Ahh, Christmas!

It's Christmas Eve. In fact, it's 11:30 on Christmas Eve. The house is quiet now, and Christmas is coming. It's almost here! It's coming even though I didn't get all the cookies baked. It's coming, despite the fact that my house is dirty. It's coming, regardless. And I can't wait! My heart is ready, even if nothing else is. And when Christmas gets here - in just a few minutes - it will be magical. Christmas magic is a heart filled with God's love. Christmas magic is peace, knowing that no matter what, there is God, loving me. Christmas magic is joy! Pure joy that makes me grin, even when I'm by myself and no one sees.

The lights are on our little Christmas tree are twinkling, but the real show is outside. The heavens are singing the glory of God with stars upon stars upon stars. If I slip outside when Christmas comes, I won't hear any animals talking, but I will hear the sweet sound of angels singing! It's almost here! The clock is striking midnight! Gotta go!

Merry Christmas!!!

Auntie Letters

Every month I write a letter to my three elderly aunts. I started this ritual one Christmas when I couldn't think of anything else to give them. I had purchased a home computer and digital camera that year, which made it easy to compose one letter, illustrate it with some photos, and print three copies. They loved it, and five years later I'm still at it. I tell them about what's going on in my life and what's up with the rest of the family. I've done pretty well: only a few letters have been late, and I think I missed only one month when I was sick. I'm always on the lookout for auntie letter material. I know they will be disappointed if I don't come through. The next letter I write will be bittersweet, though. You see, one of those three aunties died this week. Aunt Frances, at 89, was the youngest of her four siblings and the first one to pass on. She was a tiny thing in body, but big in spirit, apparently a lot bigger than I knew.

Aunt Frances, who was always full of spunk, got married the day after she graduated from high school in 1940 and moved over a hundred miles away, give or take a few, to start a life with her new husband. Her family saw little of her during the next 20 years or so. World War II interrupted everyone's life, and Aunt Frances was busy raising six children. My memories of her begin when I was in elementary school and her sons and daughters were young adults. After her husband died in 1975, she was able to reconnect with her brother (my dad) and two sisters and by the time I was in college she came to visit her homeplace a couple of times a year. My, how the stories would fly when the four of them got together: I was spellbound by tales of a depression-era childhood in the country: stories of farm life and school life, of adventures with friends and lessons learned the hard way, all of which took place way back when in the days before television.

Even though I knew Aunt Frances, saw her, talked with her, hugged her, wrote to her, it was the kind of knowing that families have when they live long-distance. I didn't know any of her friends, never met her on the street running errands, never stopped by her house on Sunday afternoon. Yesterday, during her funeral service, I got a glimpse of "that little woman" that her friends and neighbors knew. Folks spoke of her love of quilting, gardening, and red birds. I heard how she marched her children down the road to Bible School in the summer, sang in the church choir, and spoke with stark honesty, whether you wanted to hear it or not. And I was glad I was family, glad she was my aunt, glad I was there, shedding tears along with those who knew much more of her than I. Despite the sadness, it was a sweet hour of remembering and celebrating the feisty little lady that was my Aunt Frances.

How Can I Keep From Singing?

I went to choir practice last night. I haven't done that in a very long time. Long ago, before the age of waning energy, elder care, and to-do list overload, I sang in the church choir. I even directed it for a few years. A really long time ago when I was young, I sang with a ceili band and we even made a record. But since the turn of the century, I haven't done much singing, with or without a choir or ceili band. Singing got pushed to the outer reaches of my life, where it has been wasting away for too long.

Folks are so kind - and persistent. They keep asking me to sing with the choir at church, if only for the annual Christmas cantata. They keep asking me to sing a solo for Sunday worship whenever I'd like to. And I would like to, but that same old challenge of making room in a busy schedule for practices has gotten the best of me. Sadly, I've let singing slip away, and it's almost beyond my grasp now. You see, a singing voice is one of those things that, if not used often, will eventually be lost. I haven't lost my voice completely yet, but I have lost some range and control. Only a lot of practice and effort will bring it back.

In the past couple of years, I've been working at getting my voice back. I sing while I'm driving. I sing or hum along with the radio while I paint at the farmhouse. But nothing replaces the exercise and discipline of singing with a choir, with regular practice being one of the best benefits. In addition to the vocal workout, the camaraderie of a choir is good for my soul, nourishing that part of me that longs to belong.

And so, I made time for Christmas cantata practice last evening. The music was a little overwhelming in places, and when the ladies' notes were too high I dropped down to sing with the men. But it felt good to be there, to sing with a group, to be a part of the choir again. It will still be a challenge to get to rehearsals - I probably won't make them all - and I hope no elder care emergencies interfere with the Sunday morning performance. But Christmas is coming and music has always been a gloriously necessary part of the season for me. What sweeter way to celebrate my Saviour's birth than to sing!!

Recipe Copycat

At the risk of being called a copycat (which I hate), I'm going to try my hand at recipe posting/food photography. It seems that sharing great recipes through blogging is a popular thing to do these days. Ree Drummond, a.k.a. The Pioneer Woman, has it down pat, complete with stunning photos of every step in preparing a delicious dish. Check out her blog/website at http://www.thepioneerwoman.com/, and click on the cooking tab to see what I mean.

I'm not a newbie when it comes to photography, although there's always a lot to learn. But still, taking nice pictures of ingredients sitting still on the counter top can't be too hard, can it? Well, let's just say that over two hours and 200 photos later (thank goodness for digital cameras), I have a healthy respect for food photography! I'd even venture to say that food photography is an art and science unto itself, requiring great knowledge, skill, and creativity, not to mention a good dose of luck.

I chose my mother's Apple Crisp recipe for my first food photo shoot. It's a simple recipe, with only seven ingredients, and is quick and easy to prepare. Even so, it took Robin and me about two hours to get it in the oven, what with posing and snapping photo after photo, and checking to see if they were sharp and clearly focused, most of which were not. In the real estate business, they say location, location, location is the secret to a successful sale. This evening I learned that in food photography, the secret is light, light, light. Light is everything, and if the light isn't right, the photo won't be right either. I also learned it is helpful to have at least four hands when shooting food photos. Thanks, Robin!

So here goes:

Apple Crisp ingredients: apples, sugar, cinnamon, salt, water, flour, and butter.

Pour 1 cup sugar into a medium-sized mixing bowl.



Add 3/4 cup flour.

Add 1/3 cup cold butter (a scant 6 TBSP).

Set bowl in the frig while you peel and slice the apples.
(Too late, I realized this shot should have been taken with the bowl sitting in the frig!)

Peel apples. You need 4 cups sliced apples. Most any kind will do just fine.

Robin set up this still life: the peeling is all in one piece.

Slice apples into an ungreased 2-qt. baking dish.



Sprinkle 1/4 cup water over apples.



Sprinkle 1 tsp. cinnamon and 1 tsp. salt over apples.
Sorry, didn't shoot adding the salt because I forgot to add it!

Remove the flour mixture from the frig and mix with your hand
until crumbly and fine, but don't melt the butter.

Sprinkle mixture evenly over apples, covering them completely.

Whew! Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes, until lightly browned. I tried getting shots of the oven setting, but they came out really blurry, as did the ones of the dish inside the oven. I'll work on that, but not tonight! I realized I hadn't added the salt right after I put the dish in the oven, so I scratched around in the topping and sprinkled it in. While it baked I started writing this post and uploading photos. By the time the crisp came out of the oven, I was about whipped, but here are the final photos:

Hot out of the oven.

They say food photographs best in white dishes...but my only
white bowl looks yellow! It's the light again.

Here are some closeups...but the light is still yellow. *Sigh.*

This one isn't so yellow, thank goodness.

So...four hours after I started, I'm almost done with my first food photo shoot. Getting all these photos on this post was no small feat either, and I'm ready for bed. But in case you don't care about the photography, here's the recipe for my mom's yummy Apple Crisp. It doesn't have oatmeal, and I think that's why I like it so much. Take my advice: don't try to photograph it, just make it and eat it!!  It'll sweeten your day. Enjoy!

Apple Crisp

4 cups peeled and sliced apples
1/4 cup water
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. salt
1 cup sugar
3/4 cup flour
1/3 cup cold butter

Stir flour and sugar together in mixing bowl. Add butter and mix by hand until crumbly and fine. Set aside. Arrange apples in ungreased 2 qt. baking dish. Sprinkle with water, then sprinkle on cinnamon and salt. Sprinkle topping over apples evenly, covering completely. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature, with ice cream if desired.

October Snow!

Today is the 29th day of October. We got up to about four inches of snow! And it's October 29th! Daylight Savings Time hasn't begun yet and Halloween is still two days away, and we have snow! Despite living in the mountains, inches of snow in October is unusual. Maybe a few flakes blowing around or even a dusting on the grass, but not inches. We weren't prepared. My geraniums and dahlias are still blooming in the flower bed along the front porch, along with begonias in pots. The bird feeders were clean, but they were still in the basement, and I had to dig for a hat and gloves.

But, oh! What a winter wonderland! Every surface, no matter how minuscule, was covered with white fluffy snow. Fall leaves, still gold, green, and yellow, were laced with whiteness and drooping mightily. The pines took on their heavy snowy mantles and the fence rails were piled high, looking for all the world like icing on a cake. And then there was that glorious snowing sound, the hiss of snowflakes falling against the muffled blanket of silence that dances in my ears like nothing else I know.

Just a couple of days ago I came home from school in shirt sleeves, enjoying the warm October afternoon. Today I wore boots and a goose down coat to the farmhouse when I went to paint. I found it ironic that I painted the kitchen ceiling in 90-degree weather, wearing as little as decently possible and still sweating buckets, and today, I had the heat on and wore my coat and hat most of the morning as I painted a few feet away in the adjoining pantry.

It's evening now, and most of the snow is gone. I knew it wouldn't last long in October. The ground still holds too much of summer's warmth for snow. But I loved it while it lasted. It was a gloriously sweet surprise from Mother Nature.

Do You Remember?

A while back, I wrote about visiting my grandparents as a child in my post, "Sundays With Dad." I vividly remember getting carsick on the mountains we crossed during the drive every third Sunday. And I remember having to sit in the middle in the back seat of the car all the time. That's what I remember. I think. My middle sister, however, remembers it differently. She recalls volunteering to sit in the middle on the way to Grandmother's, to get it over with and have the window seat on the way home. When I asked my oldest sister about it, she couldn't remember exactly but said the volunteering thing sounded like something Mom would have suggested. Which brings me to the point of this post: which one of us is right? What's the truth of the past here? Am I remembering right?? Does anybody remember it right??

Memory can be a tricky thing. Everyone knows that several witnesses can see the same incident at the same time and yet recount different and sometimes conflicting accounts of what took place. Some of that can be chalked up to different perspectives, I suppose, but what, exactly, is the truth? Can we ever find out? Just how reliable is memory, anyway?

Several years ago I wrote an account of my parents and aunts and their experiences during World War II. I encountered this same problem with memory: siblings remembering the same incidents differently. I also found that their memories didn't always agree with historical records of events either. Of course, more than 60 years had passed, which could cloud one's memories a bit. But I'm thinking that a lot of the time, we remember things the way we want to remember them instead of how they really were. For example, over lunch at school, we teachers often recall how different school was for us as students years ago, in contrast to what we see now. Our memories are mostly of the "things weren't this bad when I was in school" kind. If our teachers from 30 or 40 years ago were part of our discussions, though, how would they remember those days? I'm thinking their memories wouldn't agree with ours.

So, what happens when our memories don't agree? Sometimes it causes laughter and good times, other times heated discussions and hard feelings. Sharing memories, however, brings us together in a way nothing else can. Memories, be they bitter or sweet, are important just because we have them. They help make us human. And most of the time, hopefully, they make life a little sweeter.

A Fond Farewell

We said goodbye to an old friend this week. It was a sad parting, but the time had come. We debated for several years over when it would be best to let it go, although every wind storm made the decision a little easier. Our old friend was the last of seven huge maple trees in our yard. Loyal and quiet, it sheltered us for the twenty years we've lived here but it has stood sentinel for decades, maybe even a century or more. And now it's gone.

Well, not really gone. Yet. There's still quite a bit of it in the yard, only now it's horizontal instead of vertical. It's amazing how tall a tree is when it's on the ground! And that was just the reason we had to cut it. This old maple was huge, and way too close to the house for comfort. If it had fallen just right, our front porch and two front rooms would have been underneath its massive trunk. Many a night I pleaded with God to "please, don't let it hit the house if it falls" while the wind howled outside. We held out for as long as we felt it was reasonably safe, but the time came at last when we had to bite the bullet and cut it down.

I wasn't here for the cutting since it was a school day. I suppose that was a good thing, since chain saws grate on my nerves and watching such feats make me think of all the ways the process could result in disaster. I snapped some photos before I left for school and said my goodbyes with a wistful sigh.

Goodbye, old friend!

When I came home, the sky was empty and the yard was full. Robin surveyed the work that awaited him, wondering when he'd ever get it all cleaned up. I took more photos. When we looked over the stump, trunk, and largest branches we could see that we made the right decision. The core of the tree was wet and soft, a sure sign that decay wasn't far off. We could also see where the tree had been tapped over the years for making maple syrup, which made us wonder just how old it really was. But there was no use in waxing nostalgic at that point, so we both got to work. Robin started clearing brush and I tackled the sidewalk with a broom and a shovel. We barely made a dent before dark.

The horizontal tree

Firewood for a warm house



Today, a couple of days later, we're getting used to the yard without our big tree. A friend helped Robin get all but the biggest chunks cleaned up and hauled away. What a blessing that was! (Thanks, Jeff!) As with every change, there are pros and cons: our kitchen in lighter, but the dirt on the windowsill shows more, and chances are the evening sun will be in my eyes as I work at the sink. There won't be such a mess of leaves and seed pods around our door, but there won't be any shade from the hot afternoon sun either. And I'll be able to see who's pulling into our driveway from the window, but the birds have lost a huge source of shelter and food. Still, life is all about change, whether we like it or not. Once in a while the constant force of change we don't notice most of the time makes itself known in big ways. When it does, I want to savor the sweetness of good memories and blessings yet to come.