Holidays and Special Events

“My legs won’t work,” Dad answered as we suggested he move out of direct line of campfire contrails. The breeze had shifted as we settled in for the start of our weekend in the Great Outdoors. With tents pitched and kids ready for bed, we had been decompressing with beverages in hand, mesmerized by dancing flames. Dad was perched on a bench, his back against the picnic table.

Several years into the sandwich generation of caring for aging parents along with our own small children, my Christmas spirit took a rapid sleigh ride to the bottom of the not-so-festive dumpster of unrealistic expectations.
But a few days later, our basement floor drain mysteriously refluxed a murky puddle. With the movie quote lingering a bit too close for comfort, we called the plumber, expecting a straightforward solution. Nothing a plumber’s snake couldn’t easily handle, we surmised. With a glut of family coming for Thanksgiving, loo efficiency was of utmost importance. Not only were we a spirited bunch of frequent flushers but, for this first Thanksgiving without my mother, the entire extended family would be together.

“Shitter’s full, Clark!” Our family laughed at this classic holiday movie, sharing the quote in unison while snug in front of the fireplace. It was early November, and we had started our seasonal movie binge early, smugly content that our water closets were just fine.

But a few days later, our basement floor drain mysteriously refluxed a murky puddle. With the movie quote lingering a bit too close for comfort, we called the plumber, expecting a straightforward solution. Nothing a plumber’s snake couldn’t easily handle, we surmised. With a glut of family coming for Thanksgiving, loo efficiency was of utmost importance. Not only were we a spirited bunch of frequent flushers but, for this first Thanksgiving without my mother, the entire extended family would be together.

Unlike our well-seasoned rivals across town, our brand new high school didn’t disappoint in our paucity of marching talent. Our haggard esprit de corp was led by a man who appeared an already elderly descendant of John Phillips Sousa. Attempting to span a few generation gaps, our director was determined to put a new show band on the city scene despite our seemingly lackluster talent and non-nonexistent marching skills. “Tryouts” were a misnomer: if you could fog a mirror, you were IN. 

A long time ago in collegiate Tennessee, I donned a pair of swanky two-tone beige, heeled cowgirl boots and found myself whirling around a dance floor. Akin to a country ballad, a fake ID was my partner in crime to accompany my older roommate in gaining access to weekend fun at Desperado’s Dance Hall …

When it comes to picking friends, I’ll take wildflowers any day; rogue perennial sorts popping up where least expected year after year; cultivars that buck convention, bloom in unlikely places, and refuse to be suppressed, flourishing outside society’s parterre while smirking at their staid, firmly potted brethren. 

A damp chill penetrates senses muddled by jet lag. An overnight flight affords little shut eye for this eager traveler, now stepping into the past with eyes wide open. Tudor half-timber buildings, brick streets and iconic red telly booths greet first steps on distant soil. I am finally, serendipitously, in the U.K.

Two years ago, I stared at a blank page while thinking about an upcoming birthday. Words flowed onto paper as I lovingly recalled Fourth of July celebrations growing up …

Another evening fades to dark. A campfire and twinkle lights match the light of the moon. The Minnesota state bird, the mosquito, has gathered its troops – a thick fog of stormtroopers undaunted by DEET. Their mission: drive the bipeds inside so the winged can now enjoy the ambiance called “home.”

Everyone wants warm lake time, even the pests. And who can blame them?

A recent writing prompt suggested describing oneself without any reference to occupation. Since much of my identity has been tied to my job, facing retirement and moving away from my vocational dub has provided an enlightening mindset shift.

When it comes to the weather, March in the Heartland is a dice roll. If a day should present itself as favorable (as in over 40 degrees with a hint at sunshine), we Midwesterners stream outside in droves, some even sporting shorts and flip flops, to absorb a little vitamin D.

I was never a history buff. But as I age, I find myself writing down my husband’s and my personal histories for our daughters. Once these young women remove the blinders of young adulthood, they may begin to wonder why they entertain certain thoughts and exhibit odd tendencies and preferences.

We’ve all heard the buzz and likely taken the online quiz regarding which of the five love languages we and our significant others most identify with. For those of you unfamiliar, the five actions presumably tripping our affection triggers in our relationships are: acts of service, receiving gifts, quality time, words of affirmation, and physical touch. In the spirit of a northern (read glacial) Valentine’s Day, I would like to offer a sixth language that nicely tosses a blanket atop the traditional five.

Clinking glasses, raucous chatter, and a thick haze of smoke partially obscure the arrival of an unusual patron. She bellies up to the bar, placing front hooves on the slick surface, ears flicking in anxious vigilance and anticipation as her spindly legs grapple for balance.

I love a blank page before me and a new year ahead of me. Both offer a (hopefully soft) landing pad for new ideas and fresh hope. The desire and anticipation of good times ahead propels us forward in both actions and words, that what we offer the world may matter, even in some miniscule way. 

Every December prompts reflection on a year drawing to a close. A few days from the winter solstice, I watch an even earlier waning sunset upon a cold horizon and ponder my personal and professional past chapters. These two years have been a doozy. And while many consider life somewhat back to normal, those of us inside hospital walls may disagree just a tad.

My brothers and I would nag our parents relentlessly as soon as the last crumbs of Thanksgiving were brushed off the good tablecloth …

“If it weren’t for the eleventh hour, I would get nothing done.” This was my mantra for everything around the holidays. From the start of November, I would stress about every detail related to “holiday cheer:”

November heralds the avalanche of holiday cooking that promises to win the love of family. Not that affection is a culinary contest, per se, but it is a commitment to ensuring everyone’s gastronomic satisfaction in the name of tradition.

The landscape around my home is currently awash in this warming hue. Farm fields boast shades from straw to ochre, amber to russet. Whether in the kitchen, sewing room, or other inside spaces, flavors, textures and rich colors nourish my soul and stoke my creative fire as days shorten and temperatures decline. Luxurious rays of progressively earlier sunsets seep indoors and coax us to windows, bathing everything in gilded bliss.

WAIT! WHAT’S THAT?!” Mom exclaimed as she double-checked her rearview mirror, suddenly slamming the Torino in reverse. Her unexpected outburst and trajectory startled me as I braced for impact, grabbing the dash before it walloped me.

My elderly friend – affectionately dubbed The Queen of Cool – made her own Christmas cards every year. A retired counselor, she had heard it all. Each holiday season, she offered her insights as seasonal love letters to those of us privileged to be in her circle. While her own children rolled their eyes and scoffed at their mother’s unconventional greetings, I found her simple words refreshingly grounded in an otherwise disjointed world.

Grandma and I were rebels, eating raw cookie dough and drinking high octane coffee while we baked Christmas cookies. This gloriously naughty habit started around age five, spawning a respectable sugar and caffeine addiction in my later years.

The glossy brochure confidently stated anyone in moderate physical shape could enjoy the 31-mile kayaking weekend. Three days of rustic beauty, easily attainable for two fit thirty-somethings, included nights of tenting on the Apostle islands of Lake Superior. I booked the trip, determined to prove to my other half this city girl could indeed enjoy the great outdoors …

Glued to the front of our massive console TV, my brothers and I faithfully watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade every year. Large zeppelins, tethered by armies of pedestrians, gave life to our preferred cartoon characters. Mischievous attempts by Rocky or Bullwinkle to …

Freezing rain pierced my jacket, the tulle princess gown, underlying jeans, and finally, my delicate flesh. A drooping tiara and scepter, along with saturated socks and sneakers, were only minor annoyances on the slippery jog down the roadside brickway as I attempted to keep pace with my older brothers on this most serious of missions.

A hot breeze blows through the rolled down car windows as we carefully turn into the country driveway at the top of the hill. Passing the local gas company’s substation with it’s twisted nest of pipelines and meter boxes, I again wonder why one would live near such an ugly array. Once under the ancient shade tree canopy near the house the temperature drops to comfort level. Anticipatory fidgeting gives way to joyful release as my brothers and I sprint past ice-filled barrels of pop bottles toward the wiffle ball game beyond the parked cars. We’ve looked forward to this day all year long – the annual 4th of July picnic at my Great Aunt & Uncle’s place.