a belated Christmas

Due to moving into a new house and a snow storm that prevented the internet guy from showing up, I'm just catching up after 10 days offline. All my childhood Christmases were of the cold, snowy, Wisconsin variety. The photo above was taken in 1969, when I was four and my older brother was seven. Tradition at my house always included the Sunday School Christmas program, which, in 1969, provided my first ever public speaking gig. Here was my part:

Welcome to our program, we are glad you came

When it is all over, we hope you'll feel the same.

I'd like to apply that to our blog. Welcome. Glad you're here. Hope you are, too. Happy Holidays.

Count Your Blessings

For me, the holiday season means catching up with friends and family, taking a few more days off from writing than usual, and passing on traditions to our son. Thankfully our home suffers none of the dysfunctional antics and blowouts that make the holidays such a stressful time for many children . . .

My first job out of college was working at a residential treatment center (kind of like a group home) for kids aged 2 – 20. Because the center had a “no rejection” policy we housed the toughest kids from Washington, Idaho, and Oregon. I had been working only a month or two when Thanksgiving rolled around and I witnessed, firsthand, the struggles that abused and neglected children face at the holiday season. The innumerable timeouts and restraints that filled the “big day” culminated in the turkey being thrown across the dining room by one of the residents, just as I was about to carve it. Once the mayhem subsided, we saved what we could and made turkey sandwiches...

And then came Christmas. Having the least seniority of the center’s staff, I was one of those assigned to work the day shift from 8 to 4, which included taking all the children to a local restaurant for Christmas dinner. Suffice it to say that the antics of Thanksgiving were a fond memory in comparison to Christmas morning, but by early afternoon we had managed to load up the kids in the van without anyone (staff or residents) requiring medical attention.

At the restaurant, I told the kids what my boss had told me: “Order whatever you want, regardless of the price.”

One young man, in particular, had spent most of the day either in timeouts or being restrained to keep from hurting himself or others. He had destroyed his room and had called me (and the other staff) every name in the book but was now tuckered out, and calm. He asked me what I going to order.

“I’m leaning toward the roast duck with orange glaze,” I told him. “I’ve never eaten duck.”

“Me neither,” he said. “Can I order it, too?”

“Certainly.”

“But what if I don’t like it?”

“Then we’ll just have to let someone else eat it, and order something else.”

The kid grew solemn – not the reaction I expected. Then he said, “Mark? I’m sorry I hit you and called you a -------.”

“That’s all right,” I told him. “It’s been a tough day for all of us.”

Immediately, his mood brightened, as though a weight had been lifted from his young shoulders. He had been worried, no doubt, that his earlier unruly behavior would be held against him. But with all forgiven, he led the group in playing “I spy” and making up “knock-knock” jokes till the food arrived.

And the duck? It was delicious!

Christmas is over and I feel like a grinch for packing the decorations away so quickly, but as I read the blogs from my fellow potatoes, I am reminded that Christmas is more than just stuff. It is David's mom's love for (and pride in) him, that she expressed so beautifully while she was here on earth. It is Edie's homesick soldiers and their silent thoughts. It is the grass and water under the bed at Carmen's house. It is Christy's sharing of Christmas in The Little House on the Prairie. It is in all of us when we take time to remember and to share those memories with others.

So... here is my memory.

I was ten and the only thing I wanted for Christmas was a Baby Tender Love doll (well someone in this group has to be shallow). Mom and dad said she was too expensive (I believe she cost $12), so I braced myself for "disappointment." When all the presents were open, though, my mean old big brother, Bob, brought out one more. It was the Baby Tender Love doll, and as I ripped open the package I was happier than I'd ever been. But it wasn't because of the doll (okay, maybe partly/mostly because of the doll), it was because of the person who gave it to me. I was a pain in the neck little sister, still am, yet he bought me that wonderful little pink doll that drank a bottle and wet her pants.

While Baby Tender Love now resides in a landfill, my gratitude for Bob's generosity is still with me. In the 38 years since, no one has surprised me as much as he. And no one has taught me more about giving from the heart.

A Civil War Christmas wish from Edie Hemingway

Although I don't have a favorite holiday story, books were always favorite Christmas gifts throughout my childhood--and still are.  A great aunt of mine was a librarian in Evanston, Illinois, and for each Christmas and birthday, she sent me the latest Caldecott or Newbery award-winning books, so I had quite a collection to pass on to my own children and, now, grandchildren.  As long as I had a book to read, I was never bored or alone.  Story characters make good friends you can count on.

To add a bit of holiday spirit to this post, I will end with a Civil War Christmas scene from my co-authored middle-grade novel, Broken Drum (AKA Drums of War in the Scholastic edition).  I imagine the emotions of the Civil War soldiers are still the same fears, hopes, and longings of today's soldiers far from home and wishing for peace.

As midnight approached, the camp was ablaze with Christmas bonfires.  The men gathered near enough to be warmed by the flames.  Shadows and light fell across the faces of all, from the young boys of the drum corps to the older men with gray beards.  They talked of home and family and wondered aloud if the Christmas of 1861 would be their last.

One of the old timers, Jacob Adams, the bearded man who had talked to Charley the first day about seeing an elephant, brought out his fiddle.  He played familiar melody after melody, both cheery and mournful.  Some of the men joined in with harmonicas, and when Patrick brought out his fife, Sergeant O'Toole was coaxed into dancing an Irish jig.  He seemed to grow wings on his feet.  O'Toole, with his broad frame, leapt and stamped the ground in perfect rhythm.  His shadow, now looming large, now becoming small, fell across the amazed boys of the drum corps.  Their sergeant twirled and stamped in time with the lilting, mystical music of the fife and fiddle in a timeless dance.

At midnight the camps burst into celebration.  Men shot guns into the sky, and buglers and drummers heralded the arrival of Christmas Day.  After much cheering, handshaking, and back slapping, the camp grew more silent.  Jacob Adams in his baritone began to sing "Silent night, holy night."  The others joined in, "All is calm, all is bright..." Charley could hear another camp singing a few bars behind, almost like a round.  Camp after camp took up the song until the whole night was filled with the reverent sound of men's voices.  Vibrating the very ground beneath their feet, voices rose with the sparks from the fires into the night air, reverberating across the fields and woods into the town, so that people came out of their houses to listen.  "Sleep in heavenly peace, Sleep in heavenly peace."

When the last notes faded, it truly became a silent night.  Each man sat with his own thoughts.  Charley was aware of a muffled sob coming from the shadows behind him.  In the dim light he saw Frank Simpson, huddled alone, wipe his hand across his eyes.

Felicidades

Feliz navidad--tatata--feliz navidad--tatata!

I hope everyone in the world is having a peaceful day.

When I was growing up in Puerto Rico, on Christmas Eve we went to Misa de Gallo, midnight Mass. On Christmas Day, our gifts were mainly clothes and shoes, and maybe a pencil box. We had to wait until January 6th for toys. The night before we placed under our beds grass and water for the camels of the Three Kings. We woke up way too early the next morning to find the toys that the Three Wise Men had left us for being soooo good.

I tried to follow that tradition in Portland, Oregon. It didn't work. By January 6th school had started and my children couldn't talk about the toys Santa had left them. So, I let Santa bring his Christmas toys, but I also made up a Three Kings Day party that usually took place the weekend before or after January 6th. During the party, my children and their friends ate flan, sang "Feliz navidad--tatata," and played guiros, guitarras, y maracas. I read them Tomie de Paola's Three Kings. Then the children went outside to collect grass. Each child placed bowls of grass and water under the Christmas tree, and went into a bedroom to pretend to sleep. When they were "woken up" they found the grass mostly gone (the messy camels had dropped some on the floor). On the empty bowls of water, the children found tiny toys!

My children and their friends grew...but, like my daughter Juliana, they are now having babies like my Conor Richard. Pretty soon we will be celebrating my Three Kings Day party again.

A Christmas Memory

Twenty years ago my first book was published, A Christmas Guest. It's the story of a little boy and his mother who welcome an old woman into their house on Christmas Eve, only to discover later that she was an angel. After she has gone, the boy finds a small wooden box containing a tiny gold angel, left behind by their guest.

I was very excited about having a book published, but my mother was ten times more excited than I was. She carried a copy of the book around in her purse and showed it to everyone, including strangers. She would introduce herself as "the mother of the author." Sometimes it was embarrassing, but the embarrassment was worth hearing the pride in her voice.

The year that the book was published I was at her house helping her decorate her tree. I turned around and discovered a small wooden box on the floor.

"Where did this come from?" I asked.

My mother pretended not to know.

I bent down and opened the box. Inside was a tiny golden angel, similar to the one found by the boy in my book. It radiated my mother's love.

Fourteen years ago this week my mother died, at the age of 57. She never lived to see many of my other books published, books that I never could have written without her love and encouragement that made me feel like I could do anything in the world.

I don't put up many Christmas decorations in my apartment, but I always have a special place next to my favorite photo of my mother for this tiny golden angel. It still radiates her love.

"Now every year at Christmastime, when winter winds blow cold,
I place high on my Christmas tree that angel made of gold,
I sip a mug of cocoa as I gaze up at the tree,
And think about the angel who spent Christmas Eve with me."

Merry Christmas, Mom.

less IS more

I have worked in children’s book publishing since the mid-80s. As a result my daughter has enjoyed the benefit of her own holiday library of illustrated books with intricate wood engravings, luminous paintings, bright cartoon styles, pull tabs, and pop-ups. From my childhood I cannot remember any holiday picture books, though I do remember hearing the poem, "The Night Before Christmas" so many times I know it by heart and with each hearing or recitation vivid images appeared in my mind. When I was in second grade my mother read me a book that is not specifically a holiday story, and definitely not a picture book, nonetheless the writing speaks to the heart of this season. Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women opens with the four March sisters commiserating.

“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

“It’s so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.

“I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an injured sniff.

“We’ve got Father and Mother, and each other,” said Beth contentedly from her corner.

The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, “We haven’t got Father, and shall not have him for a long time.” She didn’t say “perhaps never,” but each silently added it, thinking of Father far away, where the fighting was.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, “You know the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in the army. We can’t do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don’t.” And Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.

One by one each sister reveals the gift she has longed for that Christmas. As the afternoon progresses toward evening their thoughts turn to their mother who will be home soon. They scheme to use their meager funds to shower their mother with Christmas gifts and their spirits lift as they switch from a wanting mode to a giving one.

Each March sister struggles with individual character flaws, yet they delight in each other’s company and always create a sense of celebration out of little but their imaginations. They have inspired me for years.

You can (re) read the first two chapters of Little Women and share in their Christmas at this site: http://www.allthingschristmas.com/stories/LittleWomen.html