The Shortest Day

R.H. reminded me yesterday that today would be the shortest day of the year; then Ronald Blythe did when I opened his Word from Wormingford when I went to bed last night. He said:

"The shortest day and thus, by implication, the darkest week."

As if we really needed a dark week, huh? To top it off, the winds here yesterday meant a power outage that lasted five hours. Nothing new to us here in the country, and nowhere near as bad as it used to be when we first moved here in 1990 when Zack and Defee were young.

We were on well water back then and lost our water also when the power was off, which happened frequently then. That meant no flushing the toilet unless they hauled water in buckets from the creek.

Ah, the good old days.

What I did in those days was light candles and read to the boys.

In December, the first book I read to them, just as I had read it to their big brother and sister when they were young, was Madeline L'Engle's The Twenty-Four Days Before Christmas, although I read it to all of them after the Christmas tree was decorated while they lay on the floor beside it, all lights off except the tree lights.

Back in the 1970s I would check it out of the library each year, and I think it had a different title then. Now each of the kids have their own copy of the Austin family, familiar to fans of L'Engle's many books. I wonder how many times I've read aloud her A Wrinkle in Time?

Or C.S. Lewis' Narnia Chronicles?

Make Way for Ducklings?

All of Beatrice Potter's books?

The Madeline books to Christy?

Holly and the Ivy?

The Little House books?

The other books whose titles have left my mind in a senior moment but whose characters have not--a small boy named Peter, a white dog who leaves home each morning to explore the town and returns home dirty? 

Mike What's-His-Name and his steam shovel? The little house in the country that gets surrounded by the city? The little boy who flies in the night with the snowman?

So many books, so many memories.

Did you ever read Goodnight Moon to your child? Over and over?

I see that smile.

It's the shortest day of the year and I'm going to bed early tonight to read. I think The Twenty-Four Days Before Christmas is going with me, for old time's sake.

Memory Box

Sometimes I think that the old, original 1920 part of this farmhouse is nothing but a memory box. Here in the red and white living room is the piano that I and my three little sisters practiced on for years of lessons. On it are wedding pictures of all our children and the Delftware tiles of old Holland churches.

There is the Christmas tree that I put old costume jewelry on by the picture of us by R.H.'s old 1947 Chevy Coupe.

On a cabinet is the stack of old dictionaries that I use regularly.

There are two old Christmas books, one written in German.

There is a red Aladdin lamp, one of many that were Christmas gifts from dear friends. The lamps in this room all wear black and white stripe ribbons, an idea I got a few years back from seeing pictures of the owner of Nell Hill's house. I'm sure she's gone on to new updates but I still love this touch of black with all the reds in this room.

The red chair is a recent acquisition at a junk/antique store when we visited our new granddaughter. It was her first excursion out antiquing with us and her parents, and she was not a happy baby. Weren't we terrible to drag that baby out antiquing? I think she will love it when she's just a little bit older. The chair was $25 and had once been in a bank. Wouldn't a whole bunch of these around a dining table be nice?

The red leather sofa is so comfortable. I wanted one I would not sink down into so that I could get out of it easily! It began its life in the family room but when a sectional sofa went in there the red sofa moved to the red and white living room where it should have been all along. Behind it in the front windows are red velvet cafe curtains that are at least 40 years old. They were hanging on an old display rod at Sears all those years ago, pushed behind some boxes, and I talked the salesman into selling them to me.

Hanging on the wall beside the old chair that I blog from in comfort is a Gothic church cabinet that was hanging in the smokehouse when we bought this house.

I held my breath that the sellers would not take it or the red and white enamel kitchen table that was there too, covered with owl poop. It was in pretty bad condition but R.H. soon had it repaired, painted, shelves added, lights inside it, and wired so that all I have to do is flip a switch.

It used to hold Christmas houses in December, but now I leave it as is and just add in the old deer....

And the Christmas trees......

And the vintage ornaments that get piled in the blue crystal bowls that were gifts from Gurn and his family over the years.

With this much color in the cabinet, the living room doesn't really need a Christmas tree. And there's not room for one. I have baskets that hold writing projects, a table that holds all my Tennessee history books, books in chairs, books everywhere. Because every memory box needs lots of books.

This is a room I cocoon in, with my memories all around me.

There Was A Time

Did you know that there was a time when whole communities dressed in their best clothes, however threadbare, and turned out at their local school or church to watch the children of the neighborhood present The Christmas Program? Whether you had children in the school or not? Whether you stepped foot in the church any other time of the year or not? If you were a part of the community you and your whole family showed up to support the children. (And, I suspect, for some of the best entertainment of the year.)

You listened to them sing the familiar carols and you watched the old story of the birth of the Babe born in a manger. Somehow it was always new again and even the hardest of hearts did not fail to thaw a little when a young Mary cradled her doll brought from home or sometimes her baby brother.

And there was always a gift for each child in the community. You just did not miss The Christmas Program. It was an important part of community life.

"Dad and the boys got the chores over early that Friday before Christmas. 

And Mother had supper on the table as they came up on the porch,

stomping the snow off their overshoes.

For once, Dad said, this family was on time. If the Model-T would start,

and if we didn't get stuck in a snowdrift, we'd arrive at the schoolhouse well ahead of the program.

We had to be early, because we children all had important parts."

By Vera Foss Bradshaw from "Sleeves for the Angel" 

in The Farmer's Wife December 1951

I remember many of these nights as a child when our whole family dressed up and went to school or church for the Christmas Program. I usually had on the choir robe that each mother was expected to make for their child as I was shy and never had a speaking part. In the choir I was down near the end as the notes that I heard in my head never came out right when they left my lips. But I felt so angelic in my robe. My little sisters were dressed cute, my mother had on her best Sunday dress, and my father of course kept on the suit and tie he had worn to work that day. If you'll look closely at the picture below you'll see that all of the men wore suits and ties. And I vividly remember the racks in the entryway where each man trustingly left his own dress hat.  There is an arrow drawn to my head, showing the vanity of a much younger age. I did not want anyone to miss finding me in that vast crowd of children who had gathered at the largest elementary school in our town that had the biggest stage. I still remember most of the words to one song we sang, "Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella."

It is not easy to leave the comfort of your home in December and go to your child's school or church programs, especially if they are only in the wings of the choir. If you do though, they may always remember it.

The cover above from the December 1951 issue of Farm Journal, called "Christmas Eve at the Country Church" is by artist William Kirtman.

Rooftops Rimmed With Rubies

In a search for beauty during this week of personal and national heartbreak, I have picked up one after another of my old beloved Christmas books. Wise Marjorie Holmes always saw beauty in the ordinary things of life. In At Christmas the Heart Goes Home, she wrote of the beauty we find in the yards of even modest neighborhoods during the Christmas season:

"The brilliant colors of Christmas that begin to blaze at dusk."

"Whole neighborhoods, so ordinary, taken for granted, suddenly assume

a gay and profligate identity of light."

"Rooftops rimmed with rubies, doorways are diamond-decked."

"No sultan's palace could surpass their splendor that spills even on to 

the shrubs and hedges and trees in the yard; such

gaudy necklaces, such garlands of brilliance--

all clamoring 'Look at me!'"

"Were these ever simply familiar houses and yards?"

"Will they ever be again?"

"No matter--for now, right now, you live in Fairyland!"

Recently I showed our son Gurn pictures from two blogs of front porches dressed for Christmas and asked him if he could take it from there and see what could be done with my front porch. Our nice son first gave the old porch the scrubbing of its life and then combed the barn, smokehouse, and picnic shelter for old objects similar to those that Pat of On Crooked Creek (at www.oncrookedcreekct.blogspot.com) and Holly of Down to Earth Style (at www.downtoearthstyle.blogspot.com) showed on their beautiful blogs. After Gurn finished by hanging the box of Christmas lights, he called for me to come outside to look at what he had done. I could not believe my eyes!

Don't you think he did a wonderful job, using mostly old, found objects?

And at dusk, when the lights are turned on, I think it becomes magical. My only contribution was carrying out a red and black Pendleton jacket, a black and white checked Ralph Lauren throw, and R.H.'s Polo scarf to drape over the rocking chairs, and a beautiful red and white Woolrich blanket to drape over the swing. (All but the black and white checked throw were Goodwill finds.)

I knew that Gurn was a genius at restoring old T-birds and tractors but I never guessed he could have such talent as a decorator! I go outside ever chance I get to admire the job he did. Katie, the Jack Russell seems to like posing there, and even big Brown Eyes, the dog who found us, walking up our driveway skin and bones a couple of years ago, seems to like visiting the Christmas porch too.

Instead of posing front and center like Katie, he goes over to modestly hide near the swing. Can you spot him?

I do love to drive through expensive neighborhoods at Christmas to see the gorgeous Christmas decorations, but I also got a warm fuzzy feeling when I used to pass a certain tiny house on the backroads to the grocery store where someone had taken the time to hang hundreds of tiny red yarn bows on the lower branches of the trees in the front yard. I always applauded their effort. I knew Christmas was near when I passed that little cottage. One year there were no more red bows and I miss them still.

"Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations

of bay and holly."

From Christmas by Washington Irving (1819)

I wish I could take a peek into all the many houses decorated for Christmas, whether modest of magnificent. Here are a couple of window-looks into ours here at Valley View.

Before saying goodbye for today, R.H. and I want to thank everyone who left such sweet comments yesterday about our sweet little Penelope. Your compassion meant so much to us and we cried reading each one. I have tried to leave personal messages back to everyone by email. We send an extra hug to Nita at ModVintage Life for the beautiful personal message to us on FaceBook. She knows only too well what it is like to lose these sweet little weenies.

"You will forever be young and beautiful to your dog,

you will be wise, you will be marvelous,

you are the main reason for existence.

Whatever you do you are never wrong, or petty or dull.

There you are, you wonderful, heavenly being,

you fragment of divinity on earth!"

From the incomparable Connecticut writer Gladys Taber in Especially Spaniels