Category Archives: Family

Pursuing Petite Princess: The Royal Grand Piano (Time Travel Through Toys)

May 11, 2016 Wildtrumpetvine

With the old box of doll furniture rediscovered and my interest reignited, I went online. I’m not sure what I thought I’d find. I didn’t expect to discover that just about every piece of the collection was available from various sellers on ebay. It amazed me. I’d never met anyone who recalled the furniture from childhood. I thought it was obscure stuff. But as the internet repeatedly reminds us, any claims we might make to being unique are vastly overblown.

So, wow. There it all was. Most were pieces I already had. I found it reassuring to see traces of age on many items for sale, similar to those on my furniture. The gold and white curved Salon Sofas were consistently missing a strip of fabric on each arm, just as mine did. Some pieces reminded me of odds and ends I’d lost or broken. There were the tiny horsehead bookends, the pink and white “bird” lamp reassembled, and the “oil” landscape paintings, rather in the style of Fragonard. Years ago I glued an image from a Christmas card over my sole remaining painting.

There were only a few items that I didn’t own, for one reason or another. I remember not liking the look of the Fantasy Telephone set. The big red rose embossed on the phone box struck me as an uncharacteristically heavy-handed touch. The Salon Drum chair, upholstered in a choice of lamé colors, was not appealing. But the Rolling Tea Cart, in brass–that was charming. True to the Petite Princess lifestyle, it held a wine bottle and goblets. Not a single tea pot or tea cup for this tea cart. The short brass candelabra “for table or mantle use” could be a nice addition. I own only the tall Fantasia Candelabra.

But among the offerings, one stood out: the Royal Grand Piano, a tiny assemblage of fabulousness. I don’t know why the piano wasn’t in my collection. Was it not available at Allen’s 5 & Dime? Was it too expensive? It’s white, of course, with gold accents. The undulating sides and back, as well as the underside of the lid, are decorated with gold-framed panels. Again evoking the frothy style of Fragonard, they show 18th-century aristocratic types frolicking in lush landscapes. There are 88 three-dimensional keys and three foot pedals. The delicate white bench is upholstered in red velvet. Sheet music and a metronome are included.

As I browsed Petite Princess furniture on ebay, it seemed to me that the images on the small white packages, more so than the items they contain, summoned the acuteness of childhood longing. The years fell away and I was a six year old in Allen’s, transfixed before the display. Holding the box that encased, say, the Treasure Trove Cabinet, examining the photo, comparing it to the piece on display. Imagining the absolute, if temporary happiness that would accompany the opening of the box, the unwrapping of the tissue paper. Suddenly I knew how my daughter felt, at the same age, as we stood in a toy aisle at Target, her desire for something or other, the Polly Pocket limo or a certain Fairytopia Barbie, blazing fiercely in her big blue eyes. Don’t you have enough Polly Pockets, enough Barbies, I’d ask, wearily? Do you really need more stuff for me to move around, I’d think? I’d judged her too harshly, with the gaze of jaded, self-righteous adult hypocrisy.

With some alarm it hit me that my interest in “Petite Princess” had morphed from one of nostalgic sentiment to a real yearning to possess. I didn’t simply want that piano. I needed that piano. It spoke to me, repeatedly. One ebay seller claimed to offer a large cache of virtually untouched “Petite Princess” furniture. The boxes were unmarked by use or wear, the items within never roughly handled by small clumsy fingers and still wrapped with the original tissue paper. The piano was among these treasures. That did it. Because it was the opening of the package, not the actual ownership of the item, that so pulled at me. I wanted, no, I needed, to experience that childhood thrill again.

That piano was my first-ever ebay purchase. I remember worrying that I’d be outbid at the last second; my husband coached me on bidding techniques. But I was successful. I think it cost me $16.

When the package arrived in the mail, my daughter and I eagerly opened it together. Her excitement fed into mine, and the unwrapping, the unveiling, was indeed amazing. I really did feel like a first-grader, her peer. The box containing the piano was pristine. So white. Not yellowed with age. There was that familiar tissue paper, clean, crisp, unwrinkled. The piano itself was the delicate treasure I’d expected. The paintings were so fresh and bright, the red upholstery of the bench immaculate. The metronome, the sheet music, all there, all perfect. My daughter’s admiration was real and exuberant; she wasn’t simply performing to humor me.

An added bonus was that included in the lot with the piano was another box containing the Occasional Table set and all its accessories. I already owned the table, but the clear plastic ashtray and cigarette had disappeared decades ago. Like the piano, this set arrived in mint condition in a box that looked brand new, not forty plus years old. My daughter by my side, I saw the table, the brass Buddha, the lighter, ashtray and its cigarette (still encased in a plastic envelope), as though for the first time.

Be forewarned, then: totems for time travel may pop up unexpectedly in an old toy box. For a truly extraordinary trip, take along a favorite child, and enjoy the ride.

Family, Holiday, Parenthood

Mother’s Day 2016

May 8, 2016 Wildtrumpetvine

Blessed to be my mother’s daughter.

Blessed to be my daughter’s mother.

May you feel blessed this Mother’s Day, as well!

Family

Little Toys, Heavy with Memory: Petite Princess Fantasy Furniture

April 23, 2016 Wildtrumpetvine

If I felt an overwhelming need to put my hands on the vintage crayons I mentioned in my last post, I could order them through Etsy from a collector in Australia. But it’s enough to see the box again. I don’t need to touch or to use the crayons. I felt differently, though, about another childhood toy I rediscovered eleven years ago.

My daughter and I had been rummaging through my parents’ attic, a treasure trove of miscellaneous stuff. D was six at the time. Nearly hidden in the shadows, on a shelf atop a stack of early-80s National Lampoons, I found a box I hadn’t seen or thought about in years. I’d purposely kept it out of D’s reach, to protect its prized contents from chubby, clumsy toddler hands. The somewhat misleading hand-scrawled label read “Plastic Doll Furniture.” No big deal, you’d think. But this was “Petite Princess Fantasy Furniture.” It’s special. And the older I get, the more special it becomes.

I first saw the furniture shortly after we moved to Atlanta, when I was five. It was on display at Allen’s 5 & Dime, a store now long gone, but then across from North DeKalb Mall. I vaguely recall a glass or plastic-fronted castle-like display showing various rooms of furniture, artfully arranged. Items available for purchase were stacked in small white cardboard boxes. This was long before the advent of clear plastic heat-sealed packaging that requires professional cutting tools to open. Each box bore a photograph of its contents, such as the “Palace Table Set” above. I remember carefully comparing the photos on each box with the items on display. I remember most particularly the excitement of choosing a new piece.

Inside each box was a tiny catalogue with photos of all the furniture and a list of every item in each set. The collection was limited; it easily fit on the twelve pages of the pamphlet. I would pore over the booklet in anticipation of future trips to Allen’s and upcoming purchases.

As I’ve learned in recent years, the furniture was manufactured by the Ideal Toy Company for one year only, in 1964. Although produced primarily of plastic, the quality is excellent, the detail intricate. It’s a far cry from the generic sets of mass-produced molded plastic furniture dating from the same period. The style is pure glitzy 60s: swanky elegance suitable for an updating of the grand old chateau. Picture Sean Connery-era Bond girls swanning around in palatial digs in Paris and Rome, and you get the idea. The scale is ¾ inch to a foot, so the furniture is smaller and more delicate than typical wooden doll furniture intended for children. Chairs, sofas and beds are upholstered in satins, brocades and velvets. Drawers open and close with minuscule brass knobs.

The décor was very much of its time, down to the last detail. The Princesses at home with this furniture were stylish sophisticates who liked to party. The marble-topped occasional table set pictured above includes, in addition to a Buddha statue and framed pair of photographs, a brass cigarette lighter, clear plastic ashtray, and even a teeny-tiny cigarette with a glowing red tip.

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The Palace Table set in the earlier photo includes a porcelain decanter, three wine goblets, and a brass leaf-shaped ashtray.

My wine goblets disappeared years ago, but the decanter and leaf ashtray remain.

As a child, I relished the thrill of acquiring each piece of Petite Princess furniture. I appreciated its delicacy and the fineness of detail. But in all truthfulness, I found it too slick. It veered toward tacky. In my early 60s world, home décor was considerably more subdued: a mix of colonial American reproductions and old family antiques. All that white, gold and glam–that wasn’t Mama’s taste. So it wasn’t my taste, either. Like a woman dressed in a long slinky gown at a baseball game, the furniture looked uncomfortably out of place in my plywood Cape Cod doll house.

Now, though, looking back through a haze of nostalgia, I see more clearly. I realize the appropriateness of the name: Petite Princess Fantasy Furniture. Its realm is the early 60s as seen through a rosy Hollywood lens: an airbrushed, carefree, consequence-free world of the wealthy, healthy and eternally young. Of lunchtime martinis, cigarettes in elegant silver holders, Dean Martin songs. What once struck me as tacky now heightens the appeal. Of course the stuff is over the top; that’s the point.

Decades later, these little pieces of fancy plastic are much more than toys to me. I’ve turned them into talismans of an imagined era long past. You’d think they’d be heavier now that they carry the weight of memory.

Once I rediscovered my Petite Princess furniture, I knew I wanted more of it. I wanted the anticipation before the purchase.

I wanted the excitement of opening one of those little boxes again.

To follow soon: Pursuing Petite Princess

Crafts, Family

Once Upon a Time, A 72-Crayon Drawing Set

April 13, 2016 Wildtrumpetvine 2 Comments

As I was writing my last post, Spring’s New Box of Crayons, an image kept popping up in my mind, a blurry picture from years long past. One of my most memorable gifts as a child was, indeed, a fabulous box of crayons. I was very little, no more than three, but I can’t forget my first glimpse of it under the tree on Christmas morning. The package was unusual for a crayon box. It was long and flat, and it showed two kids drawing. Those crayons saw constant use. Even in our family of thrifty savers and recyclers, the box disappeared many years ago. I’ve often tried to remember its details, wishing I could see it again.

Today, I did. Thanks to the web, even the vaguest of childhood memories are literally at our fingertips. I googled “Vintage 1960s crayons,” and it appeared, as though I’d snapped my fingers and conjured it by magic, much like Samantha used to do in Bewitched:

Crayola Crayons Color Drawing Set

72 Different colors including 8 fluorescent crayons.

There was the white box, bearing an image of two ideal early 60s-era children, happily creating Crayola masterpieces. The girl wears a pink, full-skirted jumper and white blouse, a pink bow in her neatly ponytailed hair. She sits with her feet tucked up under her in a ladylike position. The boy wears a striped blue and green shirt and belted khakis. His bright red hair has a rakish flip, and he lies stretched out on the floor. One odd detail I certainly didn’t remember: next to the boy’s elbow is a toy dagger. Why in the world is that there? Perhaps to show that wholesome, red-blooded American boys willingly lay down their weapons for a chance to enjoy Crayola crayons? Tough guys color? No need to worry, macho Dads: these crayons won’t turn your son into a sissy?

Inside the box lies the real treasure (and not a single knife): the crayons themselves, arrayed in two long, beautiful parallel rows. My mother has remarked that she was rarely happier as a child than she was upon opening a brand-new box of crayons. For her, growing up during the Great Depression, that was a rare pleasure. I was lucky to open many new boxes of crayons, but I know what she means. And never was the elation more pronounced than when I first peered at all those perfect crayons inside that new white box.

My daughter understands, as well. She returned home from fourth grade one day talking excitedly about her friend’s wonderful new crayons. That the girl was a talented and imaginative artist gave the crayons all the more appeal. They were in a circular, clear plastic box, so all the colors, arranged by shade, were visible. They were so cool! Could she get some? Please? By the end of the week, she, too, was a proud owner.

Along with two classic boxes of 64 crayons, they still remain on the shelves of our former playroom. Barbies and stuffed animals were boxed up (and some even given away) during this summer’s room redo, but the crayons survive. They’re still used, still fun, still relevant. They abide. And now, with the prevalence of coloring books geared toward grown-ups, more likely to be used by all generations.

Even now I love the idea of opening a new box of crayons for the first time. There’s something close to magical in the sight of those flawless little cylinders of color, each paper cover intact, each point sharp and unused. Such potential. The chance for multiple new beginnings. Much like the promise of spring on an April day like today, when the sun is bright and the breeze is fresh.

Family, Nature

Spring’s New Box of Crayons

April 7, 2016 Wildtrumpetvine

The onset of spring reminds me of one of childhood’s most satisfying pleasures: a brand new box of crayons. I picture a child, bored and frustrated because for months now only the most subdued colors remain usable: a few browns, some tans, a black, a white. As for the happy, festive shades–they’re all broken, misplaced or eaten by the dog. At last, a fresh new box of crayons arrives. Time again to celebrate with color.

The greens are picked first. Used with abandon, to color in a luxuriant foundation. For lawns that will soon need cutting, for the first shoots of lemon balm that will grow to dominate the herb garden in a month or so.

Even cracked gray pavement receives its ribbons of green.

Next, pastels in Easter-egg shades. For a redbud tree, delicate splotches of lavender-pink. Palest yellow for the first dogwood blossoms.

Yellow-green for feathery sassafras blossoms.

Bolder choices follow. Unexpected tones of coral and red for new leaves on rose bushes and Japanese maples. Who said foliage has to be green?

Intense golden-yellow for forsythia.

For the Appalachian Red redbud at the corner of our house, how about a near-electric magenta?

In the sudden sunshine following an afternoon thunderstorm, redbud blossoms take on an even greater depth and energy.

In that same light, the pines and maples framing our garage seem to glow from within.

And visible from our front lawn, that perfect gift of color and light: a rainbow. Isn’t it wonderful to have a new box of crayons?

Community, Family, Nature

Before the Blizzard, A Treacherous Drive

February 4, 2016 Wildtrumpetvine

In my last post I wrote about what was, for my family, quite a lovely blizzard. But a sudden snow two days before the storm had less than lovely effects.

All focus was on the massive, looming storm. Forecasters noted, as an afterthought, the possibility of snow showers, perhaps a “dusting,” on Wednesday evening before the blizzard. It was presented as insignificant, a non-event. There seemed to be no reason to reschedule the planned Church Council meeting. But by 6:30 that frigid evening, snow was falling in fat flakes and accumulating quickly. My daughter observed, with some concern, that cars negotiating the sharp turn in front of our house were creeping along. When traffic slows down here in Northern Virginia, we take notice.

But I wasn’t going to overreact. I was no longer a novice at snow driving. I still tend to avoid it if possible, but I’ve had some practice and years of good advice from my Rochester-bred husband. When I left for the meeting, I was surprised to find myself behind a line of cars moving at a snail’s pace. Surely they were being overly cautious, I thought. But before long, even at that slow crawl, I felt my car beginning to slide. It was evident that the roads hadn’t been pretreated; there was not a trace of salt or sand. The trip was just short of a nail biter. All through the meeting I kept an anxious eye on the falling snow. How much worse could the roads get? It probably wouldn’t be that bad, I kept telling myself.

Just before 9, I texted my family from the slippery snow-covered church parking lot. I would start for home, but I could tell it was going to be no easy ride. It was only three miles, but over old country roads that were notoriously narrow, steep and twisting. H and D both responded immediately. From H: he could come get me if I’d rather not attempt the drive. The roads were slick; they were bad on his drive home at 7. From D: the street in front of our house was a sheet of ice covered by powdery snow. Oh my. I’d start out anyway, and see how far I got. I was glad I’d worn my snow boots, dressed warmly and put a blanket in the car.

Usually, I find that the worry over an anticipated event is far worse than the actual event. In this case, the real thing was at least ten times as bad. That drive home is best described as absolutely treacherous. It was a combination of gridlock and out-of-control thrill ride. Traffic inched along hesitantly, stopped periodically, then inched along again. Maintaining momentum uphill was tricky. It was difficult to adhere to one of H’s most frequently repeated snow tips: increase your speed as you approach a hill. If you take it too slowly, you’ll get stuck! Not sliding sideways downhill was nearly impossible, no matter how slow the speed. Several times I considered leaving my car on a side street and starting to walk.

At one narrow turn in the road, we were stopped for such a long time that I got out and picked my way along the side to see what was going on. The car ahead of me was poised at the top of a steep, twisting hill. The driver said she was waiting for traffic to clear, since her car handled badly in snow. Two vehicles had been lodged at odd angles farther down the hill and were just getting disentangled. Once back in my car, I watched as the driver ahead began her descent. She immediately skidded sideways, but was able to maneuver back on the right track without too much difficulty. Suddenly, she was gone. She’d made it down the hill and up the next. It was my turn. My antilock brakes, fortunately, were in good shape. Somehow I managed to avoid drifting into a ditch or a stranded car, of which there were many. Thankfully, the car behind me gave me plenty of time to take the hill on my own.

When I pulled into the driveway, my heart racing, H was outside waiting. He’d been half-expecting my call for help.

I was among the lucky ones. My drive, though frightening, didn’t take very long, and I arrived safely, my car intact. Many drivers in the area were stranded for hours. The beltway was an ice-bound parking lot. Hundreds of traffic accidents were reported. City and county governments made profuse apologies. They repeatedly promised far better road prep for the coming storm.

Lessons were learned, it would seem. Well before the first blizzard flake fell, roads were treated, and plows were at the ready. Once the snow began in earnest, the roads were relatively quiet. Most drivers heeded the message of Wednesday night and left work in plenty of time, or never left home that morning. I’ve learned a lesson: If snowflakes are falling on untreated local roads, I won’t be at the meeting. Let’s just cancel that meeting.

This was the snow that caused all the problems.

It doesn’t look menacing, does it?

Community, Family, Nature, Parenthood

Assessing the Storm

February 1, 2016 Wildtrumpetvine

An unaccustomed sight appeared throughout Northern Virginia today: school buses. Due to the blizzard and what should have been an inconsequential “dusting” that preceded it, schools were closed for seven days. During the final two weeks of January, with the snow, the MLK holiday and a teacher workday, school was in session for one day only. During times such as this, I’m especially thankful that I like my daughter. And while it makes me sound cold and unloving, I’m glad she’s not younger. How pleasant it is that my constant accompaniment for her every snow venture is no longer required.

Our family’s winter storm experience was, all in all, quite enjoyable. As blizzards go, it was a good one, at least for us. I know there were others who weren’t nearly so lucky. It was forecasted accurately and well in advance, allowing plenty of prep time. The snow began right on schedule, at 1 PM on a Friday. I was back home after a second shopping trip for those “just in case” provisions. School had been canceled, allowing my daughter plenty of time to meet friends for an early lunch. She was anticipating not seeing non-neighborhood buddies for a while. Even my husband arrived home from the office well before the snow started to accumulate.

The snow fell according to plan, persistently and without a break, until the following evening. This wasn’t a showy storm. The flakes were small but steady. Saturday brought some wind, but no howling gales. And most important: our area never lost power. We had heat, light, hot water and all those interior comforts that are especially cherished when the weather outside is icy.

My husband was ready with the snow blower he’d bought just after the Blizzard of 2010. He was told he’d probably never need something that big down here in Virginia. He wanted it anyway. Growing up in Rochester, he dreamed of owning a powerful, sleek snow blower the way some kids dream of owning a Maserati.

In this case, it was a dream worth realizing. The big blower came in very handy.

H cleared our long driveway. He opened up walkable paths between our house and those of our neighbors on each side. (If you’ve ever tried body-plowing through twenty-eight inches of snow, you know it’s not easy.) He then cleared our neighbors’ long driveways.

He opened up a path on a side street that was untouched by plows for several days. He continued up and down that street until he’d cleared a lane wide enough for a car to pass through. This photo, taken by my daughter, shows how the sharply cut snow sections resemble two huge layers of angel food cake.

Here he is, returning from a full day of snow blowing, the afternoon sun’s rays falling on him like a benediction. You could say that all this work could have been accomplished by shoveling. That might be theoretically true, but it would have required far more helping hands and strong backs than were available. Plus many, many additional hours. His work was all the more valuable because it would be several more days before the streets into our neighborhood would be approached by snow plows.

With every gathering storm, I’ve always been grateful that I can ride it out with a snow management and removal expert by my side. This was certainly true during the Blizzard of 2016. A good boy from Rochester is indeed a good thing.

Community, Family, Nature, Parenthood

Once Again, Truly Big Snow

January 28, 2016 Wildtrumpetvine

The last snowflakes of the Blizzard of 2016 (aka Winter Storm Jonas) fell five days ago, on Saturday evening. According to careful measurements by my husband and daughter, we got about twenty-eight inches. Most of the snow remains very much with us, in far less attractive configurations than the graceful, pristine drifts in which it fell.

Last winter brought frequent snows to Northern Virginia, as my ten snow day posts of 2015 attest. (See here and here.) But we haven’t had a truly stupendous snow event in five years. In December 2009 and February 2010 we were treated to nearly back-to-back blizzards. My daughter has been wishing for a similarly substantial storm ever since. She likes her snow measured in feet. She delights in tossing out the expected routines of daily life for all-consuming, all-day snow play and management. To her credit, she pitches in with the digging out. And the inconveniences that massive snows may bring: they’re simply part of the adventure. What she recalls most distinctly about our loss of electricity during the 2010 storm was using the grill to melt butter for birthday cake icing.

Here she is, barely visible atop a snow mountain at the Reston Town Center after the February 2010 storm.

And, after the more recent storm, atop a snow pile in the parking lot of a local shopping center. I guess she’ll always love to climb snow piles.

On a snow mound at our house during the Blizzard of 2010.

And two days ago, with Kiko on a similar mound in the same place, after the latest storm. Big Snow, happy kid.

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Holiday, Parenthood

Extreme Gift Wrapping, Christmas 2015

January 14, 2016 Wildtrumpetvine

It’s well past Christmas, I realize, but I’m running behind in this new year, just as I was in the old year. It’s consistent, then, that my last Christmas post, an annual update on extreme gift wrapping, appears two weeks into January.

Thanks to my husband and daughter, it’s hard to predict what might appear around the tree in the days leading up to Christmas: a family of enormous cylinders, a tall skinny pyramid, a child-sized obelisk, a gift tower ten feet high. Not all packages appear under the tree; some have been suspended from the ceiling. Certainly one of the most original and unexpected presentations was the pentagon and five pyramids that came together to form a star on Christmas morning. My husband, searching for ideas for this year’s wrapping scheme, found that when he Googled “Extreme Gift Wrapping,” the first image that popped up was that very star he’d made in 2012. He and my daughter have set the bar high. We’re prepared to be wowed. (For previous years, see here, here, and here.)

Getting to “wow” becomes all the more unlikely when one expects it. Subtler strategies must evolve. When the first gift from my husband to my daughter appeared a few days before Christmas, it was an ordinary square box, wrapped in plaid paper. On one side there was a wedge-shaped section of silver paper. Simple. Not showy. If you didn’t know better you might think he’d run out of paper.

My daughter countered with a more emphatic gesture: she transformed a gift to her father into a gold and white-patterned Droid. Her Star Wars tribute, she called it.

My husband was impressed and intrigued. (Kiko, not so much. He showed mild interest when H made it move.)

Eight more gifts for our daughter appeared during the next several days. Each one was wrapped in the same size square box. Most, but not all, had an apparently random section of shiny silver paper on one side. On Christmas Eve, the gifts were piled seemingly haphazardly around the tree.

On Christmas morning, the square packages for our daughter were stacked, as if by Santa, so that the silver paper formed the letter J, her first initial. (When I refer to her as “D,” it stands for “daughter.”)

The “J Wall” as I think of it, lacks the visual impact of the star. Indeed, that star is hard to surpass. But it’s clever. If you think about it philosophically, you could say it reshuffles chaos into order, into meaning. Sort of the way the divine magic of Christmas can inject order and meaning into our lives, if we let it.

And if you simply consider how the J Wall looks, you’d probably say it serves as a very pleasing complement to the Droid, a charming creation on its own.

Hats off, again, to H & D for keeping the ball in play during their ongoing volley of extreme gift wrapping! What, I wonder, will they do next year? (Glad I’m only a spectator in the game.)

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Holiday

Christmas Eve 2015: Magic in the Live Nativity

December 24, 2015 Wildtrumpetvine

039 Christmas Eve is here again. Much like last year, the day is wet, cloudy, and unseasonably warm. It’s time again for the live nativity at our church. The baby Jesus, of course, is the real star of the show, but he’s small. The camel, however, is quite large, and he tends to be the traffic-stopper. Last year, our camel was not Samson, who was busy elsewhere, but his colleague Zeke. Zeke enjoyed kneeling in the mud, and he therefore appeared in many selfies.

Kiko had the privilege of meeting Zeke, since the camel leaned down for a hello sniff. The year before, Samson stood so tall and aloof that Kiko never seemed to notice him.

We also welcomed this little ox and burro, as well as a sheep and a goat. I’m hoping we’ll see the whole gang again today.

If you have the opportunity to experience a live nativity in your area, I advise you not to miss it. The shepherds and kings may be rag-tag; the baby Jesus may be a doll; Mary and Joseph may be played by a teenaged brother and sister. With luck, there will be a few real animals. I hope you get to meet a camel, an elegant and surprisingly sweet regal creature.

Give the humble tableau a chance, and perhaps, unexpectedly, your heart will be touched. The make-shift nativity could speak to you of a God who turns the world upside down, who sent his own Son to live among us, in the mud and grit, to suffer and die, just as we must do, to wipe away our sin and invite us into the heavenly fold. There is a chance that you might be overwhelmed by a sense of majesty. Stranger things have happened, after all, on Christmas.

May you rejoice in the off-key songs of the tinsel-haloed angels with their awkward cardboard wings. May you feel the power of the light in the darkness, the divine, holy light that will never be extinguished. No matter what. No matter what. Amen.

For a previous Christmas Eve post, with more about that light in the darkness, see here.

A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.