Remembering What's Important

In recent years my family has been cutting back on Christmas gifts. There are a number of reasons why; expense, exhaustion, and a race to the finish line where we're breathlessly thankful that it's finally over.
 
This year we've not purchased a single gift. Instead we're giving the gift of ourselves to our family and friends. And for the first time in decades we're enjoying the holiday season for what it is: Christ's birthday. Carols sound sweeter, recipes taste yummier, we're less tired and more excited about advent activities at church. After a long dry spell we've remembered what's important.

A few years ago I wrote a true story about the very best Christmas of my childhood entitled "I Remember Pattaburp." It's about simplicity, a little girl's dreams and giving of ourselves to those we love. Much like the events surrounding the birth of our Lord, whose birthday is the reason for the season.

Remembering Pattaburp


In October of 1966, my friend Mary received a “Pattaburp” doll for her birthday.


The moment that sweet face emerged from the gift wrap I was in love.


Pattaburp was soft and cuddly, with short brownish red hair, a fluffy pink dress, rosebud lips and big blue eyes surrounded by a fringe of thick lashes. Best of all when her back was tapped a few times, she’d burp.


It was a really healthy burp too.


Like most of her toys, Mary quickly tired of Pattaburp and tossed her aside like an old shoe. But do you think she’d let me play with her?


Not a chance.


But Christmas was coming. 



As with most youngsters, I had no concept of money and didn’t realize that our family lived paycheck to paycheck. I also didn’t realize that Santa’s gifts came from those paychecks. When I found the doll of my dreams in a catalog, Mom gently informed me that Pattaburp was rather expensive; seven dollars. Santa might not be able to afford her.


At first I was crushed.


Then I remembered that Santa had workshop and his elves made our toys there. He didn’t have to go the store and spend seven dollars. They could make a Pattaburp for me at the North Pole.  Hoping to seal the deal, I sent Santa a letter with my request, as well as a reminder that I’d been a very good girl.


Each night during bedtime prayers, I asked Jesus to keep Santa and the reindeer safe on their journey so they could bring me my doll. 


I tried so hard to believe that my doll would come but as Christmas approached, my resolve began to crumble. What if Santa hadn't received my letter in time? 


On Christmas morning I realized that I should have given Santa more credit. Pattaburp (forevermore known as Patty) was patiently waiting for her new mommy under the tree. I was so relieved that I burst into tears.

 
In the years that followed I received many other dolls from family and friends. I'd play with them for a little while but as soon as everyone went home, I went right back to Patty and the newer dolls went into the closet. 

  
Eventually my constant companion began looking kind of rough around the edges, as beloved toys often do. But I didn’t mind a little dirt. Patty was a part of me. She was always there when I needed her. She listened to my troubles, her cheeks were peppered with my childish kisses, and I cradled her in my arms as I slept. 


Inevitably all girls grow up and stop playing with dolls as they complete their journey to womanhood. I was no exception. Yet every morning before I got ready for work, I’d regress for a moment, hug my precious Patty and breathe in the fading scent of my childhood. Then I'd prop her against the fluffy pillows of my bed; a place of honor for a cherished friend.


Years later when Grandma passed away, Mom finally told me that it was Grandma who gave me the doll. 


What was even sweeter is why she did it. 


Mom said that one of Grandma’s playmates told her about their family’s Christmas Eve tradition. They’d dress in their finest clothes and wait for their father to bring home a beautiful fir tree. Then everyone would drape it with lovely ornaments, light the candles on each bough, sing carols and then dive into delicious food. 


It sounded magical. But she didn't realize that her family had little money for anything other than the essentials. Christmas trees were expensive. 


On December 24th, Grandma’s papa was met at the door by his eager five year old daughter dressed in her Sunday best. He soon realized that she expected a Christmas tree; one he didn’t know she wanted, and couldn’t have afforded if he had.


Faced with the unenviable task of watching her eyes fill with tears, he broke the news that there would be no tree in the parlor that year.


Just then her grandpa came in the back door with firewood as the bitterly disappointed child began wailing. As he listened to her heartbreaking request between gulps and hiccups, he knew what needed to be done. 


“If that’s all it takes to make my little girl happy, I’ll get her a Christmas tree” he muttered as he stomped back outside. 


It was a raw icy northern Indiana day where the temperature outside hovered around zero. Yet the determined old man propped a ladder against a tall pine behind the kitchen. 


He gingerly climbed to the top, cut off a limb and brought it inside to a very excited youngster who had thought all hope was lost. The limb wasn’t big, but it was full. After she and her mama decorated with odds and ends of lace, beads and bows my grandmother was convinced that hers was the prettiest tree in the whole world. 


All courtesy of a determined old angel dressed in overalls.


Years later when I ached for a doll that my family couldn’t afford to buy, Grandma remembered how important that first Christmas tree had been to her. 



“For Pete’s sake, if that’s all it takes to give her a nice Christmas, Shelly’s going to have that doll” she declared, just as her own grandpa did so long ago.



So my cookie-baking angel purchased Pattaburp, even though she too had little money to spare.


Her selfless act of love brightened my world for years to come.


I think of Patty each Christmas Eve as I watch my nieces and nephews tear the paper from their piles of gifts. It usually takes them about ten minutes to plow through them all. Months of lay-away payments, credit card bills and weeks of preparation is wiped out in the time it takes to eat a sandwich.


After the grand unveiling, the floor is knee deep in wrapping paper which is promptly stuffed into a trash bag. All clues of who had given what to whom disappeared.


Grandma used to say “It’s harder to get excited about something that’s too easy to get.”


She was right. Most of the gifts I’ve received in recent years are a blur of boxes and thank you notes.


Yet heartfelt gifts given during leaner times are rarely forgotten.


Like Grandma’s first Christmas tree.


And I’ll never forget the best Christmas present of my young life.


I’ll always remember Pattaburp.



Michelle Close Mills ©

The Angels Are Here

Today's post will be short. But I pray it will be enlightening. 

As we do so much for our families and friends, we need to be mindful of those who have little. You may be the only face of Jesus that they will see this Christmas.


Be blessed...


The Angels Are Here


We pulled our old wagon

through drifts of fresh snow,

brimming with Christmas

for those needing it most.

Meowing friends hitched a ride

amid wrap that concealed

slates, chalk, and pennies,

rag dolls, mittens, socks,

plus mouthwatering scents

of baked ham, cakes, and pies.

As we trudged down the hill,

a cry rang through the woods…

“Die Engel sind hier!”

(The angels are here!)

There were smiles, hugs, and tears

from the poorest of folk.

Their renewed sense of hope

stirred the depths of our hearts.

And in offering our love,

it was we who were blessed.




Michelle Close Mills ©

Running With The Bulls

 

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. It’s a time for family, great food and a chance to reflect on our blessings.

However the following day known as “Black Friday” can be as scary as it sounds. And each year it seems to get scarier.

This year a growing number of retailers are opening their doors on Thanksgiving Day. One is opening at 5:00PM, when many people are just sitting down to dinner. America’s biggest store vows to open at 8:00pm, which is being met with threats of a possible strike by workers angered by having their holiday yanked out from under them. 

A once quiet unhurried time with family has become yet another day to score bargains on Christmas gifts. It is shopping run amuck; crazed customers who trample and elbow one another like the running of the bulls in Pamplona. 

The term “Black Friday” originated In Philadelphia. It was coined for the congested streets and disruptive pedestrian traffic as people surged into stores after Thanksgiving. In recent years Black Friday has been known as a time has become symbolic to a time when retailers operate at a profit or “in the black.” 

Ok, no one wants American companies to operate in the black more than I do. That means more jobs, which in turn continue to pump dollars into a recovering economy.  

But why can’t retailers wait just a few more hours until Friday so their hard working employees can rest before the madness begins? 

I guess part of that question needs to be directed at us.

Retailers wouldn’t keep pushing the Black Friday envelope if customers weren’t “feeding the beast.”  

Why do we do this?

Hubs and I talked a few weeks ago and came to the sobering realization that neither one of us could remember a single gift we received last year.  Our cat Maggie tipped over the Christmas tree, but what sat under it is a long forgotten mystery.

Pitiful huh? 

Christmas is about celebrating the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, the greatest birthday boy of them all. Our gifts should be going to HIM. 

Jesus is easy to buy for. He wants us to be good to each other, to look after each other. It can be as simple as inviting a lonely neighbor to Christmas Eve service, and dinner the following day. It can be as simple as donating our gift money as well as the time we would have spent in the mall helping those in need.  And we can finally peer out from behind the wrapping paper and reconnect with those who matter most.

Thus, Hubs and I are doing things differently this year. Instead of giving things, we’re giving of ourselves.  No hustle and bustle or lists to check twice.  

We’ll be decorating our home, watching old scratchy black and white Ebenezer Scrooge movies. We’ll be hanging out with friends, meeting for coffee, attending their gatherings.  We’ll be attending our church’s annual celebration for the King of Kings in a sanctuary scented with pine boughs, lined with beautiful rich red poinsettias and alive with the sounds of voices lifted in song.  

The good news for bargain hunters is that love is free. There are no smoking credit cards, or second jobs needed to pay off the bills that follow.  

All that’s required is an open and willing heart.

Michelle Close Mills ©

We the Employers

In the last few days the world has become a happier place.

Can you feel it?

I can tell that people are in a better frame of mind by reading Facebook.

The gusher of posts about politics have been reduced to a mere trickle.

The shouts of hurray along with moans of grief have been replaced by the rekindling of old friendships.

I’m seeing cheerful posts.

And the jokes. They are BACK and they show up on my page every day. The fun stuff is emerging from the dark recesses of anger.

It’s finally over.

The people have spoken. They spoke loudly and emphatically, with many having stood in line to vote for hours to cast their ballots. The lines were reminiscent of the old days, waiting to buy rock concert tickets.

Those folks were determined to wait out the indecent amount of time required to fulfill one of our greatest privileges as Americans.

And for better or worse, their voices were heard. Our voices were heard. A message was sent. Those seeking re-election in two years appear nervous, which may pave the way for a more bi-partisan Congress. Perhaps they will be encouraged to act on our behalf for a change. They know that we’re watching them, and judging them based on their performance. 

Or lack thereof.

I’m not foolish enough to believe that the payola and back room deals won’t continue. But as those elected officials stuff their off shore bank accounts with ill gotten gains, they do so with the knowledge that their employers have the power to send them packing. We did it before and we will do it again. 

I'm so proud of US.

 

The recent election has reminded Americans of how much clout we have if we work together.  May we always remember our superior position of importance on the political food chain. 

I've heard that politicians taste like chicken.

A Place Filled With Dreams

It was like a million other Saturday mornings. Lots of errands. My daughter Julie and her husband Stephen were with me. They wanted my input about an apartment that they were interested in renting.

We were also near the house where I grew up. On the way home I couldn't resist taking a slight detour.

I parked along the street with the engine running, pointing out little details of what still remained from our life there.  We moved in October of 1962 and for 20 years it was my home. My folks sold it in 1992. 

I wished with all my heart I could go inside for a glimpse of who I used to be; a young girl who played piano for hours, sang with abandon, and had a head full of dreams.

The current owner was in the garage and saw us.  

I called out telling him that I grew up there and was showing the place to my kids. I also wanted to reassure him that we weren’t casing the place for a robbery.

To my surprise he invited us in. My wish was granted.

We parked where my VW Bug once sat. 
  
All I could think as I walked through the door was "wow."

The carpet had been replaced with tile, a wall had been knocked out so the kitchen overlooked the living room and an island had been added. A very HGTV kind of renovation.  The kitchen cabinets were the same as when the house was sold, installed after I accidentally started a fire that almost gave my mother a nervous breakdown. However that's a story for another day.

As the owner Luke and I chatted, my eyes roved around the room and I struggled to choke back the emotions that rose from my heart.

One of my parents is gone.  Thankfully my mother and I are as close as sisters, a new rich chapter in both of our lives. I love her so much. Yet I sometimes desperately miss the old chapter that included my dad, who would come through the front door and empty his pockets on the kitchen counter while whistling an off key rendition of “Folsom Prison Blues.”

Luke permitted us to walk down the hall. The doors were still varnished just as my folks had left them. Dad’s den had been converted into an adorable little boy’s room with red walls, and Disney sheets.  

They didn't make any changes to the bathroom. Considering today's penchant of ripping out the old and putting in the new it was refreshing to see old fixtures left in place. The vintage look worked beautifully well and had stood the test of time. The tile was the original salmon pink that was popular in Florida homes built in the early 60’s. There was a tile soap dish that extended from the wall over the sink where Dad would rest his razor after he shaved. For a brief moment there seemed a faint whiff of English Leather where we stood. Unspent tears burned my eyes but I wasn’t about to embarrass our generous tour guide by allowing them to spill down my cheeks.

I peeked into the daughter’s room which used to be mine. I didn’t realize when I lived in it that the space was so small. I guess that everything seen through the eyes of a child looks bigger than it is. Cheerfully decorated, there were squirts of bright colored paint on the walls in girly colors, with purple curtains and a coordinating quilt on the bed. There was a mountain of stuffed animals in the corner. Amazingly after so many years, the room still housed a lady in waiting with a head full of dreams.

My folks’ old room was next door. The paint and window treatments had changed but Luke and his fiancé had arranged the furniture in the same fashion that Mom and Dad had. It was as lovely and restful looking today as it was when they occupied the space.

We went outside and stood by the pool. I gazed around the backyard where I’d spent so many happy hours. I remembered where each lost pet had been buried; kitties, a dog, goldfish, and a few turtles. A child’s menagerie lay beneath our feet.

A huge oak tree had sprouted up by my old bedroom. It wasn't a typical southern oak.

Mom and Dad visited Thomas Jefferson’s home "Monticello" in Virginia around 1990. Dad scooped up some acorns from a big tree and stuck them inside of his toolbox when they got returned; a place that he never expected a squirrel to go. 

Yet, one of the little rascals did.

The acorns were spirited away and buried in the backyard. 

The resulting tree had big beautiful leaves, very different from a southern oak’s small ones.  In a way it was a piece of Americana, with the same genetic code of trees belonging to one of the framers of the United States Constitution. 

Kind of mind boggling.

We said goodbye to Luke and his family and drove away. The trip down memory lane had come to an end. It was time to return to the world as it was today, where I was no longer a young girl but a middle aged wife and mom with a home of my own.

But for a brief period of time, I remembered what it was like before all that came to be. 

And it was wonderful.

In 2005 we drove by my grandmother’s home in Fort Wayne, IN. It was a few weeks before Christmas. Grandma had died in 2001 and the house had been sold to another family. They’d turned it into a charming country place much like those that are often featured in magazines. I could remember the cooking aromas, the swish of the trees that surrounded the house and the happy chatter of my mother who was reunited with her own if only for a few days.

Like today, the trip down memory lane that night was brief. 

I wrote a poem about the experience called “Your House.”  It seemed to be an appropriate end to a very special day.

Your House

I stood outside in the sleet,

and gazed at your house,

our house,

once my safe haven…

with a bonging clock,

a creaking porch swing,

and tales of long ago.

Now all that remains are the memories that

flow from my heart to my pen

of your house,

now their house

no longer ours.

Does anyone ever really own a house?

Perhaps not.

It is a fleeting possession on the journey of life.

The house remains.

We don’t.

But you have left your mark on your house,

on us

and on me.

As I stood outside in the sleet

and gazed at your house,

somehow I knew you were there.

Michelle Close Mills ©

Destined For Extinction

(I wrote this humorous account of one of my first forays into the somewhat formidable world of gourmet coffee stores. I've since become a regular at most of these coffee places. However that was after I hired a foreign language expert to help me navigate the murky waters of Barista-speak.) :O)


Destined For Extinction



I was born with iced tea running through my veins. I’m crazy about the stuff. Since it’s practically all I drink, I thought I was savvy to the latest trends; flavored, bottled, herbal, and instant.




Then overnight, a hip refreshment subculture invented gourmet coffee and tea outlets. For the un-hip (like me) the unique language spoken within their rarefied walls was as foreign as Martian…and quite intimidating.




One day I bravely ventured into one such establishment, to pick up drinks for myself and a friend. A kid wearing a full length black apron and matching beanie was standing behind the counter.




He: “May I help you?”




Me: “Yes. (Reading off a hand-written list) I’d like to order a medium sugar free vanilla latte-extra hot, and a large unsweetened iced tea please.”





He: “We don’t have medium and large sizes.”




Me: (puzzled) “Oh? What do you have?”




He: “We have Great, Vast and Infinite.”




Me: (politely) “Gee. They all sound big. Which is
which?”




He: (With an exaggerated sigh that was no doubt reserved for the ignorant.) “Great is small. Vast is medium, and Infinite is large.”




Me: “Great is small? That makes no sense.”




He: (Ignoring me) “Ok, so you want a Vast sugar free vanilla latte-extra hot, and what else?”




Me: “An Infinite unsweetened iced tea. By the way, since the word “infinite” means limitless, does that mean I can get free refills?”




He: (Horrified. You'd think I'd robbed his Grandma at gunpoint.) “No, we don’t offer free refills. What kind of iced tea would you like?”





(Here we go again.)




Me: “What kinds do you have?”




He: (More sighing) “We have green tea latte, black tea latte, green tea Fizzyfrappe, black tea Fizzyfrappe, plus herbal teas ranging from Obsession to Enchantment, green, and black iced teas.”




Black iced tea. At last. Something familiar.




Me: “Ok, I’ll have a large unsweetened black iced tea.”




He: “We don’t have large. We have Great, Vast and Infinite.”




Me: (hollering) “Oh C’MON!! You know what I mean!”




Startled by my outburst, the kid abandoned all efforts to educate me and quickly filled my order. As I waited, I ransacked my Great purse for an Vast bottle of aspirin to cure the Infinite headache that was pounding between my eyes.




Dinosaurs died out because they couldn’t adjust to a changing world. Perhaps like them, I’m destined for extinction too.




Whatever.




I’ve determined that my iced tea experience is best enjoyed at home; a humbler, cheaper establishment where a snooty little interpreter isn’t required. All I need do is mosey to the kitchen, and quench.




Before joining my forebears as fossil fuel, it’s comforting to know that one of the simplest pleasures of life remains unaltered. 
 

For now. :O)



Michelle Close Mills ©