November 30 – The Final Post

That is, the final post of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). It wasn’t nearly as exhausting or challenging as NaNoWriMo, but it gives me a certain level of satisfaction to have blogged every day for a month. This is especially considering how little I’d blogged this year up to November 1.

Although I registered with the official site, I never went back and logged in, so there’s nothing official with this effort. No kudos or certificates of merit. That’s fine. Production was its own reward. Now that November is finished, I won’t be dating my blog posts any more, which was annoying.

No, I won’t be attempting to blog every day from now on. There’s too much of the written word in the world already, most of it not being read. I’m not motivated to simply generate words, but if I have something I want to write about, no matter how insignificant in the larger scheme of things, I definitely will blog about it.

I’ll just close with a realization: I am two years older than the Grinch. “For 53 years I’ve put up with it now…” Oh, that does make me feel old! Not being 55 and rounding third toward 56, but being older than the Grinch. If I looked younger than him, it wouldn’t be so bad.

November 29 – Next Up in the Photo Above

The transfer-printed dish in the background is a saucer I bought at an antique mall that used to be open in a big industrial building in Lawrenceburg, Indiana. I bought the saucer because I thought it looked old, and it was priced at only a couple of dollars. On the bottom it’s marked “Royal Doulton – Grantham.” I’d never really checked the mark before; I just did a search on the Grantham pattern and see that it’s all over the Internet. I tried to find a date for the pattern and didn’t, but I did see that Doulton was permitted to add “Royal” to their name in 1901, so I assume this little dish dates back no farther than that.

I was very disappointed when I broke this saucer, I don’t remember how. I glued it back together, and since I never used it for anything but a colorful shelf backdrop, the broken saucer is sufficient. I still like this pattern, including the colors, although I don’t think I’d want an entire service of it.

Because of the BBC comedy “Keeping Up Appearances,” the name “Royal Doulton” always gives me a chuckle due to the way Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced “bouquet”) says the name: Royal Dooooouton. I thought maybe I’d been mispronouncing the name all these years, but discovered that was just one of Hyacinth’s affectations. Apparently the “hand-painted periwinkles” on her china are extremely important to her. My little saucer has strictly a transfer design.

November 28 – Tree Fatigue

Tonight I helped put up a Christmas tree for the second time this week. This one was Mom’s tree, with the Hooligans “assisting” in their way. For some reason I find tree-trimming very tiring; doing it twice in a short period of time pushes me to the saturation point.

I think I’m going to wait until next weekend to put up my own tree, although I usually regret waiting when Christmas rushes up and I feel I haven’t enjoyed my tree nearly enough. However, I’m still doing some straightening around the apartment, which I’d like to get finished up before holiday trimming. Also I usually store my regular knickknacks and collections in the cartons from which I’ve taken the Christmas things, and I think I’d rather get the shelf decorations put up and the regular decor pieces put away before I get into the tree.

I suspected I wouldn’t get as much cleaning and organizing done as I’d imagined this past week, but I did pretty well. Latest treasure recovered: my digital thermometer, which I found along the baseboard by the vanity (where the donations for Goodwill had been languishing for months).

November 27 – Christmas Walks

I’ve grown to love the day after Thanksgiving almost as much as Thanksgiving itself – and NOT because of “Black Friday.” I hate the whole Black Friday mindset and stay away from the malls and big box stores until the mania simmers down.

On this Friday what I enjoy is a good Christmas walk. Today Mom, the Hooligans, and I went over to the nearby town of Milford, Ohio, for their celebration. We wound in and out of gift and antique shops, J.Hooligan sampled free cookies and candy everywhere we went, and we took a chilly horse-drawn tram ride around a couple blocks of the town.

About 20 years ago, within a range of three or four years either way, I often did house sitting over the Thanksgiving holidays, which was fun. On the day after Thanksgiving, my habit was to indulge in a huge meal of leftovers that Mom had sent home with me, then set out for the Milford Christmas walk. There were more little antique sh0ps then, I think, and I almost always found a trinket or two to put back as a Christmas or St. Nick gift.

At some point we added the Miamitown Christmas walk to our Thanksgiving holiday plans. Miamitown was close to where Mom, my stepdad, and Diamondqueen lived (in a community called Blue Jay, about halfway between Harrison and Miamitown). The Christmas walk ran from Friday evening through daytime and evening Saturday, but we tried to go either Friday or Saturday when it was dark and the streets were lit with milk jug luminaria.

I reveled in it. It was crowded and spirited. You had to fight your way through the various shops – sometimes it was better to do “serious” shopping another time – but there was lots to see, and people were in a holiday mood. There were free fire engine rides, carriage rides, an arts and craft show, a live nativity at one of the churches, and entertainment at various spots up and down the main street.

When Mom and my stepfather moved from the Miamitown area to Loveland in 2001,  it became a lot harder to attend the Miamitown Christmas walk. Mom and I did make the 45-minute drive a couple of times this decade, but it didn’t feel the same. Part of it was simply not being “of” the community any more, but the town was changing as well as shops had begun to disappear.

About a month ago, Mom and I drove through Miamitown on our way to an antique mall in a nearby community. It was sad to see how few of the old shops were still open, favorite haunts we visited often throughout the year ten to twenty years ago. We wondered what the Christmas walk was like now, with fewer businesses to visit, and whether the event still has its old hubbub and good nature.

I hope so. But there was no question of trying to visit this year to see for ourselves. It would have been too sad and empty-feeling compared to the old years, what with all the “for rent” signs in front of empty storefronts, or buildings now housing other kinds of businesses rather than antiques and gifts, and my stepdad long dead, not to mention his friend and neighbor at the old house, who sold some of his handmade wood figures and ornaments at a bazaar in the basement of the little brick church by the cemetery.

Often it’s better to enjoy memories of what was and not pursue the past in the present. My memories of the Miamitown, Ohio, Christmas walk are vivid and treasured. I’d just as soon keep them that way.

 

November 26 – A Fine Thanksgiving 2009

We had quite a nice Thanksgiving. Mom worked herself to the nub preparing everything – another year, another marathon, another successful meal! At 77, she’s absolutely amazing.

And it was all wonderful, as usual. The entire Hooligan clan and my brother joined the feast. The only ripple was S.Hooligan acting out in her signature way. First she insisted one of her stuffed animals was going to sit with me on my chair at the dinner table. When I said NO, she started moving her stuff to her daddy’s place. Naturally he kicked her out of his chair, and I added insult to injury by getting my brother to tell S. to behave. She left the room (concealing her tears as she usually does) and went into the bathroom. I gave her some time to settle down and then peeked in on her. It appeared she was sucking her thumb and staring at herself in the mirror. She shoved me out and shut the door.

A few minutes later her father went to the bathroom to talk to her. She didn’t accompany him back, but slunk into the kitchen once he was seated and crawled under the table for a bit. Meanwhile, J.Hooligan had been stuffing himself with turkey and cranberry sauce. He left the table in a bloated state, and S. rose up to take over his seat (which was completely on the other side of the table from me). After a buttered roll or two, she perked up and was soon back to her old self.

S.Hooligan’s new development this year is that she had pumpkin pie in her kindergarten class and loved it. She was excited that Grandma would have pumpkin pie as well; and when Diamondqueen received delivery of two Busken pies she’d ordered through a charity fundraiser, S. consumed two pieces of the pumpkin herself.

Mom suspected if S. liked commercial pie she probably wouldn’t like Grandma’s homemade version. S. kept eyeing those pies, and once everyone had finished dinner, Grandma presented her with a slice. Mom, Diamondqueen, my brother and I were chatting as S. dipped into her pie, but I was watching her out of the corner of my eye. S. actually tried a second bite, then I watched her whisper in her mother’s ear, and I could just about hear what she said: “Grandma’s pie doesn’t taste good!” Diamondqueen shushed her, and S. went on her way to spread chaos to J. and That Poor Man in the living room.

Later I heard S.Hooligan’s whispered critique in its entirety: “Grandma’s pie doesn’t taste good! I’m going home to eat my OWN pie.” I related this to Grandma, and she just laughed. After all, she’d called S.Hooligan’s reaction from the start.

Fortunately, I LOVE Mom’s pumpkin pie, and there’s plenty left. In fact, all this talking of pie has made me hungry…

November 25 – Nobody Wants to Visit Santa

Today we all went over to Tri-County Mall to pick up the Hooligans’ Christmas portraits at Sears. We’ve done this in the past the day before Thanksgiving, and on those occasions we added a visit to the mall Santa, since the mall is relatively empty midday.

Last year J.Hooligan bowed out of the Santa visit. He decided he was too old, which was true in a way at nine years old. So S.Hooligan went alone, told Santa what she wanted, and got her photo taken.

This year neither child wanted to see Santa. With S., I’m a little suspicious that she’s afraid that Santa will confront her about her abysmal behavior. Or it’s part of this phase she’s going through where she sticks to her mother’s side like a bur to a wool sock. She wavered between yes and no for a bit, but ultimately chose not to tell Santa her wishes.

I also suspect that J. wishes he still wants to see Santa. J. suffered the classic disillusionment this year when his mother let it slip that Santa and the Easter Bunny aren’t real. The resentment rises to the surface every so often; several times already this fall J. has lamented for the “good old days” when he thought Santa was real.

I never let the magic of the season hang on my belief in Santa. I don’t remember any disillusionment, and I can’t recall if it’s because I didn’t believe deep down in him anyway, or if it was because I exercised a willing suspension of disbelief – a form of faith, really. I remember prodding my mother about all those department store Santas, and I willingly accepted her theory that those were all official “helpers” that looked just like the real one. Then again, maybe the notion that none of us ever sees the real Santa anyhow kind of tempered my belief. After all, they were just reasonable facsimiles, not the real thing.

As I’ve gotten older and more jaded, I’ve found that I actually believe in everything, from leprechauns to ghosts to saints who bring us gifts in December. Why the heck not? I’ve been bitterly disillusioned by believing in flesh-and-blood people who definitely exist; it was their moral compass or their dedication or their dependability that were imaginary. If real people turn out not to be real, then I should be able to belief in imaginary characters who, it may turn out, are not at all imaginary.

November 24 – The First Tree

I can’t remember when it became a tradition for the Hooligan family to put up their Christmas tree the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving. Maybe we started when J.Hooligan was a baby and we were eager to get into the spirit.

One of those tree-trimming Tuesdays I remember especially was the year Diamondqueen was pregnant with S.Hooligan (2002). Diamondqueen had been very ill with morning sickness as well as anxiety about the little peanut she was carrying. Since J.’s birth, she’d lost one baby very early in her pregnancy, and paranoia had taken over. She was wild with worry and worn down with the strain of being so bad off physically.

If I’m remembering correctly, that Tuesday before Thanksgiving she had an ultrasound that proved the baby was alive and well, developing as she should. (I don’t think we knew yet it was a “she,” but at that point, Diamondqueen just wanted a healthy infant, regardless of the sex.) If the test wasn’t that day, then Diamondqueen got some kind of good medical news, because her mood was completely different that evening. She felt up to putting up the tree; J., who was only three years old, was an enthusiastic participant and surprisingly helpful.

We’d had a light snow that day, unusual for November in Southwestern Ohio. After the tree was trimmed, Diamondqueen, That Poor Man, J.Hooligan, and I ran outside to see what it looked like. This morphed into an out-and-out snowball fight. It was fun, of course, but more than that, it was a relief to see Diamondqueen happier than she’d been in weeks.

Tonight that baby that everyone worried about was right there in the middle of everything, a long and lean six-year-old stage managing the entire proceeding. She said she was putting the “magic” on the tree by tossing on threads of silver tinsel she’d salvaged from the carpet. At one point she made J.Hooligan and me hold hands with her and rock back and forth singing along with Yoko Ono on “And So This Is Christmas.” For awhile she tried to crawl under the tree and curl up there like the cat, but her father dragged her out and gave her a swat in the britches.

When the tree stood there at last in its completed, shining glory, S. wanted us to all stand hand-in-hand around it and sing “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” J. wouldn’t cooperate and Diamondqueen drifted away after a verse or two. I didn’t pay any attention to what S. was doing until she’d arranged three of her stuffed animals under the tree, sat down next to them, and insisted I join her. This made a much fuller choir in number if not in voices. She lost me when she laid all the animals flat and joined them with her head under the tree. I’m a pretty good sport about such activities, but this seemed to be taking things a little too far. Besides, I didn’t want That Poor Man dragging me out and swatting my butt.

November 23 – The Treasure Hunt Begins

I much prefer thinking I’m spending my time off this week “treasure hunting” rather than just trying to clean and organize my apartment. I spent a LONG time going through an IKEA bag full of stuff to either sort or shred, and I sorted through some other things as well.

The biggest treasure I uncovered so far is my long-lost DVD of Les Miserable highlights, which I’d just gotten for my birthday in April and had seen all the way through only once. I also found the hook that had broken off a kind of stand Mom had bought me, a star-topped rod with a base – the little hook was for hanging a wreath or small piece of needlework. I’m going to see if I can solder the hook back on, although my attempts at soldering haven’t been very successful so far.

A treasure that wasn’t so much lost as unrecognized is a couple of sets of thread color sample cards of Kreinik fibers, from metallic threads to braids to silk floss. My managing editor at work had picked them up at an industry show and later asked me if I wanted them. I discovered that there were about 6″ of each color wound around the sample card. Not enough to really make something big, but plenty to add touches of metal or color to a project or to stitch on silk gauze. I spent most of the evening unwinding the threads and sorting them by general color group. Maybe some of them will make their way into a Christmas ornament or the like.

It wasn’t all cleaning today. I did a little shopping, bought some things at Hobby Lobby with the gift card I got for Aunt Nancy Day (including a rod to make a quilt hanger for my whole cloth lap quilt I hand-quilted over the first six months of this year), and dropped off a small load of stuff at Goodwill. For me, overall, a productive day.

November 22 – The Anniversary, Again

This evening I watched a repeat of an “American Experience” program called Oswald’s Ghost. I didn’t read or hear much about the anniversary of JFK’s assassination today, but it’s not one of the big anniversary years. I wonder sometimes if every baby boomer who is old enough to remember the events thinks of that day on November 22. It’s becoming longer and longer ago for me – quite a span from nine years old to 55. It’s very strange to hear media experts or historians or professors of popular culture explain the assassination, how it was covered by the media, how the American people reacted, etc., in such an objectified manner, as if everyone who lived through it is already dead and gone. I suppose everyone from every generation has felt that way hearing those who weren’t there “explain” their history, whether it was the Civil War or the Great Depression or World War II.

I recounted my recollections of the day here two years ago, so I won’t go into all that again. Watching Oswald’s Ghost, I thought about all the theories and wondered if it’s to be a perennial mystery that will never be solved, like who the real Jack the Ripper was. I’m also amazed at how openly clinical everything is now about the assassination, with videos of the Zapruder film on YouTube and the Internet full of the autopsy photos from a couple of angles. All of that was shielded from the public in 1963. At that time, I don’t know how people would have handled it, even the adults. Now, everyone watches the CSI shows and similar programs, including real life series on cable, and we’re all less naive about what happens to the human form during trauma – and during autopsy.

I also kept seeing ghosts of the recent dead through those video clips,  particularly Ted Kennedy, Eunice Shriver, and Walter Cronkite. As I tally up all of the dead from those old clips, I have to remind myself that the assassination was 46 years ago. Maybe because they were so young at the time, Jackie and JohnJohn and the surviving brothers and even some of the media, it feels as though everyone died way before their time. In some cases, obviously, they did. But others enjoyed long, eventful lives. Time simply pushes you off the stage eventually.

November 21 – No Place Like Home for the Holidays

I don’t know why certain days become etched in memory, days with nothing really spectacular or eventful about them. I’ve always thought fondly of a Saturday before Thanksgiving in the early 60s. I don’t know where my father was – maybe that’s why we had fun that day. Mom needed some Gurley figurine candles for Christmas gifts she was making that year, so we drove up to the old Kenwood Plaza to a dime store there, a rare outing. I don’t know what made that dime store more special than the Woolworth’s down at Hyde Park Plaza, but it was a trip Mom seemed intent on making.

There was no I71 in those days, so we had to take back roads from Oakley to Kenwood, back roads that were wooded and made me hum “Over the River and Through the Woods” to myself. I think there might have even been snow flurries that day.

At the Kenwood dime store Mom bought her Santa and angel candles, and maybe some boy and girl pilgrim ones as well. When we returned home, Mom put our Perry Como Christmas album on the stereo. This was before radio stations played Christmas music before Thanksgiving. In fact, it was impossible to hear Christmas music before  late in December, so it was a special treat to have Mr. Como singing “There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays” that cozy Saturday. I think Mom started working on her Christmas projects as soon as we got home, so there was a delicious atmosphere of preparation. I don’t remember doing anything myself, but the mood and warmth of that day are still with me all these years later.

That was all – a simple shopping trip, a classic November day, and Perry Como. And my mother, and our home, and no conflict, just rich contentment. Every year I must listen to Como’s “There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays” before Thanksgiving and relive how wonderful that day felt.