Category Archives: Family

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Friendship

Ashes to Ashes

On Ash Wednesday, we are urged to face a stark truth:  we will not live forever.  The certainty of our mortality should be evident as we daily confront our society’s latest egregious incidents of violent fatality.  Where was today’s shooting?  At a mall, an office, a restaurant, a church, or, most horrifically, at a school? Who were the heroes and innocents who died senselessly this week? Firefighters, doctors, nurses, teachers, small children, infants? Depending upon where you live, you may be mourning a different tragedy than the one that preys on my mind.  There are so many tragedies in our world. Every day it becomes more difficult to say It can’t happen in my neighborhood. 

Yet despite the ongoing exposure to such dire events, our culture is constantly blaring the message that if we spend enough on miraculous health and beauty products, if we make the right lifestyle choices, we can prolong our lives indefinitely. It promises us, repeatedly, that it’s in our best interests to extend the look of youth far beyond our youthful years.  One of the worst things we can say about a celebrity is this:  She’s looking her age. How shocking!  How pitiful!  Not enough botox, or botox gone bad.  Excessive collagen, or inadequate collogen.  A facelift that failed.  A fanatical exercise regime that no longer does the trick. Her arms were once buff; now they’re stringy.  The more beautiful one is in youth, the sadder seems the diminishing of that beauty with age.

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Yesterday I caught a brief snippet of a TV soap opera that I admit  I used to watch, on occasion.   Well, not really watch.  It happened to come on at a time when I needed a rest.  It offered a distraction as I  sat down to fold laundry, leaf through piles of papers and magazines for recycling, make get-well cards. Sometimes it lulled me to sleep, I have to say. This particular soap opera, even sillier than most, if possible, requires minimal attention, because it’s always the same. During my most recent viewing, it was immediately apparent that the same small group of characters was still soldiering on in scandalous banality, divorcing, remarrying, swapping spouses and children, re-betraying one another in bizarre ways.  At a glance, the old gang looked very much the same.  There was not a wrinkle, not a gray hair to be seen.  Bodies were svelte, as always.  But the faces were altered in odd ways:  eyes slanted at more extreme angles, lips overly puffy, cheekbones higher, chins more pronounced, foreheads immovable as those of marble statues.   The characters continue to behave in sophomoric, stupid ways, so it is fitting, perhaps, that they appear young.
In real life, though, is maturity so terrible?  If we learn from our mistakes, we are not cursed to repeat them endlessly, like soap opera characters.   As we mature mentally and spiritually, we will age, and our age will show.

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I’m not saying I’m immune to the horror of growing old.  I’ve begun to avoid harsh lighting,  I’ve noted, with acute dismay, what an awkward turn of my head can do for the skin on my neck. The magnifying mirror is my frenemy.  I silently bewail the effects of gravity.  Just as the classic birthday card line attests: Old age is not for sissies.  It’s for the the wise, the well-adjusted, the truly mature.
On Ash Wednesday, we are called to confront the fact that no magic potion or surgery will keep old age forever at bay.  And while death claims the young, as we see all too often, most of us are granted the bittersweet privilege of aging in this lifetime.  This is, indeed, a gift; it allows us  the opportunity to grow toward wisdom, toward maturity.  It means the chance to come to terms with the hollowness of our culture of vanity, and to learn to live accordingly. The visible effects of age are reminders that death awaits us, unavoidably. The physical body decays even as we live, earthly beauty is fleeting, and material possessions are transitory.  Once we acknowledge these truths, we are free to recognize the real value of what will not pass away:

 
And now, these three abide: faith, hope and love.  But the greatest of these is love.  –1 Corinthians 13: 13

 
On Ash Wednesday, we thank God for not leaving us to eternal decay.  Through the love of Jesus Christ we are rescued from the dust, from perpetual darkness.  Our future, as God’s beloved children, is one of light and glory, of joyful wisdom that, in its zeal, perfection, and yes, its maturity, will remain forever young, forever beautiful.

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I noticed today that some Lenten roses (Helleborus Orientalis) are already in bloom , although barely visible among winter’s dead leaves.

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For further discussion of the meaning of Ash Wednesday, see last year’s post: What’s with the Ashes?, February 22, 2012.

Family, Parenthood, Walking the Dog

In a Snippy Household, the One Who Will Not Talk Back

As my last post attests, my family and I tend to be a touchy bunch around each other. We are polite and well-behaved when we mix in society at large.  We don’t pick fights; we don’t brood over perceived insults dealt out by acquaintances or the general public.  But when we’re at home together, just the three of us, it may be a different story.  We are not an unhappy family.  Nor are we always indignant or incensed.  We have many moments of placid, content complacency, substantial periods of harmony.  But when something sets one of us off, we’re all going over the edge, and quickly.  Watch out.  (See, for example, An Evening of Discontent, Part II: The Big Family Dog-Walking Fight, October 2011.)

 

At home, our finely tuned radar is on near-constant alert for the slightest hint of sarcasm, negativity, discourtesy of tone or, heaven help us, an ill-chosen word.  The faintest traces of insult or anger, whether real, or more typically, imagined, rarely elude us.  With the barest minimum of words exchanged, we may be suddenly engulfed in a family-wide conflagration.  When this happens, nothing helps but time, and time apart.  With some stomping and huffing, we retreat to our own respective areas in the house.  Sometimes, from my husband and daughter, the stomping is accompanied by loud whistling.  Speech is pointless for a while, because we will be certainly be misunderstood.

But one member of our family maintains an admirably even keel. Our dog is either above, or beneath all this drama. Kiko never reacts badly, never acknowledges an insult, and he never makes a cutting remark.

I talk to Kiko a lot.

When he and I are home alone during the day, I keep up a running, one-sided conversation, heavy on the exclamation points. It’s typical, mindless doggie talk: Hello sweet baby! Are you the sweetest little fella? Of course you’re the sweetest fella! You’re such a velvety baby! You have the best fur! Are you the best old angel?  Of course you’re the best old angel! You’re my angel! I love you so much!  I just love you!  Sometimes I tell him, very nicely, of course, that he’s a terrible boy,  a very bad sweetie, just because I can, and it doesn’t matter one whit to Kiko. I think it’s to my credit, at least, that I don’t speak in a high-pitched, artificial tone often preferred when addressing babies and dogs. I use my normal voice to repeat my plodding menu of banalities.

As dogs go, Kiko is not particularly expressive.  He does not gaze into my eyes with love and admiration.  If I want that, I go down the street to see George, the big-hearted golden retriever. Kiko’s response to my ongoing chatter is subtle. My first words may be greeted with the raise of a doggie eyebrow. I’m reminded of Chad Everett, on whom I had a middle school crush when he starred as the charming, handsome Dr. Joe Gannon on TV’s Medical Center. While Dr. Gannon’s lifted brow indicated kindness and concern, Kiko’s indicates an openness to any words of consequence, such as Wanna take a walk? Wanna go for a ride? Want some cheese? To these questions he responds with a head tilt, perhaps followed by a stretch and a vigorous full-body shake.  Barring these welcome phrases, he remains largely inert, with the possible exception of his ears.  Unlike Chad Everett, Kiko has a wide range of motion in his ears, which may move independently of one another as though in vague reply.  Otherwise, he’s utterly, quietly motionless.  If I hover or confine him too long in a hug, he may sigh.  I take this as a signal to back off and shut up.  But that mild protest is as close to a rebuke as he ever makes.

You fellow dog owners understand the benefits of talking to your dog.  As you know, we converse with our dogs not for their sake, but for our own.  It makes us feel better.  For me, there is hardly a situation that cannot be eased, at least a little, by making ridiculous remarks to my dog.  Considering the atmosphere of irascibility that may reign in our household, it’s wonderful to know that no matter what I say to Kiko, peace and equanimity will prevail.   

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A typical response from Kiko to my ongoing chatter.

                                           

Family, Nature, Parenthood

Early-Morning Irritability

I try not to use my blog to rant about life’s trivial annoyances. But today I’ll risk sounding like a pouty child. This morning, a series of minor nuisances really ticked me off.

It began around 6:20, when I applied myself, with much concentration, to the vexing mystery of the moment—how to get the little rubber ring to stay put on the lid of my daughter’s new thermos. I persisted, but had no success. The bell of the toaster oven dinged. Because I had devoted too much pointless effort to the thermos, the mini-bagels I had been toasting for D’s breakfast were burned beyond rehabilitation.

It was at this inopportune moment that my husband wandered blithely into the kitchen. He remarked, in all innocence, that he couldn’t understand why D, who is in the process of choosing the classes she will take next year in high school (high school!), needs to continue studying English. She can read. She’s a good writer. What more does she need to know about English?

That comment, following so quickly on the heels of my thermos and bagel difficulties, was the last straw. My poor fragile camel’s back cracked sharply in half. Some say, I responded, through slightly clenched teeth, that there is value in literature. While reading good books is unlikely to lead to a well-paid career . . .no . . . it’s likely to ensure the absence of a well-paid career, it offers some help in coping with life’s disappointments. I stopped there. I did not add this further petulant bitterness: that reading offers the possibility of occasionally eking out some small measure of joy in a world rife with uncooperative thermos rings, annoying toaster ovens and clueless husbands whose idea of enlightening reading is an online windsurfing forum. H wisely kept quiet until he left for work.

And then Kiko and I went out for our walk. Another lovely light snow had fallen. I expected that the walk would lighten my mood. But no. Paved surfaces were far more slippery than I had expected, and Kiko insisted on attempting a break-neck pace, determined to run, if not in the road, then as close to it as possible, where the cars were hurtling by us more aggressively than usual. The salt from the road frequently stung his paws, prompting him to limp flamboyantly, one foot in the air, yet without lessening his speed. I had to repeatedly kneel down to brush the snow from his paw pads. An icy, gusty wind whipped the snow into my eyes, and the blue glare of the sun on the white ground was blinding. My ears were wet and freezing under my scarf, while my hands were too hot in my mittens. I was reminded vividly of why I find skiing so unpleasant. Our morning outing was an ordeal to be suffered through.

On a happier note, it sure is good to be back home.  Alone, except for my silent dog, now sleeping peacefully in another room.

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H telephoned later, warning me about the icy roads and clearly trying to appease my irrational meanness.  I’m feeling better now.  As Gilda Radner’s Roseanne Roseannadanna used to say:  Never mind.

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It was a beautiful morning to be annoyed.

                     

Family, Walking the Dog

Why Not Just Let the Dog Out?

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As suggested on my About Wild Trumpet Vine page, I often write about walking my dog. Those who can’t imagine why anyone would choose to write about dog walking are unlikely to be regular readers.  There may be some of you who wonder why my dog has to be walked multiple times a day in every kind of nasty weather. Why not just let him out, occasionally, in the fenced back yard? Doesn’t he have the good sense to relieve himself, perhaps, as we had hoped, in the woodsy, secluded area behind the garage? These are good questions. The answer to the first is complicated; the answer to the second is simple: NO.

Kiko, true to his Shiba Inu nature, is emphatically clean and fastidious. This sounded like an excellent trait when we were considering our future family dog. And in many ways, it is a good trait. Our yard is never messy, and our carpets are holding up well.  But obsessive cleanliness has its dark side. Kiko refuses to sully not only his home, but also the broad vicinity of home.

Several years ago we tried cutting down on the walks. After Kiko had injured his back leg in a reckless jump from our unfinished back porch (see A Puppy Days Delayed Replay, Nov. 2011), the vet advised keeping walks to a minimum. At the time, I was recovering from surgery, and the prospect of fewer winter dog walks was appealing.

Ever since he was a puppy, Kiko has indicated his desire to go out by staring fixedly at me, then pawing at the door. Instead of gathering my cold-weather gear and the leash, as I had typically done before, I began opening the door that leads to our porch and enclosed back yard. Kiko would rush through his doggie door with a great sense of urgency and purpose, make a speedy circuit of the yard, return immediately and begin pawing impatiently to come inside. This would be followed by another staring episode, another interior pawing at the door, another fast trip around the yard. We repeated the process so many times that I felt as though I was losing my mind. Kiko seemed to feel the same way. I could see his frustration: Why can’t we walk? I’ve got to get out of this stupid yard! This is my hunting and lounging area, not my potty place, for heaven’s sake!

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The Kiko Stare: Take me Out, Now!!!

I tried walking him on the leash in the back yard, but that only compounded the misery, adding mine to his. I invited neighborhood dogs over to visit, hoping they would mark and inspire Kiko.  He remained uninspired and steadfast.  His obstinacy is matched by the strength of his bladder; our dog is nothing if not continent. Kiko gave in a very few times, but only in the middle of the night and in hopeless, broken, pitiful desperation. The next day the routine would begin again. No break-through came, and the situation was intolerable. It wasn’t doing anything to further my recovery or my dog’s.

We went back to walking, much to Kiko’s relief, as well as mine. I brought new resolves of patience to the task. I’ve mentioned that despite the miles we cover together, Kiko’s on-leash behavior is generally less than stellar (see The Joys and Travails of Walking our Strange Little Dog, Oct. 2011). But I find it hard to blame him.  My extremely social dog is under the thrall of his acute sense of smell.  His nose serves as smartphone, Internet, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, all rolled into one neat package that he cannot set aside.  Kiko smells great troves of valuable information about his friends—Buster turned left at this corner, Annie says hi, Shyla wonders where he’s been, Lucy is tolerating the new foster puppies, and sweet three-legged Raven is having a good day. I hate to block my dog’s vast friendship network by dictating exactly where he can and cannot go.

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Kiko’s nose often leads him to his buddy Lucy, who is similarly fastidious. A well-matched pair of old friends, they seem to be holding paws.

After the painful, failed trial period of not walking, it seemed that Kiko’s behavior improved somewhat, or perhaps I simply chose to believe that it did.  I had missed walking my odd little dog even as I tried to avoid it. Now, it’s a given that on the most frigid of mornings, I will be out with Kiko.  I walk with him because I consider it my duty. It’s in our contract now.  I stay out far longer than necessary because I enjoy it, despite the weather.  It  wasn’t Kiko’s fault that the tendrils of hair at the side of my face froze one day last week when it was 15 degrees.  I had been breathing into my scarf, and the condensation turned to ice.  We didn’t need to wander for an hour and a half (although cold days are Kiko’s preference).  But I was well-bundled, and once we were out, in the still-snowy, beautifully frozen woods, spotting Kiko’s double, the red fox, the watchful pair of hawks, the pileated woodpecker and the white deer that roams our area, I didn’t want to hurry home.

Community, Family, Nature, Parenthood

What is this White Stuff?

 

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We woke up this morning, unexpectedly, to snow.  It wasn’t a lot of snow, but it was enough to cover the yard and nicely powder the trees and shrubs, to give the world a sort of winter facelift.  It’s been ages since we’ve seen snow here in northern Virginia, so it was a welcome sight.  Schools were delayed two hours, giving my daughter, a snow fanatic, the chance to enjoy it.  The snow piled up prettily on the nandina berries, above.

Today’s snow is pleasant, attractive and manageable.  I don’t miss the winters of constant snow, as my daughter does.  When she was in preschool and kindergarten, seems like every Friday from December through February brought just enough accumulation to shut down the schools.  The prospect of another snow day overjoyed her as much as it exhausted me.  I don’t look back fondly on the  years of blizzard after blizzard.  I hated the many transportation worries.  Will the schoolbus make it through?  Will the steeply winding road home be passable?  Should I cancel that appointment? What havoc will be wreaked by those drivers who have no business venturing out in such weather?  Will my husband get stuck behind someone who is unwisely inching up the long hill, again?  Will D and I be left to try to shovel the driveway alone, anxiously awaiting roadside updates from H?

The snowy weather ceased, of course, once H bought a snowblower.  While he’s been itching to give it a try, I wouldn’t mind if he doesn’t need it again this winter.  Or, maybe, to please him and D, he could use it just once.  For their sake, I wouldn’t mind one lovely deep snow.  While I’m wishing, I’ll wish for the flakes to start falling some Friday night after we’re all safely home.

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The yard was covered, just barely, with snow.  The trees and bushes were powdered white.

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Kiko seemed to have completely forgotten that he had ever experienced snow before.  He found it strange but exhilarating. 

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The first glimpse of the sun in the sky this morning could have been lifted from a Currier and Ives print.

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Holiday, Nature

Moving On, Into a New Year

It’s the seventh of January, 2013.  Epiphany has been celebrated; the Christmas season is officially over.  The electric candles in our windows have clicked on and off for the last time this winter. Tonight’s early January dusk will have to stand on its own; there will be no soothing, quasi-magical boost of simulated candlelight. We are back in ordinary time. Yet again, the days sped by too quickly.

 

This is the dreaded week of my Christmas clean-up.   I began the day by wandering remorsefully through the house, wishing we hadn’t put up six trees, wondering where to start the process of un-decoration. As always, I will resolve this year, for a change, to find the right boxes for the packing-up.  When I can’t manage that, I will vow to locate an actual working marker to label the boxes.  When even that proves undoable, I will tell myself that I’ll remember what I put where.  Eleven months from now, I will be standing in our frigid attic, muddled and confused.  The box that professes to contain miniature trees will be full of stockings and bead garlands.  Where did the box of white lights go this time?  Some crucial item, usually one of our star tree-toppers, will have vanished completely.

But it’s a new year, and it’s time to move on. The trappings of the holiday season have undergone an unmistakable, unsavory shift in essence. Five weeks ago, they were the stuff of joy and hope. Now they are clutter. The blue spruce is droopy and dry, its needles as sharp as steel.

I look forward, past the mess, envisioning the uncluttered, restful simplicity of mid-January.  It’s an illusion, a vanishing mirage, of course.  With a vengeance, this first month bursts with the business of everyday life.  A glance at the calendar reveals an exhausting proliferation of church meetings, school volunteer meetings and appointments with doctors.  All that and all the Christmas debris, still here.

Yet the reality of the new year brings a clearer, if starker, light.  It gladdens my heart to think that the shortest, darkest day of the year has come and gone. The earth is turning, tilting toward spring. The leaves of the rhododendrons in our back garden shrivel in the cold, but their blooms are set, ready and waiting.  Nature’s optimism and foresight promises renewal.  It really is time to move on.

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A rhododendron bud stands by for spring.

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Holiday

We’re All Family Here

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I’ve noticed that when TV sit-coms and the annual crop of heartwarming holiday movies attempt to address the “real meaning of Christmas,”  it often comes down to this lukewarm message:  It’s about family.  Not wanting to offend the secular audience, or those of other faiths, there is never a mention of Jesus, Christ, the Savior of the world, Emmanuel, or the Messiah.  As a Christian, I wish this were not always the case.

But after some thought, I realize, the TV explanation isn’t completely inadequate.  Christmas is about family.  It’s not just about trying to tolerate, for one day or a long weekend, the nuclear and extended family that gathers with us for the annual gift extravaganza.  It’s about being the family of God throughout the world.

God loves us so much that he sent his only son to live among us as a little baby.  He came down to our level, took on a human body and human frailty, so he could show us how to live, how to give, how to share.  Because he became one of us, we needn’t doubt that he understands our fears, our weaknesses and our shortcomings.  God knows what it’s like to be mocked, unappreciated, mistrusted and reviled.  He knows what it’s like when even our closest friends betray and abandon us.  He understands suffering and death.  He knows what it’s like to lose a child.  He truly feels our pain.

God has made us his children.  We are neither slaves nor possessions.  It is not our own worthiness that has granted us this favored role, but his unfailing love and forgiveness.  Through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, we are heirs to God’s eternal kingdom.  As grateful heirs, we are to respond to his grace by cultivating the seeds of love he has sown within us.

Christmas reminds us that we are all God’s children.  No matter how vast our differences in circumstance, appearance or culture, we are brothers and sisters.  We’re all family here. 

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Friendship

The Light Shines in the Darkness, No Matter What Happens

 

Light Shines 004 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

 –Luke 1: 5

As I contemplated a post for Christmas Eve, I realized that the one I wrote last year still expresses my thoughts for the day.  I modified the end somewhat, in response to recent tragedies, including that in Newtown, Connecticut.

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Our church’s candlelight Christmas Eve service is one of the highlights of the year. Each person receives a small white candle upon entering. Toward the end of the service, the sanctuary goes dark. The acolytes assist the congregation with the lighting of the individual, hand-held candles. Gradually, while we sing Silent Night, the light grows. By the final verse, the sanctuary is brightly glowing, as each member of the congregation holds high a lighted candle.

The process is a beautiful expression of God’s love. Into the darkness of the world, God sent a light. It appeared dim and insignificant at first. But soon it grew brighter and kindled countless other lights. When we allow the light of God’s gift to come alive within us, we glow. And we, in turn, have the power to spread the light. Our combined light is a mighty force. The darkness will not overcome it.

The source of the light is one baby, born to an unknown young woman and witnessed only by her trusting husband and perhaps the animals of a stable. In an unlikely juxtaposition, a multitude of angels announces the birth not to the ruling elite, but to shepherds in the fields outside of town. (This is nevertheless appropriate, because the baby’s great ancestor David was a shepherd boy when he was hand-picked to be king.) Before long, the birth of the child has attracted the attention of wise men from distant Eastern lands. Led by a singular star, they embark on a long journey to find the humble family. They bow down in awe before the baby and present him with rare and costly gifts.

God’s great gift turns the world upside down, upsets its expected order. There is no room in the comfort of any inn for God’s only son. Angels appear to lowly shepherds, and kings worship a baby. Allowing God’s light to shine within us may lead us to unexpected places. The tidiness of our lives is likely to be overturned. This is the difficulty in letting our inner light shine. Its power may summon us to go where we would rather not venture. It may be more convenient to quench that light, to hide it under a bushel. But knowing that the flame that dwells within us is from God, the light of salvation, ever-present, we can have the courage to go where it wills us.

The darkness of our world may seem impenetrable at times.  When innocent children and their caring leaders are massacred on a crisp Friday morning two weeks before Christmas, our world appears almost unimaginably dark.  It would seem that God turned his back that day in Newtown, Connecticut.  What about the angels some say he sends?  Where were they that day?   No one, not the most learned theologian or the holiest, most enlightened human, can adequately explain why such terrible things happen. Certainly I can’t.  But it helps me to realize that we lack God’s all-seeing perspective.  We see through the glass dimly; we can’t grasp the big picture.  Maybe God did send angels that day, but they didn’t work as we might expect.  Maybe those who died in Newtown were needed elsewhere; maybe they were promoted early to a place of honor and privilege somewhere we might call heaven.

Despite the evil that is abroad in the world, God’s love is stronger.  We are never alone; he is with us even in the worst of times. He is there to lead us to the light, out of the depths of despair.  On this Christmas Eve, I pray for the light to be kindled and nourished in hearts throughout the world.  And I pray that we will have the strength to let the light be our guide.

Do not be afraid; for see—I bring you good news of great joy for all the people:  to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.

–Luke 2: 10b-11

Crafts, Family, Holiday

The Gingerbread Village Today

For several years it appeared that our gingerbread structures were none the worse for wear despite constant exposure to household elements. When I started to notice a few small flying moths, I searched the pantry, found nothing, and tried to ignore the problem. But the moths became more difficult to ignore.  I began to spot them regularly in the vicinity of the playroom hutch, and I was soon led to the source of the dusty-winged pests.  Our cheery, kid-friendly cottage, the first of my daughter’s and my combined efforts,  had lost its battle with an invading army of mealworms. I remembered then that I had sprayed the house only once, instead of my customary twice, with acrylic fixative. It was time to rethink the year-round gingerbread display.

The pastel candy-covered house went in the trash (despite D’s pleas that it could be saved—the poor child, I fear, has inherited a potential hoarding gene from both sides of the family). I tried to seal and pack the other buildings as thoroughly as my mother would have done. The castle, though, exceeded the size of any box I could find.  Mama would have painstakingly pieced together something that would contain it. I did not do this. I wrapped the castle in plastic, tried to tape over the unclosable box flaps, and hoped for the best. We stored all the boxes on shelves in the basement, which, incidentally, no longer flooded.

 

Just a few months after the village had been packed away, the inadequacy of my storage of the castle becamse dramatically apparent.  During every quick trip to the basement, a rustling, scurrying sound could be heard.  Before long, we had localized the noise to the castle box.  Clearly, it was the pitter-patter of tiny feet.  A multitude of mice had hit the housing jackpot; they were living large in a sweet, edible palace. When my husband carried the box to the back yard and opened it, five mice on a sugar high zipped out, ran right back down the steps and disappeared into the murky corners of the basement. The castle had been almost completely denuded of its abundant, exuberant royal icing. 

 
We were forced to reckon with our mice-control system.  Capturing them in humane traps, easing their nerves by feeding them Cheerios and then releasing them a couple of miles down the road at the edge of the woods was not yielding the best results.  Sadly, we adopted more stringent measures, and we no longer found evidence of mouse parties.  But the fate of the castle made me even less eager to unpack the remaining gingerbread houses as December rolled around each year.  Seven years passed.  

 
Just after Thanksgiving this year, I decided I had the time, energy and fortitude of mind to confront the stored boxes.  Still, I dreaded what I might discover. I knew that our house played host to other creatures besides mice that were likely to enjoy dining on gingerbread.

 
One by one, I unsealed the boxes and brought out each house.  The thatched cottage from 1989 had a few issues with its Shredded Wheat roof, but otherwise it had held up well.  The Norman church tower from 1990 was missing only a few crenellations along its roofline.  The manor house and its adjoining wing (’91 & ’92) had both survived mostly intact.  The white Gothic tower, made to commemorate our wedding in 1995, showed few signs of age.  All its surfaces had been completely covered in white royal icing, and I had expected it to have a long life.  The replica of St. Kevin’s Kitchen (’96), a playhouse-sized eleventh-century Irish chapel, looked good as new except for having lost its conical chimney cap.  Only one building was a loss.  The nave of the Norman church (’93) had succumbed to a mealworm infestation like the one that had destroyed the candy cottage.  I took each house outside to the back patio for a thorough coating of acrylic spray.  The village is back on the playroom hutch again, at least for Christmas (and perhaps through Valentine’s Day). 

Gingerbread 032The Manor House, St. Kevin’s Kitchen (so-called because of its chimney-like tower), the Gothic Bell Tower, and Manor House Wing.             

Crafts, Family, Holiday, Parenthood

The Gingerbread Village Relocates and Plays to a Younger Audience

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As a toddler, our daughter’s favorite playthings were the various trappings of Christmas.  She had little use for actual toys if holiday decorations were at hand.  This led to occasional minor heartbreaks when fragile tidbits fell to pieces in her insistent little fingers, but generally she knew how to handle with care.

The first year that I unpacked the gingerbread village in Virginia, D was at my side, bubbling with excitement.  She greeted each structure with much admiration, and I was duly flattered.  She helped me arrange the buildings, some in the center of the dining room table, others atop the hutch.  D could spend hours sitting on the table, setting up various inhabitants among the houses and churches, talking to herself, happily lost in her imagination.  The village might host our clothespin nativity figures one day.  The felt Christmas mice, or a crowd of Polly Pocket dolls might have the run of the place the next day.  The possibilities were nearly endless, just like a child’s busy, growing mind.

D proved to have a knack for creating attractive baked goods.  At age three, she was a surprisingly skilled sugar cookie baker.  She turned out to be a natural with a pastry bag; her royal icing decorations were top-knotch.   Before long, she was asking to help me make a gingerbread house.  I realized that she would, indeed, be a capable assistant.

Our first mother-daughter collaboration was a modest cottage.  I gave my daughter fairly free reign in terms of decoration, so it was a colorful dream of candy and icing.  The next year, we decided to go big.  We made an elaborate, turreted gingerbread castle.  It was an appropriately exuberant candy palace for a girl who chose to wear a different princess costume every day.

Because I couldn’t face the daunting task of properly sealing, packing and storing the gingerbread village, it became a permanent display in our playroom. Our old house, as I’ve said before, is lacking in closets, and our basement used to flood with every hard rain. The absence of the perfect spot to store the village was a good excuse to simply keep it out all year long. D was glad to have it as a constant companion. Every new holiday brought another chance to redecorate.  Our Christmas village had become a town for all seasons.

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D, nearly three, arranges the clothespin Mary and baby Jesus
on the roof of the thatched cottage.