tails. "It doesn't feel any different to you than any time she leaves the house- but it is. You don't know yet. But I do."

  I walked upstairs and opened the door to her room. It looked bleak and abandoned- if not exactly empty. I never thought I would be one of those mothers; one of those desperate, silly women who mourn when their children do exactly what they are supposed to do: grow up and get a life of their own. But I could feel a definite aching coming on.
   I decided the best way to combat it was to keep busy. I put on my audiobook, grabbed the vacuum cleaner and some boxes and start cleaning and sorting what was left in Katies- I mean, in the spare room. I took things down from shelves, dusted them and sorted "She's definitely going to want this eventually' from 'maybe' and "oh this is just trash". On the back of one shelf I found a picture of Clay Aiken and remembered, back when she was in middle school and I took Katie and her friend Blair and their red shoes downtown to see the American Idols on tour with their "We love you Clay" sign. I smiled.
   When I opened the closet, the shelf was still piled high. I started pulling things out to sort them and there, across the back wall, behind a straw hat, some embroidered purses and the sword she bought in Toledo SPain on a school trip, were the carousel horses. I reached out and touched them, traced my finger along their curving lines… and started to cry.

    See, it's not that she's gone. She's beeen gone before. I've gotten quite used to that. It's that it's not Katie's room any more. It still has some of her things stored here, but it's the spare room now. Ted has been looking forward to useing it for his bike trainer and to do morning yoga, and I decided that seeing it empty, with nail holes and carpet marks is just too forlorn. Too miserable. So I'm making plans: I moved a plant and some pictures up here, and I'm going to get a little bright throw rug. We've looked at a small sofa with a fold-out bed for the corner so Katie can sleep there if she ever visits overnight. I might set up a small table in the corner where her crib used to be and keep my watercolor things here- make it my 'den' again.
   Katie will probably think "Wow- Mom and Dad couldn't wait to get rid of me!". Because she doesn't know.

    I have a spare room now, where once I had a little girl with bright, laughing eyes and a deep belly laugh. I wouldn't trade the smart, sassy woman who just moved out for that little girl with her Dalmation wall stickers… but oh… I  find that I don't want a spare room nearly as much as I thought I did.

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away… there was a Fuller Brush man.

   When I was a kid we had, in our closet, a small pink spray jar of room scent. It was called "HollyBerry" and it was made by the Fuller Brush company. We were not a family big on spraying scents in our house, but for some reason we all loved the smell of this spray, and, more than Grandma's raisin bread, it came to be the one scent associated with Christmas. Or maybe we loved it because we only sprayed it at Christmas- I don't know. But if you had cleaned downstairs, and it was nearly Christmas, you could get the can out and give one tiny squirt. Then you could sit back and watch people come through the living room and lift their heads and snif… and sigh. Hollyberry!
    And as such things happen, after a while we couldn't get it any more, and so the remaining supply was jealously guarded and doled out in miserly doses. So miserly, in fact, that when we sold the old family house, there was still a half-bottle on a shelf somewhere, and it came into my posession.
    So, for the last 22 years there has been, on the closet shelf by the front door, a small, unassuming pink bottle of HollyBerry spray. It gets hats and gloves tossed atop it or packages of batteries shoved in front of it. Many years I don't even remember it is there.

   This morning Tucker waited all the way until 6:20 AM before he came striding through the bedroom hoping to rouse someone. As I followed him downstairs he danced with excitement and I imagined he was saying Mom! Mom!! There's a can of wet dog food on the kitchen counter! I think Santa was here!!! It was nice to imagine someone excited about Christmas.
    After I fed the dogs and put them out I stood in the living room and looked at the tree. It's a beautiful tree again this year, with far too many brightly wrapped packages beneath it. I thought of how Christmas has become a somewhat empty ritual, and even at times a chore, with I have to finish my Christmas shopping ranking right up there with I have to clean out the refrigerator on the "Wonder and Joy" scale. This season has been much less stressful for me since I didn't have to work retail, hawking Christmas to other people, and I even had the time to make a few things, which used to be my favorite part of the holiday. Not bah-humbug, still… not enough fun. Not enough music (of the none shopping mall muzak variety!). Not enough childhood.
    Then I remembered the Hollyberry. I sprayed a small puff next to the Christmas tree, waited a minute, and then inhaled deeply.

    I closed my eyes and there it all was: the house on Shannon Ave with it's hardwood floors and braided rugs, large windows and warm yellow kitchen. I could see the Christmas tree, (which we cut ourselves from a local tree farm) sitting atop the wooden box my father made to raise the tree off the floor and make it easier to get gifts beneath it. I saw the old glass ornaments, including the frosted white ones that only older kids were ever allowed to hang because they were so fragile. I saw the bright plastic  bells that the little kids were allowed to hang on the lower branches, and the sturdy wooden ornament set that my grandparents made for each of their childrens' families. The tree was lit with large colored bulbs, each framed by a sparkling petal-shaped reflector that my dad made by hand in the basement. There would, of course, be raisin bread and heirloom rolled oats cookies in the kitchen, and mom was probably in the family room at her sewing machine, trying to finish up a gift in time to get it under the tree.
    Upstairs in my bedroom I was at the window, looking out on the cold night, sure I had just heard bells.

    I let myself drift on forward to the first Christmas Ted and I had together in our tiny apartment on Barclay Square. We bought tiny candle-holder clamps at a shop in German village and actually had candles on our tree, though we were so afraid to light them. We strung popcorn and cranberries and Ted carefully made a star from a piece of cardboard and aluminum foil. It was beautiful.
   Another (pre-parenting) Christmas we spent many evenings decorating fabric-colored styrofoam balls with ribbon, lace and beads. Each one is different and each year I change my mind about which one I like best. If I ever find those plain ornaments again I want to buy more: I still have all the little film canisters of tiny beads tucked inside the old box of lace scraps.
    And then of course there were the years when the kids were little: when Stephen (age 5?) decided the house needed more decoration so he drew some ornaments, a gift box, and elf, etc on a piece of notebook paper, cut them out and then taped them up all over the house to surprise us. (Surprise! There's tape all over your walls!)  Oh- and the year Katie made me the tiny angel out of paper with the sweetest face. (Of course I still have the angel and several of the 'decorations'). There was the year when the cat died right before Christmas, and I got each othem a little stuffed cat, and they loved them so. And the year the kids put out cookies for Santa and Mischa ate them while we were upstairs getting them in bed, and when we came down and saw the empty plate, for just the smallest fraction of a second…
   
    After 40+ years, the scent of Hollyberry does not last so long as it used to. After 10 minutes or so it dissipated, but by then the coffee was done and cinnamon rolls were in the oven, and one mustn't stay in the past too long anyway. I haven't opened my gifts yet, but I hope no one minds if I say that that little poof of Christmas past is probably going to be my favorite gift this year.

  The latest assault in the annual escalation of hostities in the War about Christmas came (as usual) from FOX's panzer division. Megyn Kelly was offended by a blogger's light-hearted comment that she didn't see why Santa had to always be shown as a white man because lots of black kids felt kind of left out by this- so maybe Santa should just be a penguin or something loveable and raceless.

        "By the way, for all you kids watching at home" Kelly said,
         addressing the mythical children watching her 10 PM political
         show, "Santa is white… Santa is what he is. 
          …Jesus was a white man too. He was a historical figure,
          that’s a verifiable fact – as is Santa. How do you just
          revise it in the middle of the legacy of the story and just
          change Santa from white to black?"    

    Where to start- where to start? Should we begin with the fact that historical St. Nicholas, on whom Santa is only partly based, was from what is now Turkey, and while he wasn't African, he most certainly was not what FOX News considers "white"? Or that 'the legacy' of Santa has already been changed a hundred times and exists in a dozen different forms in a dozen different cultures around the world, from Sinterklass, based on the Norse God Odin, to other pagan entities. (And then there's Jesus, who was about as white as a modern Palestinian- hate to break it to your priveledged white ass, Megyn)

   But here's what it all boils down to, for me: Santa is white. He's also black, Hispanic, Asian and Cherokee. He is rich and poor, healthy and handicapped, and speaks every language on the planet. Because Santa, dear Megyn, is a myth. But more than that- he is a myth of universal kindness towards all children, no matter their nation of origin or economic status.
    Not all children hear the story of Santa, (and of course for far too many, Santa's pack is empty) but the ones who do are told that Santa visits all children, whether they live in mansions or shantytowns, foster homes or under a bridge. He comes whether he has to wear snow shoes or beach sandals because on Christmas, Santa visits children to let them know that they are loved.
    Don't you see that it doesn't matter what color Santa's skin is, or his nationality? The myth of Santa is about acceptance and kindness to all, no matter what language they speak or color their skin is. If Santa loves everyone, than Santa can BE anyone.
   And Megyn, if you cannot even conceive of the possibility of an iconic myth of universal kindess and acceptance that wears brown skin… you do not understand the meaning of acceptance or of universal anything.
   And you have a very small heart.

Some autumn days
when the sun is lemon custard bright
and sharper than glass,
the trees in their robes of scarlet and orange
ignite when the light touches them
like votive candles  enkindled
to celebrate the beauty of day
and pray for mercy in the darkness ahead.

Some autumn days
the leaves beneath my feet
smell exactly like front doors slamming
and car engines starting,
tail lights dwindling at the end of my street
and they rise and fall around my shoes,
goodbyes not spoken, yet still clearly heard.

Some autumn days
the sky is so illogically, thousand-mile blue
and each cloud sculpted Da Vinci perfect
and I know I could be crushed beneath the weight
of a single bird streaking across it.
But when I tip my head back and throw wide my arms,
my heart rises like helium on a string
and realizing I have no more need for it,
I open my fingers,
let it float away to be with you.

I am perplexed by the apparentl uniformity of belief
in such a changeling concept,
the monolith from a million shards.
Like Eskimos with a hundred different words for 'snow'
there are so very many different visions of "God"
each  visage a chimera in itself.
And yet they have defined him here,
built him, immutable, of glass and stone,
of faith and surrender.
Scrubbed young faces chatter and text,
gathered here to celebrate their agreement on the definition of something
that mankind can never, will never, probably should never
agree upon.

What allows one mind to grasp and hold fixed
that which slips like glittering minnows through my own heart?
How do they imprint one design like footsteps in cureing concrete
when another finds only shadows in a whirlwind,
seeks but glimpses only a jellyfish opacity of desire,
a longing without focus?
Is there something identifiable that sorts them,
some stamp of purpose, cast of jaw,
or something not visible, perhaps, but quantifiable~
a particular fold of gray tissue
or tide of chemical messages
that tells them, steadies them,
looses them like an arrow to the same target?

Do they perhaps retain a characteristic my DNA
has rejected:
the ability to hear angel wings?