Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 7
January 12, 2024
My Grandmother's Stories
My father’s mother was the matriarch of his family. Ready with advice based from experience, she wanted her family to be prepared for the difficulties life would present. Less than five feet tall, she was a commanding presence, and no one dared to argue with her.
She was deserted by my grandfather with four children at home, the youngest a baby, no income and no job skills. She put herself through clerical classes and found employment at the Pontiac State Hospital, eventually becoming secretary to the head psychiatrist.
She was determined that the rest of us be better prepared to support ourselves, and strong-armed me into typing classes.
“If you can spell and type,” she said, “you can always find a job.”
I mentally thank her every day.
As a young wife and mother, I appreciated her company and treated her to lunches, with tea at her apartment afterward. One afternoon, she decided to share family memories with me over tea and cookies, and got out a family album of photographs.
“Let me tell you about my grandmother,” she said.
Victoria Deschenes was born in Quebec, November 1860, married in 1878, and had eleven children. At some time during those years, she did laundry for a lumber camp near Kalkaska. Grandma’s mother was one of the children who played at the camp, a difficult image for me since I remember Great-Grandma Rogers as elegant and proper, never leaving the house without her hat and gloves.
In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, white pine forests around Kalkaska were a source of lumber. Many of the pines were two hundred feet tall, five feet in diameter, and over two centuries old. Lumber companies exported logs and planks to Chicago, where they were shipped west by railroad.
By 1880, Michigan produced as much lumber as the next three states combined, and it was believed that the forests would endure for generations. By 1890, most of the trees had been cut.
The ten acres my parents bought in Kalkaska was part of that deforestation, and our property was mainly scrub oaks, ravines, and rusty railroad spikes, which we collected by the dozens.
Life was difficult and dangerous for lumberjacks. They were up by 5 a.m. and didn’t see their bunks until dark, with only Sundays off, when tales were shared. Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox was a favorite legend. They required a heavy-calorie diet—bread and biscuits, pancakes with maple syrup, pies, gingerbread, tea or coffee, and beans—from tin plates and cups.
Sawing trees was done in the winter when timber could be hauled on huge sleds in the snow, taken to rivers to wait for the spring thaw, carried by water to sawmills. Horses and oxen were pampered, but life was grueling for women in the camp, as well, who cooked and did laundry. They disinfected clothes in pots of boiling water, and washed them by hand using a washboard and lye soap. The clothes were hung on clotheslines to freeze dry.
My mother’s grandmother lost an eye as a girl to lye soap—ashes, water, and rendered pig fat—caustic enough to cause chemical burns.
When our tea was gone and it was time for me to get home and start dinner, Grandma promised to share more memories with me after her surgery recovery, but tragically, that turned out to be our last visit. She had a stroke during the operation and was incommunicative until her death by cancer.
I’m grateful for that afternoon.
How many times have I moaned about taking clothes from the dryer? Or complained about the cold as I rushed between car and warm house? I understand now where my grandmother inherited her grit.
Each of us is a story in ourselves, but how much more can we claim when we look back a generation or two.
Tea from china cups and a harsh winter setting in the family album, made more personal by the same location where my family vacationed years later, brought to life by grandma’s stories.
A cherished gift.
What tales should I share with my grandchildren?
She was deserted by my grandfather with four children at home, the youngest a baby, no income and no job skills. She put herself through clerical classes and found employment at the Pontiac State Hospital, eventually becoming secretary to the head psychiatrist.
She was determined that the rest of us be better prepared to support ourselves, and strong-armed me into typing classes.
“If you can spell and type,” she said, “you can always find a job.”
I mentally thank her every day.
As a young wife and mother, I appreciated her company and treated her to lunches, with tea at her apartment afterward. One afternoon, she decided to share family memories with me over tea and cookies, and got out a family album of photographs.
“Let me tell you about my grandmother,” she said.
Victoria Deschenes was born in Quebec, November 1860, married in 1878, and had eleven children. At some time during those years, she did laundry for a lumber camp near Kalkaska. Grandma’s mother was one of the children who played at the camp, a difficult image for me since I remember Great-Grandma Rogers as elegant and proper, never leaving the house without her hat and gloves.
In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, white pine forests around Kalkaska were a source of lumber. Many of the pines were two hundred feet tall, five feet in diameter, and over two centuries old. Lumber companies exported logs and planks to Chicago, where they were shipped west by railroad.
By 1880, Michigan produced as much lumber as the next three states combined, and it was believed that the forests would endure for generations. By 1890, most of the trees had been cut.
The ten acres my parents bought in Kalkaska was part of that deforestation, and our property was mainly scrub oaks, ravines, and rusty railroad spikes, which we collected by the dozens.
Life was difficult and dangerous for lumberjacks. They were up by 5 a.m. and didn’t see their bunks until dark, with only Sundays off, when tales were shared. Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox was a favorite legend. They required a heavy-calorie diet—bread and biscuits, pancakes with maple syrup, pies, gingerbread, tea or coffee, and beans—from tin plates and cups.
Sawing trees was done in the winter when timber could be hauled on huge sleds in the snow, taken to rivers to wait for the spring thaw, carried by water to sawmills. Horses and oxen were pampered, but life was grueling for women in the camp, as well, who cooked and did laundry. They disinfected clothes in pots of boiling water, and washed them by hand using a washboard and lye soap. The clothes were hung on clotheslines to freeze dry.
My mother’s grandmother lost an eye as a girl to lye soap—ashes, water, and rendered pig fat—caustic enough to cause chemical burns.
When our tea was gone and it was time for me to get home and start dinner, Grandma promised to share more memories with me after her surgery recovery, but tragically, that turned out to be our last visit. She had a stroke during the operation and was incommunicative until her death by cancer.
I’m grateful for that afternoon.
How many times have I moaned about taking clothes from the dryer? Or complained about the cold as I rushed between car and warm house? I understand now where my grandmother inherited her grit.
Each of us is a story in ourselves, but how much more can we claim when we look back a generation or two.
Tea from china cups and a harsh winter setting in the family album, made more personal by the same location where my family vacationed years later, brought to life by grandma’s stories.
A cherished gift.
What tales should I share with my grandchildren?
January 6, 2024
Snow to Remember
No two humans are alike. And no two snowflakes are the same.
Let’s talk about snow.
Flurries outside a window are mesmerizing to watch. Mounds of undisturbed snowfalls illustrate calendars. Sleet, ice, cold fronts and gusty wind, not so welcome.
In December 1974, 18 inches fell in Oakland County, and again, across the metro Detroit area in January 1978. April 1886 saw over 24 inches with 12 feet drifts. Common for Marquette, not for Detroit neighborhoods.
Frozen water vapor’s different from rain because for snow, crystallization in clouds condenses directly into ice, bypassing the liquid state. The ice absorbs more and freezes again, forming into snow crystals while sleet is frozen water, tiny balls of ice.
All those individual crystals, and no two alike. Symmetrical, blown by changing wind, affected by sunlight, the six-pointed ice flowers fall to earth.
In 135 B.C. a Chinese scholar Han Ying described the shape of snowflakes. In the early 1600’s, the famous German scientist Johannes Kepler tried to understand why they always had six sides, but atomic theory hadn’t been developed in his time, so he didn’t know about hydrogen bonding and molecular interaction forming open crystal structures.
Well, neither do I.
In the 1880’s in Vermont, Wilson Bentley used photographic plates to display thousands of different snowflake images before he died of pneumonia.
Calendar images of snowy forests, pristine in beauty, don’t include the freezing temperatures.
Then there are blizzards.
I was taking classes at the OCC campus in the Heights one semester when snow attacked. Inches rose in a hurry, and by the time I returned to the parking lot, cars were covered.
Cold? Door locks and windshields were frozen.
I tried to turn my key, but couldn’t get the door open. I was afraid I’d twist the key, so I banged along the edge of the door with my mittened fist, and finally, in frustration, kicked the door with my boot.
Then I looked inside. Right model. Wrong owner. Thank heaven I didn’t run inside for someone to help me break into another student’s car.
We welcomed snow in Kalkaska during the week after Christmas. Nowhere to be, snowmen and snow forts waiting, windows that looked out on winter scenes of white hills and mounded tree branches.
But trying to get to work, or home again in a winter storm was a different kind of adventure.
One night, after class at the OCC Farmington Hills campus, I trudged through the enormous parking lot with snow and sleet pelting me. What? No car? I’d forgotten where I parked it, or even which lot I used that night. Cold, tired, irritated, it took me an hour to locate my car, buried by that time in snow, wind in my face, sleet tinkling around me in the dark.
Not my favorite snowfall.
But not as bad as one early afternoon in Plymouth when we were sent home because roads were becoming impassable. At that time, I lived in Roseville, nearly 40 miles away, and cell phones were in the future, at least for me.
Daily drives could take two hours in stop-and-go traffic, but there was no traffic that day. Freeways had been closed and my tiny Colt was a sled on the untracked roads. I couldn’t pull off to scrape the windshield because of the snowdrifts, so crept along, alone in the world, or so it felt.
Took me four hours to pull into my driveway, and by that time, I was whimpering and promising to be good, if only I’d make it home safely.
Again, not my favorite snowfall, if memorable.
But one Christmas Eve afternoon, on a visit to Michigan, Anne and I drove into the countryside of Dryden from Warren to pick up her son. Snow was falling in soft floral petals, fields were white and gold, no other cars were in sight, and the roads were growing treacherous. But the company was perfect and the scenery exquisite, fitting for Christmas.
That fragment of time stands out to me as my favorite snowfall.
Anyone from the Heights has snow stories, from the thrill of no school to fighting your way home from work, and any winter, at any time, you could add another.
But looking out my window, warm and comfortable, the stories are treasures to savor, not dreaded occasions.
Have to admit it—foolish or not, I miss snow.
Let’s talk about snow.
Flurries outside a window are mesmerizing to watch. Mounds of undisturbed snowfalls illustrate calendars. Sleet, ice, cold fronts and gusty wind, not so welcome.
In December 1974, 18 inches fell in Oakland County, and again, across the metro Detroit area in January 1978. April 1886 saw over 24 inches with 12 feet drifts. Common for Marquette, not for Detroit neighborhoods.
Frozen water vapor’s different from rain because for snow, crystallization in clouds condenses directly into ice, bypassing the liquid state. The ice absorbs more and freezes again, forming into snow crystals while sleet is frozen water, tiny balls of ice.
All those individual crystals, and no two alike. Symmetrical, blown by changing wind, affected by sunlight, the six-pointed ice flowers fall to earth.
In 135 B.C. a Chinese scholar Han Ying described the shape of snowflakes. In the early 1600’s, the famous German scientist Johannes Kepler tried to understand why they always had six sides, but atomic theory hadn’t been developed in his time, so he didn’t know about hydrogen bonding and molecular interaction forming open crystal structures.
Well, neither do I.
In the 1880’s in Vermont, Wilson Bentley used photographic plates to display thousands of different snowflake images before he died of pneumonia.
Calendar images of snowy forests, pristine in beauty, don’t include the freezing temperatures.
Then there are blizzards.
I was taking classes at the OCC campus in the Heights one semester when snow attacked. Inches rose in a hurry, and by the time I returned to the parking lot, cars were covered.
Cold? Door locks and windshields were frozen.
I tried to turn my key, but couldn’t get the door open. I was afraid I’d twist the key, so I banged along the edge of the door with my mittened fist, and finally, in frustration, kicked the door with my boot.
Then I looked inside. Right model. Wrong owner. Thank heaven I didn’t run inside for someone to help me break into another student’s car.
We welcomed snow in Kalkaska during the week after Christmas. Nowhere to be, snowmen and snow forts waiting, windows that looked out on winter scenes of white hills and mounded tree branches.
But trying to get to work, or home again in a winter storm was a different kind of adventure.
One night, after class at the OCC Farmington Hills campus, I trudged through the enormous parking lot with snow and sleet pelting me. What? No car? I’d forgotten where I parked it, or even which lot I used that night. Cold, tired, irritated, it took me an hour to locate my car, buried by that time in snow, wind in my face, sleet tinkling around me in the dark.
Not my favorite snowfall.
But not as bad as one early afternoon in Plymouth when we were sent home because roads were becoming impassable. At that time, I lived in Roseville, nearly 40 miles away, and cell phones were in the future, at least for me.
Daily drives could take two hours in stop-and-go traffic, but there was no traffic that day. Freeways had been closed and my tiny Colt was a sled on the untracked roads. I couldn’t pull off to scrape the windshield because of the snowdrifts, so crept along, alone in the world, or so it felt.
Took me four hours to pull into my driveway, and by that time, I was whimpering and promising to be good, if only I’d make it home safely.
Again, not my favorite snowfall, if memorable.
But one Christmas Eve afternoon, on a visit to Michigan, Anne and I drove into the countryside of Dryden from Warren to pick up her son. Snow was falling in soft floral petals, fields were white and gold, no other cars were in sight, and the roads were growing treacherous. But the company was perfect and the scenery exquisite, fitting for Christmas.
That fragment of time stands out to me as my favorite snowfall.
Anyone from the Heights has snow stories, from the thrill of no school to fighting your way home from work, and any winter, at any time, you could add another.
But looking out my window, warm and comfortable, the stories are treasures to savor, not dreaded occasions.
Have to admit it—foolish or not, I miss snow.
December 29, 2023
Pause Before the New Year
For years, I stopped making New Year’s resolutions. Most crumbled before the end of January, anyway, especially those related to new diets.
This year, I see the effort in a different way.
The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day is a quiet haven. Hectic preparations and celebrations of Christmas are behind us for another year. A new year looms. Debt, health, family interactions. Needs and wishes. All essential. All necessary.
The most common resolutions—exercise, weight loss, organization, quitting a bad habit—can be addressed on any day, at any time.
What makes the internal announcement more significant on January 1st? Studies show that of those who make pledges, 46% achieve their goals, while only 4% of those who do not make a New Year’s resolution manage to make changes.
In that case, I’ll reinstate an ancient tradition for myself this year.
The term “Resolutions” may have come from a diary in 1671 by Anne Halkett, Scottish gentry, who included vows lifted from the Bible in her entry January 2nd.
In ancient times, Babylonians promised to return borrowed farm equipment. Medieval knights renewed pledges of chivalry. In 46 B.C. Romans created the Julian calendar and made the First of January each year’s beginning.
The two-headed Roman god Janus (Latin for “passageway”) represented reflection and new beginnings, and Romans offered sacrifices as they pledged good behavior for the coming year.
And between the past and future? The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day.
For years, our family drove to Kalkaska to spend the week in a quiet, snowy setting on Mom and Dad’s ten acres off County Road 612 North, a tradition we enjoyed when I was a child, and later, as wife and mother.
In that wilderness, you could hear the silence of snow and starry nights. No hum of electric wires, no highway traffic. A lovely, peaceful quiet, and soothing for all ages. That week lasted longer than seven days, and was a pocket of timelessness surrounded by a winter scene worthy of a calendar.
For me, that serenity still carries into every year between the two holidays. “And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne,” as Robert Burns wrote.
And my resolutions this year? Yes, I’m setting myself a new budget, simple and hopefully, unbreakable. But there’s another.
After a year of challenges, as all years are, especially for adults, I resolve to pause, day by day, and savor my life.
In the musical Scrooge (by Leslie Bricusse), the miser learns from the Ghost of Christmas Present that, “I like life, here and now, life and I made a mutual vow. ‘Till I die, life and I, we’ll both try to be better somehow.”
Old Ebenezer also shares his method after the three Ghosts’ visits:
“I will start anew, I will make amends, and I’ll make quite certain that this story ends on a note of hope, on a strong Amen. And I’ll thank the world and remember when I was able to begin again!”
Couldn’t say it better myself, Ebenezer.
No silent starry nights this year. No snowy setting, but those memories are crisp and cherished, and between Christmas Joy and New Year’s fresh start, I can add my vow, with God’s help:
Just for today, I will be happy.
Here and now, I can slow down, acknowledge my blessings, and let the year unfold, day by day, in gratitude for life, family, friends, and sharing that in my story writing.
“I like life, life likes me. Life and I fairly fully agree. Life is fine, life is good, ‘specially mine which is just as it should be.”
Thank you, Ebenezer Scrooge (and Leslie Bricusse, songwriter).
Happy New Year to all of you, and may your year bring happiness and satisfaction, no matter what waits ahead.
“And there’s a hand, my trusty friend! And give me a hand o’ thine! And we’ll take a right good-will draught for auld lang syne.” (Robert Burns)
This year, I see the effort in a different way.
The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day is a quiet haven. Hectic preparations and celebrations of Christmas are behind us for another year. A new year looms. Debt, health, family interactions. Needs and wishes. All essential. All necessary.
The most common resolutions—exercise, weight loss, organization, quitting a bad habit—can be addressed on any day, at any time.
What makes the internal announcement more significant on January 1st? Studies show that of those who make pledges, 46% achieve their goals, while only 4% of those who do not make a New Year’s resolution manage to make changes.
In that case, I’ll reinstate an ancient tradition for myself this year.
The term “Resolutions” may have come from a diary in 1671 by Anne Halkett, Scottish gentry, who included vows lifted from the Bible in her entry January 2nd.
In ancient times, Babylonians promised to return borrowed farm equipment. Medieval knights renewed pledges of chivalry. In 46 B.C. Romans created the Julian calendar and made the First of January each year’s beginning.
The two-headed Roman god Janus (Latin for “passageway”) represented reflection and new beginnings, and Romans offered sacrifices as they pledged good behavior for the coming year.
And between the past and future? The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day.
For years, our family drove to Kalkaska to spend the week in a quiet, snowy setting on Mom and Dad’s ten acres off County Road 612 North, a tradition we enjoyed when I was a child, and later, as wife and mother.
In that wilderness, you could hear the silence of snow and starry nights. No hum of electric wires, no highway traffic. A lovely, peaceful quiet, and soothing for all ages. That week lasted longer than seven days, and was a pocket of timelessness surrounded by a winter scene worthy of a calendar.
For me, that serenity still carries into every year between the two holidays. “And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne,” as Robert Burns wrote.
And my resolutions this year? Yes, I’m setting myself a new budget, simple and hopefully, unbreakable. But there’s another.
After a year of challenges, as all years are, especially for adults, I resolve to pause, day by day, and savor my life.
In the musical Scrooge (by Leslie Bricusse), the miser learns from the Ghost of Christmas Present that, “I like life, here and now, life and I made a mutual vow. ‘Till I die, life and I, we’ll both try to be better somehow.”
Old Ebenezer also shares his method after the three Ghosts’ visits:
“I will start anew, I will make amends, and I’ll make quite certain that this story ends on a note of hope, on a strong Amen. And I’ll thank the world and remember when I was able to begin again!”
Couldn’t say it better myself, Ebenezer.
No silent starry nights this year. No snowy setting, but those memories are crisp and cherished, and between Christmas Joy and New Year’s fresh start, I can add my vow, with God’s help:
Just for today, I will be happy.
Here and now, I can slow down, acknowledge my blessings, and let the year unfold, day by day, in gratitude for life, family, friends, and sharing that in my story writing.
“I like life, life likes me. Life and I fairly fully agree. Life is fine, life is good, ‘specially mine which is just as it should be.”
Thank you, Ebenezer Scrooge (and Leslie Bricusse, songwriter).
Happy New Year to all of you, and may your year bring happiness and satisfaction, no matter what waits ahead.
“And there’s a hand, my trusty friend! And give me a hand o’ thine! And we’ll take a right good-will draught for auld lang syne.” (Robert Burns)
December 23, 2023
Window Onto Christmas Eve
It’s Christmas Eve and I’m standing at the window.
Caroline Street…watching snow fall as the day darkens into evening. The reflection of our Christmas tree glows against the glass, gifts are hidden and waiting for Christmas morning, including the Santa gift (always wrapped in different paper). Carols playing on the stereo.
Mom’s in the kitchen finishing pies for tomorrow and stirring stuffing for the Christmas Day turkey. We’ll pile into the car and go to Aunt Patsy’s scrumptious house on South Cass Lake Road, where Dad’s family gathers to celebrate with a buffet dinner, cookies and fudge, Chex Mix, and the happy chaos Russell uncles bring.
Caroline Street…the kids’ new pajamas are wrapped and ready. So are sandwiches, treats, and cookies. Behind me, they’re watching a Christmas special—Rudolph, Frosty, the Grinch (“You’re a mean one, Mister Grinch…”), or our favorite, A Charlie Brown Christmas.
Anticipation jiggles the air since Santa arrives tonight, and tomorrow morning is excitement, ripping paper, and wish fulfillment.
Caroline Street...either hosting an elegant dinner or bringing a fine wine to Sue and Jim's, with children excited about gifts, and adults delighting in laughter, conversation, and great friends.
One year, we surprised Anne on Christmas morning with a new puppy. Bitsy was next door, ready for her new home, and the plan was for me to run over early in the morning—earlier than the kids’ rushed downstairs—and place her in a box with loose paper around it.
We were sure the puppy would scratch or whine, but she didn’t. Sat patiently waiting, and I gently shook the box back and forth, but even that didn’t work. Still, Anne’s face when she looked inside was a memory to hold forever.
Leisure Street in Florida…back from 4 o’clock Mass and our half-hour of Christmas carols before the service, deli trays ready, family gathered. My brother Dave has driven down from Michigan to reproduce his Dickens’ magic dinner in my kitchen on Christmas Day.
Tonight means new pajamas for the kids, snacks, music, Ralphie’s Christmas Story, and happy conversation, as we relive Christmas traditions with memories stretching back years.
It didn’t always snow for Christmas in the Heights, but I remember snowy nights, anyway. Sometimes there was last minute wrapping or assembly.
We put out cocoa and cookies for Santa. Christmas Day pies, cookies, plum pudding, and dinner ingredients were ready or waiting for morning baking, stirring, roasting. Music played, competing with TV specials, laughter, excitement, and the anticipation that only comes once a year.
Sometimes, when I take a moment to stand at a window and gaze out at a winter scene, I visualize glimpses of earlier holidays based on home movies, when Mom and Dad were young, or even children because of stories they shared. Behind me are family and friends, even more precious over time.
Time. Years blend together—my childhood, our children’s Christmas Eves, grandchildren being introduced to family traditions.
For many years, there was the added thrill of gathering at my brother Dave’s house for the most magic of Christmas Day dinners—worthy of the Ghost of Christmas Present.
Gifts are wrapped for the morning's unveiling. I remember Mom and Dad as young parents, grandparents, great-grandparents—giving us a Christmas every year to remember.
Loss and change come to every family. We miss those we love who’ve grown, moved away, entered the Heavenly Gate. We share earlier memories with friends and family.
We stand at a window and look out on this Christmas, or earlier Christmas Eves, the cycle returning as it always does with the magic of Christmas.
No matter what your window shows you this year, may your hearts be filled.
And as Hugh Martin and Ralph Blaine so aptly said:
Through the years we all will be together
If the Fates allow
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
Merry Christmas!
Caroline Street…watching snow fall as the day darkens into evening. The reflection of our Christmas tree glows against the glass, gifts are hidden and waiting for Christmas morning, including the Santa gift (always wrapped in different paper). Carols playing on the stereo.
Mom’s in the kitchen finishing pies for tomorrow and stirring stuffing for the Christmas Day turkey. We’ll pile into the car and go to Aunt Patsy’s scrumptious house on South Cass Lake Road, where Dad’s family gathers to celebrate with a buffet dinner, cookies and fudge, Chex Mix, and the happy chaos Russell uncles bring.
Caroline Street…the kids’ new pajamas are wrapped and ready. So are sandwiches, treats, and cookies. Behind me, they’re watching a Christmas special—Rudolph, Frosty, the Grinch (“You’re a mean one, Mister Grinch…”), or our favorite, A Charlie Brown Christmas.
Anticipation jiggles the air since Santa arrives tonight, and tomorrow morning is excitement, ripping paper, and wish fulfillment.
Caroline Street...either hosting an elegant dinner or bringing a fine wine to Sue and Jim's, with children excited about gifts, and adults delighting in laughter, conversation, and great friends.
One year, we surprised Anne on Christmas morning with a new puppy. Bitsy was next door, ready for her new home, and the plan was for me to run over early in the morning—earlier than the kids’ rushed downstairs—and place her in a box with loose paper around it.
We were sure the puppy would scratch or whine, but she didn’t. Sat patiently waiting, and I gently shook the box back and forth, but even that didn’t work. Still, Anne’s face when she looked inside was a memory to hold forever.
Leisure Street in Florida…back from 4 o’clock Mass and our half-hour of Christmas carols before the service, deli trays ready, family gathered. My brother Dave has driven down from Michigan to reproduce his Dickens’ magic dinner in my kitchen on Christmas Day.
Tonight means new pajamas for the kids, snacks, music, Ralphie’s Christmas Story, and happy conversation, as we relive Christmas traditions with memories stretching back years.
It didn’t always snow for Christmas in the Heights, but I remember snowy nights, anyway. Sometimes there was last minute wrapping or assembly.
We put out cocoa and cookies for Santa. Christmas Day pies, cookies, plum pudding, and dinner ingredients were ready or waiting for morning baking, stirring, roasting. Music played, competing with TV specials, laughter, excitement, and the anticipation that only comes once a year.
Sometimes, when I take a moment to stand at a window and gaze out at a winter scene, I visualize glimpses of earlier holidays based on home movies, when Mom and Dad were young, or even children because of stories they shared. Behind me are family and friends, even more precious over time.
Time. Years blend together—my childhood, our children’s Christmas Eves, grandchildren being introduced to family traditions.
For many years, there was the added thrill of gathering at my brother Dave’s house for the most magic of Christmas Day dinners—worthy of the Ghost of Christmas Present.
Gifts are wrapped for the morning's unveiling. I remember Mom and Dad as young parents, grandparents, great-grandparents—giving us a Christmas every year to remember.
Loss and change come to every family. We miss those we love who’ve grown, moved away, entered the Heavenly Gate. We share earlier memories with friends and family.
We stand at a window and look out on this Christmas, or earlier Christmas Eves, the cycle returning as it always does with the magic of Christmas.
No matter what your window shows you this year, may your hearts be filled.
And as Hugh Martin and Ralph Blaine so aptly said:
Through the years we all will be together
If the Fates allow
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
Merry Christmas!
December 16, 2023
Cookies for Santa on Christmas Eve
Christmas Eve was the night for Santa Claus, or so we believed. We were also told, repeatedly, that he wouldn’t show up if we were awake.
Many years I tried to catch him delivering gifts, but was too sleepy to last. Nor did I hear the last-minute assembly of a large toy, including the less than ho-ho-ho comments from our resident toy-building elf.
We always left cookies and cocoa for Santa before heading upstairs in our new pajamas—decorated, homemade sugar cookies with a mug of cocoa.
“But won’t the cocoa get cold?” my clever brother asked.
I don’t recall the explanation for the acceptable temperature when Santa finally made it to our house, but I accepted it. Even when the six of us were grown enough to know who drank the cocoa and ate the cookies, we still set out a plate and cup.
After all, Christmas traditions were untouchable.
Cookies are an interesting Christmas staple, begun by monasteries in the Middle Ages.
But Santa owes his midnight snacks to Dutch immigrants to the U.S. in the 1600’s, including the name “cookie” from the Dutch “koekje.” The British name theirs “biscuits,” after the French for cookie. Cookies made an affordable gift to share with neighbors, family, and friends, and were most often spice or gingerbread.
They were also connected to St. Nicholas, the original Santa, a Christian bishop from Asia Minor in the fourth century who helped the poor. Again, it was the Dutch who created the Feast of St. Nicholas on December 6th and collected cookies for the heavenly saint’s visit.
During the Great Depression, leaving cookies for Santa was a gratitude lesson for children.
None of that history mattered to us. We were proud to offer Santa a sample of our annual homemade Christmas treats, with marshmallows melting in the hot cocoa. There were always a few crumbs left on the plate in the morning with a crumpled napkin, a nice touch by Dad.
Cookies and milk are another common Santa offering—Oreos or chocolate chip cookies—but we served baked-at-home holiday cookies to the Spirit of Christmas Eve. It was part of the festive evening, along with listening for bells from reindeer harnesses on the roof.
In Norse mythology, Odin rode a horse named Sleipner, and during the Christmas season, children once left food for the horse, hoping to entice Odin to leave gifts. In Denmark, Belgium, and the Netherlands, carrots and hay are left for the horses that pull Santa’s sleigh.
In Great Britain and Australia, children leave sherry and mince pies. Sweden offers Santa rice pudding, and in Ireland, Father Christmas drinks Guinness with his cookies. France sets out wine, as well as hay and carrots for his donkey Gui (“Mistletoe”).
German children write letters in exchange for presents and leave them on Christmas Eve, which accounts for our list of toys mailed to the North Pole.
None of us Russell children felt cheated as each of us learned the true identity of Santa Claus, but then, he was and is the embodiment of Christmas Spirit—generosity, kindness, good will, and cheer. No, he’s not the reason for the season, though is part of the sparkling traditions.
May Santa enjoy your cookies and leave your home blessed during the holiday.
After all, we’re never too old for cookies and cocoa.
Or Santa Claus.
Many years I tried to catch him delivering gifts, but was too sleepy to last. Nor did I hear the last-minute assembly of a large toy, including the less than ho-ho-ho comments from our resident toy-building elf.
We always left cookies and cocoa for Santa before heading upstairs in our new pajamas—decorated, homemade sugar cookies with a mug of cocoa.
“But won’t the cocoa get cold?” my clever brother asked.
I don’t recall the explanation for the acceptable temperature when Santa finally made it to our house, but I accepted it. Even when the six of us were grown enough to know who drank the cocoa and ate the cookies, we still set out a plate and cup.
After all, Christmas traditions were untouchable.
Cookies are an interesting Christmas staple, begun by monasteries in the Middle Ages.
But Santa owes his midnight snacks to Dutch immigrants to the U.S. in the 1600’s, including the name “cookie” from the Dutch “koekje.” The British name theirs “biscuits,” after the French for cookie. Cookies made an affordable gift to share with neighbors, family, and friends, and were most often spice or gingerbread.
They were also connected to St. Nicholas, the original Santa, a Christian bishop from Asia Minor in the fourth century who helped the poor. Again, it was the Dutch who created the Feast of St. Nicholas on December 6th and collected cookies for the heavenly saint’s visit.
During the Great Depression, leaving cookies for Santa was a gratitude lesson for children.
None of that history mattered to us. We were proud to offer Santa a sample of our annual homemade Christmas treats, with marshmallows melting in the hot cocoa. There were always a few crumbs left on the plate in the morning with a crumpled napkin, a nice touch by Dad.
Cookies and milk are another common Santa offering—Oreos or chocolate chip cookies—but we served baked-at-home holiday cookies to the Spirit of Christmas Eve. It was part of the festive evening, along with listening for bells from reindeer harnesses on the roof.
In Norse mythology, Odin rode a horse named Sleipner, and during the Christmas season, children once left food for the horse, hoping to entice Odin to leave gifts. In Denmark, Belgium, and the Netherlands, carrots and hay are left for the horses that pull Santa’s sleigh.
In Great Britain and Australia, children leave sherry and mince pies. Sweden offers Santa rice pudding, and in Ireland, Father Christmas drinks Guinness with his cookies. France sets out wine, as well as hay and carrots for his donkey Gui (“Mistletoe”).
German children write letters in exchange for presents and leave them on Christmas Eve, which accounts for our list of toys mailed to the North Pole.
None of us Russell children felt cheated as each of us learned the true identity of Santa Claus, but then, he was and is the embodiment of Christmas Spirit—generosity, kindness, good will, and cheer. No, he’s not the reason for the season, though is part of the sparkling traditions.
May Santa enjoy your cookies and leave your home blessed during the holiday.
After all, we’re never too old for cookies and cocoa.
Or Santa Claus.
December 9, 2023
Spanning the Distance at Christmas
One afternoon in December, years ago, my sister JoAnn and I were bemoaning the fact that our family and friends were scattered across the country.
“I wish we could all get together at Christmas,” I said, “or at least, connect at the same time on Christmas Eve.”
Now remember, in those days, there was no email or video chats. No internet. No instant communication other than telephone, one on one. I shared with her a trick my friend Linnea found. Called “remoting,” the theory was that if you both focused on your surroundings at the same time, you might connect. We laughed, but tried it at sunrise one summer morning.
Coffee outside with the pre-dawn bird chorus, fresh air, and a pen and paper to capture the moment. Since we were an hour apart—she lives in the Central time zone—we chose the moment the sun peeked over the horizon. If we didn’t share the same visions, we did hear cardinals singing at the same time.
“Let’s try it,” JoAnn said, “only we’ll use candles and favorite Christmas memories.”
And so, our Candle Ceremony was born.
We spent time debating what questions to ask, and decided to mail instructions with twelve questions, a package of cocoa, and a candle. We gave a deadline for the return of their answers, and promised to compile them and send everyone a copy.
Twenty-six friends and family responded. JoAnn and I typed the answers under each question and mailed back folders with the names on a list at the back.
And so I learned that my brother Dave’s favorite gift of all time was his Kenner Girder & Panel building set. That my father’s was a fire engine that pumped water, while Mom’s was her Betsy-Wetsy doll (which she passed on to me).
My son David’s best traditions were shopping with me and Christmas Day at Brother Dave’s, and my daughter Anne’s was stirring wishes into plum pudding the First Sunday of Advent.
Earliest Christmas memories for Dad and Anne were looking out windows at snow falling at night (Pontiac and the Heights). David’s favorite gift was his first Nintendo. My sisters cherished Madame Alexander dolls (named Lydia and Michael) with clothes homemade by Mom.
Every first Christmas Eve memory included snow.
Christmas Day? Opening gifts in the morning and family dinner. I wrote long, detailed letters to our family in Florida year after year about Brother Dave’s Dickens’ Christmas Day dinner, and one year, the entire family rode the train to Pontiac for our biggest family holiday ever.
Sharing favorite memories and carols, surprising each other with our answers did bring us closer together that Christmas. Thank you, JoAnn.
I’d like to share our questions with you to do the same. Of course, you’re free to make up your own. The most important part is the chance to learn more about those closest to you, even from a distance.
Have fun! We did.
1. What is your favorite Christmas carol?
2. What was your favorite childhood Christmas present?
3. What would you ask Santa for today?
4. Did you ever hear bells on Christmas Eve?
5. When was your last icy patch?
6. Of all the Christmas trees you’ve known, which ornament comes to mind first?
7. When in the season do you get your first feeling of Christmas?
8. What color and style Christmas wrapping do you choose for your gifts, and what kind of setting do you prefer when you wrap?
9. It’s snowing outside your window Christmas Eve. How old are you, and what do you see?
10. Who or what would you add to the Nativity scene?
11. Of all the gifts you’ve been given, name one whose memory gives you pleasure now?
12. Describe two of your favorite Christmas traditions.
“I wish we could all get together at Christmas,” I said, “or at least, connect at the same time on Christmas Eve.”
Now remember, in those days, there was no email or video chats. No internet. No instant communication other than telephone, one on one. I shared with her a trick my friend Linnea found. Called “remoting,” the theory was that if you both focused on your surroundings at the same time, you might connect. We laughed, but tried it at sunrise one summer morning.
Coffee outside with the pre-dawn bird chorus, fresh air, and a pen and paper to capture the moment. Since we were an hour apart—she lives in the Central time zone—we chose the moment the sun peeked over the horizon. If we didn’t share the same visions, we did hear cardinals singing at the same time.
“Let’s try it,” JoAnn said, “only we’ll use candles and favorite Christmas memories.”
And so, our Candle Ceremony was born.
We spent time debating what questions to ask, and decided to mail instructions with twelve questions, a package of cocoa, and a candle. We gave a deadline for the return of their answers, and promised to compile them and send everyone a copy.
Twenty-six friends and family responded. JoAnn and I typed the answers under each question and mailed back folders with the names on a list at the back.
And so I learned that my brother Dave’s favorite gift of all time was his Kenner Girder & Panel building set. That my father’s was a fire engine that pumped water, while Mom’s was her Betsy-Wetsy doll (which she passed on to me).
My son David’s best traditions were shopping with me and Christmas Day at Brother Dave’s, and my daughter Anne’s was stirring wishes into plum pudding the First Sunday of Advent.
Earliest Christmas memories for Dad and Anne were looking out windows at snow falling at night (Pontiac and the Heights). David’s favorite gift was his first Nintendo. My sisters cherished Madame Alexander dolls (named Lydia and Michael) with clothes homemade by Mom.
Every first Christmas Eve memory included snow.
Christmas Day? Opening gifts in the morning and family dinner. I wrote long, detailed letters to our family in Florida year after year about Brother Dave’s Dickens’ Christmas Day dinner, and one year, the entire family rode the train to Pontiac for our biggest family holiday ever.
Sharing favorite memories and carols, surprising each other with our answers did bring us closer together that Christmas. Thank you, JoAnn.
I’d like to share our questions with you to do the same. Of course, you’re free to make up your own. The most important part is the chance to learn more about those closest to you, even from a distance.
Have fun! We did.
1. What is your favorite Christmas carol?
2. What was your favorite childhood Christmas present?
3. What would you ask Santa for today?
4. Did you ever hear bells on Christmas Eve?
5. When was your last icy patch?
6. Of all the Christmas trees you’ve known, which ornament comes to mind first?
7. When in the season do you get your first feeling of Christmas?
8. What color and style Christmas wrapping do you choose for your gifts, and what kind of setting do you prefer when you wrap?
9. It’s snowing outside your window Christmas Eve. How old are you, and what do you see?
10. Who or what would you add to the Nativity scene?
11. Of all the gifts you’ve been given, name one whose memory gives you pleasure now?
12. Describe two of your favorite Christmas traditions.
December 2, 2023
Stir-up Sunday and Advent
First Sunday of Advent, and for our family, the first of the (pre-) Christmas season.
Mom was always on the lookout for traditions she could share with us, since she’d grown up with none, and the season of Advent bubbled with choices. She’d found a booklet in the vestibule of Sacred Heart that listed customs around the world for Christmas, so she decided to include many of them at our house.
First Sunday of Advent—Stir-up Sunday, which meant that each of us stirred wishes into the plum pudding batter before it simmered on the stove.
We also had an Advent wreath on the kitchen table with greenery and the four candles—three purple and one pink. First week, purple prophecy candle. Second week, purple Bethlehem candle was also lit. Third week, pink shepherd’s candle, and last week, purple angels’ candle, with all four burning during dinner. Before saying grace, Dad read the appropriate weekly prayers from the booklet.
We had an Advent calendar each year, and took turns opening the days until Christmas. Someone always unpeeled December 25th early to see the Baby around the stable.
Our Nativity set was unpacked, but the sheep and shepherd were placed “in the fields,” not far from the stable. The three wise men were across the room beginning their famous journey, and Mary and Joseph started theirs from another corner. Those figures were moved closer every week until Christmas Eve, when they all waited for the Holy Birth.
Of course, by Christmas morning, the Baby was in the manger. My brothers and I sniggered about Mary and Joseph making the journey on their knees.
Another idea from the booklet was to create a doll-sized manger (half an oatmeal container) for the coming Baby, with straw added from our good deeds. Unfortunately, the bedding rose and fell depending on our behavior, and whether straw was added or removed. On Christmas morning, a baby doll was born, hopefully to a bed soft with hay.
These annual rites gave the season a sparkle.
There were several nights of Christmas cookie baking and decorating, with the finished masterpieces saved in large Tupperware bins between waxed paper layers. We tried to keep our pilfering from being noticeable by rearranging layers until Christmas. Our cool basement made the perfect storage area, although not safe from eager fingers.
The hiding of wrapped Christmas gifts began, but no matter where Mom and Dad stashed my brother Dave’s, he always found them. At least, he was careful about unwrapping and rewrapping the corners to check. I unpeeled and retaped my Flintstone set so many times that year, it was shredded by Christmas morning.
It was always dark, cold, and snowy when we went out to choose the perfect Christmas tree. With a large family, we each scattered to find the winner. Lights around the lot and between rows of waiting cut trees made the darkness and search exciting.
I was surprised every year by how tall the tree was once it stood inside the living room.
“Let it settle,” Dad said, and we inhaled pine perfume as we waited a day for ornaments, lights, and silvery tinsel.
Our ornaments were traditional, too, and we begged for the privilege of putting our favorites on the branches. For years, Dad had bubble lights made with oil, and if not safe by today’s standards, they were glorious to see.
We chose an angel for the top, and I made sure Mom’s childhood construction paper stocking was visible, made for her father when she was in kindergarten.
Years later, when my brother Dave had his annual magnificent tree, he hid a glass pickle in the branches, with the announcement that the first sighting awarded good luck for the year. That drew traffic around his tree Christmas Day.
Christmas Day dinner at my brother’s deserves its own story, and became a tradition for many wonderful years.
Mom gave us small gifts on St. Nicholas’ feast day, December 6th, and again on Epiphany, January 6th, the Twelfth Day of Christmas. We enjoyed the tiny presents, but more important, even then, were recognizing holiday traditions, fresh in my memory all these years later.
Merry Heavenly Christmas, Mom, and thank you for your scrumptious rituals that made the entire Christmas season dance with anticipation.
And our plum pudding wishes always came true.
Mom was always on the lookout for traditions she could share with us, since she’d grown up with none, and the season of Advent bubbled with choices. She’d found a booklet in the vestibule of Sacred Heart that listed customs around the world for Christmas, so she decided to include many of them at our house.
First Sunday of Advent—Stir-up Sunday, which meant that each of us stirred wishes into the plum pudding batter before it simmered on the stove.
We also had an Advent wreath on the kitchen table with greenery and the four candles—three purple and one pink. First week, purple prophecy candle. Second week, purple Bethlehem candle was also lit. Third week, pink shepherd’s candle, and last week, purple angels’ candle, with all four burning during dinner. Before saying grace, Dad read the appropriate weekly prayers from the booklet.
We had an Advent calendar each year, and took turns opening the days until Christmas. Someone always unpeeled December 25th early to see the Baby around the stable.
Our Nativity set was unpacked, but the sheep and shepherd were placed “in the fields,” not far from the stable. The three wise men were across the room beginning their famous journey, and Mary and Joseph started theirs from another corner. Those figures were moved closer every week until Christmas Eve, when they all waited for the Holy Birth.
Of course, by Christmas morning, the Baby was in the manger. My brothers and I sniggered about Mary and Joseph making the journey on their knees.
Another idea from the booklet was to create a doll-sized manger (half an oatmeal container) for the coming Baby, with straw added from our good deeds. Unfortunately, the bedding rose and fell depending on our behavior, and whether straw was added or removed. On Christmas morning, a baby doll was born, hopefully to a bed soft with hay.
These annual rites gave the season a sparkle.
There were several nights of Christmas cookie baking and decorating, with the finished masterpieces saved in large Tupperware bins between waxed paper layers. We tried to keep our pilfering from being noticeable by rearranging layers until Christmas. Our cool basement made the perfect storage area, although not safe from eager fingers.
The hiding of wrapped Christmas gifts began, but no matter where Mom and Dad stashed my brother Dave’s, he always found them. At least, he was careful about unwrapping and rewrapping the corners to check. I unpeeled and retaped my Flintstone set so many times that year, it was shredded by Christmas morning.
It was always dark, cold, and snowy when we went out to choose the perfect Christmas tree. With a large family, we each scattered to find the winner. Lights around the lot and between rows of waiting cut trees made the darkness and search exciting.
I was surprised every year by how tall the tree was once it stood inside the living room.
“Let it settle,” Dad said, and we inhaled pine perfume as we waited a day for ornaments, lights, and silvery tinsel.
Our ornaments were traditional, too, and we begged for the privilege of putting our favorites on the branches. For years, Dad had bubble lights made with oil, and if not safe by today’s standards, they were glorious to see.
We chose an angel for the top, and I made sure Mom’s childhood construction paper stocking was visible, made for her father when she was in kindergarten.
Years later, when my brother Dave had his annual magnificent tree, he hid a glass pickle in the branches, with the announcement that the first sighting awarded good luck for the year. That drew traffic around his tree Christmas Day.
Christmas Day dinner at my brother’s deserves its own story, and became a tradition for many wonderful years.
Mom gave us small gifts on St. Nicholas’ feast day, December 6th, and again on Epiphany, January 6th, the Twelfth Day of Christmas. We enjoyed the tiny presents, but more important, even then, were recognizing holiday traditions, fresh in my memory all these years later.
Merry Heavenly Christmas, Mom, and thank you for your scrumptious rituals that made the entire Christmas season dance with anticipation.
And our plum pudding wishes always came true.
November 25, 2023
A TIME FOR CHRISTMAS LISTS
Thanksgiving behind us, and Advent and Christmas ahead, it was time to give Mom and Dad our Christmas lists.
Some of my friends started theirs during the summer, so by early December, they had pages of must-haves in haphazard order. We were more organized than that.
We accumulated ideas, of course, but the list-making began with the first of the Christmas (toy) catalogs—JC Penney’s, Sears, and Montgomery Wards. We pored over the toy section, studying pictures and descriptions as we imagined owning the treasures.
My personal favorite Christmas catalog was Penney’s, probably because we ordered from their catalogs year round and drove to Miracle Mile shopping center on Telegraph for pick-ups.
During the year, I associated Sears with tools, (and years later, my sister Janet ordered her chicks from Sears). Wards was last on my list, but no less welcome.
Each of us had our favorite sections and pages—erector sets, Lincoln Logs, play store pieces, games and puzzles. Even studied the winter pajama section. I nearly wore the color off the page in 1960 when Marx offered the Flintstone set to celebrate the new weekly cartoon. I could taste the excitement of playing with it and inhaled the picture.
One year my brother Steve asked only for Mr. Machine— “Here he comes, here he comes, the greatest toy you’ve ever seen, and his name is Mister Machine,” the plastic wind-up robot with visible gears. Santa brought him, Steve wound him up, the thing took two steps and ground to a halt, never to work again. Devastation!
After that, Mom and Dad gave us Christmas list rules. If it was advertised on TV, we couldn’t ask for it at Christmastime. We didn’t kick too hard. Steve’s anguish had been too real. Of course, we’d try to add something we “really, really wanted” that was advertised on TV, hoping Mom and Dad wouldn’t notice.
They always did.
The rule was successful over the years because you chose toys you really, really wanted, and not because the ads were enticing. We played with them more often and they lasted longer.
One year, our daughter Anne “really, really” wanted the popular crawling baby doll—Matel’s Baby-that-away—and insisted that’s all she wanted. She also announced that she’d ask Santa for it because he wouldn’t tell her no.
In desperation, I took her to Hudson’s and asked to see the doll. Anne was so excited.
Until the hard-bodied, loud-motored toy growled its way across the counter. She tried to like it. She tried to hug it. Instead, she burst into tears and gave it back.
After that, we stuck to the “no TV commercial” toys for Christmas.
By mid-December, we Russell kids had narrowed each list to our top three. In deciding, I wrote and erased until my notebook paper was threadbare. My brothers kept handing in revised editions.
But on Christmas morning, after Dad started our annual invitation to rush downstairs to the first song, “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” from The Glorious Sound of Christmas (Eugene Ormandy, The Philadelphia Orchestra, Temple University Concert Choir), our favorite Christmas album, our top three choices would be wrapped and ready.
Number One would be wrapped in unique paper with “From Santa” on the tag. How Mom and Dad managed every year with six children is a mystery, but my memories of those Christmas years sparkle.
You can buy old Sears, Penney’s, and Wards Christmas catalogues on eBay, Amazon, and other sources, from $30 to over $100. Imagine. Ours came free--pristine, colorful, brimming with possibilities.
It’s amusing to see those prices now, but that was a different time. And nothing can reproduce the thrill of receiving each catalog in the mail.
Or the competition of being the first to pore through the pages, our notebook paper ready to include catalog name and page.
We left nothing to chance.
I still leaf through any Christmas catalog with pleasure, but the enchantment is diluted. Maybe not for our grandchildren, although they’d probably be lost without commercials.
Let’s hear it for toys that need no advertisement.
(To wrap Lego sets of any size for them, however, refinancing may be necessary.)
Some of my friends started theirs during the summer, so by early December, they had pages of must-haves in haphazard order. We were more organized than that.
We accumulated ideas, of course, but the list-making began with the first of the Christmas (toy) catalogs—JC Penney’s, Sears, and Montgomery Wards. We pored over the toy section, studying pictures and descriptions as we imagined owning the treasures.
My personal favorite Christmas catalog was Penney’s, probably because we ordered from their catalogs year round and drove to Miracle Mile shopping center on Telegraph for pick-ups.
During the year, I associated Sears with tools, (and years later, my sister Janet ordered her chicks from Sears). Wards was last on my list, but no less welcome.
Each of us had our favorite sections and pages—erector sets, Lincoln Logs, play store pieces, games and puzzles. Even studied the winter pajama section. I nearly wore the color off the page in 1960 when Marx offered the Flintstone set to celebrate the new weekly cartoon. I could taste the excitement of playing with it and inhaled the picture.
One year my brother Steve asked only for Mr. Machine— “Here he comes, here he comes, the greatest toy you’ve ever seen, and his name is Mister Machine,” the plastic wind-up robot with visible gears. Santa brought him, Steve wound him up, the thing took two steps and ground to a halt, never to work again. Devastation!
After that, Mom and Dad gave us Christmas list rules. If it was advertised on TV, we couldn’t ask for it at Christmastime. We didn’t kick too hard. Steve’s anguish had been too real. Of course, we’d try to add something we “really, really wanted” that was advertised on TV, hoping Mom and Dad wouldn’t notice.
They always did.
The rule was successful over the years because you chose toys you really, really wanted, and not because the ads were enticing. We played with them more often and they lasted longer.
One year, our daughter Anne “really, really” wanted the popular crawling baby doll—Matel’s Baby-that-away—and insisted that’s all she wanted. She also announced that she’d ask Santa for it because he wouldn’t tell her no.
In desperation, I took her to Hudson’s and asked to see the doll. Anne was so excited.
Until the hard-bodied, loud-motored toy growled its way across the counter. She tried to like it. She tried to hug it. Instead, she burst into tears and gave it back.
After that, we stuck to the “no TV commercial” toys for Christmas.
By mid-December, we Russell kids had narrowed each list to our top three. In deciding, I wrote and erased until my notebook paper was threadbare. My brothers kept handing in revised editions.
But on Christmas morning, after Dad started our annual invitation to rush downstairs to the first song, “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” from The Glorious Sound of Christmas (Eugene Ormandy, The Philadelphia Orchestra, Temple University Concert Choir), our favorite Christmas album, our top three choices would be wrapped and ready.
Number One would be wrapped in unique paper with “From Santa” on the tag. How Mom and Dad managed every year with six children is a mystery, but my memories of those Christmas years sparkle.
You can buy old Sears, Penney’s, and Wards Christmas catalogues on eBay, Amazon, and other sources, from $30 to over $100. Imagine. Ours came free--pristine, colorful, brimming with possibilities.
It’s amusing to see those prices now, but that was a different time. And nothing can reproduce the thrill of receiving each catalog in the mail.
Or the competition of being the first to pore through the pages, our notebook paper ready to include catalog name and page.
We left nothing to chance.
I still leaf through any Christmas catalog with pleasure, but the enchantment is diluted. Maybe not for our grandchildren, although they’d probably be lost without commercials.
Let’s hear it for toys that need no advertisement.
(To wrap Lego sets of any size for them, however, refinancing may be necessary.)
November 18, 2023
One Kind of Thanksgiving History
This is a story about Thanksgiving.
No, not the first Plymouth feast with its elementary school history of grateful pilgrims and Squanto’s (Tisquantum’s) assistance, and not the less-pristine version of threats, plague, slavery, and treachery.
No, this is a story of early Thanksgiving dinners in one everyday family who lived in a small town in the magnificent State of Michigan.
My family.
One of the first questions every newlywed couple works out is where to spend the holidays. Since Mom had six children and a large kitchen, she prepared our Thanksgiving feast at home and invited her parents and grandmother.
Mom stirred together the stuffing, and baked the mincemeat and two pumpkin pies the night before. Early Thursday morning, she prepared the turkey and started the potatoes. Naturally, we kids were kept busy with the two parades—New York Macy’s and Detroit’s Hudson Parade—as we inhaled the fragrance of roasting turkey, and checked the windows for possible snow.
Mom whipped around the kitchen, in her apron, preparing the rest of the dishes, setting the table, and balancing breakfast and lunch around the biggest meal of our year. My brothers and I would attempt to break off a piece of stuffing from the oven whenever Mom wasn’t in sight. Oh, the joy of anticipation.
Dad would drive to North Grant Street in Avon Township and pick up Great-Grandma Miller. Grandma and Grandpa Schaffer arrived just before dinnertime. From their silent homes to our noise and chaos must have seemed like a carnival, and I don’t recall any grandparent staying long after dinner.
Mom and Dad were young—five children before their 30’s—and Mom taught herself how to cook, sew, knit, bake bread, bake, clean, and raise children. Looking back, I’m amazed at her confidence and efficiency with the enormous dinner, but she was determined to see that her children enjoy every possible holiday tradition.
She and Dad met on a blind date, when he pulled his friend aside and told him, “That’s the girl I’m going to marry.” And did.
They received no support or encouragement from either side of the family, and times were hard for everyone. Even with a job, money was scarce, especially with a growing brood of children.
We heard stories of having to burn a child’s wooden table and chair meant for Christmas to keep warm until coal could be ordered, but my memories include annual traditions, Santa gifts, homemade breads and cookies, new pajamas on Christmas Eve, perfect Christmas mornings, and holiday meals.
Our family crowded around our large kitchen table on Thanksgiving surrounded by every delicious offering—mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, and a platter of turkey slices and enormous drumsticks, with pies and whipped cream on the countertops.
Mom used her best tablecloth, candles, cloth napkins, and Jewel Tea Autumn Leaf dishes, with the various sized bowls and casseroles, platter, and gravy boat. Those were the days before automatic dishwashers, so after the feasting, Mom was also chief food-packer and bottle-washer.
I look back at her labor of love in amazement. If she complained, I didn’t hear it. She must have been exhausted before, during, and after Thanksgiving, but had children to care for, bedtimes to arrange, laundry to manage, all surrounded by the noise, tattling, arguing, and begging that goes with a gaggle of children from toddler to teen.
In those days, watching the parades, waiting for the Pied Piper of Hamelin movie in the afternoon while the aroma of roasting turkey drifted into the living room, and the annual Wizard of Oz musical in the evening seemed as important as dinner, turkey sandwiches in the evening, and choosing pumpkin or mince.
Today? I see a young wife and mother working hard to offer holidays to remember, and Thanksgiving dinners that took all her energy and skill for memories that would be passed on through generations.
In spite of my many holiday years, when I hear the word Thanksgiving, I’m back on Caroline Street, sniffing the perfume of turkey, and hearing Mom chopping, stirring, and cooking around the clanking of plates and silverware, waiting for the magic words, “It’s ready.”
Thank you, Mom. Your efforts were appreciated then, even when we didn’t know how to let you know. I can’t tell you face-to-face now, either, but somehow, I think you know.
One small town, one family, one way of celebrating Thanksgiving.
My gratitude is endless.
No, not the first Plymouth feast with its elementary school history of grateful pilgrims and Squanto’s (Tisquantum’s) assistance, and not the less-pristine version of threats, plague, slavery, and treachery.
No, this is a story of early Thanksgiving dinners in one everyday family who lived in a small town in the magnificent State of Michigan.
My family.
One of the first questions every newlywed couple works out is where to spend the holidays. Since Mom had six children and a large kitchen, she prepared our Thanksgiving feast at home and invited her parents and grandmother.
Mom stirred together the stuffing, and baked the mincemeat and two pumpkin pies the night before. Early Thursday morning, she prepared the turkey and started the potatoes. Naturally, we kids were kept busy with the two parades—New York Macy’s and Detroit’s Hudson Parade—as we inhaled the fragrance of roasting turkey, and checked the windows for possible snow.
Mom whipped around the kitchen, in her apron, preparing the rest of the dishes, setting the table, and balancing breakfast and lunch around the biggest meal of our year. My brothers and I would attempt to break off a piece of stuffing from the oven whenever Mom wasn’t in sight. Oh, the joy of anticipation.
Dad would drive to North Grant Street in Avon Township and pick up Great-Grandma Miller. Grandma and Grandpa Schaffer arrived just before dinnertime. From their silent homes to our noise and chaos must have seemed like a carnival, and I don’t recall any grandparent staying long after dinner.
Mom and Dad were young—five children before their 30’s—and Mom taught herself how to cook, sew, knit, bake bread, bake, clean, and raise children. Looking back, I’m amazed at her confidence and efficiency with the enormous dinner, but she was determined to see that her children enjoy every possible holiday tradition.
She and Dad met on a blind date, when he pulled his friend aside and told him, “That’s the girl I’m going to marry.” And did.
They received no support or encouragement from either side of the family, and times were hard for everyone. Even with a job, money was scarce, especially with a growing brood of children.
We heard stories of having to burn a child’s wooden table and chair meant for Christmas to keep warm until coal could be ordered, but my memories include annual traditions, Santa gifts, homemade breads and cookies, new pajamas on Christmas Eve, perfect Christmas mornings, and holiday meals.
Our family crowded around our large kitchen table on Thanksgiving surrounded by every delicious offering—mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, and a platter of turkey slices and enormous drumsticks, with pies and whipped cream on the countertops.
Mom used her best tablecloth, candles, cloth napkins, and Jewel Tea Autumn Leaf dishes, with the various sized bowls and casseroles, platter, and gravy boat. Those were the days before automatic dishwashers, so after the feasting, Mom was also chief food-packer and bottle-washer.
I look back at her labor of love in amazement. If she complained, I didn’t hear it. She must have been exhausted before, during, and after Thanksgiving, but had children to care for, bedtimes to arrange, laundry to manage, all surrounded by the noise, tattling, arguing, and begging that goes with a gaggle of children from toddler to teen.
In those days, watching the parades, waiting for the Pied Piper of Hamelin movie in the afternoon while the aroma of roasting turkey drifted into the living room, and the annual Wizard of Oz musical in the evening seemed as important as dinner, turkey sandwiches in the evening, and choosing pumpkin or mince.
Today? I see a young wife and mother working hard to offer holidays to remember, and Thanksgiving dinners that took all her energy and skill for memories that would be passed on through generations.
In spite of my many holiday years, when I hear the word Thanksgiving, I’m back on Caroline Street, sniffing the perfume of turkey, and hearing Mom chopping, stirring, and cooking around the clanking of plates and silverware, waiting for the magic words, “It’s ready.”
Thank you, Mom. Your efforts were appreciated then, even when we didn’t know how to let you know. I can’t tell you face-to-face now, either, but somehow, I think you know.
One small town, one family, one way of celebrating Thanksgiving.
My gratitude is endless.
November 11, 2023
A November Walk Through Michigan
I never thought I’d miss November in Michigan.
Maybe I’ve been in Florida too long to recall the gloomy skies and cold days, but what I remember is crisp air, a mixture of clouds and sky, dusting of snow, frozen fields.
November is an in-between month in Michigan. Still considered autumn, it’s more like early winter. Snow arrives, even if it doesn’t mound high enough for snowball fights. Frost freezes the ground. Breath is visible. Heavier jackets and gloves appear.
Mom bought me a soft wool hat-scarf that kept me warm. My down jacket and heavy gloves were an invitation to walk the trails of the Troy nature center or along the Clinton River.
I don’t miss scraping car windows or driving to work in the morning chill, but wish I could savor crunchy fields with a dusting of snow. Hear the crackling weeds in the wind. Gaze at bare trees across the field.
The sun is lower in the sky. We’ve lost an hour of daylight. Temperatures continue to drop, and winter moves into the upper half of Michigan. From falling leaves at Halloween to early snows before Thanksgiving, November ties together two seasons.
Warm air holds moisture, but in Michigan November, the lake effect creates cold air that blows across the Great Lakes. That creates rain early in the month and snow later. North of Manistee and West Branch, snowfall of 5-10 inches is common. In the Heights, several inches could come and go at any time.
Cold. Gray skies. Anyone suffering with seasonal depression feels the gloom of November, but there’s another aspect.
Fresh, cold air. Standing at the edge of a snow-dusted field, hearing the rattle of ironweed and nettles in the wind. Geese crossing the sky. Silent ponds, with fish and frogs slowed by the cold into a semi-hibernation state, or buried in crevices and logs. Squirrels curled together in nests. Walks along roads with fields and frozen lawns, bare trees, snow clouds along the horizon, occasional crow calls.
Hunters and children celebrate a different November. Parents begin preparations for Thanksgiving meals and Christmas shopping. Trading iced tea for hot cocoa, savoring afternoon coffee.
Apple picking and cider melt into visits to Frankenmuth—Christmas at Bronner’s, dinner at Zehnder’s or Bavarian Inn, strolling through the bright, decorated shops.
Our family also discovered Canterbury Village in Lake Orion, originally the 3,000-acre farm of William Edmund Scripps who bought the property in 1916. During the Great Depression, farmhands, servants, and employees lived on the property with the family. A one-room schoolhouse was built for the children, and the original farmhouses and buildings make up shops and a view into history.
We visited in the summertime to savor ice cream cones, but our favorite trips were in the winter in anticipation of Christmas with dinner and window-shopping.
Michigan covers 56,000 square miles—a wonderland of lakes and ponds, cities, wilderness, seasonal activities, and proud Michiganders.
I cherish those memories this November day. Browsing Bronner’s holiday delights, sharing chicken dinners at one of the famous restaurants, savoring snowy woods and scenic drives.
I’ll wrap Mom’s scarf around my neck, pull on my gloves, and zip my down jacket for a walk along a Michigan field.
At least, in my memories.
After all, once a Michigander…
Maybe I’ve been in Florida too long to recall the gloomy skies and cold days, but what I remember is crisp air, a mixture of clouds and sky, dusting of snow, frozen fields.
November is an in-between month in Michigan. Still considered autumn, it’s more like early winter. Snow arrives, even if it doesn’t mound high enough for snowball fights. Frost freezes the ground. Breath is visible. Heavier jackets and gloves appear.
Mom bought me a soft wool hat-scarf that kept me warm. My down jacket and heavy gloves were an invitation to walk the trails of the Troy nature center or along the Clinton River.
I don’t miss scraping car windows or driving to work in the morning chill, but wish I could savor crunchy fields with a dusting of snow. Hear the crackling weeds in the wind. Gaze at bare trees across the field.
The sun is lower in the sky. We’ve lost an hour of daylight. Temperatures continue to drop, and winter moves into the upper half of Michigan. From falling leaves at Halloween to early snows before Thanksgiving, November ties together two seasons.
Warm air holds moisture, but in Michigan November, the lake effect creates cold air that blows across the Great Lakes. That creates rain early in the month and snow later. North of Manistee and West Branch, snowfall of 5-10 inches is common. In the Heights, several inches could come and go at any time.
Cold. Gray skies. Anyone suffering with seasonal depression feels the gloom of November, but there’s another aspect.
Fresh, cold air. Standing at the edge of a snow-dusted field, hearing the rattle of ironweed and nettles in the wind. Geese crossing the sky. Silent ponds, with fish and frogs slowed by the cold into a semi-hibernation state, or buried in crevices and logs. Squirrels curled together in nests. Walks along roads with fields and frozen lawns, bare trees, snow clouds along the horizon, occasional crow calls.
Hunters and children celebrate a different November. Parents begin preparations for Thanksgiving meals and Christmas shopping. Trading iced tea for hot cocoa, savoring afternoon coffee.
Apple picking and cider melt into visits to Frankenmuth—Christmas at Bronner’s, dinner at Zehnder’s or Bavarian Inn, strolling through the bright, decorated shops.
Our family also discovered Canterbury Village in Lake Orion, originally the 3,000-acre farm of William Edmund Scripps who bought the property in 1916. During the Great Depression, farmhands, servants, and employees lived on the property with the family. A one-room schoolhouse was built for the children, and the original farmhouses and buildings make up shops and a view into history.
We visited in the summertime to savor ice cream cones, but our favorite trips were in the winter in anticipation of Christmas with dinner and window-shopping.
Michigan covers 56,000 square miles—a wonderland of lakes and ponds, cities, wilderness, seasonal activities, and proud Michiganders.
I cherish those memories this November day. Browsing Bronner’s holiday delights, sharing chicken dinners at one of the famous restaurants, savoring snowy woods and scenic drives.
I’ll wrap Mom’s scarf around my neck, pull on my gloves, and zip my down jacket for a walk along a Michigan field.
At least, in my memories.
After all, once a Michigander…
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