Category Archives: Family

Community, Family, Memorials, Travel, World War II

Another Memorial Day, Another War

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Memorial Day was established as a time to honor and mourn those who lost their lives while serving in our armed forces.   It’s tempting to ignore the solemn significance of this national holiday in the busy-ness of approaching summer, in the opportunity for a long weekend of travel and festivity, in the opposing tugs of obligation and urge for escape.  We do a disservice to our war dead, as well as to those currently serving in our military, when we let the day go by without confronting and pondering the very real human cost of war.  There are many, of course, whose grief for the military loss of a family member or friend is unabating.  I hope they find at least a small measure of comfort when they see others acknowledging their dear one’s ultimate sacrifice. 

In years past, I’ve written about the moving prospect of the miniature flags that decorate military graves in lovely Fairfield Cemetery in Spencerport, New York.  This charming Eerie Canal Village near Rochester is the home of my husband’s sister and her family.  My dog Kiko and I discovered the flag-adorned cemetery during an early  morning walk there seven years ago when we were visiting over the Memorial Day weekend.   

Every year since, if I’m not in Spencerport for the holiday, I ask my sister-in-law to send photos of the cemetery.

Her husband serves as a volunteer fire fighter.  She also sent this photo of the local fire department.  Flags are lowered to  half-mast to honor those who gave their lives fighting for our country, our rights and our freedom.  

And she sends photos of the Hometown Heroes banners that adorn the lamp posts along the town’s main thoroughfare, Union Street.  They bear images of men and women from the area who have served, or who currently serve, in our military.  While in the quiet haven of the cemetery, flag-decorated gravestones attest to lives lost in war, the banners in the heart of town remind us of the continuing potential for further sacrifice.

On this Memorial Day, our family is among the many who offer heartfelt thanks that a relative did his or her military duty with honor and returned home physically whole.  We think of our twenty-three-year old nephew, who served in the Marines.  Back in civilian life, he was able to attend our daughter’s wedding in April.  The last time I’d seen him, he was a restless little boy, happy to be rescued from an all-day Irish Dance event, in which his two sisters were participating.  He’s now a wise young man, thoughtful, soft-spoken and self-effacing.  He was deployed for many months in the Middle East, in dangerous locales that were kept secret.  At one point, his parents received word that there had been a death in his company, but the young soldier’s identity wasn’t revealed for a while.  The frightening reality of war was painfully evident for our family during those anxious days.  Our nephew, of course, lived with the stark truth of imminent danger throughout his deployment.  Hours of boredom might suddenly be followed by the sight of missiles soaring overhead like fireworks.  He saw all too clearly the physical and emotional damage of war.  He’s also seen the ineffectiveness of military might in changing hearts and minds. The experience of war has left him, like many of our returning servicemen and women, with a fresh appreciation for peace and peace-makers.

Every day now we hear conflicting reports about the progress, (or  its absence), of yet another all too ill-considered war.  We hear conflicting reasons for our country’s entry into this befuddling military campaign.  We’re told that earlier missile strikes “obliterated” Iran’s ability to make a nuclear weapon.  Then we’re told that Iran was, despite that absolute obliteration, somehow on the very brink of achieving such a weapon.  We’re told that the Strait of Hormuz is open.  Or maybe not quite yet.  But it certainly will be, very soon.  We’re extremely close in negotiating the deal to end all deals.  We’re told that the war is going “unbelievably well.”    

But wait.  We’re even told that this is not a war at all.  It’s nothing more than a mere skirmish.  To grieving families, is this a comfort?  No.  It belittles the circumstances under which their loved ones gave their lives.  To those mourning the thirteen recently deceased service members, it’s yet another slap in the face to hear that their sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers perished in a little skirmish.  

How many more lives will be required during this conflict, this non-war, and to what end?   As next Memorial Day rolls around, how many more families will be grieving fresh losses?  Will we ever learn the value of working for peace, from those, like my nephew, who have lived the reality of war?  

 

 

Family, Nature, Parenthood

In Spring’s Resilience, Hope

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Our daughter and her fiancé had originally wanted a fall wedding.  They’d found a lovely spot and  were about to lock in a date in mid-October that would coincide with my husband’s and my thirtieth anniversary.  Then they decided to check out a couple more wedding venues, just in case.  They found an even more perfect locale, and it was fully booked in October.  They chose to marry in April, instead.

Once plans were underway for a spring wedding, I began to see the timing as fortuitous.  How fitting, to start a life together in the early days of a hopeful new season.  It seemed especially fitting after such a long, frozen winter, just as we were beginning to rejoice at the first signs of nature’s resilience. Yes, again there were daffodils,  cherry blossoms, colonies of purple and white violets amid their heart-shaped leaves, and vibrantly bright azaleas. Our newly planted London Plane trees did not perish in the extreme cold.   A springtime wedding seemed an appropriate antidote for these dispiriting days, when reasons to keep hope alive appear increasingly unsustainable.  

Now that the wedding is in the past, I’m looking back on photos I took of nature’s beauty just outside our doors, before and after the big event.  And I see them now through the lens of that celebratory day.  I see images that evoke renewal, rebirth and indefatigable persistence in the face of adversity.  

Outside our screened porch, rhododendrons dotted with raindrops recall the words of “Morning Has Broken,” the first hymn we sang at the ceremony: 

Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven,

Like the first dewfall on the first grass.

Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden,

Sprung in completeness where God’s feet pass.

During the song,  rain could clearly be seen falling through a large open window onto a bank of  flowers below.  We had watched the weather with alarm and dismay all that week, as the chance of showers increased to close to 100%.  As it turned out, the indoor ceremony in the  enormous, nave-like barn, with all windows open to the elements and rain pounding dramatically on the roof, felt absolutely perfect.  For our family, it was also unforgettable, which was the song our daughter chose for her dance with her father.   

The wedding flowers were all in season, locally grown at another nearby farm.  They happened to echo the colors of the three bridesmaids’ dresses, each one different, each the choice of its wearer.  

I’d feared that my husband had pruned this late-blooming lilac far too drastically last year.  Yet it rebounded triumphantly with a fabulous and fragrant show.

There were no peonies among the wedding flowers, as they weren’t yet blooming in our area.  Ever since I saw my first peony, on a walk in New Jersey, it’s been one of my favorite flowers.  Once we moved into our own home in Virginia, it was a gardening goal to dedicate a spot to these gorgeous blossoms.  For a while we had an array of productive peony plants.  Then a blizzard took out several, including the most dazzling example, a pink tree peony, with extra-large blooms.  Those that remained put forth only white blossoms.  Inspired by the pastel colors of the wedding flowers, I decided it was time to expand our peony palette.  That proved more difficult than I had expected, but this peachy Cora Louise and white Primavera with its lacy yellow center have been welcome new additions.   

The bright green leaves above are mayapple plants.  Native to Virginia, mayapples appear in early spring in woodland undergrowth.  Soon after sprouting, they look like closed umbrellas, which then open, creating a protective canopy for birds and small animals.  A single, delicate white blossom grows beneath the foliage, forming a small apple-like sphere.  The fruit, when fully ripe, is said to be a favorite of box turtles, who poop out the seeds to germinate in the soil of the forest floor.  My husband’s box turtle, however, was unimpressed.  Speedy, who has been with H since elementary school, stomped deliberately over the mayapple fruit we offered, circled back and stared at us, as if to say, “Really?” H has recently been treating Speedy with freshly harvested earthworms and lawn grubs, as well as the occasional bite of tender beef filet.  Our turtle may be living the high life, but the mayapple appears content in its unassuming humility.  I love watching their leaves unfurl every spring in our courtyard.  Quietly reliable, and easily overlooked in the company of the season’s more spectacular stars, the plants remind me of the virtue of humility.  Increasingly unappreciated and underused, humility is a valuable practice in marriage, as in every aspect of life.  This is a truth that becomes clearer to me with every passing year.  And just when I think I’ve gotten the hang of being humble, pride creeps in and I have to start all over again.  As I said, it’s a practice.  

Our Appalachian Red redbud trees abounded in early April with bright fuchsia buds.  The arctic chill of January and February was no match for their steadfast determination, a quality particularly evident in the showy flower clusters that burst forth directly from the trunk and large branches.

As spring progresses, the news from Washington and around the world teems with one ugliness after another: multiple wars, gun violence in houses of worship, sky-high costs of housing and basic necessities, environmental dangers, horrific disease, famine, mind-boggling government corruption and outright cruelty, among other perils.  We may be tempted to retreat to our own private islands of solace and despair.  We may be tempted to believe that evil is bound to win.  But just as each new day offers glimpses of transcendent natural beauty, it also offers opportunities to share in the power of community with old and new friends.  All around us we see spring’s glorious, dogged persistence, in the tendrils of the seeking vine, the now-leafy tree, the shaggy golden dandelion in the sidewalk crack.  May it prompt us to reach out, listen, join hands, stand up, speak out and act together for the greater good.  May it inspire us to be the reason that someone else is hopeful, for a change.    

Mine is the sunlight! Mine is the morning,

born of the one light Eden saw play!

Praise with elation, praise every morning,

God’s recreation of the new day! 

 

Morning Has Broken

Words:  Eleanor Farjeon, 1931 

Music: Traditional Gaelic melody

 

Lamentations 3:23:  Great is God’s faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning.  

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Parenthood

Mother’s Day 2026: With a Newly Married Daughter, a new Phase of Parenting

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May 1999, with my daughter, at five months, on the screened porch of my parents’ house in Atlanta.

It’s been just over two weeks now since our daughter’s wedding.  She and her fiancé were married in a very moving ceremony to which they’d given much thought.  Festive food, drink, and a rollicking dance party followed.  Several dear friends and family members present had attended my husband’s and my wedding thirty-one years ago.  All five of her young cousins on my husband’s side were with her at once for the first time ever.  The setting was a lovely working farm among the rolling hills of Loudoun County, Virginia.  We could well have been in the horse country of my native Kentucky.  

As the wedding day approached, I thought back on approximately twenty-eight years of motherhood, beginning with those first days when I discovered that I was expecting.  I kept coming back to the phrase I find myself thinking at every family milestone event:  our daughter is the daughter I’ve always wanted.  

Our first ultrasound image of our baby girl was telling:  she was upside down and doing vigorous scissor kicks.  This child would likely be a spirited, energetic presence.  

In those early days, I had a vague vision of what I hoped she’d be like, and the ways I might see my beloved parents, maybe even grandparents, in her.  I hoped we’d come to share a cherished friendship, much like the one I still enjoy with my mother.  

While I had wished she’d share a love for some of my favorite things, and she has, after her birth, I soon understood that it would be wondrous to witness the many ways she’d surprise us.  

It’s been a grand adventure to watch her move through various life phases:  especially bold around a year, suddenly shy at two.  Funny from the very beginning, able to laugh at herself.  As a toddler determined to try new things with minimal assistance.  How often she declared, “Self do it!”  Quickly, it was evident that she was gifted with courage, but also with kindness and compassion.  

As she grew, my husband and I saw how her character reflected traits from both of us, yet combined in novel ways.  She became the teenager who jumped into musical theatre while learning  BC Calculus, and then the University of Virginia student who chose a career in aerospace engineering and minored in astronomy.  

We’ve been blessed with almost three decades of being parents to our daughter.  Every once in a while, when I hear her call out “Mama,” past and present versions of her collide.  I get a sort of amazingly surreal time-warp sensation.  Sometimes when my husband and I reminisce about old times, we see her there with us.  Then it hits us that she wasn’t even born yet.  Seems like she’s always been a part of us.  And she always will be.

I marvel that our daughter does, indeed, carry in her traces of those who’ve gone on before.  My father was absolutely, resoundingly, overjoyed to become a grandfather.  Papa loved everything about our daughter.  In the curve of her nose, and in her gracious, humble confidence, I see him.  And she’s her Nana’s girl, too.  My mother, the practical realist, loves her granddaughter every bit as much as my father did.  Her role, though, has always been to  be the more subdued foil to Daddy’s sunny optimism.  Our daughter shares Nana’s willingness to face, and even to find humor, in life’s bitter and difficult aspects.

My husband and I, August 1998, at Mount Vernon, shortly after we moved to Virginia. I was five months pregnant with our daughter. (My facial expression is one I see on my mother in countless photos.)
January 5, 1999. With my mother and daughter, six days old, at our first townhouse in Virginia.
My mother and newborn daughter, January 7, 1999.
Happiness all around: my parents and daughter at 9 months, ready for Gymboree, September 1999.

With our daughter newly married, we’ve moved into another distinct parenting stage.  We’re absolutely delighted that she’s chosen a young man whom we happily welcome as a son.  They began dating in 2019, when they were both in college, but have been friends since 2014, when they met in high school drama. In their first shared theatre experience, she was among the citizens of Verona, and he played Romeo.  Our families, as drama volunteers and enthusiastic patrons, quickly became well acquainted. 

The newly married couple, April 25, 2026. (Thanks to my sister-in-law Julie for this photo.)

Our daughter and her new husband complement each other like colors on the color wheel.  At their wedding, I offered this toast:  May your love and respect increase with the years.  May you nourish each other, like the forest of plants you lovingly tend in your home.  May you strengthen and encourage one another, like two trees that flourish and thrive because they’re entwined together.  

A portion of the wedding banner I painted for the couple.

And may we, my husband and I, continue to grow as good parents to both our children.  And if we get the chance one day to be grandparents, may we embrace that role with as much joy and dedication as our parents did before us.  

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Friendship

Reflections on Haygood Memorial United Methodist Church, as its Centennial Approaches

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The Atlanta church I grew up in celebrates one hundred years of ministry this month.  Haygood Memorial United Methodist Church is located in the heart of the historic Morningside neighborhood, immediately adjacent to the elementary school.  When my parents and I moved to the area in 1968, we considered it a stroke of great fortune to find a home a little more than a block away from the church and school. We began attending Haygood that summer, when I was about to start second grade.  Haygood served as my home church for the next several decades; it nourished me in many ways as I grew from child to adult. When my mother relocated to Virginia in 2017, following my father’s passing the year before, we’d seen twelve pastors come and go.  Our Haygood connection had held strong for forty-nine years.  Because the congregation is still filled with dear friends, the link remains vital today. 

The impact of Haygood in our lives has recently become especially clear to me.  Looking back, I see what a blessing it has been to be part of a dynamic, caring, multi-generational congregation.  As the ideal faith community should, Haygood offered us ongoing opportunities to interact regularly with a wide variety of people of all ages, from infants to the very elderly. From the babies I first encountered when I helped with the nursery on Wednesday nights, to the spunky octo- and nonagenarian widows my father, as one of several Haygood van drivers, drove to and from Sunday services.  There were the older adults who taught me in Sunday School.  My parents, likewise, taught elementary Sunday School classes for years.  For me, the church was filled with benevolent parental figures I could trust, people who looked upon me with genuine concern. And then there were our peers—the children who came of age with me, and the young parents who became grandparents alongside my parents.  Such invaluable interactions accrue, with time, in a close-knit, friendly neighborhood; over the decades, strangers become family.  A compassionate, welcoming church accelerates that process.  At Haygood we found the key to an instant, but well-rooted and long-lived family.

Above, my parents with their first-grade Sunday School class, on the steps of Haygood in the summer of 1969. It shows my father with his mustache, which was, thankfully, not around for long.

The church was named after Georgia-born siblings Atticus and Laura Haygood.  Atticus (1839–1896) began his career as a Methodist circuit rider.  He later became president of Emory University and a bishop in the Methodist Episcopal Church, South.  He was a strong advocate for education and rights of the formerly enslaved.  In books and sermons, he pushed for freed Blacks’ integration into society.  Laura (1845-1900)  was a champion of women’s education, a teacher who founded girls’ schools in Georgia and China.  After her Atlanta school merged with Girls’ High (the city’s first public school for girls) in 1877, she became its principal.  She was a leader in mission work at Trinity Methodist Church, where she established practical programs for aiding the poor.  At her death, she was serving as a missionary in China.   

I think Atticus and Laura would be pleased to see that their namesake church is one that cares for its members not as an end in itself, as a country club does, but to better equip them to serve God by serving others. They’d approve of Haygood’s emphasis on Bible study not to store up an armory of “gotcha verses” for scoring big wins in theological disputes, but to promote greater insight and to fuel compassion.  They’d be gratified to see a church that tackles the practical, often messy, civic-minded work of loving our neighbors.  They’d approve of a church that generally tries to leave the judgment to God in order to be His hands and feet in the wider world.  This is the Haygood I remember.  And it’s the Haygood that flourishes to this day, serving a vibrant intown Atlanta community.  

Our family in a Haygood directory photo, 1975.

My family and I were there for Haygood’s  fiftieth and seventy-sixth birthday festivities.  We won’t make it in person to the centennial, but Mama and I will certainly be there in spirit.  Haygood will always be our family’s beloved home church.  

My father and my daughter at Haygood’s front doors, July 2008.
My mother with her good friend Beverly after Daddy’s memorial service in August 2016.
Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family

Angels Unaware

It was my privilege and pleasure last week to lead Chapel Time for our church’s preschoolers.  Our daughter is a graduate of the preschool, and the program is near and dear to my heart.  I can’t forget the date of her first day:  September 10, 2001.  Three years later, she was among the seven children who comprised the first Pre-K class.  It was the preschool, in fact, that led us to our church.  

During Chapel Time, teachers bring the children into the sanctuary to hear a Bible story, followed by a brief discussion.  The text for the day was from Genesis 18, which recounts a visit by three strangers to Abraham and his wife Sarah.  They bring the message that God will keep the promise he made to them years earlier:  the couple will have a child, despite their advanced age, and one day, their descendants will be more numerous than the stars in the sky.  

I doubted that the kids would find the story of much interest.  How could they relate to an elderly couple longing for a baby?   

Our daughter and some of her preschool buddies, March 19, 2003.

But the Spark Story Bible that we use begins by noting that Abraham was ninety-nine when the three visitors arrived.  This got the children’s attention.  Before I began reading, to assess my audience, I had asked the kids how old they were.  They were eager to respond.

 “I’m four!”  

“I’m five!”  “

I’m about to turn five.”  

“I’ll be four tomorrow.”  

“I’m three and three quarters!”

A few quiet ones held up the appropriate number of fingers.  I also learned random bits of information:  “When we move to our new house, we’re getting a trampoline!”  “I have a loose tooth!”  

A hot day on the preschool playground, June 5, 2002.

The children were amazed at someone being as old as ninety-nine.  They remained attentive as I continued with the narrative.  

I read that Abraham greets the three men and invites them to stay for a meal.  While they eat, they tell him that Sarah will give birth within a year.  The strangers are clearly intended to be messengers from God, or God himself.  Various Biblical versions state that “The Lord” or “God” appeared to Abraham, before referring to three unknown men.  The children’s Bible refers to God’s promise, but doesn’t identify the three strangers.  The title of the story, though, was “Abraham and Sarah’s Visitors.”  

When I looked for images of this subject, I found the famous early fifteenth century icon by the Russian artist Andrei Rublev.  I like to show the kids a picture relating to the story, so I printed out a copy.  

Icon of the Trinity, Andrei Rublev, c. 1410.

The painting shows three figures, winged and haloed, seated at a table, in the center of which is a gold cup.  Neither Abraham nor Sarah are depicted, but a small structure at the top left represents their home, and a stylized tree toward the center indicates the oak grove in the shade of which Abraham was sitting when he first spotted the three unknown men approaching.  The angels’  identical, mournful faces incline toward one another.  Together, the outline of their bodies forms a circle.  The  two figures at left and right enclose a central space in the shape of a chalice, which echoes that of the gilded cup.  

The icon is most often interpreted as the three persons of the Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  The placement of the figures around the table calls to mind Christ’s Last Supper.  The graceful interaction among the three suggests spiritual communion.  

October 30, 2002 at the preschool.

I didn’t discuss these fine points  with the children.  The essential lesson, appropriate for all ages, and always timely, is twofold.  First,  God calls us to welcome the stranger.  Abraham met the three unknown men with hospitality.  And in so doing, he unknowingly met God Himself with honor and grace.  As God’s children, we’re expected to treat our brothers and sisters as we ourselves would like to be treated.  When we mistreat others, we mistreat God Himself.  And second, God invites each and every one of us to His table.  There a space for the viewer to join in the holy communion that is generated whenever and wherever we gather in loving kindness with our neighbors near and far.  It materializes, and transforms, when we reach out with thoughtful consideration, even to those with whom we disagree, rather than push away with bitterness, disdain and violence.  

I know there are those who are coming to believe, with much regret, that teaching compassion and humility has become a lost cause, a quaint relic of a naive and distant era. If we want our children to be successful in this cruel world, why bother encouraging them to act with goodness?  Why not teach instead the tools of the bully: arrogance, intimidation, brutality, callousness, and the reverence for self alone?  

Why not?

My own answer is simple:  it goes against everything I learned as a child at home and at church.  It goes against everything I’ve been taught from those who love me. 

As I sat in the midst of those smiling, happy preschoolers, a diverse group, representative of our community’s many ethnicities, I couldn’t imagine trying to foster meanness in them.  They were curious, eager to learn, and open-hearted.  They showed a genuine interest in me.  They were clearly inclined toward goodness.  

It gives me hope and buoys my faith to know that our preschool is only one among many in houses of worship all across our country that continue to do as they’ve always done: emphasize the blessings that come when we walk the path of mercy and kindness. They assure our little ones that God accompanies them, even when the way is uphill, rocky, and perilous.  Schools that affirm the importance of good citizenship are doing their part, as well.  

As the day on which we honor the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. rolls around again, I pray that we don’t give up on teaching our children that through their good works and acts of kindness, however small, they help bend the arc of the moral universe towards justice.

Our daughter on September 10, 2001, her first day of preschool.

Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!  (Hebrews 13: 2)

 I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me! (Matthew 25: 40)

 

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Holiday

Christmas Miscellany 2025

With Christmas ending tomorrow, there’s still time for me to post a few more photos from the season, including our church’s live nativity on the afternoon of December 24.  It’s a blessing and a pleasure to reconnect annually with this sweet group of friendly beasts.  The burrow and small black ox were laser-focused this year on eating as much hay has possible.  

Moses the camel, though, was as outgoing, patient and good-tempered as ever.  He nuzzled in for selfies and welcomed the hugs and caresses of curious children of all ages.  If you’ve heard that camels are known to spit, that’s correct.  But they spit when annoyed or threatened, and Moses is apparently always in a good mood, at least at our event.  

Another two friendly, very quiet beasts : papier-mâché reindeer keep watch out a front window at my mother’s house.  

Also at my mother’s, miniature decorations for one of my miniature houses. 

Again at my mother’s house, caroler candles surround a loving polar bear family and a Santa on skis.  The candles more faded in color date from around 1940.  They were a Christmas gift from a beloved family friend to Mama as a child.  

She remembers excitedly opening the small red box, which she still has.  The candles were a product of the Socony-Vacuum Oil Company, which through various mergers, currently exists as Exxon-Mobil. The label reads “4 Small Choirboys,”  but Mama’s set seems to contain three boys and a girl.  My mother insisted on lighting the girl candle, which quickly melted and shrunk, much to her childhood regret.  

I inherited the task of making gingerbread cookies for a dear friend of my mother’s.  He ships his highly anticipated peanut brittle up from Atlanta in exchange.  

A well-bundled and bushy-bearded Father Christmas, a years-ago gift from a friend, stands sentry on the walnut dresser in our front hall.  

Also at our house, the holy family camps out for the season atop a bookcase in the family room.  

The Magi with their richly adorned camel approach from atop the armoire on a neighboring wall.  Their arrival to worship the baby Jesus is commemorated in the Christian calendar as Epiphany, on January 6, the final day of Christmas.   

As is our custom, tomorrow will be the last night of our exterior holiday illumination.  The little lights throughout the house, though, remain until I remove them.  Every year, I seem to need the comfort of their warm glow a bit longer.  

For now, though, and through tomorrow, it’s still Christmas.  

May the light and love of Christmas continue to touch our hearts and move us to kindness and mercy, long after the festive bulbs shut off.  

Family, Holiday, Memorials

A Christmas Tree, Decked in Memories

Early in December, my husband asked if he should bring up my mother’s Christmas tree. And, he suggested, why not put it in the corner of her family room, where she could see it all day long from her favorite TV-watching chair? Sounds good, I agreed. But I wasn’t expecting this full-sized tree. Since the move from Atlanta eight years ago, it had been lying forlornly in pieces in a back corner of her basement. With Mama’s approval, in years past I’d decorated a smaller table-top tree in her dining room. She had to make a special circuit around the house to see it, but she said it gave her a reason to take a walk. I thought the bigger tree’s days as a host for decoration were well in the past. But with a few adjustments and several new strings of lights, it was rejuvenated. When my mother came downstairs to find the tree opposite her cozy day-time spot, she was as happy as a well-loved child on Christmas morning. It was the prettiest tree ever, she declared.

The last time I’d decorated this particular tree was in December 2015, in my childhood home, for what was to be my father’s final Christmas.  After decades of good health and keeping fit, the years had finally begun to catch up with him.  The previous few months had been rough, with an illness and a hospitalization.  Neither he nor Mama felt up to the task of what had in the past been a beloved activity, so I flew to Atlanta for a short tree-decorating trip.  Daddy attempted no hanging of ornaments, but he sat near me as I worked.  He radiated a sense of relaxed contentment during those few days.  He watched with interest as I unpacked all the many old ornaments, each one familiar, most of them prompting an origin story.

There were the music-making pinecone elves on skis, purchased in the early 60s on a rare day-after Thanksgiving shopping trip with Mama’s sister and her family in St. Matthews, KY, near Louisville.  

There was the was last remaining unsilvered ornament from the war years, when metal was reserved for military use: a red blown-glass ball with a cardboard cap and paper string hanger.  

And there was Mama’s favorite decoration of all, the cardboard stocking covered in silver foil.  It had been bought by her dear brother when he was a boy, around 1940.  During my mother’s childhood, she had regarded Edwin, six years her senior, with absolute and wholehearted devotion.  His premature death at age forty-four, from complications of alcoholism, has been one of the great sadnesses of her life.  

There were the many homemade ornaments we created for our tree and as gifts: the clothespin toy soldiers, assorted animals sewn out of felt, and the pasta angels that Daddy himself made in the 1980s.  Shortly after his retirement, he embarked on an exuberant crafting phase.  Most years I get at least one texted photo from a friend showing one of our family-made treasures on their tree, with a note remarking on how it never fails to spark warm thoughts of both my parents.     

I don’t think there was a single Christmas ornament that Daddy didn’t appreciate.  I smile to think how he basked so cheerfully that day  in the glow of the lights, how he commented with such enthusiasm.   “This  little bear in a vest is the cutest thing! Here’s your Kindergarten bell!  I love this jack-in-the-box mouse you made!” He never lost his characteristic childlike delight in the beauty and charm of small things, nor his willingness to express it.  

Back home in Virginia, during every call home that Christmas season and well into January, both my parents thanked me for my decorating efforts.  “Your father has a favorite Christmas activity now, ” Mama told me.  “He sits by the tree, looking peaceful and happy.”  

 

*Did I return to take down the tree?  I can’t recall, but I fear that I did not.  

Family, Holiday, Nature

Winter Solstice 2025

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Darkness descends early on  this winter solstice day.  But we’ve filled our home with our customary little white lights for the season, and so the early nightfall brings  with it a welcome coziness.  It’s the perfect atmosphere for my favorite holiday activity, staying in with those I love!

Happy Winter Solstice, friends! 

Art and Architecture, Family, Travel

To New York City in a Nor’easter? What Could Go Wrong? (Follow-up to Vagabond Shoes)

View of the Courtyard of the Palace from the Villard rooms, October 2015

The New York hotel that I zeroed in on,  three decades ago, when we were poor grad students, was the Helmsley Palace.  It’s attached to the historic Villard Houses, which I’d read about in Paul Goldberger’s book on New York architecture.  Dating from 1884, the houses were modeled on a Renaissance palazzo in Rome.  Six adjoining brownstone townhouses surround a central courtyard, giving the effect of one large, grand mansion.  The first project of the architectural firm McKim, Mead & White, the compound was built for Henry Villard, a former journalist and president of the Northern Pacific Railway.  The location is Madison Avenue, directly across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral.   

The New York Palace, October 2010
View of the east side of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, from the courtyard of the Palace, 2025.

During the 1970s, the developer Harry Helmsley acquired the air rights to the Villard Houses and made plans for a fifty-story hotel atop the compound. Preservationists raised the alarm after hearing that Helmsley intended to demolish large portions of the historic buildings. Plans were modified, and the developer agreed to preserve most of the townhouses, including their interiors.

Inside the Villard Houses, October 2015

I saw glimpses of these lavish interiors in commercials for the hotel during the 1980s.  The ads showed Harry’s second wife Leona Helmsley posed imperiously atop the central stairway, flanked by subservient staff.  The tagline was “The Helmsley Palace, Where the Queen Stands Guard.” Leona may have considered herself  the  Grande Dame of her husband’s hotel empire, but thanks to her bullying, demanding behavior, her employees dubbed her the Queen of Mean.  Having remarked that “only the little people pay taxes,” Leona later went to prison for tax evasion.  

My interest in the Palace Hotel had nothing to do with Leona Helmsley, and everything do with the beautifully preserved, gilded-age interiors of the Villard Houses.

One of the Villard Rooms, with chairs set up for a wedding, 2015.

I can’t recall the details that went into my booking what I thought was a night at the Helmsley Palace.  I must have caught wind of some pre-Christmas discount, because money was short in those days.  

The same room, from a different angle, 2015.

What I can’t forget, though, was that we arrived in New York from Princeton in the midst of a significant nor’easter.  I hadn’t  heard that weather term before, and I’d certainly not experienced it.  My husband and I quickly learned that a nor’easter, especially in December, is not a pleasant time for leisurely, big-city sight-seeing.  The winds howled without cease, exacerbated by the tunnels created by the tall buildings. A frigid mix of sleet, snow and rain swirled around us, pelting our faces. The streets of Manhattan appeared to be littered with hulking black birds in their death throes, as useless, abandoned umbrellas flapped in the breeze.  I can’t remember what we wore, but I know we were not appropriately dressed for such dire weather.  My husband didn’t have a hat.  I had a scarf, but it was quickly soaked, giving the effect of wearing an ice pack outdoors in winter.    

A hallway inside the Villard rooms, October 2025

Why did we not cancel?  Most such details, fortunately, are hazy. Probably because I’d already paid.  Probably because we thought, “Oh, how bad can it be?”  

It might have been worth braving the terrible weather if we had only been able to find shelter at last in that sought-after destination, the Helmsley Palace.

But no.  Somehow, I’d booked our stay not at the Helmsley Palace, but at the New York Helmsley.  I can’t remember when or how we discovered the mistake.  Did I realize the error before our departure?  Or did we go to the Palace at Madison and 51st, only to be turned away?  To be sent back out into the icy winds and make our sad way over to 3rd Avenue and 42nd?  

Another room in the Villard Houses, 2015. Now it’s used by the hotel as a breakfast space.

The New York Helmsley (now the Westin New York Grand Central) was, and is, no dive.  Its 40-story tower was constructed in 1981, a bland rectangular block similar to that at the Palace.  But its lobby was, to me, a dull, forgettable, contemporary space, and a huge disappointment when I was expecting the time-tested opulence of the Villard rooms at the Palace.  

Our room was perfectly fine, definitely the nicest I’d ever entered in New York at that point.  It was a vast improvement over the youth hostels and threadbare accommodations I’d been used to in my low-budget student travel in Europe.  There were two windows, and an actual view.  Not an especially good view, out onto a gloomy, windswept 42nd Street, but also not onto an air shaft.

My mother likes to tell the story of a Manhattan hotel room she and my father stayed in when they were young and newly married.  In the adjoining bathroom, the tub appeared to have been cut in half by a wall.  That was one surprise, at least, that we did not encounter during our trip.  

Clock in a Villard Room hallway, October 2025.

We stayed only one night, which was a blessing.  A two-night visit was beyond our means.  The next day, a Saturday, the bad weather persisted. I had hoped we’d enjoy cheery lights and shop windows adorned for Christmas, but I recall no such festive sights.  I assume we took refuge in a museum or two.  But we walked the icy streets long enough to be very uncomfortable.  We went into one of the hundreds of Sbarros in Manhattan to try to warm up.  The door, oddly, had been open, and we closed it when we entered.  One of the employees rushed out immediately from the kitchen to close it again.  Really?  I rarely cry, but that day I put my head down on the cheap laminate table and sobbed.   My husband, shocked at my unseemly display, appealed to the employees, who were overheated because of their work near the pizza oven.  H promised the young men that we wouldn’t be long.  We’d  eat our slices, thaw out a little, and be on our way.  They allowed him to close the door.

We probably headed back to Penn Station shortly after we emerged from the Sbarro.  After two days of enduring New York in a nor’easter, it felt like luxury, for once, to settle ourselves onto those ugly orange seats in a shabby New Jersey Transit train.  

In the courtyard of the Helmsley Palace, October 2010, during a nicer visit.

We finally managed a weekend stay act the actual Palace Hotel in 2010.  We’ve returned there a few times since.  This past October, we had planned a weekend get-away at what is now known as the Lotte New York Palace.  A nor’easter was predicted to coincide with our visit.  This time, with the wisdom that comes with age and experience, we postponed for a week.   

Family, Friendship, Holiday, Nature

Forest Bathing with the Skeleton Crew

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Since the beginning of October, our family has been enjoying the active company, once again, of our old family friend Slim and his loyal pack of pups. They spent the past eleven months mostly in quiet contemplation and sound sleep in their comfortable new domain, my attic art studio.  Sometimes as I went upstairs to paint, I’d find them peering out from their favorite lookout perch in one of the dormers. Slim kept a pair of binoculars close at hand, along with his birding journal.

One morning in August, when our family was in Cape Cod, they were roused from napping by the sound of heavy machinery.  From the attic window, they witnessed the removal of our old silver maple.  It was with great sadness that they watched as the remainder of the tree was cut down, chipped up and hauled away.  Slim and I are kindred spirits in our love of trees.  He brushed a tear from his eye as he told me that he wept most of that summer morning.  

Once the pack was feeling lively enough to venture outside to roam the grounds, they headed directly to the site of the old tree.  “Hello, dear pal,”  Slim said, as he settled himself in the center of the mulch pile.  “I can still breathe in your essence, your goodness!”   

Somehow it was news to me that Slim was an early adopter of the practice of “forest bathing.” He was introduced to the therapeutic relaxation technique during the months he spent backpacking through Japan in the early 80s. It’s one of several lifestyle choices that he holds responsible for his health, vigor, trim frame, and longevity. As we walked over to the remaining silver maple in our yard, he became my forest bathing instructor. “Get up close to this old friend,” he advised me. “Snuggle in, nice and cozy. Lean your back against the bark. Feel that solid, reassuring presence. Imagine that your feet are roots. Take deep breaths. Be aware of all your senses. Listen to the birds, watch the beetle crawling among the fallen leaves, feel the breeze on your face, and smell all those fantastic fragrances of nature. Keep breathing, slowly, deeply. ”

The practice is a great stress reducer, but it’s more than that, Slim told me.  “It’s those phytoncides, you know.”  I didn’t know.  “They’re tree oils, great immune boosters.  We breathe them in, and they have amazing healing properties.  The more trees around, the better.  That’s why they call it forest bathing.  But we can get big benefits right here, in the company of our silver maple sister, and even from the mulch chips of her much reduced sibling.”  I’ve known Slim long enough to reach eagerly for the pearls of wisdom he offers.  I’ve always enjoyed being around trees, but now I know to seek them out more intentionally when life’s annoyances, large and small, start to wear on me.  I expect there will be many of those times.     

Slim delighted in the last of the squirrel-planted sunflowers that bloom along the fencerow.  

He exulted in the clump of late-blooming Montauk daisies by my mother’s driveway.  “These smell almost as good as a maple tree!,” Slim exclaimed. “Flower bathing has its benefits, too!”