Tag: holidays

Bunny Belief

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We’re at that time when I can’t be sure if the holiday magic will hold any longer, if my son will truly believe, one more time, that gifts have been magically delivered as he slept… My son is so thorough in his thinking, in his reasoning and internal deliberations, that it seems impossible to me that he can truly still believe. And yet he does. Yesterday, as we sat cuddled on the couch, I made the mistake of telling him not to get his hopes up for anything big on Easter. (My goal was to plant some doubt so that the appearance of the Easter bunny would have even more of an impact. Not a good choice.) He burst into tears and told me not to say such a thing. “I want to have hope, mommy. I’m just nine years old, don’t take away my hope!” he told me. I was instantly very sorry I’d said anything at all. I was also struck by how much his comment seemed to imply; there seemed some foreshadowing in his remark of the adult reality that lay just around the corner. He must know, I thought to myself, but he’s still holding on…

On most most holidays and school breaks Elihu stays with his father. This past year was my first Christmas here at home with Elihu, and tomorrow will only be my second Easter here with him. I had wondered about the Easter bunny’s visits to Dekalb. I want to have some consistency, and it seems that the Easter bunny keeps many different methods and traditions in different households, so as we made our weekly drive to deliver eggs yesterday I asked him about it. Seemed fairly similar to my experience growing up. There were some differences, but I was relieved to know the bunny wasn’t in the habit of delivering handsomely wrapped birthday-worthy gifts because the Greenfield bunny had made no such preparations. (The Greenfield bunny is quite satisfied with several finds; a hand-crafted, dark chocolate bunny from the local candy shop, some wooden airplane models and a small bird puppet. The eggs, on the other hand, proved challenging as Master Elihu knows his eggs by shape – each hen has her signature style – plus dying an already dark egg is tricky. I couldn’t use the few white eggs we have, as Cora’s eggs are also very distinctive. A dilemma. Ended up drawing designs with sharpie on the most generic-looking medium brown eggs I could find. Since Elihu sees no color at all this seemed a good choice.)

A little anxious that everything be in order, I arose early today and went to my secret hiding spot in the basement to do an Easter basket inventory. Because of Elihu’s vision, he’s not good at spotting things. I’m continually surprised at how quickly and easily visiting kids will see things that I’ve stashed ‘out of sight’. Because color offers Elihu no clues (bright green plastic grass for the basket, for example) and since things beyond ten feet don’t register much, my job is made much easier. As I retrieved my goodies I felt completely satisfied that it was all still perfectly secret. I was happily surprised to see that I’d saved a few more things in the months leading up to the holiday (when on a budget one must plan ahead) and was very satisfied to see that it made a tidy looking cache of loot. Pretty too. I even got myself a single hyacinth bulb and a nice new ceramic vase for it at the dollar store – just to show the bunny had something for me too. That would further support the case that I had nothing to do with it. Might be over thinking it, but it’s probably the last such time I’ll have to do so.

Yeah. He’ll be ten in a month. It’ll be over soon. At least it can’t last too much longer. So, as with Christmas this year, I approach Easter with the same emotions, the same tender nostalgia. I will savor it all. Every surprise, every laugh, every egg. And Elihu’s right, having hope is important – especially at this time of year. After all, isn’t that what Easter itself represents – apart from any religious significance? The renewed life of springtime and with it, hope… And belief, yes, that’s important too, cuz I know this Easter bunny sure is happy that one certain little boy still believes.

Cozy Cottage

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The grass is always greener, right? Whenever I have a new student over, or when Elihu has a classmate or two here (as he did today) I hear a lot of exclamations made about how ‘cool’ this place is. Usually by the end of the visit the kids are saying how they want a place like this too. Even some highbrow downtown types – their moms or dads – have cooed a little when walking in. And we’re essentially talking a two-room house here. Really. It ain’t big. But it sure is cozy, and especially at this time of year. So while the grass may seem greener to those that visit, I am so happy to say that Elihu and I find the grass of our own back yard a most inviting green and covet no other’s.

May I take you on a quick tour through our house? If it’s too tedious for you, move down a few paragraphs – I have a domestic tip to share later on… For the rest, here we go: You walk in through the kitchen, and were it not for my having moved the kitchen table to the left against the wall, the door would have bumped into it. But you’d forgive that when you find yourself looking out over a frozen Saratoga Lake and Vermont hills beyond. The tiny room you’re in now has pale, apple green walls, white ceramic pulls and counters, a wood floor (well, it’s laminate, but looks pretty darn good in spite of itself), a Brady Bunch era double stove in harvest gold. A small island table which I made myself divides the already tiny room, but quickly becomes the go-to destination for anyone who visits.

Our one hallway is painted a deep, colonial red and leads to the living room, which is a generous space with a raised hearth fireplace of white marble at the far end, my beloved Eames knockoff lounge chair in the far right corner, a large chocolate brown couch against the right hand wall and a picture window to the left. Flanking the window are a harpsichord on the right and a grand piano on the left, and at this time of the year, our Christmas tree stands between them, obscuring the view. The long walls are a deep gold, the short ones dark brown. There’s a small foyer to the left of the piano – it leads out to our seldom used but attractive screen porch. (My dream is to frame this in and make a dining room so we can enjoy both company and the view at the same time! A wood stove in the corner and a bank of window seats, the vision is held fast in my mind…)

We also have two bedrooms and a bath tucked away through a tiny hallway off the living room’s right wall. Just enough room for us two. And downstairs we have again the footprint of the house! A storage room, my office, my treadmill (yes, I do use it, thank you) and a music room again with another fireplace. We have our drum set, Wurlitzer, amps and such there. The addition of overhead can lights on dimmer switches last year has transformed this room from crappy basement to ‘ooooh’…. No acoustic privacy yet, but one day…

So. That’s our joint. Small, tidy and functional. And it is something I am grateful for any number of times in a day. When I remember the duress under which I came here, the agony of the process and the pain that lingered, it’s hard to believe how I feel now. Invigorated, inspired, comfortable, thankful. And even the significance of this day is interesting to me; it is my first wedding anniversary on which I’m no longer married. Twelve twelve it is, and I’m finally free. After a long trip, I’m finally home.

“It’s so cozy”, I’ll hear Elihu say quietly to himself as he checks on the progress of our narcissus bulbs or admires the tree (when you live alone you tend to talk to no one in particular rather routinely). I agree. And this year the house has taken on a particularly cozy feeling, even without the benefit of snow. I think our low, Achromatopsia-friendly light levels might have something do to with it. Generally our place is warmly lit. Some – like my mother – might complain the place needs more wattage in general, and while see her point, I also see the gentle intimacy that softer lighting imbues, and although maybe not the best for reading the instructions on a rc helicopter manual, it is the best light for just sitting on the couch and hanging out. In order to help my child look more comfortably out of the picture windows, I’ve put up a tinted cling film. Sometimes, at the right time of day, it can look like a storm is coming (when it’s not), an unintended side effect I personally like a lot. And hey, if I want to read, I crank up the three way lamp. Not a big deal.

But this season there’s an additional mood-creating use of light which we only just thought of a few days ago. And dear readers, I encourage you all to try this yourselves, it will instantly ‘up’ the charm and elegance of your tree. ?? What device can do all that? A lamp dimmer switch. Fifteen bucks at Lowe’s and you’re on your way. I have combined my dimmer switch with a big fat on/off button on the floor. So I merely tap my toe to produce the most warmly lit tree…. The resulting lower-wattage bulbs not only allow one to see the ornaments themselves so much clearer, but the lights take on a more natural, more flame-like quality. Words don’t describe it well enough. All I can say is that if you’re using those ubiquitous tiny white lights, try out this lamp dimmer thingee and see if you don’t say ‘ahh’ when you first get it just right. And, you’re welcome. It’s the very least I can do!

So many things need work, the outside of my house just doesn’t match the inside. It’s always my great hope that when people visit, the inside will redeem the outside. It takes money to keep a property up. Mowed just once last year. Chose to take a trip instead. Lots of upkeep, limited resources. We’ll make it to the greenery one day. But for now, it’s all about home and hearth. This will be Elihu’s very first Christmas in New York. And what a perfect time to be here at home, we two, in our very cozy cottage.

Easter Hope

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Just read over my post from last Easter. Bright, sunny, warm and full of gratitude and optimism it was. Full of hope for the future. Hmph. This morning marks day three of my tummy not feeling right. At least the headache’s gone. I compare this Easter with last. I’m certainly not feeling as chipper this morning. But stepping back a bit further, I wonder: what’s changed for me in a year? What does Easter mean to me right now? Do I still feel that kind of hope for the future?

Martha no longer has it in her to leave her kitchen. To make the trek to our house for Easter dinner. She has always come to our house for the holiday dinners. This will be the first time ever that she hasn’t, making this past Christmas dinner her last one at mom and dad’s. There has to be a last time, it’s only you hardly ever know while it’s happening that it is going to be the last time. The time you needed to pay careful attention to every little detail lest you forget how it felt, sounded, smelled… My husband always used to say I spent too much time looking back, feeling sad, dwelling on the poignant… Maybe. I like to think it’s about making peace with it, identifying it – showing the past my deep appreciation. I have a memory from Easter, now some ten years ago (as Elihu was not yet born) when it had snowed, and Ruthie’d gotten her car stuck in the driveway. As I helped Martha across the snow and up my parents’ long driveway, I made some comment about getting ‘purchase’ on the snow. “I like that word” Martha’d said in her commanding tone. I’d told her that I agreed. Yes, I told her I’d very much liked the word ‘purchase’ used with that meaning. And I noted how you didn’t hear the word used too often these days in that context. “No, you don’t” Martha agreed, in her broad voice. I remember the snow, the two older women who’d been there for my whole life, still able to walk, drive, conduct a life outside their homes. Ruthie’s been gone six years now.  A lot changes in ten years. Today Martha can hardly manage to leave her kitchen. A lot changes in a year, too.

In my sick bed I found myself pulling two books from a pile I’d intended one day to read. Both were about death. Read “Imperfect Endings” cover to cover; a book about a woman’s process with her mother’s intentional death. Consumed with my own inability to process the idea of the final goodbye, and impatient to take the time to finish another book, I searched for more immediate information on Youtube. Watched a film by Terry Pratchett on assisted suicide. It was enough for now. Got into bed. Felt strangely unsafe in taking my prescription sleeping pill. Dreamt all night of saying goodbyes. Awoke hoping that all this contemplation would make it easier to get down to the nitty gritty before it was too late. I had questions for my dad, my mom. Must ask them. They know I love them, I’m able to tell them, but while they’re still fully present – I must spend some time with them. They will only live on in my witness. My witness, and that of their friends and loved ones. I feel it’s important that I devote some energy to this. This witness to their lives.

Today is a day of supreme witness. Whether we believe the story of Jesus’ resurrection or not, it seems we all share witness to a kind of universal hope on this day. The kind of hope that says ‘things might not be so great today, but they will get better.’ The kind of hope that offers a gentle smile, a shrug of the shoulders, a wink of the eye. If we don’t allow ourselves to feel the profound hope and promise of Jesus, most of us allow ourselves to accept a little uplifting of the spirits on this day. In my own home there is a mix of celebration and implied disdain for the holy narrative that inspires the holiday (so too at Christmas). I always find this dysfunctional dichotomy a little hard to take, but as our discussion of things spiritual has been historically limited to discussion about what time I needed to be at church in order to acolyte as a teenager – I’m sure not about to expose the topic now. Better to sip the Bloody Marys and nibble at the shrimp. Talk about the garden. Because now, I have a big swath of earth, turned and ready for seeding, a real almost-garden to talk about. One year ago that was only a dream. Yup, a lot can change in a year.

Been in my sick clothes too long. Must shed them, make the bed, get into a shower. Not quite feeling up to it, but a friend is hosting a brunch, and I’m to be there at 10:30. Moving slow, I’ll definitely be late. She’s giving her granddaughter six baby chicks for Easter on the condition that she let Elihu house them for her. (He agreed.) I’ll meet the new members of our flock shortly.

Later, we’ll bring Martha a pitcher of Bloody Marys and a tray of cocktail shrimp, her favorite. We’ll sit about the dusty kitchen and chat, dad half-nodding, his face showing his discomfort at all the rapid-fire small talk being tossed about the room, scraps of ideas moving too fast for him to make sense of. Once he said we sounded like chickens. I thought this was funny, and accurate. His growing distance from the action allows him some perspective. He may not catch everything that’s said, but he very much gets the gist of what’s going on around him.

I hope he has the stamina for our afternoon, for after we leave Martha and her hound dog alone again, we Conants are off to Winslow’s, a local restaurant known for its simple, home-cooked fare. My mom is found of reminding me that the chef is “CIA trained”. After having a burger there with Elihu a few weeks back (oh-so-indulgently served on thick, buttered toast) I met an attractive man about my age whom I thought might be the owner; he wore chef’s clothes and stood behind the bar ready to settle my bill. I asked him if the accordion player still played there on Wednesdays. After a tiny bit of confusion (he thought I had perhaps mistaken him for that accordion player) he offered that his mother had in fact made him take lessons when he was a kid. “Really?” I asked. “Because I play too. Or did play.” I made some comment about how lame my left hand was with the buttons, making a hand position in the air – he smiled, so I wasn’t off base, but the conversation had no where to go. He was closing, I was paying, and that was pretty much it. But I was intrigued- could this be the ‘CIA trained’ chef? This middle-aged, longish haired fellow who once took accordion lessons? A thought, the likes of which had not once seriously entered my consciousness since moving here, began to flicker… was this man, perhaps – unlikely, but just perhaps – single??

Given the reality of my life plus the cautioning tone of a friend I’d shared this with, I’d decided just to shelve the whole idea. But today I’d be going back. Maybe another opportunity. ? Maybe not. Either way, it keeps me moving through my day, as my sick tummy would rather have me stay in bed. Yes, I can say that it’s hope that compels me onward today. I hope that little Raiden loves her chicks. I hope that Martha enjoys her shrimp. I hope that mom, dad and Andrew enjoy the restaurant. Dare I hope to catch sight of the accordion-playing chef? While he yet exists in my imagination, and I may well learn one day that he’s happily married with three children and a dog, for now I’ll ignore that possibility. After all, today is a day of hope, right?

May we appreciate fully all the good that we’ve had in our lives, the good we have with us right now, and may we keep our hearts open to all the wonderful experiences that we are yet to know. A Happy, Hopeful Easter to us all.