Solstice 2011

Now we turn toward light. On the shortest day, I'm reflecting on the year and thinking about the new one coming quickly toward us. If I wrote a Christmas letter, I'd include descriptions of our great trips to Rome as well as our week on Lake Nantahala in North Carolina. There we swam, sat on the big porch reading with our grandson, hiked, and cooked. Kind of the opposite of worldly, historic, magnificent Rome, but, still, the Smokies are pretty divine.

In a Christmas letter, I'd talk about the many feasts we've prepared, finishing the cookbook, leisurely visits in Italy with friends, and about Ed's show with Alberto in Cortona.  Lots more on the gardens I tend.  I'd have to mention that we were robbed this year–what an assault.  And, most sadly, our family has just lost our dear Bill Jackson, my sister's husband.  He was a sterling man–a veterinarian whose specialty in animal opthamology took him all over the world. He was a big sportsman, a kind friend, and a happy man. At the end of his obituary, my sister wrote that instead of flowers, please remember him by performing a random act of kindness.  This was appropriate for someone who so often did that.

Driving home from the funeral twelve hours south of here, Ed and I listened to The Great Gatsby all the way home.  We stopped overnight in one of my old haunts, Fernandina Beach, Florida. I spent endless time there as a child and the town, now quite gentrified, is as familiar to me as my hometown. It has kept its Old Florida feel and the beach is as sublime as ever. I started to look at real estate windows but Ed steered me on down the street.  Once, when I was about twelve, I was alone on the beach and I saw two Navy planes collide over the water and crash. I ran in to tell everyone and no one believed me. "You were imagining it," my mother insisted and continued to insist until the evening news came up on the hotel bar. In Fernandina, I used to write messages and shove them into bottles. My father indulged me by taking them to the fishing boats and asking the men to throw them in the water way out at sea. If you find this, write to me. . . If you travel near Jacksonville, Florida, take a detour to Fernandina! Instead of a white Christmas, I'm dreaming of a week there at the lovely Elizabeth Pointe Inn. It was full this time so we stayed at a motel on the harbor instead. A whole week there, a slow winter week to walk, write, and read.

But for now, we're at home in unseasonably warm North Carolina.  Friends from NY came for two days and we cooked  big Tuscan ribs and polenta, and drank some big wines. Willie and I made wreathes out of scuppernong vines, greens, red berries and herbs from the garden. They look kind of pitiful compared to my neighbors giant wreathes but we like them. We made bird houses from gourds Willie grew and gave them to friends. As Christmas morning approaches, it's a little sad that Willie, nine, no longer believes that Santa is plummeting down the chimney and spreading gifts around the living room.  The only constant is change. At year's end, you remember many good times and try to sweep the bad aside. Best not to think of our elected representatives who have betrayed us all with their heavy partisan nonsense.  Very unpatriotic.  Better to think on summer tomatoes, falling stars, a special gift found for a friend, a dream of a vacation to come, a good book by the bed, a folio of recipes to try, a child to awe, a little time to dream.  Always, I am missing the warmth of Tuscan evenings with friends there. Meanwhile, much to savor and learn here.

I hope everyone who reads here has lovely holidays.  Invigorating–leading you forward. I hope that no one feels like those deflated vinyl Santas I see lying on lawns in my neighborhood.  The sled, the reindeer, the big Santa, who always seems to give out first and lie on the lawn! After all the gifts and the feasts, the New Year is coming. Time to make lists. Time for renewal. There, I've almost written a Christmas letter after all.