Cold, Miserable Rainy-Day Dog-Walking

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The recent cold, rainy weather here in Virginia has been the sort that tests even the most dedicated dog walker. The mornings have brought no pastel watercolor skies, no evidence, really, at all, of the existence of a distant, light and life-giving golden orb. There is only a gradual diminishing of the steely gray darkness. The atmosphere of pervasive gloom is not lessened as the day progresses. It’s hard to look on the bright side when no bright side is visible.

On dreary wet mornings like this one, Kiko’s enthusiasm for the first outing of the day is, thankfully, muted. If the sound of rain is loud and continuous, he might remain curled in his bed, small and fox-like, for several hours. We have postponed that initial walk as late as 11:00 AM on some rainy days. I was hoping this would be the case today, but unfortunately it was not. I was able to delay him for about an hour, but no longer.

I cannot complain of being poorly equipped for dog walking in inclement weather. Prompted either by tender familial devotion or a determination that none of us would have an excuse for not walking the dog on wet days, my husband has outfitted the whole family with extensive rain gear. In addition to hooded, high-tech jackets, we have waterproof boots and pants. If it’s pouring rain, and if I can locate my rain pants (that’s a big if), I’m glad to pull them on over my jeans. More typically, I decide that the rain isn’t steady or strong enough to warrant leg protection. I usually regret this decision, as I did today.

Rain seems to bring out the absolute worst in Kiko’s on-leash behavior. You’d never know he is a Puppy Obedience School grad. (But we have the photo of him, looking ridiculous in a mortarboard hat, to prove it.) The wet weather apparently enhances the depth and variety of earthy smells, so Kiko dawdles excessively, his nose working furiously. Rainy-day walks seem to be, for my dog, the equivalent of science labs. Unless I tug him unmercifully, we inch along. Every clump of grass beckons, begging to be sniffed and sampled, its delicate taste evidently heightened by the rain. Every messy smudge on the road asks to be examined and identified. Dangerous human snacks like bony chicken wings are more likely to be discovered on rainy days, and I must fish them out of his mouth with my fingers. At least Kiko has outgrown his taste for earthworms. If he finds nothing of interest directly in front of him, he tends to stand transfixed, a model of indecision, checking the air for enticing aromas nearby. Finally, there’s what I call his fake-out marking, more prevalent in the rain. He smells a spot lingeringly and intently; he pauses, looks up, almost lifts his leg, yet decides against it.

The more impatient and miserable I become during these rainy walks, the slower Kiko moves. This morning I opted against bringing an umbrella. No matter how often I tugged my hood forward, it kept slipping back, letting rain drop into my eyes, ears and hair. Water trickled into the gap at my wrist between jacket and glove. My gloves were soon heavy and cumbersome. My formerly watertight boots have recently developed a leak, and the first puddle admitted a small flood. One foot was immediately drenched.

The final part of the walk is the worst, along a narrow county road that winds along by the stream bed. It’s picturesque, but treacherous. The nearly nonexistent shoulder is muddy, rutted and overgrown. I’m continually amazed at the cars that fly by, mere inches from my shoulder. I have been known, I admit, to shake my head slowly from side to side, or even to gesture forcefully, if not specifically, in hopes that some may think to slow down, or perhaps, when there is no oncoming traffic, to move closer to the center line. If I ever turn up in the “Public Safety Notes” of our free local paper, I predict it will be due to my encounter with some driver along this stretch of road. I hope it will involve no bodily harm to either party. I expect it will mention something like a “heated verbal exchange.”

For those of you, who, like me, are out there with your dog on dismal mornings, I commiserate with you. And for those who have no dog that requires walking, be sure to count this today as one of your blessings!

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He looks so sweet–why can’t he sleep all day long? 

A January Dawn

In my last post, I was dwelling on the dying of the day, on the quick and early onset of the January evening, to be faced without benefit of Christmas candles.  This morning, as Kiko and I set out on our walk, I realized it had been a while since I paid close attention to the onset of the day.  This winter sunrise, I would be observant.  I was not disappointed.

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The morning didn’t appear especially promising as we began.  The sky was stubbornly gray, the land dull and shadowy.  The possibility of further light seemed unlikely.  But before long, real signs of sunrise became evident.  Soon the bare tree branches were silhouetted in inky black, as in a Magritte painting, against a sky that shaded from rose to lavender.  A bright crescent moon hung, jewel-like. 

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These trees seem to lean in towards one another for company as they await the light.

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I hadn’t planned on venturing into the woods, but Kiko was determined.  Despite the difficulties of negotiating the brambles and unruly profusion of vines while being tugged along by my headstrong dog, I was glad he insisted.  A perfect-looking January morning should be snow-covered, in my opinion.  In the absence of the white fluffy stuff, a heavy frost is the next-best adornment.  The tangled weeds along the banks of the creek were dressed up with a pearly iridescent coating.  The woods and sky glowed with the same pale, elegant luminosity.  Such winter mornings are among the early-rising dog-walkers’ best rewards; I’m glad I didn’t miss this one. 

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.

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. 

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

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.             

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.

My Medieval English Gingerbread Village

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Back in 1989, home from grad school one winter break, I had enough free time to try my hand at making a gingerbread house. I had spent the previous year living in England researching my dissertation, and visions of picture-perfect country villages were rattling around in my head. I loved the quaint homes lining narrow lanes, the dwellings in use since medieval times and only gaining in charm over the centuries. I was especially fond of the thatched cottages with their half-timbered facades and slanting walls. When I saw Martha Stewart’s masterful gingerbread replica of her Turkey Hill farmhouse, I was further inspired. I liked its relative architectural correctness and its conspicuous absence of frou-frou candy cuteness typically associated with gingerbread buildings.

So I set out to make a thatched cottage. I used Martha Stewart’s recipe and diligently followed her gingerbread-baking tips. I remember thinking my mother was overly uptight when she expressed some dismay at my timing; I began rolling out the dough a day or so before our annual Christmas party. Now I know exactly how she felt. Recently I was struggling to prepare for out-of-town guests when I noted with incredulity that my daughter had plunged into an ambitious beading project that required table surfaces in several rooms. Mama, please accept my belated apology!

That first house took about a week to bake and assemble. If I had thought I could finish it by the party, I was certainly mistaken. It wasn’t even done by Christmas, as that year’s holiday photos attest; it can be glimpsed in the background, roofless, Progresso soup cans supporting its walls. But by New Year’s Eve it was complete, from its Gothic windows, snow-topped chimney and roof of Shredded Wheat, which bears a remarkable resemblance to thatch.

Gingerbread is generally considered a fragile, impermanent medium. But this is not necessarily the case. Like the thirteenth and fourteenth-century cottages I so admired in England, my first gingerbread house has had a long life. It is still with us. The strength of royal icing, a mixture of powdered sugar and egg whites, should not be underestimated, and a clear acrylic spray does wonders to protect gingerbread surfaces.

During the 90s I made other houses and several churches, all in a subdued palette and reflecting various medieval periods. A gingerbread village evolved. Each January I flew back to New Jersey, leaving my mother to deal with the increasingly time-consuming task of storing the houses. She was a faithful (if somewhat understandably resentful) curator of the collection. She kept the village on display atop the hall bookcases until after Valentine’s Day, when she sealed the houses in plastic bags and carefully taped boxes.

By the time H and I bought our home in Virginia, Mama was eager to retire as gingerbread caretaker. House by house, the village began the trek from Atlanta in the back of my parents’ station wagon. I saw, with some alarm, that it would be up to me to deal with the complicated preservation demands of theoretically edible structures prone to decay.  As in every craft project, the fun is in the design and fabrication, not in routine maintenance. I wasn’t sure I wanted this new role, but abandoning the houses to the trash bin was not an option.

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The first four buildings of the gingerbread village, displayed
in my parents’ dining room in 1993.

Frosty December Morning

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A beautiful frost covered the ground during my early-morning walk today with Kiko.  My little dog was especially frisky, evidently invigorated by the chill in the air and the intriguing sensation of the frost.  He tends to paw daintily and delicately at the icy grass, then exhaust himself by running through it in wild and exuberant circles.  I was struck by the muted yet luminous colors that had descended upon our ordinary neighborhood.  Lawns were glazed blue-green, and bright red nandina foliage had paled to a shimmery rose, like the sky above (although that eluded my camera).  The world looked like one of those sparkling holiday centerpieces of red and green grapes dipped in egg whites and sugar.  I’ve never made that sort of frosted fruit, but I’m thinking I will have to give it a try this Christmas season. 

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Little White Lights, for the Season of Light

 

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I prefer to avoid overhead lights whenever possible.  They  scream institution: school, office, hospital, the DMV, and perhaps worst of all, the department-store fitting room.  They drone on of chores and unpleasantness.  Best to use them, I believe, under only three circumstances:

  • 1.  To quickly (and briefly) illuminate a dark room upon entry (to avoid falling over the dog or some misplaced, unexpected obstacle).
  • 2.  When cleaning, as in vacuuming, scrubbing floors and dusting.
  • 3.  In case of emergencies.

Nothing makes a room or its inhabitants look sadder and more forlorn than a ceiling light casting its cold and dismal glow.  The light is either too harsh or too dim.  The angle is all wrong.  I suspect there are untold numbers of people unwittingly suffering a diminished quality of life because they persist in flicking on the overhead switch, and leaving it on.  

Were they to employ a decent-looking table lamp instead of the ceiling light, a space that once appeared mournful and dejected might become cozy and pleasant.  They might find themselves inexplicably cheerier.

I’ve acquired lots of lamps over the years, mostly at flea markets, yard sales and antique stores.  Others were gifts from my mother, from whom I acquired my distaste for ceiling fixtures.  Our house probably has too many lamps.  In December, some of these are relegated to the basement.  Christmas demands a softer, warmer, more festive glow than most lamps can offer.  The outside of our house gets its special holiday treatment, and the inside is not neglected. 

During the Christmas season, the optimal sources of interior illumination, I believe, are strands of small clear white lights.  To some degree, they mimic the effect of candlelight.  Yet compared to candles, they involve considerably less mess and threat of fire.  I discovered the charm of such lights one year as we were preparing for our annual holiday party.  Now we decorate for the party and keep the lights up through Epiphany, January 6. 

White lights peek out from the ivy at the feet of the large nativity figures occupying the tops of the TV armoire and the adjacent bookshelves. They’re entwined in garlands on the stair banister, atop the secretary in the living room, the sideboard in the dining room, and sometimes on top of the piano.

They adorn our big Christmas tree in the living room, typically a blue spruce.  In the first years of our marriage, before a child came along to distract me, I spent the better part of two days wrapping nearly every branch with lights, for a total of about 1,300.   Now, I lack the time to be so obsessive (at least in that regard). 

White lights decorate our several small artificial trees, like the alpine trees above in the dining room. ( I found that one of these trees alone appears bedraggled and pitiful, but a grouping of three is just right.  We hang our homemade pinecone and cork creatures, pasta and seashell angels on these trees.  See posts from December 2011.) 

Around 5 PM each evening, as the winter night settles in, I start plugging in the many strands of lights.  (Unfortunately my husband has not developed a one-switch system, as he has with the electric candles in the windows and the exterior spotlights.)  Our rooms begin to glow, as if enlivened by tiny stars.  I am reminded that we are in a special season, a time when we focus on the miraculous light that God sent to shine in our dark world. 

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The manger scene atop the bookshelves.

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The nativity figures are so large that the magi and their well-dressed camel occupy the armoire on the adjacent wall.

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White lights add a warm glow on the dining room sideboard.

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.