Proof of Purchase

I realized as soon as we checked out that the item I had bought for a Christmas present was the wrong size, but I didn't want to take time to go to the service desk for a refund.  I would exchange it later.  "Let me have the receipt," I said to my husband when we got in the car.  I put it in my purse for safekeeping (LOL), and didn't think about it for a couple of days.

Wrapping the gifts, I saw that another selection was wrong, too, so I would return both items and shop somewere else.  The receipt wasn't in my purse!  Well, I had changed purses for Sunday, so I looked in the one I carried that day.  No receipt.  A search of my brown purse revealed nothing.  I needed the refund to go to another store!  One item I could exchange, but not the other.  I checked the waste basket in that room, then all the others in the house.

Then there was nothing for it but to go through the kitchen trash.  Ugh! It probably wasn't there either, since the bag had been replaced by then.  On the slim chance, I excavated layers of our history of the last 24 hours.  Mail, banana peels, egg shells, tea bags, paper towels, leftovers and floor sweepings.  No success.  I looked and there was a black bag on the back porch that hadn't been deposited in the alley.  Worse junk, but no receipt.

"Howard!" I fretted, "I can't find that receipt anywhere!"  Then, double-checking a waste basket at his desk, I saw one I had missed under a table.  There it was with the clean trash of his waste basket!  I'm sure I didn't put it in there!  It had to be Mr. Neat who disposes of anything immediately (including my prescription drug side-effects information before I have read it--he knows it will discourage my taking the medicine!).

After getting the refund, I hurried to store of my choice only to find they didn't stock what I wanted!  It will be two days before we can go to Stillwater to finish our shopping, and time is growing short to get things in the mail.  My husband assures me there will be plenty of time, but he never worries about anything.  He just waits for Christmas to "happen."

And it will.  Like the Dr. Seuss story when Christmas came without ribbons, boxes, tags, packages, or bags, the real spirit of Christmas has little to do with material things.  And that is what I am looking forward to most--the presence of loved ones, shared good times and the real meaning of Christmas: Jesus birth, whose life, death and resurrection purchased our salvation.  Even though a couple of weeks of being under the weather around here has slowed us down, there is still time to freshen the house, tie up the details, and plan the food and festivities!  Even if  a little help from me does go into making it happen!

In Due Season

The colder weather, disagreeable as it is with the grey, damp chill, at least is seasonal and more Christmas like than the warm temperatures we've been having lately. The carols pouring from the radio are suddenly more appealing, the Christmas lights glow more warmly, and the increased hustle and bustle add new energy to the step.  Something is in the air.  You can taste it  in great, moist intakes of air.  A sense of expectancy.

These components were present 2,000-plus years ago when a census caused a rustle and stir among the people of Judea. A young woman of Nazareth had been preparing for the birth of her first child.  Tiny garments had been stitched and laid away in a chest. Her house had been cleaned within an inch of its life. Foods had been gathered and stored in bowls, baskets, clay jars and pots.  She had made the most of her waiting time, and now all was in readiness. She would be able to concentrate most of her energy on the new life that would soon make its debut.

Suddenly she had to pack swiftly; she couldn't let Joseph go alone to Bethlehem.  Taking only the bare essentials, and especially necessities and supplies for what could be a birth away from home, she was giddy with excitement.  The Lord would be with them!  She convinced Joseph that she wasn't afraid with him by her side.

Not many days hence, heavenly music would fill the skies where hillside shepherds were watching their flocks. Many strangers were in Bethlehem that night, filling every room and lodging place.  She was grateful that Joseph had found a quiet place where she could rest between the hard spasms of labor that were bearing down upon her.  The animals were unquestioning in their solemn gaze; their stolid bodies filling the stable with their warmth and breathing.

Now strange men, shepherds, were asking to see the baby that Joseph had laid in a manger full of straw, softened by the cloths and shawls Mary had brought.  What an amazing night, the young mother thought.  Through the haze of her pain she had seen his tiny form being lifted from her.  Now the pain was vanquished in her joy and exhilaration.  A beautiful star lit the night with its brilliance.  The shepherds said angels had sent them there to worship the newborn, a Saviour, Christ the Lord. Such knowledge was too much for her just now.  She was still in awe herself at what had just transpired.

After the pilgrims had departed Bethlehem, Joseph was able to find a small house for her  recovery before heading home. But more strangers appeared, with gifts for the baby they called a king.  They were men who studied the stars and were very wise.  Mary and Joseph knew that God had sent this baby,  but others were confirming what they knew to be true.  There was that matter of the prophetess Anna in the temple when they had taken him to be presented to the Lord.  And Simeon, who had been assured he would not die until he had seen the Consolation of Israel.   And now these learned men being guided by the star.

Shortly Joseph would awake her from sleep, and she must hurriedly pack again.  Off to Egypt to flee those who meant harm to the Child.  She could not doubt that he had been warned by an angel.  It was an angel that had appeared to her with the news that would change and shape her life, indeed, change and shape the whole world.  Once again, she was filled with expectancy.   

Out of the Loop

You know you're sick when Calliou is all you feel like watching on television, followed by Ozzie and Harriet. That's about as much as my brain will wrap itself around.  I spoke too soon on Monday when a church friend called and asked how we were doing.  "Howard's still not feeling well, but I am fine!" I assured her.  He had come home from Georgia with whatever they were getting over there when we left.  I thought I had gotten off scot free, but Monday night I was aching in every joint.

Painkilllers, decongestant, and nasal spray keep me comfortable and instill a false sense of wellness until the Tylenol wears off, which is usually late afternoon or night.  Yesterday I convinced  my husband I felt well enough for an outing to Stillwater for lunch and a bit of Christmas browsing.  "Let's stop and see if the new TJMaxx is open!" I suggested on seeing it on the way in.  He said we would stop on the way out, but I was worn out by then and forgot about it. We had to stop at a service station on the way home for a packet of Tylenol.

I have been using these wellness plateaus to make a stab at wrapping gifts, after which I am exhausted and fairly useless.  I really must get back into the habit of cooking, but we have no appetite.  Howard was sick for a week, refusing ordinary food but requesting far-fetched delicacies, then only picking at them when he got them.

I did make a simple supper last night, which he nibbled at even though  he hadn't wanted anything.  Today he bought a couple of boxes of macaroni and cheese, which I prevailed upon him to make for supper.   He told me he didn't know how, which I believed after I saw he had poured the noodles into maybe a cup of water in a tiny saucepan.  He defended himself saying I shouldn't have put that chore on him, and I yelled (my pain talking), that even a 5-year-old can make macaroni and cheese.  It turned out okay after he transferred it to another pan with more water. 

At the end of the day, I was feeling guardedly well enough  to ride in the car with him when he went to feed the chickens.  The weather was cold, grey, and misting a little, making it seem Christmasey, at least.  I stayed in the car and saw his excitement at finding 5 eggs in the nests.  The chickens have been on strike with the shorter days and a change of feed.  We started their regular egg-laying regimen again and they are rewarding us with these little gems, worth $5 apiece, easily.

Tonight makes the second Christmas party we have missed this week.  Even though we had looked forward to going, we had to stay home.  The annual city Christmas parade was held tonight, also, and it reminded me of the excitement around our house when the kids were young.  A hurried supper, riding to town and standing with friends in the shivering, jostling crowds was invigorating and not to be missed in those days. Once our 14-year-old daughter even rode her horse the three miles to town and joined in the parade right behind Santa Claus.  Maybe she is taking in a parade with her grandchildren and her own young daughter in Tennessee tonight.  Her father and I have been temporarily sidelined.  

Revelation

I love life's little surprises!  Today my glance fell on the hand-painted crockery pitcher bought several years ago at an estate sale.  I always kept it turned to the side with the red barn showing, because the bright spot of color reflected other red accents in my white kitchen. For some reason, this morning I turned it around to the other side.  As I stared at the blue farmhouse depicted by the artist, I had a de ja' vu moment.  It could have been our house in Missisisippi where we'd raised our family! 

Why hadn't I noticed it before?  The view was from the front, a flower bed gracing the middle of the yard, with a large, white birdhouse on a tall pole.  We'd had a martin house there forever! And a flower bed in the front! We had the house covered with siding in the same shade of blue more than 30 years ago!  The peak of the roof was facing the road, with a railing on the porch leading to the front door.  The same as ours!

"Look, Howard," I said to my husband as he came in to breakfast.  "This is our house in Mississippi!"  He laughed and marveled and said, "See, there is the light pole!"  Sure enough, it reminded us of the colonial-style lamp post which stood at the edge of our driveway.  A tree in the side yard looked like our old tree and the placement was the same.  A fence inside a row of shrubbery bordered the scene, just as ours had.

I will keep the farmhouse-side of the pitcher visible from now on!  Howard reminisced about our former home and mentioned how we had helped start a church when we first moved there. And the church is still thriving today, 35 years later!  I felt like George Bailey of  "It's a Wonderful Life" when I thought about those times.   The last of our six children was born in that small Mississippi  town, and we didn't move until he had gone away to college. 

The Lord worked it out that my husband would enter the ministry after a career in business while living there.  From that home we launched young adults who would become ministers, a pastor's wife, an R.N., as well as one with the Department of Education and another with a major oil company.

Five of our children would marry while we lived in that house.  During those years we had a butler's tray coffee table we had bought unassembled.  As Howard put it together, he noticed it was short a couple of screws for the brace underneath.  He always meant to replace them, because the brace would turn easily when a foot was propped on it. But we got used to the quirky loose board,  held in place with only one screw at each end.

We called it the courting bench.  It became a family joke when, over time,  first one, then another of our children would sit on the sofa with their sweetheart, unconsciously twirling the brace with their feet, and with downcast eyes and flushed faces announce their engagement to  us.  "Look, they are spinning the board," a sibling would nudge me.  That's when we knew it was serious. 

I got a job at a newspaper while living in the blue house (white, then), and though family duties took precedence over my would-be career, it did awaken in me a desire for writing.  For a year or so after I worked there, they ran my column.  I've been writing ever since, and wonder of wonders, I have published four books!  I love life's little surprises!  It is a wonderful life!

Walden's Pond

"Where are the hens?" my husband and I asked each other as we drove down the hill to the chicken yard to feed them yesterday. The gate to their pen was standing open, yet we could only see one chicken enjoying its freedom over in the house yard.  Our son must have let them "free range" when he left last evening after a late visit to the farm.

When they heard the car door, one by one our feathered friends emerged through the little door of their coop, hopping down rather gingerly and diffidently.  We counted, and they were all there, so when the stray hurried toward us, we fastened their gate.  Maybe something had scared them into keeping close quarters, we thought.  Or else they didn't like the high winds blowing like a gale.

As is our habit, we drove through the pasture to watch the ducks gathered in picturesque panorama on the pond.  Howard particularly found the peaceful scene relaxing and therapeutic.  "Look at that!" I exclaimed at the flap of huge wings that made the ducks seem small in comparison.  "A heron!" I cried, as the beautiful bird landed on a limb of a dead tree across the lake.  There was always something new to see here!

I called our son, Greg, and told him about the sighting.  He was pleasantly surprised, and remarked wryly that maybe that's what was getting our fish.  He and his father had had less than stellar results fishing on Saturday. He mentioned that he had been out to feed the dog during his lunch hour and had let our chickens out.  Good! I thought.  At least the gate hadn't been open all night.

Suddenly a streak that was almost a blur caught my attention across the lake.  Something was running like the wind!  Was it two dogs?  I heard the sudden barking of dogs, but I realized it was from dogs in a pen startled by what was flying past.  Too large for foxes, I realized the darkly silhouetted forms had a cat-like shape, smooth and curved with long tails.  "Howard, those are bobcats!"  I exclaimed.  Soon they were gone from sight, obviously heading for a thicket across the highway. Wow!  I would hate to be out here alone, with that kind of wildlife about.  Is that why the chickens were staying so close to home?

We are always trying to identify animal prints along the water's edge, recognizing canine (we thought), pawprints, the crisply defined toe-prints of a racoon, or cloven hoof tracks that could be deer.  Now we had another imprint to watch out for! Ferocious or benign, from deer, ducks, birds, raccoons or bobcats, every species leaves its "footprints" as evidence of its presence, even the fish's skeletal remains.  In their fascinating existence, these amazing creatures all have one thing in common:  They bear the fingerprints of God! 

Mission Accomplished

Just as I had hoped, when my mind was relaxed during the night I thought about where the Christmas stockings I made so long ago might be.  I recalled a flat, marble-designed cardboard box with a lift-up lid where I always kept the special, satin brocade ornaments and lovely, tasseled stocking with the wide satin band that my daughter, Amy, had made for me several years ago.  Married with her own family by that time, she had fashioned them from her highschool prom dress, salvaging pieces of the once-beautiful, but stained gown she had stored away.

Of course!  That's where the other stockings would be stored, too, I realized.  But I hadn't seen the box, so it must have been packed in a larger container, I reasoned, and was resigned to make yet another trip to the basement to delve into more storage cartons.  But first, I had to do some housework.  All my decor just looked like clutter until I dusted, waxed and polished things.

In my housecleaning flurry, I pulled the sheets from my bed and went to the linen closet for another set.  The shelves are very deep, and a few days ago I had stored a large, styrofoam, decorative pumpkin at the top.  I dislodged something getting the sheets, and the pumpkin tumbled down.  Putting it back, I saw something behind a stack of blankets.  The marbled box!  Now I remembered it clearly!

Sure enough, the cross stitched stockings were there lying neatly beneath the satin one.  Not only that, there were the two red felt stockings I had made more than 45 years ago for my oldest son and daughter. I had stitched their names in rick-rack.  MARK was printed in large block letters, but "Julie" was gracefully scrolled  in longhand.  I had made them from my red felt Poodle Skirt from my highschool days.

A couple of patchwork stockings I had made once, and a quilted "Magi" stocking, plus one of red plush with furry trim were there, too. I decided the cross stitched stockings were too nice for the porch, after all.  But where could I hang them?  The fireplace mantel was already full. Maybe I could stretch a line somewhere and fasten them with clothespins, I thought. Then, going through a crafts drawer I saw a ribbon strung with beads interspersed with tiny, craft clothespins.  Maybe I could hang them on that.  It worked!  There is a metal damper knob on the fireplace that held the string of stockings beautifully, like a colorful catch of fish!  I loved it!

I have a graceful, curved, wicker chest with wrought iron feet and clasp that was just begging to hold the satin ornaments and stocking.  A chocolate satin sheet over a plumped pillow made a perfect backdrop for the rich, ribbon-looped, ivory satin keepsakes.  I found places around the house for the other stockings, and now my decorating is done!  The stockings are hung by the chimney with care, not needing to be filled, for they are already full of memories!

Deck the Halls

Ever since I put up my little pre-lit tree a few days ago, I have been searching for the small, velvet tree skirt that goes with it.  I have prowled through every Christmas box, closet, and drawer where I might have stored it.  It was driving me crazy, because that was one of the last finishing touches I wanted to do with my decorating (the other is finding the six Christmas stockings that I made for my kids some 35 years ago).

I was mulling the tree-skirt mystery over in my mind in bed last night, and I mentally went over again the fact that I remembered temporarily stuffing it into a small basket when I took down the tree last year.  Now the basket sits in the bathroom holding towels, so I knew it wasn't there.  Then it came to me that  I had also put a small stuffed horse pull-toy in the basket,  and I knew where the horse was!  In the trunk!  Sure enough, something red caught my eye when I opened the trunk, and I pulled out the skirt!  Now the little horse sits on it in its place under the tree!

If only I could get the association technique to work with finding the stockings! I hadn't put them out in a while, but I saw them in a snapshot from a Christmas a few years ago and thought how pretty they would look.  (I was looking at the pictures to refresh my memory of how I had decorated the porch wagon.  I saw I had duplicated it pretty well with greenery, pinecones and red berries.)  I needed more on the porch, though, and thought the stockings would be nice arranged along a bench.

The idea for the burlap stockings had come from a women's magazine showing them cross-stitched with yarn in simple designs.  It was my habit back then to make a new craft from a magazine project every Christmas.  (One year I rolled dough and cut out a large Noah's Ark with animals and baked it. It was a good 12 inches high and quite impressive propped on a high shelf of the built-in bookcase!)

I had lined the stockings with green fabric and used the off-beat colors of yarn I had on hand, which were purple, light and dark green,  pink and orange. The stitching went quickly, covering the burlap with designs of holly, ribbons, a wreath, a Christmas tree, stripes, and  the words Merry Christmas, and Joy.  They were charming in a rustic sort of way and hardy enough for use on my screened-porch.

While I didn't find the stockings, I did take on old violin from the trunk, and propped on an antique cabinet it looks quite Christmasey.  I had already nabbed my husband's small, wooden banjo uke that was sitting atop the trunk.  It is leaning on an easel next to the little wooden sleigh.  Maybe the whereabouts of the stockings will come to me tonight, and once that mystery is laid to rest, I will get a little rest of my own!