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HOME                                                The Gift of the Hummingbird

                                                                                                                   By

                                                                                               Marilyn A. Kinsella

Hummingbirds are fascinating little creatures.  They whirl around with flashes of iridescent colors.  Their elongated beaks swish the air like miniature swords.  They maneuver the skies with the ease of stealth bombers.   Sometimes they appear out of the corner of one’s eye and then disappear in a radiant arc.  No wonder so many people believe in pixies and fairy dust.

My mother believed in believed in pixies and fairy dust.  She had an imagination that made shadows dance on the wall at night.   During the day she could make petunias twirl around in their ball gowns.  Her mother had beautiful gardens around the house and, while not helping with the chores, Mom spent many an hour playing in the gardens.  It was her magical place.

Her favorite spot was right underneath the front porch.  That’s where she and her brother, Les, used to hide and wait for the hummingbirds. The tiny birds were attracted by the big, bright red flowers her mother planted along the side of the house.  She and Les positioned themselves under the porch for a perfect hideaway.  They could see out, but the hummingbirds couldn’t see in.  A lattice border was all that separated them from the little hummers.  Their chubby faces, shone like a checkerboard of diamonds. They looked out anxiously. She and Les became very quiet.  About four o’clock, they could hear a faint, distant hum.  Then they came - a squadron of green, winged leprechauns dive-bombing out of the sky and into the heart of the red flowers.  Invariably, they felt a giggle bubbling up, so they put their hands over their mouths.  Now the giggles came out in a series of chortles and chuffs.  Curious, one of the hummers might peer inside with its black, beady eyes.  Then, in a wink…it was gone

Looking back I guess that’s why my mom always had a fascination with hummingbirds.  When they became fashionable as gifts in the early eighties, Mom and I gave each other - hummingbirds.  It might be something rather silly like thermometers and potholders or something sublime like sun catchers and delicate crystalline hummingbirds.  Candleholders, plates, music boxes, scarves, paintings - if it had a hummingbird, we bought it for each other. 

Our birthdays were only four hours apart.  So, we often shared our birthday celebrations on the same day. We laughed hysterically when one year we gave each other the very same gold, hummingbird pin.   Mom especially liked the “anything” cards with our favorite bird on it.  Inside I’d write some trite poetry that made her laugh.

That’s why I asked her to send me a hummingbird after she died.  Mom died in October of ’97.  I carried a guilty feeling for having to place her in a nursing home.  Looking back I still think it was the best solution to a very difficult situation, but that didn’t make my decision any easier especially, when she did NOT want to be there.  So, that November, when I was crying alone in my bedroom, I said out loud, “Mom, I want you to send me a hummingbird.  It will be a sign of forgiveness and that you are in a much happier place.  And, by the way, hummingbirds are hard to find this time of the year, so I’ll know, if I get one, it will be from you.”

Well, days, and weeks went by and no hummingbird.  Even on Christmas Eve I remember thinking, “I guess she’s still mad.”

Then on Christmas morning, I must have had twenty gifts at my feet. As per our family tradition, I selected one to open first as did the rest of my family.  At the appointed moment we all opened the first gift of Christmas and there it was… a beautiful crystal hummingbird that sat on a flowered stem.  At first I was speechless, then I started to cry.  My family was a bit puzzled.   Why was I getting so emotional over a hummingbird?

Finally I blubbered out, “You don’t understand.  It’s from my mom.  I asked her send me hummingbird.”

My husband, Larry, actually purchased the gift.  He believes that a coincidence is a coincidence is a coincidence.  That’s why they coined the word “coincidence.”

 But he said,  “I don’t mean to lend credence to what you’re thinking, but it was a bit odd.  I already bought your toaster and shower - head and thought I should buy you something pretty.  Suddenly, I thought of a hummingbird.”

     “See, “ I said, “you were listening!”

     “No, I was desperate.”

      “Well,” I countered, “you may have been desperate, but you were also listening.”

Then he added, “But the really odd thing was, I had a hard time finding a hummingbird.  I went to four or five stores before I found one on a kiosk.”

“I know because hummingbirds are hard to find this time of year.”  If I needed another sign that the hummingbird was from Mom, that was it. 

I’m glad my husband was listening when he heard that faint, distant hum. Listen! The next time you see a hummingbird think of that special woman in your life and the gifts she gave you.  That way we can all share in the Gift of the Hummingbird.

Dear Friends and Family, I traveled in my dreams last night. For a brief moment I connected with my mom who died in October of 1997. For anyone who longs for a mother’s touch this Christmas read on….

                                          A Touch of Christmas

Some of you know about the miracle I tell about the Christmas after my mom died. For those of you who haven’t heard the story, here it is:  Mom and I shared a special bond that started when I was born just four hours before her birthday. She was the writer of stories; I was the teller. For many special occasions throughout the years we gave each other hummingbirds. After she died I asked her to send me a hummingbird. It was to be a sign that she forgave me for placing her in a nursing home and that she was in that beautiful home she often talked about when I came to visit. No one knew of this request. Weeks went by. On Christmas Eve I remember thinking…I guess she hasn’t forgiven me. Then on Christmas morning my family sat around in a circle to open “the first gift of Christmas.” My first gift was a beautiful, crystal hummingbird. Through the tears, I told everyone how it was a sign from my mom. In a sense Mom wrote that story that now I tell, “The Gift of the Hummingbird.”

After the grieving process, I noticed that I couldn’t hear my mom’s voice. I could hear other voices - dad, grandpa, my best friend, Jane…but not my mom’s voice. Then one night I had a very realistic dream. I was at my desk at the library and the phone rang. It was my mom’s voice. She said “Hi, Honey!”  Just the way she always did when I came to visit her in the nursing home. Each time I thought…oh, she’s back!  But then, that’s all there was…”Hi, Honey,” and nothing else. But, in my phone-dream she said that she missed me. I told her I missed her too. She also told me she was living in that beautiful house she told me about. I said that I knew that. Then, I said that I would be seeing her shortly. Even in my dream I thought…what is “shortly” in eternity…perhaps today; perhaps 50 years. I was just so overjoyed to hear her. It still seems so special that she called me. All I heard was her voice – the thing I missed about my mother.

I’ve had other dreams about Mom since she passed, but nothing like the one I had last night. There is a Christmas song, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”  It brings tears to my eyes every time I hear that last words of the song….”if only in my dreams.” Last night I got to spend a brief moment with my Mom. All I remember is reaching out and touching her cheek. I had forgotten how soft it was. That’s it! I don’t remember anything else. I consciously don’t think I ever missed touching her soft, pillow-like cheek. It took a dream to remind me what a privilege it was to visit her while she was in the nursing home. She couldn’t speak, but, when I reached out and touched that warm, satiny cheek, she always smiled that sweet smile of hers.

This morning my family gave me some lovely gifts, but Chrissie, my oldest, gave me a set of crystal hummingbirds to put in the window. Even in the waking hours of Christmas she is sending little reminders. And when I go to sleep tonight, as I do every night, I’ll wait for her to visit, if only in my dreams.

                                                         A Bed Fit For a King

                                                                                                  By

                                                                                                        Marilyn A. Kinsella

 Benjamin was a young orphan who lived on the dirt roads of his village. He never had much but somehow he always had just enough. You see, even as a young boy, he discovered that he had a special talent. He could carve. He could take any piece of plain wood and carve it into something other needed or wanted. “Benjamin, can you carve me a bowl for my mother?” “Benjamin, can you carve me a boat so I can play?” Benjamin could carve beautifully. So, the people would give him just enough silver. With the money he bought some food or clothes, but always kept enough to buy more wood.

Well, as Benjamin grew, so did his talent. As a young man he started to build furniture. Most people in his village could only afford a table or a chair. But whatever his job, he always did his best. The people were very happy and paid Benjamin well for his work. Word spread and soon he had orders for his carved furniture from many different towns.

Yes, it’s true. Benjamin did well in his business, but he never seemed to have enough money to set aside for his dream. And his dream was this. He wanted to carve a bed, a bed fit for a king. He wanted to order the finest mahogany wood and inlay it with ebony and ivory. Such a beautiful bed! He could see that bed in his mind’s eye. But every time he put some money aside something always happened to take it away. 

Benjamin was what nowadays we call…an easy touch. Whenever anyone needed anything they came to Benjamin. “Oh Benjamin, did you hear? There was a terrible fire and the family across town lost their home. Can you help?” Oh Benjamin, my child is so ill. She needs special medicine, can you help?” And if Benjamin saw children homeless and cold, he gave them enough money to buy some food. Benjamin was so generous he never had any money left over.

And so it went for many, many years. Benjamin working…but never saving any money for his dream. Years passed and Benjamin was becoming an old man. He was beginning to believe that his dream would never come true. Then, one year, miracles upon miracles, Benjamin did have enough money to purchase everything he needed. Unfortunately, Benjamin did not live be the sea. It would be a 3-day journey by foot to the nearest seaport. But, now Benjamin, more than, ever wanted to fulfill his dream. So, he prepared for his journey. He got himself a donkey and built a fine, strong cart. He would need that cart so he’d have a place to put the precious wood he bought. He put his silver pieces in a bag hidden under his cloak and headed out towards the sea.

Benjamin walked on and on. It was even longer than he thought because the cart and donkey slowed him down. He was almost to the gates of the seaport village when some Roman soldiers stopped him. “Where are you going?” they demanded.

“Well, I’m on my way to the seaport to buy some wood,” said Benjamin.

“Where are you from and where was your family from?” they asked.

Benjamin thought these questions were rather odd, but he knew he should answer their questions or they would probably throw him in prison.

“Well, now I live in a little town 30 miles to the east. But I was orphaned at an early age. My father was originally from Bethlehem.”

“Then you must go to Bethlehem immediately!”

“Why, why do you say that I must go to Bethlehem?”

“Because the emperor has declared that there be a census taken. Every Jew must return to the home of their ancestors.”

“But I have come such a long way. Bethlehem is in a totally different direction. Couldn’t you please let me settle my business here and then I will go.”

But the soldiers would hear none of it. “Oh, you people are all alike. Always coming up with some kind of excuse. You must go and you must go now!” 

Benjamin knew there was no use in arguing. Besides he’d heard terrible stories about men being thrown in prison and never being heard from again.  So, he turned himself and his cart in the direction of Bethlehem and continued his journey.

As he walked along he noticed many others were also traveling to the homes of their fathers. It seemed, at times, that the whole world was traveling. He knew that his hardship was nothing compared to others.

Once he met a small family. They were traveling with nothing to eat and no money. So, he dug out a few of his silver coins and purchased some food for them. Then someone needed to buy medicine more silver coins. He even gave away his donkey and cart to a woman who could no longer walk. Bit by bit his silver pieces dwindled and his dream of building that bed became dimmer and dimmer.

Finally, he arrived at Bethlehem. He had just a couple pieces of silver left. He wasn’t worried, because he brought his tools with him. And if necessary, he would work for food and a place to stay. He went to an inn to see if there was any room. The innkeeper said, “All the rooms are filled. I have a closet where you could put down a pallet, but that is all.” He said he could stay, but he would have to do some odd jobs to earn his keep. “The animals out in the back are all over the place. The goats are with the cows and cows are scaring the sheep. I need someone to build stalls and feeding troughs for them. Can you do this?” Benjamin readily agreed.

Benjamin began his work with his usual vigor. He even talked to the animals while he worked. “Yes, this new stall is for you. Now, you can leave those poor sheep alone.” “Look, what I made for you. This is much better than eating off the ground.”

Finally he was down to his last pieces of wood and decided to do something extra special. He put the pieces together and even carved little animals on it. “I hope you appreciate all the work I do for you,” Benjamin laughed. 

He was just putting away his tools when the innkeeper appeared at the stable door followed by a man and a young woman. “Benjamin, let me introduce you to Joseph and his wife Mary. I had no room at the inn, but I told them they could stay here, if they liked. At least it should be warm enough with all these animals.”

Benjamin nodded his head and said, “I see you too have come a great way. I hope you are comfortable here.” Joseph looked around at Benjamin’s handiwork. “Benjamin, I see that you too are a carpenter. You have the hands of a carpenter and it shows in you work. I think Mary and I will be quite comfortable. Thank you.”

But, when Benjamin helped Mary down from her donkey, he noticed she was great with child and that they didn’t have any blankets with them. He quickly excused himself and made his way to the plaza on the other side of town where he found a woman selling blankets. She was in no mood to bargain and made him pay his last silver piece. It was dark now, but strangely enough he had no trouble seeing for there was a strange star overhead. It lit his way as he made his way back across town to the inn.

By the time he got back to the stable, he noticed that there were some shady looking men lurking about. He was sure they were going to hurt the young couple. But when he got close, he saw that they were shepherds and that were standing in awe and on bended knee. Then he saw what they saw – a beautiful baby boy was lying in the manger that he had just finished. He was wrapped only in swaddling clothes. He went over and placed the blanket on top of the child.

As he did Joseph placed his hand on Benjamin’s shoulder and said, “Benjamin, you have truly made…a bed fit for a king.”

                                                    This Little Light of Mine

                                                                                                   by

                                                                                            Marilyn Kinsella (November 2003)

Everyone in heaven was busy. The Prince of Peace was soon to be born. The angels, every one of them, had jobs to do. The Cherubim and Seraphim were busy decorating the heavenly throne with holly and ivy. The archangels were passing messages back and forth from heaven to the people on the Earth. And the other angels, the Principalities, Virtues and the Dominions, were arranging and rearranging the stars. The only thing left to do was to place the Star of Bethlehem in the night sky on the holiest of nights. – the star that would lead the shepherds and the wise men to the Baby Jesus. But whom would the Heavenly Father pick? Everyone had worked so hard. It was not going to be an easy decision.

Finally, the Heavenly Father had an idea. He came out with a proclamation: “Whoever can fill the stable in Bethlehem, where my son is soon to be born, will be the one to light the Star of Bethlehem.”

The angels tried and tried to figure out the answer for they wanted to be the one to light the star. One angel thought straw could fill the stable. So he prepared for his journey. As he headed down to the stable, a little baby star appeared way up high in the night sky. “Take me, Take me!” (done as participation) 

“Oh, I’m much too busy,” said the angel and he kept flying down to the stable. He gathered haystacks and bales of straw. But no matter how much straw he put in the stable, it wasn’t enough.

Another angel – a beautiful angel, thought she knew the answer - feathers!. She prepared for her journey, but, when she started on her journey, the baby star cried out once again,“Take me, Take me!”

But the angel just shrugged her shoulders and said, “Sorry, no time, and you are too far away.” She flew down to the stable and gathered sacks and sacks filled with feathers – goose feather, duck feathers – feathers from every bird imaginable, but, no matter how many feathers she put in the stable, it was never full.

One angel after another went down to the stable. All the angels thought they had the best idea. Each time that baby star cried out, “Take me, take me!”  But no one would stop for such a small, insignificant star.

Finally, a very little angel decided he wanted to go to the stable and fill it. The other angels just looked at one another and shook their heads. I mean, what could this angel think of that hadn’t been tried before.

And, if truth be known, the little angel had absolutely no idea of how to fill the stable. But, he did want to see where the Baby Jesus was to be born. So he prepared for his flight. And, like all the other angels, the little star asked him, “Take me, take me!.” 

The little angel looked and saw the teeny-tiny light barely twinkling in a sky filled with bright stars. “Sure, you can come with me. We can keep each other company.”  He flew up and plucked the star out of the blue velvet sky and they traveled down, down, down to the earth.

They found the stable where the Baby Jesus was to be born, but it was so dark! How would Mary and Joseph see anything? The little angel came inside and hung the baby star from the rafters. And now the stable was no longer dark, for the light from that teeny-tiny star filled the whole inside of that stable.

When Mary and Joseph came that night they could see perfectly fine with that teeny-tiny light . The angles came and their voices filled the stable with a heavenly sound. And, later that night, when the Baby Jesus was born, he held out his arms to the world filling that stable with love.

The little angel smiled and said, “The stable below is filled with light and music, but most of all it is filled with love.”

When the little angel returned to the heavens, he hung the baby star high up in the sky. Then he went to see the Heavenly Father. He smiled when he saw what the little had done. “Little Angel, you filled the stable with light. And now that same light will shine down from the heavens. Look and see the star you hung in the heavens.” When the little angel looked he couldn’t believe his eyes for now the baby star had grown and grown to a great light – the Star of Bethlehem. The shepherds and the wise men could find their way to a stable filled with love..                                                         

Even to this day, if you take one little candle into a dark room, you too can fill it with light. All it takes is one  little light, a little light that we all hold in our hearts.

                                        “Faces of Christmas Past and Present"

                                                                                               by

                                                                                                        Marilyn Kinsella, 1989

Every family has traditions at Christmas time and mine was no different.  For instance, every house up and down St. Clair Road .had their tree up early, but not our family – oh, no - it was our family tradition that kept us from putting up the tree until the Saturday before Christmas. I’m not really sure if it was an old German tradition or just a wee bit of my father’s Scottish heritage that held to the belief that “If you wait until the last minute, ladies, you get such a deal on a tree.” Whatever, we finally chose a tree - usually one with broken limbs and a wonky crooked top.  But, at this point we didn’t care…we had a tree!

After we got the tree home, my father started the laying of the lights.  You see, back then we didn’t have the cool twinkling lights where if the set goes out, you rush out to by another set.  No, we had hot, 6-watt bulbs.  And if one of them should happen to go out - all of them went out.  So my father plugged the lights in from one socket to the other creating a giant lighted checkerboard on the floor of our living room. My father sat down in the middle of the lights trying each and every light until he found the burned-out culprit.  Finally, he put the lights on the tree.

Next, we got out the big box with the ornaments wrapped in old newspapers.  Each one of the family had a special ornament to place on the tree.  My father had a huge cobalt blue ornament from Germany.  It was so big that he had to hang it from the bottom branch close to the stem, so the tree wouldn’t topple over.  Next my mother hung her gold ornament.  It was a bit smaller than the blue one so she placed it somewhere in the middle of the tree.  My two older brothers, Bill and Chris, had identical glass Santa Clauses except one was green and one was red.  My younger sister, Melissa, had a beautiful ornament someone had given to her for her first Christmas.  It was small with a pearly pink color and a dollop of crystallized snow on top.  Then there was my special ornament.  Only I didn’t think it was so special.  It wasn’t big or little; it didn’t have a special shape; and it wasn’t even that pretty.  It was just an average-sized, silver ornament.  But every year I dutifully placed it on the tree.

Then one year, I asked my mom, “What so special about my ornament anyway?”

 “What’s so special?  You mean I never told you the story of that ornament?” 

 “Not that I know of.”

 “Well, that ornament belonged to my mother, your Grandmother Adelia.  She just loved it because it was so clear.  She said she could gaze into the shiny orb and see the faces of her grandchildren.”

My grandmother Adelia died several years before I was born.  I never got to meet her, but I did get to know her through the stories my mother told me about her. She and my Grandpa Joe were one of the first families to build a non-farming house on the newly plotted land to be called Fairview in 1913. She was the oldest of 12 children. Her family owned the famous Lauman House in East St. Louis where she and the others put in long hours making the inn a reputable place to stay. Even so, she became an accomplished musician and an artist. In fact, I was given the middle name of Adele after my Grandmother Adelia.  After my mom told me about the magic of the ornament, I spent hours gazing deeply into its reflection to see if I recognized my grandmother.  After that, I even had a special place for it on the tree - near the top, so Grandmother could see it from above.

 Then when I was 16, I was careless.  As I reached up to the highest branch, the ornament slipped from my hand.  It did a rather graceful slalom down the tree before it crashed into a thousand pieces on the floor.  I was so upset because it wasn’t just the end of the ornament, my tradition was shattered as well.

Many years passed and I had almost forgotten about that Christmas memory.  That is, until 1988, when I was diagnosed with breast cancer.  I had the surgery and all the chemotherapy that went along with it.  Fortunately, I caught it early enough and the prognosis was good.  However, there was a 24 hour period before the tests came back that gave me time to reflect on my life.

It was during those 24 hours that I realized that I had no regrets.  I was blessed with growing up in a loving family and now had a loving family of my own.  I had great friends and, of course - storytelling.  If I did have one regret, it was not having met my future grandchildren.  It was then that I remembered that ornament.  I realized that traditions aren’t always things; sometimes they are the process of doing.

So that Christmas I went shopping for an ornament - not too big, not too small… a rather plain silver ornament.  When I got home, I placed it way up high on the tree.  Later that night when everyone else went to bed I took it down and gazed deeply into its reflection.  As I was looking my young daughter, Amy, walked up behind me.  “What are you doing?”

I just had to laugh.  “Well, Amy, I guess you could say that I’m just carrying on a Christmas tradition.”

 

                                         Do You See the Lights...

                                                                                      By

                                                                                       Marilyn A. Kinsella, 1987

 Since my father died in 1979, I have come to believe that the passing of a loved one opens a “window of grace.”  It is a time for miracles. If we leave ourselves open, a message will arrive like a warm evening breeze…a gentle whisper confirming what we already know. 

My father, Fred Niemann, was your typical “50’s dad.”  He worked hard to support his family.  He provided an excellent example for all who knew him.  Although he was never a demonstrative man – to put it mildly - we never for one second ever doubted his love for us. Faithfully, he practiced his religion. Although he firmly believed in an after-life, he also firmly believed that there was no way for the spirit world and our physical world to make contact.  It wasn’t so much that he totally discounted the idea, it was just that such things as ESP, visions, miracles, etc. never happened to him.  So, he simply chose to “not believe.”  I wonder now after the events surrounding his death…would he choose to “believe.”

To understand his story, one has to understand my father.  He was an intelligent, analytical, left-brained person.  He thought of words as a series of letters that needed to be compartmentalized into little boxes for his favorite New York Times Crossword Puzzle. He was a master bridge player who could remember and discuss bridge hands from years past. He had a time and place for everything and everything in its place.

My father was a creature of habit.  His movements were controlled by the clock.  Seven o’clock – time to wake up; twelve o’clock – time for lunch; six o’clock – time for supper.

Even his dinner plate was set-up in clock fashion: twelve o’clock – starch; three o’clock - vegetable; six o’clock – meat; nine o’clock – salad.  He would start at 12 o’clock and take precisely one forkful of food, chew and swallow; proceed to 3 o’clock – repeat. He went around his plate like that until he was down to his last bite.  If he saw that he did not have enough 6 o’clock to finish his plate, he added one forkful in order to make a clean sweep.

Even his ice tea had to be made a certain way.  According to his book there were two ways to make ice tea – the Fredrick W. Niemann way and the wrong way.  To make Fredrick W. Niemann tea one added three Lipton tea bags to a pot of rapidly boiling water.  Let steep.  Add two teaspoons of sugar to a glass full of ice cubes.  Poor hot tea over the cubes and stir…viola – Fredrick W. Niemann ice tea!  I’m not really sure his recipe was all that good, but we sure did go through the ice cubes at our house.

And all this was nothing compared to the holidays.  We had certain traditions that were…unique to our family.  For instance, my father would not buy the Christmas tree until the Saturday before Christmas.  Everyone else up and down St. Clair Road had their trees up, but not the Niemann’s – oh no, we had to wait until the Saturday before Christmas.  I’m not sure if that was a German tradition like my father told me – or that bit of Scots blood that ran through his veins…”You know ladies, if you wait till the last minute, you get such a bargain on those trees.” Finally, my dad took his old Chevy down to the tree lot and picked out a broken- branched, needle- bare tree and hoisted it back home.  By this time, we were just happy to have a tree.

                                                                         

Next, came the lights.  We didn’t have those soft, twinkly lights of today. Back then we had hot 6- watt bulbs. If one went out, the whole string went out.  My father would plug the strings of lights from every outlet.  Dad would sit down with a box of lights and try out each one until the string of lights shone. Soon our living room turned into a giant, electronic game board.  After the lights were strung, we ceremoniously added the ornaments…and the tinsel to the tree one-by-one-by one.  Once the tree was decorated we all sat back…no finer tree in all of Fairview!

Something else happened on that Saturday.  My father always waited until the last minute to buy his gifts.  This was a joyous day for me.  This was the day my dad took me out to “help” buy gifts for my mom.  Now, mind you, he knew exactly what he wanted – the size, the color, and most importantly, the price.  He just had this thing about buying presents.  It looked better, if I bought them.  I didn’t mind because he always took me out for lunch.  This happened only one time during the year.  It was our special date.  I’d take his gifts, wrap them, and put his name on the tags.  Mom opened the gifts with great relish.  She’d slyly look over at me and give her Mona Lisa smile.  She knew what went on, but loved them even more.

After my father retired, he developed arteriole sclerosis, or hardening of the arteries, as we called it.  After several operations to clear his veins, the doctors said they could not operate again.  In November of 1979, when symptoms reoccurred, he was hospitalized. The doctors recommended a controversial treatment.  Since there was little choice, he agreed to the prescribed medication.  At first things looked hopeful, but then he suffered a series of small strokes. 

The once self-assured, brilliant man was now reduced to a frightened, forgetful soul.  Sometimes when I came in, he didn’t even know who I was.  Other times, he had lucid moments and spoke with great clarity.  He told me that he wrote some gift ideas down on one of his crossword puzzle.  He wanted me to find the list and get them for Mom.  I agreed that I would. I looked everywhere for that newspaper with the list, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.

As December approached, we knew that Dad would not be coming home.  One day I came to the hospital.  Dad had a faraway look in his eyes.  I stood there for a few minutes until he suddenly looked at me and said, “Do you see them?  Do you see the lights?”

“What lights, Dad?” I asked.

“The lights – at the Shrine!  They are so beautiful!” I didn’t want to tell him that I had been too busy to go the Shrine of Our Lady of the Snows this year to see the light display.

Then he came out of it and said, “Oh, I thought I was at the Shrine.”  At the time I thought it odd that sometimes Dad didn’t know who I was, yet he knew the lights were on at the Shrine.

It was several years later when I heard of a phenomenon called “traveling”.  It happens when death is approaching.  The mind, or spirit, travels to those special places that it wants to visit one last time.  Although my dad never believed in such things, to this day, I believe he was out enjoying those lights when I entered his hospital room.

 On December 12^th, Dad passed away.  It’s always hard to lose a loved one, but especially at the holidays.  I was bound and determined to make the best of this Christmas.  So I went on a mission to find the list he left.  It would make my mother so happy.  One day, I was going through some things in his room at home when I found it.  His newspaper was neatly folded up with some hospital things.  When he switched rooms, we bought some things home – that’s why we couldn’t find it.  The list was written in pencil around the margins of the crossword.  The Saturday before Christmas I bought the gifts, wrapped them, and put them under the tree.

 Mom was so surprised to see the gifts from him under the tree.  I felt like I was his special messenger that Christmas.  But wait.  There was more.  Mom said there was a box in the hallway closet.  We brought it out.  Inside were more gifts from my father – all wrapped and tagged.  It was as if he knew!  Had my father who chose all of his life to “not believe” turned into someone at this Christmas season who chose to “believe?”

                                                                           

A few days after Christmas, I visited the Shrine of Our Lady of the Snows.  The crowd had died down and I had the place pretty much to myself.  At one point I stopped the car and just watched  the lights as they mingled with the stars on that cold, crisp December night.  As the lights blurred I said softly, “Yea, Dad, I see the lights.  And they are so beautiful.”

                                                                  SHOWTIME!!

                                                                                                              BY

                                                                                        MARILYN A. KINSELLA, 1990

I loved my childhood. At night sometimes I still walk down those sunny paths in my dreams.  Afterall, my two brothers were quite a bit older than I was.  They were in school and my father at work while I had my mother and my Grandpa to myself during the day.  It was the perfect set-up...until the day my parents decided to send me to Kindergarten. Back in the fifties, kindergarten was not mandatory, but my mother thought that getting a head start on my education was a grand idea.

At first I thought I'd like it.  My mother built it up to the hilt.  "Oh, you'll love it.  Kids your own age, new friends, and Donny, your cousin, will be going too - it will be fun."   

My idea of "fun" was running around doing as I pleased.  It did not take me long to discover that was not my teacher's idea of "fun."

The first day of school I got all dressed up.  My mother took extra pains to get my unruly brown hair into two long braids.  My Grandpa Joe was the chauffeur.  We went around to pick up Donny and two new friends, Mary Beth Baricevic and Roger Downey.  We traveled around the back roads till we drove up to St. Stephen's in Caseyville.  Then we piled out of the car and headed for the kindergarten room.  It was brightly decorated, and nametags shaped like apples were pinned on to our clothes.  But, I could tell right away that I was not going to like it.  The kids were sitting at tables - just sitting there.  There was all this neat stuff around that you could see and touch in boxes and bins, and the kids were just sitting there.  My teacher's name was Mrs. Stevens, which was easy to remember, because it was also the name of the school. After Mrs. Stevens settled me down, she started to ask me questions.  I guess I was more interested in watching the fly on the ceiling fan wondering why it didn't fall off or if it ever got dizzy.  I certainly was not interested in sitting answering questions.  After the questions, my friends Donny, Mary Beth and Roger, were put at the smart table.  You knew they were smart because they always finished their papers first and got to take a puzzle to their desk.  I never got to take a puzzle to my desk.  I was the dumb table.

At the dummy table there was Zelda who hid under tables, Frank who ate the paint off the tables and Earl who didn't say anything but always had a big toothy grin on his face, and me.  What humiliation!  I think it put my education back about three years.

As the days marched by, things did not get any better.  All my teacher was interested in were squiggly things called letters and numbers.  Every so often she handed us a coloring page.  Our table was right next to the radiator, however, and my crayons always ended up half melted.  Then, I ended up smearing my coloring pages. They were never put up on top of the chalkboard where Donny, Mary Beth and Roger's were hanging.  

Then something happened around the first of December.  Mrs. Stevens announced that the school was putting on a Christmas pageant and that the kindergarten would participate.  My ears perked up immediately - Stage? Lights? Acting?  I was ready.  For once kindergarten would be fun!  I finally understood what school was all about. It was....Showtime!

Each day we went down to the auditorium and we sang around the piano. Mrs. Bierbaum was the music teacher, and she told us that she had to take time from her busy day just to practice with us kindergartners.  She was a rather large woman whose bottom completely covered the piano bench.  She could make "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" sound like a piano concerto.  Our talent for this Christmas extravaganza was to sing "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" - with actions no less.  A couple of days before the big event, Mrs. Stevens got out some brown and red construction paper so we could make antlers and noses - Costumes!  This was getting better and better.  I carefully cut out my set of antlers and sprinkled them generously with silver and gold glitter.  But my nose was a true masterpiece.  After cutting it out, I globbed it with glue and a whole bottle of red glitter.  It was a nose that could rival Rudolph’s.  I was in doggie heaven.  Surely, Mrs. Stevens would see the terrible mistake that she had made by putting me at the dummy table.  I was meant for bigger things.  I was really just a diamond in the rough - a little polish and I'd shine like the rest of them. 

Every day at 10:30 a.m., we went to practice, and we practiced... and we practiced.  Always around the piano - so our ears could get use to the music. I had the words down before everyone else. When I sang, you could hear my voice above all the others. Every once in a while Mrs. Bierbam gave a look. I think she really liked the way I could belt out a song. The day before the performance we were to practice on stage, but I was sick that day and missed the big dress rehearsal.

Well, the big evening arrived.  We got to the classroom early that night.  The only lights on were those in the classrooms.  I remember how weird it felt to be walking down darkened hallways and into my room. Everyone was real excited. Even the smart table was not sitting.  Mrs. Stevens had on a dress that I never saw her wear before.  It had a big fake Christmas corsage pinned to her shoulder that matched her big fake smile she wore as the parents came into the room. When the parents weren't looking, she had a grimace on her face. 

Our costumes were laid out on our tables.  Frank, the paint eater, tried to take mine, but I let him have it with a fist to his left shoulder and got mine back.  Mrs. Stevens had sent a note home with us asking the parents to please bring in a pair of mittens for the show.  I didn't have mittens only gloves.  So my mom and I went shopping.  I found the perfect pair of red mittens.  They were huge, but they matched my nose.

I was anxious to get everything right. So, I was the first in line to put on our "costumes".  Mrs. Stevens struggled and dug deep into my scalp with sharp bobby pins to get my antlers on straight.  I didn't even wince.  I would suffer in silence for my art.  Next she took a glob of smelly paste from her huge paste jar and plopped it on my nose.  She took my red nose and stuck it on.  Then she told me to sit down.  For once I did as I was told.  I didn't want anything to spoil my "look."

But, like I said, the dummy table was right next to the radiator.  Before long my nose began to itch as the paste dried.  I tried to carefully itch it, but as I did I knocked my nose off in the process.  I got in line to have my nose reattached.  Mrs. Stevens clucked when I handed her my nose.  She wiped off my nose with a tissue, glopped on more paste, fastened on my nose, and told me to sit down.  I sat down again to wait.  The heat from the radiator made me uncomfortable.  I could feel the glue rapidly drying.  I resisted the itch.  I tried sitting on my hands, but the itch got worse.  I tried to think about something else, but when your five years old and you have an itch, you've got to scratch.  The moment my big red glove bumped up against my nose it came off again.

I retrieved my errant nose and brought it back to my teacher.  Now, she just glared at me - she acted as if I were asking her for the Hope diamond.  She didn't even wipe my nose this time - just plopped the paste and smooshed my nose as she put it on once more.   

After that, she told us it was time to line up.  Our table was first since we were line leader for the week. I hurried to the door so I could be first.  What a fine entrance I would make with the Kindergarten trailing behind.  We walked down to the auditorium and waited in the wings while the first grade finished singing "Silent Night." They even had a little play with individual parts and real costumes - the boys wore robes with gold crowns and the girls wore nighties with angel wings and haloes.  But it was Mary who stole the show.  She didn't even speak - but, when she put the Baby Jesus in the crib, the audience sighed.  I knew right then and there that I was going to like first grade.   

Finally, they left the stage. Mrs. Bierbaum fired away on the piano in a crescendo of chords, glissandos and heavy pedal pushing. I wasn't sure when we were supposed to go on stage. Suddenly, the piano quieted as Mrs. Bierbaum looked around to see if the Kindergartners were on stage.  She sighed and started the intro all over.  This time I felt a heavy hand on my back pushing me out on stage.  I stumbled on stage.  I had never seen bright lights before.  They flooded the stage and my eyesight.  I couldn't see a thing and I didn't know where to go or where to stand.  I had always practiced around the piano before. The other students, however, acted like they knew what they were doing and came stampeding behind me pushing me to the far corner of the stage.  Wait a minute! I wanted to be downstage so everyone could see me - what was I doing in the corner?  I elbowed my way into the middle of the stage and stood a step or two in front of everyone else.  I could see Mrs. Stevens waving her arms frantically off stage, but I pretended no to see her. This was my dramatic debut and nobody was going to stop me!

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

             The music got softer and I knew the show was about to begin. We began in our whispering voices...

♫ "You remember Dasher and Dancer; Prancer and Vixon; Comet and Cupid; Donder and Blitzen. But do you recall the most famous reindeer of all?" (piano forte; a flurry of chords) Then in our best outdoor voices we belted, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer - had a very shiny nose." The idea was that twenty-five little mittened hands would point to their - very shiny noses.  But my giant red mitten hit my red nose and it went flying into the orchestra pit where Mrs. Bierbaum was playing. It shot forward like a red comet leaving a trail of red glitter in its path.  It landed on the back of Mrs. Bierbaum.  The audience was now in a fit of hysterics.  But I was a true professional, a real trooper.  I wouldn't let anything like a lost nose stop me.  I didn't miss a beat - just kept right on singing and posing with each lyric.  The rest of the show was rather anti-climatic. We finished Rudolph in due course and it was soon time to troop off.  However, if I didn't know when to get on stage, I certainly didn't know when to get off. And, since everyone was behind me, they left the stage while I was still bowing and curtsying to the thunderous applause.  Finally, I felt that same heavy hand grab me around the shoulders and lead me off stage - still bowing and curtsying as I went. 

           As I thought - my performance was, as my father so aptly put it, was "unforgettable".  My mom said that I was a "real show stopper".  But strangely enough, my teacher never said a word.  Perhaps, my performance was so stellar that she was at a loss for words.  Whatever, it didn't change a thing.  I was still stuck at the dummy table until the end of year.  But, that was okay.  I kinda got use to it.  And whenever my teacher would get exasperated at me because I couldn't count to one hundred or know my alphabet by heart, I'd think, "Yeah, well just wait till next year.  I'm a shoo in for the part of Mary.  I even have my costume all planned."

Epilogue:  It is with great regret that I must admit that I wasn't cast as Mary the next year or any year for that matter.  They said she had to be a student who exemplified the Mary-spirit.  I think that meant she made no less than a B-plus on her report card. However, my attitude about school had completely changed, because I knew that sooner or later that year (whether it was the spring play or Father Schindler’s talent show)...sooner or later it was SHOWTIME!

Dance Harlequin, Dance

by

Marilyn Kinsella, 1994

 

When I was a kid I really had a hard time making friends. Perhaps, I tried a little too hard; perhaps, I was off in my own little world; perhaps, I was just a little too much of a clown - whatever, I had a hard time making friends.  As early as the second grade, I often felt alone and excluded.  But that year I thought I knew the key to finding friendship.

 As Christmas approached that year all the girls in my second grade class were talking about a doll - a dancing doll.  Somebody brought the Sears Catalog to school, and there it was on page 106. It was decided that everybody who got this doll could belong to the Dancing Doll Club.  This cloth doll was life-sized.  It had a plastic face surrounded by a two braids made of yellow yarn.  She had a red and white checkered bonnet on her head which matched her red and white checkered dress.  What made her so different from any other doll we had known was that at the ends of her arms and legs were black straps that you could slip your hands and feet into.  Then you could dance.  Oh, I loved to dance. And I really wanted to belong to that club.  All I needed was that doll, and I could belong.

 So I started my campaign early - dropping little hints to my mother that I was not interested in baby dolls any longer.  I wanted a big-girl doll - I wanted the dancing doll.  I was getting to the age where I wasn't quite so sure about Santa Claus - but, just to be on the safe side, I carefully cut out the picture on page 106 of the Sears and Roebuck and stuffed it in my pocket for my annual visit to see Santa.

Going to see Santa was a real treat. My mom and I caught the bus at the Edgemont Station to go to St. Louis. As we walked to Famous Barr, we always paused at the store windows to see the latest Christmas displays. Then we went to the 8th floor. To get to Santa we walked through a real Winter Wonderland. It was so magical - colored lights, giant toys, and dolls that skated across ponds. This year my mom and I waited patiently for the elf to escort me to see the jolly old man. When my time arrived, he looked at me and asked the age old question...

                                                      "Have you been a good little girl this year?"

                                                                 

                                                     "Oh, yeah," I replied. "I have been soooo good."

"I'm always happy to hear that. Now tell me, is there anything special you want this year?" I was ready for that question. I reached inside my pocket and took out page 106 of the Sears and Roebuck catalog. "There," I pointed. I want this dancing doll."

"Well, I guess old Santa will see what he can do."

 Having laid the groundwork for my receiving the doll, I now began the long and arduous task of being "good" till Christmas. No easy task for a kid like me.

The days slowly marched on.  But at night, I had dreams of me and the other girls in my class dancing around a big ballroom; a center chandelier casting its shards of light in every direction as the band played on. My doll and I would very humbly accept the crown for being the most graceful and beautiful couple on the dance floor. The other girls would make a full curtsy before us as the rest of the dancers cheered on.

Finally, Christmas Eve arrived.  In my family we always opened our gifts on Christmas Eve.  My brothers, Billy and Chris, and my new baby sister, Melissa, were waiting upstairs for the ringing of the sleigh bells.  It was our all-clear-Santa-is-gone-now sign. At any other time of the year my two brothers would have nothing to do with me.  They avoided me like the plague. But suddenly as the 24th of December rolled around, I was chaperoned around like the princess I knew I was. This year, Chris even tried to occupy my time by playing a game of Candyland with me.  This was odd, because Chris was 7 years older than I and he thought Candyland was for babies.  But, he was willing do anything to get me calmed down.  I couldn't concentrate on peppermint sticks or candy-topped mountains.  All I could think about was the doll I wanted for Christmas.

Finally, we heard the distant jingle of the sleigh bells. Candyland pieces went flying as I beat everyone to the steps.  We rushed through the house until we came to the front parlor.  The tree looked beautiful. Dad put it up the night before.  But it wasn't the tree I was interested in.  It was the presents.  My parents...I mean Santa...did not wrap all our gifts. Most of them were displayed under the tree with name tags.

Sure I saw my name on a couple of things.  There was a Chutes and Ladder game, a plastic tea set, and an ironing board and iron, but, excuse me, where was my doll?  It wasn't like the others didn't get what they asked for.  Melissa got her Betsy Wetsy, Chris got his walkie-talkies, Billy got his chemistry set.  So where was my doll?

I felt like crying.  I felt like that bubble light on the tree.  Everything was bubbling and churning.  And, and... I thought I was going to explode!  Then my Mom said, "Marilyn, go close that door.  There is a draft in here."

 So, I went over to the door, grabbed the side of it, and swung it shut. I can still hear my loud, blood-curdling scream.  It's probably still echoing through the rafters of that old house.  For behind the door was the most frightening lump of body parts that I had ever encountered.  However, everyone else in the room thought this to be a colossal joke and began to laugh hysterically.  What was so funny?  Then I looked at the nametag on the "thing" again and saw why they were laughing.  It was because it was my doll.  But it wasn't anything like the doll on page 106 of the Sears and Roebuck catalog.  This doll was downright spooky!

This doll was all back and white.  What you might call a Harlequin.  It had a soft cloth head made of black material and back and white diamond shapes on its body suit.  It wore a stiff, scratchy tutu around its middle.  But, the thing that scared me the most was the black mask across her face.

Was this some kind of joke?  This was not what I asked for. This was not what I wanted.  I didn't even want to touch it.  "Go ahead," coaxed my mom, "pick it up."

"No, it's ugly," I stubbornly replied. My voice must have glitched, because I was trying hard not to cry.  My brothers picked up on that right away.

"Whatza matter?  Scared of little dolly?  Oooh!"

That did it.  I marched right over and picked her up.  I would touch her all right.  But I wouldn't like it!

But I did like it.  I liked it very much.  It wasn't very long after Christmas that I discovered that she was a perfect dancer.  I mean she always let me lead, and she liked the same music I did.  I called her Millicent the Magnificent.

She soon became the favorite of all my dolls.  I would put a 45-record on my little record player and we would dance around the room making dramatic twists, dips and turns.

After Christmas my friends came over to play.  They all brought their dancing dolls.  But they were kind of boring.  I mean, they all looked the same.  Same red and white checked dress, same yellow hair, same pretty face.  My doll was unique.  No one had a doll like mine.  I was really proud of her.

Still, it bothered me that I couldn't see her face.  So one day I got some scissors and carefully cut the masked off.  Under the mask was the face of a most beautiful doll.  She had bright blue eyes that seemed to thank me for being her friend.

I realized then that Santa must have known something I didn't.  For there have been many times in my life when I felt like that doll - being a little too much of a character to make friends very easily.  But, when someone did take the time to get to know me, and pulled back that clown's mask that I wore, they were always pleasantly surprised to find a friend...someone unique, someone to dance with.

 

                           The Family Tree: A Hodgepodge of Memories

                                                                                              by

                                                                                             Marilyn A. Kinsella, 2004 edited 2007

                                                     I remember our first Christmas, forty years ago, after Larry and I were  married  in 1967.

                                                                                             

We were young, impetuous, in love...and broke - a usual state of affairs over the years. So, Larry and I decided that, no matter what, we would get ourselves a real live tree. No artificial tree in our home...no, siree! We discovered that one could save a couple of bucks by going out to the tree farm and cutting down one's own tree. How romantic! So, we took off for the tree farm, as a gentle snow laced the sky. Could this more perfect? Did we think of gloves and boots. No! We had love to keep us warm.

What we didn't expect was "tree tagging." It seems that smart people came out to the tree farm and tagged the trees they wanted. So, we walked, and walked, and walked (did I tell you it was snowing and we had no boots?) and walked until finally we found "a" tree. Not the perfect tree I dreamed of, but, at least, untagged. It had a wonky trunk, and some missing branches, and was not nearly as big as the other more beauteous trees, but by this time, we did not care. My handsome husband gave that tree 3 or 4 or 9 or 10 mighty whacks and it fell to the snowy earth. Now, we had to walk, and walk, and walk, (did I tell you it was snowing and we had no gloves?) and walk until, at last, we got back to our car. Somehow, we pushed and shoved the blasted...er, beauteous tree into the back of the car.  

I don't know how many of you have ever cut down a live coniferous tree, but there is something the poets forgot to mention. A little thing called...tree sap! Larry had it all over his coat, his hair, and mostly on his hands. As we drove back to our apartment, his hand kept getting stuck to the steering wheel. I had the regrettable and uncontrollable urge to giggle. Ooops. Not the wisest choice, since it preempted the end of the proverbial honeymoon.

Well, we got the tree back to the apartment. Did I mention that it was an efficiency apartment? That tree that seemed so small out in the woods, now took up half the living room. We pushed and shoved the beast into a corner and had to watch TV through the limbs of the tree.

But, we couldn't just buy a tree. Now, we needed a tree stand, lights, garland, tinsel! Ka-ching! Well, money spent and tree decorated we sat down on the couch to admire our tree...but something was missing.

Ornaments! We didn’t have a one to put on the tree.

I went to my mom and said, “Mom, can I have some of the ornaments that you put on your tree?”

She gave me a rather odd look that I did not understand at the time. Then, her face changed and she said, “Sure, go ahead, take what you want.”

With a shoebox in hand, I went up to the old attic that was constructed of floor joists. I gingerly made my way balancing from one joist to the other, so I wouldn't slip and fall to the room below. I opened up the cardboard boxes and searched for my favorites. There were gnomes, and Santas, and angels, and bells.  Then, I saw a couple that I had made. I laughed when I saw the doily doll, the glittered pine cones, and the icicles that I made by twisting the metal strips from the Old Folgers’s coffee cans. (Oh, I am dating myself there.) I put them in my box. I took my treasures home and put them on the tree. At least, I would have some of my old ornaments to comfort me on this, my first Christmas away from home.                                                            

                                                                     

The next year I splurged a bit and bought a new ornament for the tree. It said “Baby’s First Christmas” and I had "Christine" (our oldest daughter’s name) engraved on the bottom. Over the years there were two other such ornaments added to our tree – Amy and Brian.

After the kids left the crib, I took the baby mobile apart. It had the cutest little wooden angels. So, I just added some string and put them on the tree.

As the kid got older, I often bought some sort of ornament kit to do during the holidays – wooden ornaments that you could punch out and then paint (they looked so pretty on the box), plaster of Paris ornaments that you had to mix and set and then paint. (that was a messy one). I even remember the year I bought Shrinky-Dink ornaments - which would have been really cute…if I hadn’t left them in the oven! (it smelled like a chemical plant for weeks after that)  

Oh, there were other ornaments…McDonald’s (where we spent a lot of quality family time) had puffy ornaments that came in the happy meals. Of course, we had to collect all 10! – including the Hamburglar and Ronald, himself. We ate a lot of happy meals that Christmas season.

Then we moved to our new house. We had a bigger living room and an even bigger live tree. 

As the kids got into school, they started to bring home the art projects that doubled as Christmas ornaments – bells, or trains, or stars – all with their pictures pasted onto the ornament and painted in the colors of the season.

Then there were scouts – boy scouts and girl scouts. They went out of their way to make the biggest and, dare I say, the gaudiest ornaments. Pom-poms decorated to look like sick alien snowman…pinecone people glopped with layers and layers of glitter… and hands pressed into plaster with their names and dates etched on it for all of eternity.

The tree was beginning to fill up.

Then came the collections. My kids collected everything. Chrissie, at one point, wanted to become a clown. So, St. Nick (he always left a stocking on December 6^th) often gave her ornaments in the shape of clowns or with "Barnum and Bailey Circus" written on them.

Amy loved Strawberry Shortcake. She had all the pieces, and so St. Nick brought her…Strawberry Shortcake ornaments. Later she switched to Disney – especially Alice in Wonderland. I guess you know what St. Nick bought Amy.                                                            

                                                                     

Now our son, Brian, always did march to a different beat. He liked Warner Brothers – not anything normal like Bugs Bunny or Porky Pig, no, his favorite were the Tasmanian Devil, the alien - Marvin the Martian, and that classy, dancing amphibian - Michigan J. Frog. Do you know you can find ornaments of dancing frogs? It’s true. St. Nicholas brought them all.  

Later, Brian switched to “The Simpson’s.” I sheepishly admit that Bart had a place on our tree. Then, when Brian was teenager, he decided he liked (gasp) Ozzie Osburn. I tried to be tolerant of my kids’ tastes over the years, but really, this was making me cringe. Then, one year, I saw it on our Christmas tree – a black ornament with Ozzie’s distorted face glaring back at me! I took the ornament off the tree and gave it back to Brian…not on my tree! Well, it became the family joke. I’d take off the ornament and somehow it always mysteriously it reappeared – hiding behind a star or on the back of the tree always sneering at me. After awhile, it just made me laugh. 

There were times, I have to admit, that I longed for some of the trees I saw in store windows or at craft fairs – trees with themes or done in special colors. Our tree was such a hodge-podge, but I couldn’t bear to part with any of the ornaments on our family tree. They each held a special memory.

Then, the year came when Chrissie, our oldest, moved out of the house. She was delighted that she was on her own, but found herself in the same position Larry and I were in when raising a family – broke. She came to me around Christmas and said, “Mom, can I have some of ornaments from the tree?”

By now the tree was laden down with ornaments. So much so, that some ornaments remained in boxes. “Sure,” I said, “help yourself.” She took a plastic tub and filled it with clowns and the special ornaments that she had made. Honestly, you couldn’t even tell tree was any lighter. 

Then a couple of years later, Amy moved out, and the scenario repeated itself…”Sure go ahead.” She loaded up on Strawberry Shortcake, Disney characters and her special ornaments that she had made. By the time she was finished, the tree definitely looked a lot lighter. 

It was inevitable…the time came for the empty nest syndrome. Brian was moving out to live with some friends. He was the last child that I ever expected to ask, but he did. “Mom, our tree looks like Charley Brown’s Christmas tree. It’s pathetic. Can I take some of my ornaments?”

For the first time I understood my mother’s expression, when I had asked that same question so long ago. For a fleeting moment I held that same expression until I heard myself say…"Sure, go ahead, help yourself."

That year, the character of the tree never quite recovered. Gone were Michigan J. Frog, and Bart, and I even missed old Ozzie.

Don’t get me wrong…our tree was lovely. For one thing, I finally gave in and, after 3 decades of picking pine needles out of the carpet, I bought an artificial tree. I never thought I would say this ….but I love my artificial tree! The lights are just so bright and perfect…and (ta-da!) no needles! Now, with the kids gone I could buy some really nice ornaments - my favorites being my collection of Campbell Kids ornaments. But, it just never was the same. Something was missing.

                                               

Then, in 2004, our daughter Chrissie came over on St. Nicholas Day. She gave us two new picture-ornaments to put on our tree – one said "Grandpa" and one said "Grandma." I realized then that our artificial tree had a rebirth. A new character, our granddaughter – Drew Adele was starting to make our family tree come back to life.

        

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