Turkey is for family

I often tell my kids, my friends, my family, anyone who will listen to me, that the hardest part of being married is the holidays.

In fact, the holidays may be the hardest part of life in general (other than major illnesses and tragedies, of course).  Or unless you're a man.  For us womenfolk, the holidays are all about planning, shopping, cleaning, cooking, baking, worrying, obsessing, perfecting, stressing, decorating and, oftentimes, peacemaking. Sometimes, there is drinking. For men, it's usually about the football.

That's because we're all trying to achieve the impossible -- we're either trying to recreate the perfect holidays of the memories of our youth, or we're trying to invent the ones we never had. The ones we see on TV, that mythical perfect holiday dinner with the turkey in the center of the table with the white table cloth with everybody smiling and happy.

Isn't that how your mama or your grandmama did it?

I have wonderful memories of Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at my Grannie's house, which was next door to our trailer. Grannie had a huge oval wooden table that she set meticulously with the lace tablecloth hand-crocheted by Grandpa's sister, Aunt Irma Lee, her fine china and silver that had been passed down for generations and crystal goblets. A plantation child, Grannie also had cool little antique gadgets, like a crystal knife rest which kept the butter from getting on the tablecloth, and individual salt and pepper wells.

The adults would drink wine (probably Boone's Farm, but OK), and my brother and I would get grape juice to pretend. Grandpa would repeatedly warn us not to back our chairs into the glass china closet, and we would eat our turkey, cranberry jelly, sweet potatoes with the little marshmallows melted on top, Grannie's oyster dressing, cornbread dressing, peas, fruit salad and brown and serve rolls. My sister, the oldest, would make cherry pies that my brother and I loved.

And yes, I have tried to recreate those meals in my own house with my own husband and children. I have Grannie's lace tablecloth, but it's too tattered to use anymore. And I set my own meticulous table with my own wedding china and crystal and my great-grandparents' silverware. It's my version of Norman Rockwell.

But when my daughter was about 6 or 7, she asked us why we don't put the turkey on the table all pretty like they do on TV. It was our custom to bring the turkey slices to the table on a large platter, after my father-in-law had taken it the bird into the laundry room to carve it up with the electric knife. So we humored her. The Coach brought the big, brown beautiful bird to the table, we oohed and aahed for a moment, then Pappy took it to the laundry room to cut up.

Of course, when it comes to the holidays, the most important thing is family. But that's also the most difficult part of getting, being and staying married. Just like on your wedding day, sides must be chosen. Lines must be drawn.

At whose house are you going to eat on Thanksgiving? On Christmas? Where will you eat dessert? And it starts even before the wedding. I've seen my stepdaughter and stepson sit at a table already rubbing their too-full bellies because they're trying to give a little to everyone and make everybody happy. It can't be done.

I can clearly remember the last time I had a holiday dinner with my own family -- my mom, my stepdad, my sister and her husband, my brother, his wife and their children. It was November, 2000. The woman who had promised to let us adopt her child had just reunited with her boyfriend. Our nursery was all decorated, but remained empty.

My family, feeling sorry for me, came to my house and let me cook for them. It was nice. We all got along. We made wonderful memories. We were blessed with our baby girl just two months later. But my brother would not live to see another Thanksgiving.

All the others have been about my husband's family -- his parents, his children. And, because that's the way we decided to roll, his ex wife, her husband, his children, Later, it came to include my stepson's wife and her parents.  Yes, they'll all be coming to my little house on Thanksgiving. We'll go to the ex wife's house on Christmas Eve. Last year was the opposite.

And I realized the other day that this holiday season will be my first. I mean, "mine." For the first time in more than 20 years, this will not be my mother-in-law's holiday where she dictated all the rules -- what to cook, when to eat, what to eat, how to eat. Where to eat.

In the early days, I capitulated. I let her have Thanksgiving at her house in exchange for Christmas. That was fine. My mom even lived in the same town in Mississippi, so it was easy to go there. Except for Lora's first Thanksgiving. She needed a nap before the big meal. The mothers refused to allow it and repeatedly questioned why in the world I thought my child should take a nap. They found out when she fell asleep at the table during dinner.

They would then come to my house for Christmas. But of course, it was still "her" holiday. She actually said that one time. "This is MY Christmas." The "not yours" was left unspoken. So we cooked her way. We went to church at her time (4:30 p.m. on Christmas Eve, which I hated). We woke up when she decided. And we ate what and when she demanded.

Then Hurricane Katrina hit and the in-laws lost everything and moved in with us. I still did my best to let her have "her" holiday.

Now I don't have to.

My Thanksgiving will be in my house, cooked in my tiny kitchen (without a dishwasher mind you) and served on my table with my china and silver -- just like my Grannie used to do. I'm trying to create memories for my daughter, traditions that she will want to carry on to her family -- but probably have to give up once she gets married.

That's just the way it is. Pick your battles, hon.

Don't let the parade pass you by

When The Coach and I first spotted our little Norco cottage more than 20 years ago, we fell in love with it pretty much instantly.
                                           


First of all, it was unique. Neither of us wanted a cookie-cutter suburban tract house to live in, and this one certainly is not. Built in the early 1930s from a catalog plan, it's either a Tudor cottage or a Cotswold Cottage -- I haven't been able to find the exact architecture style. I know it's kooky and quirky, just like me. There are two downstairs bedrooms. The attic was converted into living space sometime in the 50s and the stairs are in the spare bedroom.  There's now an upstairs half-bath, but you have to sit sideways to use the toilet. All we added was a white picket fence and, shortly after Hurricane Katrina, a swimming pool.

 "It's got character," everyone says.

It was built by Dr. Almerico,  the then-dentist for Shell Oil Company, which developed its refinery in what was then-called Good Hope, Louisiana.  The refinery came to be called the New Orleans Refining Company, which eventually was shortened to NORCO, which eventually became the name of the town. Yes, I live in an acronym. (This is NOT to be confused with Norco, California, which apparently also is an acronym for a railroad company.)

Dr. Almerico's House, as it is still known, was one of the first houses built in the area, one of the first brick houses built in the area. Some called it "The Mansion." Whatever they call it, it's somewhat of a landmark.

LaPlace

There are two others just like ours in our immediate vicinity -- one about seven miles from us in LaPlace, which is an almost exact replica in reverse. Their porch is on the opposite side of the house and glassed in. The brick is different too.

Garyville

 There is another about 20 miles from us in the town of Garyville. Their porch is also enclosed, but is on the correct side.

But our house has something neither of those has -- a parade!

My house during the parade!

Well, it didn't when we bought it. But for most of the 1970s and since its revival in 2001, the annual Norco Christmas Parade has rolled on the first Sunday in December through the streets of Norco and right up to my house. No, really. It pretty starts and ends at my at my little cottage, bringing half the town of Norco plus untold numbers of family members, friends and, oftentimes, complete strangers to my one and a half bathrooms. And I pretty much feed all of them too.

It starts with Santa, who is one of the first to arrive at my house on the first Sunday in December. Of course, at that point he's just a really cool guy named Joe Shine. And, because we live in Louisiana, he's usually wearing shorts and a t-shirt and flip flops. After making his way through the crowd of family, friends and strangers, he taste tests the ham and other pickings for a while before deftly disappearing into the room that has alternated as my stepson's room, my nephew's room, my in-laws' room and, now, my daughter's room, to transform into the Jolly Old Elf.

He usually finds the accommodations accommodating -- except for the year when we had a not-so-Louisiana-like December and had the heater turned on full blast and he sweat his jolly old ass off while getting dressed.  Or the year the local minor league baseball team's nutria mascots locked themselves in there for a while and made Santa wait his turn.

Mrs. Claus makes her appearance a short time later, but smart one that she is, she's already dressed and ready to go.

A short time after noon, a local elf whisks the Clauses away to a local helicopter pad where a local businessman awaits to whisk them off on their pre-parade aerial tour of Norco. They spend several minutes flying over the parade route and stirring up the crowds below.

And one of my absolute favorite parts is when they fly over MY HOUSE, waving TO ME and my family, friends and the complete strangers. The helicopter then lands a short distance from my house, on the Mississippi River levee, where the parade officially begins.

In the meantime, a steady - ahem - parade of people meander through my house, around my buffet table and in and out of my bathrooms. Friends, family, friends of family, family of friends, cheerleaders, dance team members, members of the marching bands, politicians, teachers, bus drivers, baseball players, football players, these Star Wars people, policemen, firemen -- you name it. And more than a few times, the Coach and I have whispered in each other's ear, "Do you know who that is?"

It doesn't matter. We welcome them all. And happily give the Ten Cent Tour to anyone who asks.

At 2 p.m. the parade rolls under the direction of Stephen Weber, who happens to be the principal at The Coach's high school (Yep. The parade master is his boss.) The organized chaos meanders up Good Hope Street then down ours, for about two hours.

And it's run pretty smoothly over these 13 years, too. Well, except for some occasional horse poop... and trains... and  the year Elvis' pink Cadillac blew its radiator right in front of our house... Or the year there was the unfortunate tasering incident that made newspaper headlines ... Or the year Shell nearly exploded right in the middle of everything...

The parade as it reaches my house. This was last year. See the big black cloud in the background? That was extra special effects thanks to Shell/Motiva, which had some sort of "incident" the morning of the parade.

No, this is no Mardi Gras extravaganza, although there is lots of bead, toy and candy throwing. There are floats from the local elementary schools, the Cub Scouts, a group of Kids Kicking Cancer and other community groups. Coach's baseball team collects canned goods, which are distributed to local families over the holidays. The football team collects coats. In between there are marching bands, cheerleading teams, dance teams, a troupe of Star Wars characters, groups of horse riders, antique and specialty cars, lots and lots of pageant queens and lots and lots of local dance and marching groups. Every year it seems we also get inquiries from folks in Norco, California, who want to participate as well.

The World Famous 610 Stompers!

This year's parade was extra special, with the local all-male dance troupe, The 610 Stompers and the famous Marching 100 from St. Augustine High School in New Orleans. We also helped some folks get Santa to help with a marriage proposal along the route.

And of course there is a giant float carrying the famous visitors from the North Pole. Once the Clauses reach our house, the float stops. Folks grab a ladder and let Mr. and Mrs. Claus climb down. Oftentimes, they trot -- OK, sometimes they run - into the house and straight to the bathroom.

A few minutes later they emerge again and merrily  make their way across the street to the community Christmas tree, where they happily pose with children and families for photos and pass out giant candy canes. That's actually one of my favorite parts of the day, watching the little kids get their few minutes with Santa. Sure, some are terrified, but we do our best to help Mom and Dad get that elusive photo.

The Clauses and Us! (no tasering in the background this year. That's another whole story...)

  By the time darkness falls, the community tree is lit, folks are carrying their exhausted children home loaded down with beads and candy, and the exhausted parade folks are strolling through my house scrounging for whatever leftovers we have. This year, we had an entire ham and lots of bread, and way too much pastalaya, which we sent over to the local high school to feed the football team, which was practicing for the state semifinals.

Eventually, Santa sneaks his way back to the magic room in the back, where he makes his transformation back into a regular Joe. I have to say, he has done a great job of guarding his secret identity over the years, especially when my house is full of little children. This year was the first year my 12-year-old daughter kind of confronted him, saying "So. You're the guy that's been coming to my house all this time." And it was just a year or two ago that my mother-in-law piped up and asked, "Who is that guy who shows up at the end of the parade every year and eats all the leftovers?"

This year we pulled up some of the old photos on the computer to show Joe Santa how much our baby girl has grown over the years. The parade was revived in the same year she was born (although with a different Santa and Mrs. Claus that first year.) But we can pretty much document her life on his knee.

The Tweenager and Santa

                                                   

Meanwhile, the Coach and I get started on cleaning up the mess by letting the dogs back inside to vacuum the floors. We pack away the leftover ham and the punch bowl cake and the Donnie Dip (so-named because it's one of our friend's favorite) and toss out the one remaining olive (WTF is up with that?) and start thinking about next year.

And although it's a lot of work before and after, and I can barely walk for days, I tell my husband every year, "We are never moving from this house." Why on earth would I want to?

For more information on the Norco Christmas Parade, please visit our web site -- norconoel.com (I am also the web master!) You can visit us on Facebook too! 

Oh Christmas tree -- a poem

It's the third day after Christmas.

Santa came and went.

So has all my money,

Every penny spent.

All the gifts have been given,

Except one or two or three.

If they don't get delivered soon

They will belong to me.

In the dining room is a basket

Filled with home baked treats.

A four-pound tin of cookies,

And assorted jars of sweets.

 

My village has gone dark.

No one bothers to plug it in.

And all the batteries have run out

And must be replaced again.

And the Christmas tree once green

Is withering as we speak.

 I know it's time to take it down

But the spirit in me is weak.

Everyone loves their Christmas tree

Until they don't no more,

Usually about the time

The needles pile up on the floor.

Some do live, some do fake,

Some do flocked with snow.

Some do tall, some do small,

Some do both for show.

                                                              Then some decorate in color themes

                                                               With ornaments all one hue.

Some do themes they think are cute

And hope that you do too.

Ours was live and once was green

And shined in all it's glory.

And every one of our ornaments

Tells a different story.

 Some tell tales of places we've been,

And people we no longer see.

We have lots of apples red

And plenty of fleur-de-lis.

 There are photos of our little girl

And my stepchildren when they were small

We ooh and ah and laugh a little

As we hang them all.

There are reindeer made of hands and feet

And Santas made of clay

Put together by little hands

And made at school one day.

We commemorate the Saints success

And our love of baseball too.

One shows our love for adoption

 And the birth of our little boo.

We had a few more ornaments

That I loved so dear

They were lost when the tree fell over

A couple of times one year

So now it's time to say goodbye

To this tree once bright

The ornaments are sliding off

And it's no longer standing upright.

These memories I'll tuck away

Until this time next year

But a couple of those pine needles

Probably still will be here.

 

Husband shopping

Don't ask me what I'm getting for Christmas.

Or, if you do, don't expect me to say, "I dunno."

Because I do know. Everything. All of it. Every last thing. Because I bought it.

Some husbands get hints from their wives. Some get a nice, detailed list.  Some get catalog pages torn out with item numbers circled. In red.

Then they summon up their courage, brave the mall, fight the crowds and spend the time to get their wives exactly what they want. Warriors, they are.


My husband? He just goes shopping with me.

Here's how it works: The two of us (who are pretty much always together), go to a store. I see something I would like/love.

Me: Ooooh. Look hon! You could so buy me this for Christmas.

Him: <Picks it up. Puts it in the cart. Smiles>

No mental notes. No cell phone photo so he can come back later. No Amazon.com search. He just buys it. Right there.

Then he takes it home and hides it in the closet until Christmas Eve, when he takes it out and expects me to help him wrap it.

Sigh.

At least I know I'll be getting what I want. (This year is a very Martini Christmas!)  But while everyone else ooohs and ahhhs over their gifts, I'll open mine and remember where we bought it. And how much we paid for it.

At least I won't have to exchange anything.

Merry Christmas to all! I hope you get what you want too.

Lo

Last year I had a BLUE Christmas!

My dream Christmas Card...

I'm working on it ......

Parker

I'll admit it. I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of becoming a grandmother.

I don't know that any woman with any sense of vanity is, really. Me? A gray-haired old Granny? Hell no.

But then we start imagining all the fun we can have, all the cute clothes we can buy, all those sweet baby kisses and hugs, all the sugar-coated sticky-fingered outings we can go on, followed by quick dropoffs back to their parents (followed in turn by a long, long nap) and we get excited.

A grandparent. OK. I can handle that. Just don't call me "Granny." That was my Granny's name. That's my sister's name.

That's where I am.

Was.

My stepson, who became "my" kid when he was 9 years old,   and his wife whom we've known forever , announced back in the spring that we were going to be grandparents. My husband was thrilled that he was going to be a grandfather. I was going to be a step-grandmother.

No, a Lolo -- which is what I already am to my stepchildren, nieces, nephews, grand-nieces and grand-nephews and even one of my bosses. Lolo.

But we couldn't tell anyone.

As hard as it was for this reporter and social media specialist to do, I dutifully kept their secret from everyone except my closest family members. And my best friend. And my nail technician.

As hard as it was for the other grandparents -- my husband, his ex-wife and our very good friends the in-laws --  they too kept the secret, even long after it is traditionally necessary.

It was a very quiet pregnancy, which was fine by this not-ready-to-be-a-Granny. But there was a date circled on the calendar.

Then "it" became a "she."

Then "she" became Parker.

And that's about when those ideas about cute baby outfits and fun trips to the zoo and Sunday afternoons in my swimming pool began to form. And saying, "I'm about to be a grandmother," became a little easier. Every time.

And then came November, and a Sunday afternoon shower, for which I dug out some of my own baby girl's special things -- the first blanket I fell in love with and bought for my "possibility" of a child when we were waiting to adopt, and one of her favorite books after she finally came.

And then I ordered some cute little sports-themed onesies for this granddaughter-to-be of a high school baseball coach and daughter-to-be of a high school football coach, and a die-hard LSU and Saints fan. And a football-themed baby bunting.

Oh, I wasn't the only one. One of the other grandmothers coincidentally bought the same outfit, with shoes to match!

And then came December and Christmas shopping. And a beautiful Cinderella carriage piggy bank I just HAD to have, and a personalized Christmas ornament with "Parker" etched on the front. All beautifully wrapped under my tree for the few remaining days until Christmas and then her December 28th due date.

And, honestly, I couldn't wait to see Daniel become a dad. I had seen him be such a great big brother to his baby sister. He was 17 when she was born and the big galoot came in every afternoon after school to scoop her up and toss her around. She adored him, and he her.

"He's going to be a great dad," I said.

And then came the phone call.

My stepson, in hysterics, telling his father something was wrong. They couldn't find a heartbeat. They were on the way to the hospital. Come.

Then my husband peeling out of the driveway.

I stayed home with my 10-year-old daughter, the aunt-to-be, who had spent the last weekend with her brother and sister-in-law while we went out of town for a romantic anniversary weekend.  Who had hoped all weekend, to feel the baby kick, but never got to.

I waited for her to get out of the shower, to tell her we had to go to the hospital for Bubby. But when she got all excited, I had to sit her down and tell her what was really happening. She didn't want to go. I didn't want to make her.

So we stayed home, and waited for news, while the rest of the family gathered in the waiting room, waiting for the inevitable.

Parker Anniston Luquet was born December 22, 2011 at 11:22 a.m., perfect in every way except that she never got to take a breath. The very cord that gave her life for the last eight months took it from her sometime in the final days.

Her parents and grandparents and aunts got to see her, to hold her, to tell her how much they loved her. They shed a million tears over her.

I, the step-grandmother,  did not. I had to tend to my own baby girl, who wanted to know if there still would be a Christmas this year, and what would we do with her presents? We baked cookies with her friends. Then I hid in the kitchen and sobbed.

Yes, this was my stepson's child. My step-daughter-in-law's child. My husband's grandchild. And also mine.

Our stepchildren are just our children. There is no such thing as step-grief. Or step-pain. It all hurts just the same.

Believe me. I know.

Linked up with my friends at LoveLinks. The blogger-friendly blog.

And because they're my friends.

Gift ideas for teachers. And their wives.

As the clock ticks down on the remaining shopping days until Christmas -- 11 as of this second.
 
(Wait! Really? That's it? Holy crap! I haven't even started yet!)

My Internet feed is filling fast with articles from mainstream news makers and burgeoning bloggers alike, who are all offering shopping tips for every person on your list.

Even my mother.

Today I came across this one, offering fabulous ideas on what to buy that oh-so-hard-to-buy-for-teacher-you-love, or even the one you don't love so much. The article claims to have polled several actual, real life teachers, who were only too happy to offer their favorite Christmas gifts from students (and their parents).

As the wife of a teacher, the stepmother and step-mother-in-law of another, the aunt of another, the aunt-in-law of yet another, the wife of the ex-husband of another ... (go ahead... I'll wait)...
And the friend (on Facebook anyway) of countless more, I think I'm more than qualified to take a shot at this one.

I know what teachers like. Better yet, I know what teachers' spouses like:

1. Food. We aren't particularly picky either. Chocolate is best, of course (says Mama), but any kind of food is good. Candy, cakes, cookies, brownies, pies, delicious homemade concoctions cooked in your kitchen, or even Whitman's Samplers from CVS. It's all good. Even fresh fruit is nice. Satsumas you've grown in your backyard? We'll take 'em. We are the parents of a fast-growing tween/eating machine. She's hungry ALL THE TIME. And our schedules are pretty crazy, especially around the holidays. Neither one of us really has time to get to the grocery store. So anything to help stock the pantry is appreciated.

2. Restaurant gift cards. I'm not a bad cook. In fact, I'm pretty good. But when The Coach starts the coaching part of the year, there isn't very much time for family meals around the dining room table. And there's not much point in cooking for me and a tween who only likes macaroni and cheese.
Plus, our dining room table is usually covered with baseballs all spring and summer anyways.  And when The Coach and I do get to spend a little time together, we don't usually head for the kitchen. We do tend to eat out quite a lot. And we tend to be creatures of habit. We go to The Pub. A lot. So a nice little gift card to one of the major chains is always appreciated. By the wife, anyway.

3. Ornaments. Believe it or not, the teacher's wife who gets up on the ladder and decorates the tree every year (while the coach watches) really does appreciate the occasional hand-picked or even hand-made Christmas ornament. I'm one of those ladies who believes you can never have enough ornaments on a tree. And every year when I gently take each one out of the box (if it survives The Coach's packing of the box, that is), I will look upon it fondly as having coming from "that student."

4. Apples. Now I know that most of my teacher friends are going to cringe right now because most teachers I know already have more apple-shaped baubles than they know what to do with. And most teachers I know don't really appreciate them. But we happen to live on Apple Street. And, because of that, I have a fairly large collection of apple knick knacks and brick-a-brack. We eat on apple dishes. On apple place mats. In a dining room decorated with apples. So don't listen to him. There's always room for more, I say.

5. But the best gift you can give my husband is Thanks. You may not realize it, but the man I love burns the candle at both ends to be the best teacher, Coach, father, husband, son and son-in-law he can be.

He is up before dawn every day to get himself psyched and ready for his brutal schedule. And it is brutal.

Before my alarm clock even goes off, he's in his classroom helping special education students find their way, and troubled kids stay out of trouble, and other teachers teach them.

And just when I'm starting to watch the clock, counting the final hours till the end of my work day, he's heading off to the baseball field, where he'll spend several more hours trying to turn a bunch of hormonal teenagers into a winning team.

On practice days he'll spend hours teaching them to hit and catch and throw and pick runners off of first and third. And hit the cutoff man.

On game days, he'll get on a cramped, un-air conditioned school bus with no shocks and head off to some middle-of-nowhere town. He'll spend the next three hours taking what the umpire gives him. And if they lose, he'll take the blame.

And when that's over, there's field-prep and maintenance. Often he stays there, though, hitting that struggling kid a few extra ground balls, or a few extra swings, and sometimes explaining to his mom and a dad why the other boy is playing more than their son.

Meanwhile, his own child is at home without him, trying to do her math homework and wondering when he'll come home and what kind of mood he'll be in. Sometimes he'll even get home before she goes to bed. And maybe he'll even get to eat a little something before he crashes on the sofa or in his chair, utterly exhausted. And somewhere in there he has to call his mother.

Then he'll  get up the next morning and do it all again.

"Thanks." That's the greatest gift you can give him. And one I'll let him have all to himself.

Our family

Couldn't think of a clever idea for our Christmas card this year. So I asked Lora Leigh, my 10-year-old daughter who has just this year decided that art is her thing, and who absolutely loves The Animated Woman, to draw it for me. And she did.

I think she's from Mars...

Merry Christmas! From our family to yours!

Christmas Cookies

It started as a simple thing on my Christmas to-do list.

One year, I said. Some day, I said, I want to make Christmas cookies.

They always look so pretty in the magazine and television ads, perfect little snowmen dusted with white sugar, Santa with his white beard made of frosting, glittering snow flakes and those perfect little gingerbread men.

I can do that, I said.

I say that a lot. "I can do that." I believe it too. But more than that, it was something I wanted to do -- especially once Lora Leigh came to be.

In 2003, Lora Leigh was a month shy of 3 -- the perfect age. And I finally found my window of opportunity -- Christmas Eve Day, during the afternoon, before church. It also seemed to be a good way to kill those impossibly long hours of the last day before Santa Claus comes (and before church).

Armed and ready with one little container of a dozen or so never-used cookie cutters, my grandmother's ancient rolling pin, a few cans of colored icing and a can of shaker flour, we gathered around the dining room table and created. And made a huge mess.



Lora Leigh was thrilled, however, and offered up a huge homemade cookie for Santa (which he dutifully ate!)




It was only the beginning of what has become a wonderful Christmas tradition at our house. Christmas Eve Day is reserved for cookies.

Over the years a wide assortment of friends and family have joined in the fun. Daniel and Courtney have even turned it into a little competition.

And my one little box of cookie cutters has morphed into six rubber containers of every imaginable color of icing and sugar sprinkle and more than 100 cookie cutters.

We still make a huge mess.





But while the mess can be cleaned, the memories are indelible.

And it has become one of my favorite parts of Christmas.

To you and yours

Fun Holiday Wishes Christmas

Shutterfly has classic, elegant Christmas invitations for your party.

View the entire collection of cards.

In Concert

I love to play the piano.

I'm not really very good, but I'm good at trying. I can't play a thing without the sheet music in front of me -- except one boogey woogey tune I learned from a friend, and a few bars of "Fur Elise." I think everyone knows "Fur Elise."

I took lessons for a good eight years, though, from the time I was in first grade until I went to junior high in eighth grade. Mr. Edwards was by no means a great teacher. He'd give me a piece of sheet music, let me play and then doze off. Hour's up.

And I never practiced the pieces he would give me, just the ones I liked.

Almost every day I would go to my grandparents' house, which was just next door to our. They had a piano. So, while Grannie cooked and Grampa sat in the den and watched TV, I would play.

And I would imagine myself on a wonderful concert stage, playing for rich and famous and beautiful people. I would make playlists for the albums I would record someday. I would dream of being famous.

But I was never a great pianist. When I would make a mistake, hit a wrong note, my grandmother, from her spot in the kitchen, would shout, "Ah!" A sweet way of saying, "Ew." But she never asked me to stop. Never asked me not to play.

When I was about 10 or 12, I started writing songs. Locked up on my bedroom, mooning over some stupid boy, I would pour my heart out in poetry. Then I would run next door to Grannie's to hammer out a tune.

I imagined myself to be the next Bernie Taupin.


I stopped playing when I went off to college and moved away from home. A piano isn't exactly something you can tie to the top of your Nissan and bring to the dorm. Loyola had big, beautiful pianos in the music hall. But those were for the music students -- the real pianists. I was just a hack.

Then it became one of those things I used to do.

Many years later, my newlywed husband called me at work with a question:
"Is $300 a good price for a piano?" he asked me.

Apparently, he had been watching the classifieds and someone was selling one.

My first thought was that it was a beat up piece of junk for that price. But if the sound board was still, ahem, sound, it should be OK.

"Let's go see it," I said.

We did. We drove to a very ritzy subdivision nearby, drove up to a very nice house in this ritzy subdivision and knocked on the door. And there, in the foyer, was a very nice, console piano -- barely used.

She had bought it for her kids to play. They never did. Now she wanted to rearrange her furniture and it just didn't fit into her plans....

OK.

I tickled the keys. It wasn't even too badly out of tune.

I wrote the check for $300 and Marty and the one friend he brought with him tried to load it into a truck...

So that's how I got my lovely piano. It's in my living room, the first thing you see when you walk in our door (or else the Big 52-inch TV). It's covered with framed photographs of our family. And dust. And I love it.

I don't play it very much. There's so little time, I guess. Or we're doing other things. Watching TV. Bustling about our busy days. Living life. We have other things to entertain us.

The only time I usually play is Christmas. The stack of Christmas caroling books is part of the seasonal decor. I put away the Elton John songbook and pull out the Christmas Pop songbook for the music stand. But sometimes the whole season will go by and I'll never play a note.

I guess no one ever asks.

But this year, on the day of the Christmas parade, after nearly all of the guests had left and I was ready to collapse in my bed, my sweet sister-in-law asked:

"Play us something, Lori."

And joy filled my heart.

So I did. For an hour, at least. I pulled the books out of the music stand and played.

But my heart nearly burst with joy when my daughter came to stand beside me, and she sang while I played. Just another one of those mundane life experiences I never thought I'd see when I was trying so, so hard to become a mother and God was saying, "No."

Lora Leigh has a beautiful voice, and she loves to sing. So I played songs I hadn't practiced in years. Grannie wasn't there to "Ah" me when I hit wrong notes, and I hit plenty. I also lost my place a couple of times, and had an 8-year-old child tell me, "That's not how it goes," and I had to squint to see a couple of the notes.

But it all came back to me eventually. And my heart was filled with joy.

So tonight, I practiced.

And I still have those old songs I wrote -- literally, painstakingly drawing the little notes on grids. Maybe someday Lora Leigh will sing one of them.

That would fill my heart with joy too.

T'wasn't quite the season to be jolly

It's January 1, 2009.

Visit my house today and you would hardly know that the Christmas season just passed. The tree has already been picked up from the side of the street. The lights are off of my house. All the decorations are safely back in their boxes and put away in the secret closet under the stairs.

The only signs still visible are the few late Christmas gifts we received after the 25th, and the leftover cupcakes in the kitchen.

Christmas is over over here. And it ended none too soon.

No one was exactly in the mood. We did things half-heartedly. Our tempers were short. Our tears too close to the surface.

This was our first Christmas without Pappy. My husband's first Christmas without his dad, Jane's first without a husband, my kids' first without their grandfather. And he was noticeably absent -- not just in the kitchen.

It was his job to get the turkey done -- his and Marty's. They would spend hours in the kitchen, cutting up the seasonings and soaking the bread for their turkey stuffing. But the time was measured in hi-balls.

Pappy may not have been the loudest or the biggest person in the room, but his presence always was felt. He seemed to enjoy hanging out in the back, on the fringe of the crowd, observing. Rarely commenting. Just enjoying it all.

But I know he would have loved to have heard Lora sing her solo in church. And I know he would have taken a big piece of that apple pie for dessert.

But we said our prayers and our toasts and tried to keep him in the room. We tried not to be too sad, too maudlin. We tried not to miss him too much.

We tried.

Another one I didn't write, but wish I had

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the abode
Only one creature was stirring & she was cleaning the
commode.

The children were finally sleeping, all snug in their beds,
While visions of Playstations & Barbies flipped through their
heads.

Yes, and dad was snoring in front of the TV,
with a half constructed bicycle propped on his knee.
So only the mom heard the reindeer hooves clatter,
which made her sigh, "Now what is the matter?"

With toilet bowl brush still clutched in her hand,
She descended the stairs, and saw the old man.
He was covered with ashes & soot, which fell with a shrug,
"Oh great," muttered the mom, "Now I have to clean the rug."
"Ho Ho Ho!" cried Santa, "I'm glad you're awake"

"Your gift was especially difficult to make."
"Thanks Santa, but all I want is time alone."
"Exactly!" he chuckled, "So I've made you a clone."
"A clone?" she muttered, "What good is that?"
"Run along, Santa. I've no time for chit chat."
Then out walked the clone-The mother's twin,
Same hair, same eyes, same double ch in.
"She'll cook, she'll dust, she'll mop every mess."
"You'll relax, take it easy, watch TV and rest."
"Fantastic!" the mom cheered, "My dream has come true!"
"I'll shop, I'll read, I'll sleep a night through!"

From the room above, the youngest did fret,
"Mommy?! Come quick, I'm scared and I'm wet."
The clone replied, "I'm coming, sweetheart."
"Hey," the mom smiled,"She sure knows her part."
The clone changed the child and hummed her a tune,
as she bundled the small one in a blanket cocoon.
"You're the best mommy ever, I really love you."
The clone smiled and sighed, "And I love you too."

The mom frowned and said, "Sorry, Santa, no deal."
"That's my child's LOVE she is going to steal."
Smiling wisely, Santa said, "To me it is clear,"
"Only one loving mother is needed here."
The mom kissed her child and tucked her into bed.
"Thank you, Santa, for clearing my head."
"Sometimes I forget, it won't be very long,"
"Before they'll be too old for my cradle and song."
The clock on the mantle began to chime.

Santa whispered to the clone, "It works every time."
With the clone by his side, Santa said:"Goodnight"
"Merry Christmas, dear Mom, you'll be all right."
Sometimes we need reminding of what life is about.
Especially at times when the Holiday season shouts,
and all we do is clean, bake, and procure.
You get the picture---I'm sure.

So stop for a moment and hug that little one so dear,
whether he/she is 2 or 22, or even older this year.
For they are the gift that God gave us from Heaven above,
and what a special gift to be treasured, with endless LOVE!