JUST A GLIMPSE

Those moments of anticipation before the doorbell rings. And the evening was beautiful---one of the best parties we've ever had---lots of talk and laughter and just good friends together.

Moire non, when I can sort two thoughts together---must rest now.

PARTY PREP, SHINING LIGHTS

No time to stop for pictures right now, but this is a pretty good idea of how the house is looking at this moment. I had vast, glorious dreams of having the tables all set up, draped and set by yesterday afternoon, but then, as a lot of dreams----POOF! The food's all done, all save baking the sausage balls and the gratin of artichoke dip.

Above are the old family recipe fudge that my Mother used every Christmas, except she managed to DROP it, spoon by spoon, onto waxed paper, like pralines. I can barely manage to get it into the pan before you can see the little fading shimmer that says it's setting up. Stacked tall is what must be Rocky Mountain Road, for it's very tall, with snowy clumps everywhere. It's two recipes of chocolate, with double the marshmallows and more than half the can of glorious Virginia Peanuts brought to us this Summer by our friends, the Chesapeakes.

One small recipe has no peanuts---just Bumpy Road.

It's fun this morning, though---Caro's upstairs in her beautifully-decorated realm, getting ready to cut all those bar cookies and the fudge and the lemon squares, setting them out for the choosing and the sharing tonight. Sweetpea's room was converted to a handy fridge, with windows open and lines of pans set up on a clean white sheet across her bed---the weather cooperated beautifully, with just little drifts of snow, and no more to come before our guests can make their way back to their warm homes tonight.

The scent of fresh-perked coffee, the light down the stairs from the not-yet-sunny morning, the sounds of Chris in the kitchen, slicing that beautiful rosy-pink ham to layer on the platter, my sweet silver-white tree glowing over my shoulder, lighting the corner and glistening off the glass, footsteps from upstairs---they're calling, and I must get to my part. Getting ready for a party is a lovely part of the enjoyment, and I've been enjoying this one for about three days now.

Moire non,

NUMBER 600

 



Post # 600. Writing it down makes it more real, somehow, for the thinking of it goes into that gray blur in my brain reserved for math and celebrities and gross national products.

And despite being WAY behind in posting the things I have pictures for, the things which have occurred in the past little while, and the things which will put the Thanksgiving post somewhere around Christmas Eve if I don’t get back to it, I think I’ll venture into a little story which just came to be.

The story itself dates far, far ago, in the days of that fine storyteller Aesop, and is listed amongst the most popular of his fables. It’s been repeated word-of-mouth more than it’s been published, I think, for it’s a fine tale for bedtime, to soothe the little ones to sleep, the words small and innocent and uplifting.

I would imagine it was told around campfires and cookfires and bonfires of the past, to urge the hunters’ quests, to spur all sorts of loin-girding and heart-quickenings for battle, to ignite an athlete to higher and better goals. There would probably be just enough time during that halftime-in-the-locker-room, when the home team is down 21-12, and the coach is urging them to further, stronger effort with a loud, spirited telling of the tale, in tones and words unsuitable for other places and other ears.

I’ve always loved the little story, loved the hero, for I have a special fondness for his kind, and even loved the loser, who is so like so many of us---great starters, with all the hope in the world and all the gumption, and then, in the heat of the race or the work of the task, we sorta fizzle out and even if we don’t give up, we give it only half-hearted effort.

And so, the tale:

On the last night of the visit of Dear Son From California, we all gathered here, ordered our favorite takeout Chinese dinner, and had a fine time reaching and sharing and enjoying our meal. Containers almost emptied, Fortune Cookies read and analyzed, it was time for the entertainment---a small morality play, with Sweetpea as choreographer, arranger, director, prop-mistress and Star.

She’d suddenly decided that she and I would act it out that morning, just out of the blue, and the prop-arranging and the idea was so sweet, I knew we had to have a performance for everyone. So, they turned their chairs, poured more tea, and sat expectantly as she and I disappeared into the bathroom.

Announcement from afar, of proceedings to come, with a chirpy "TAA-DAAAA!" from Herself. I came out first, both hands holding her own pretty little purse-from-Aunt-Kim atop my head, the little cloth handles flopping like long ears. I quickly walked halfway into the room, stopped, held the purse on my head with one hand whilst I covered a big yawn with the other, and pantomimed a nap, standing by the breakfast table.

Sweetpea, her little blue drum held at waist-level on her back with both hands, slowly walked behind me, passed me by, and quietly strolled into the kitchen, to cheers from the crowd.

One little bow to acknowledge the applause, and a quick, “Let’s do it AGAIN!” and we did, with similar cheers and clapping. And once again, after shouts of “ENCORE, Encore!” from the table.

She’s such a sucker for a “YAAAAAY!!” I swear that Child would have wagged that drum back and forth all night, completing a whole season’s run-of-play in one evening.

And there we have the tale. Brava.

LIGHT

As usual, I'm lingering behind in all my chores and postings and cleaning and getting ready for the cookie-swap on Sunday. Perhaps on Monday, there will be time to post a bit about our Thanksgiving celebration, which covered almost a week, with the comings and goings and the getting together several times, here and far away. I'll post some of that if anyone's interested.

And now, I must away, for the kitchen calls, the two-pans-of-fudge which will go into the cold room to set up before the party, the lists and the getting out of dishes and tables and cloths, the cooking and the preparing, with a meditation and contemplation in every little moment. I enjoy getting ready for things, making little dishes to stash in the fridge, plumping a cushion, moving a footstool just so, getting out the stacks of napkins, cuddles of spoons.

The light's bright Autumn swags of grapes and leaves have been exchanged for the ropes and swirls of richly-colored ribbon, and the corner tree, bright with white and silver, greeted me this morning when I emerged sleepily for coffee---Caro had come down and been Fairy TreeMother in the wee hours when she came home from work, and as we slept. The small table is draped in white layers of Battenburg, and the three-foot tree glistens with lights and tulle swoops and incongruously-enormous crystal ornaments too-big-for-the-tree, but perfect, nonetheless.

But whatever the brightness, whatever the light, know that none is as bright in my life as the people who inhabit all the rooms of my splendid House of Family and Friends---you all drift through, you stop and read, you comment and say hello, and those things BRIGHT me every day.

Tomorrow will be Post #600, in this bare two years of my everyday scribblings, and I hope it will be worthy of this wonderful group of friends who come and visit. I love and appreciate you, each and every one, and I wish all of you the blessings of this wonderful, warm Season of Light.

rachel

KISS BREAK

When you’ve spent an hour in a scratchy dress, posing and being lifted onto a high stool in front of the tree, when you’ve smiled and laughed and looked down and up and at the tree and at the dog and in the mirror, when you’ve pretended to put the same angel on the tree for the umpteenth time, when you’ve been cooperative in getting your hair JUST SO, and the hat adjusted and the buttons buttoned and your legs encased in those stretchy-black tights and your feet in hard, sparkly shoes---you’ve GOTTA HAVE A BREAK.

And a Kiss.