Finally, a Pocket of Time to Write

Can it be? Am I really sitting and writing properly at a computer, not squinting at my cell screen from a moving car, while H. drives, or a hotel bed? How many others have slept in that bed? What of their stories?

I've missed my fingers flying purposefully across the keyboard. Right now I'm at the desktop in the hotel lobby. I've longed to retell, to record stories about this Christmas trip to Maine. It's like the quandry with the smartphone. Are we so busy posting photos to Instagram and Facebook that we're not just drinking in, breathing in the beauty that we see? And likewise, if I don't write here about my life, am I losing the capacity to remember it in detail? Can my heart and mind really retain it all? I know I really won't share my stories, or any lessons I've learned, if I don't write them here.

I should in fact be at 11 a.m. Mass at Our Lady of Good Hope Church in Camden right now with Punchy, but the ride is over 30 minutes from here, and the roads are iced over. [The parishes have been consolidated, and the local Mass in Belfast was at 8 a.m. We were still sleeping.] As I've reported, the drive to that present of a town rises and falls, and I am a bit nervous in this weather. Still, Punchy is set to make her First Communion in May and the little children are expected to attend Mass every Sunday, and sign in. We went on Christmas, but now it's Sunday. I do have the bulletin to bring back to Mrs. Sammon, who runs the CCD program. Punchy is delighted to take a pass on Mass; she is swimming with H. in the hotel pool.

Where to begin? With the fact that I am feeling my age this Christmas? That my hair color came out too dark, I have circles under my eyes and a pronounced frown crease between my brows? That I haven't had, or made, time to apply makeup, not even bronzer powder? That my blue eyes look dull and tired? That I haven't been eating enough fruits and veggies and am short on naps and reading books? If I can somehow stay younger, will my daughters stay younger too?

Should I report on the sadness in my heart when I realize the children are growing up? I'm grateful for that with Figgy; it isn't so bad. My gift said FOR MAMA in black Sharpie on sparkly paper, and I saved that piece of paper, to put up on my office wall. Inside was an inscribed copy of Brave Enough, a collection of quotes gathered by Cheryl Strayed. Figgy also gave me a bottle of Mario Badescu Seaweed Cleansing Lotion. [Could that magically take back the years from my tired skin?]

Fig's gifts were great, but I truly treasured notes of her growing maturity. Calming Punchy on Christmas morning, not being crushed when Punch didn't seem to like the stylish outfit that Fig and Florida Orange had proudly bought for her: black leggings with pleather patches, a black jacket with gold zipper and a cute hat. Later on, Punchy decided she did love it, along with the horse PJs from Auntie and Don, the play iron and ironing board from Santa, the password journal that opens to the sound of her voice only. [The one thing she loved instantly was the bottle of Justin Bieber's Girlfriend perfume. You see, she had asked on her Santa list for a ticket to see JB in concert, so this was the closest I could come. It was $22 at CVS. Lucky last-minute find.]

I don't want to bore or lose you with a long, rambling essay, and I do want to go prone and read a little if maybe Fig can watch Punch for a while, so resorting presently to a 2015 Christmas memory list of both the naughty and the nice:

• I baked my butter cookie cutouts [click on link for recipe] on Christmas Eve afternoon in my brother-in-law John's old country kitchen. I loved the comforting ritual of rolling the tender dough, cutting the trees, carefully lifting them to the baking sheet. Sprinkling on edible hot pink glitter and strawberry sugar. John had Christmas music playing and he has a beautiful tree. Click, click, as I turned the dial to warm the gas oven. But even my taste buds are aging; I used the finest butter and vanilla, the best dark chocolate to melt and drape garland on the cookie trees. Somehow, the trees and  hearts did not taste special to me. On top of that, my grandma Alice's old worn rolling pin fell out of a bag and the handle broke off. Bad omen?
• We went to the 4 p.m. Christmas Eve vigil Mass with John and Leah at Saint Francis of Assisi, a little old church with a bell someone really pulls with a rope. Then the peal rings out through the dark. The wooden pews are small, but the voices that sang out Christmas hymns were big. And right before Mass, two teenage girls from the choir sang Clay Aiken's "Mary Did You Know?" I had never heard that song before, and it was lovely. Here are some of the lyrics: Mary, did you know that your Baby Boy will calm the storm with His hand? Did you know that your Baby Boy has walked where angels trod? When you kiss your little Baby you kissed the face of God? It was triply beautiful because of the young girls' angel voices.
• On Christmas Eve, Pat and Martha had a bunch of us for dinner. Yum. Pasta with sausage sauce, good bread and butter, a big salad--and Prosecco. For dessert, a pear & apple pie hot from the oven, and the cookies I baked. I also dipped some vegan marshmallows in dark chocolate for Figgy. Sprinkled French fleur de sel on some. That was a good touch.
• On Christmas Day, in the lull between presents and dressing/leaving for the family dinner, we popped in "The Birds," the Alfred Hitchcock classic we love watching at John's house. Punchy cuddled up with me on the couch. That.is.the.best.movie.ever. Tippi's impeccable style, the way she motors across Bodega Bay in a mink coat and heels, the California coast, Suzanne Pleshette as schoolteacher Annie Hayworth, the bird shop owner--everything. Every blessed thing.
• Babysitting Punchy's baby doll, whom she named Holly Hanrahan. Punch was going out on a date, and left me a list of things to do, which included ironing with that new play iron. Hmph!!!! Holly slept next to Punchy in John's laundry basket, wrapped in a blue fleece Elsa bathrobe.
• Funny group text on Christmas night with Patsy in Colorado and some of my other cherished boot camp friends. Touching on PJs, Baileys and Eric's hilarious jokes.
• Naughty: I lost my temper more than once. That was ugly. And sometimes H. really bugged me, rushing out to a family hike as though we could not be 5 minutes late, and not remembering that WE are Santa. Punchy is right on the brink of believing or not. You see, Santa has left Fig and Punch an ornament every Christmas, hanging on the tree with a note. I sent H. to get them in Maine this year. He left them in boxes under the tree with notes that said Love, Santa, so that was Ok, but then, when the girls opened them, he said things like, I thought you would like that, which prompted Punchy to say, See there is no Santa! Oy. We tried for a quick recovery.[He picked out a cat for Fig and a fox for Punch.]
• Nice: Did I tell you what Sis ordered at Bergdorf's for me? Aerin Rose Body Wash and a really pretty Aerin bag with Rose Balm Lipstick and lip gloss inside. LOVE. On December 8, I asked her to get me a $25 Tory Burch gift card, my perennial want. She texted back the next day, Can I choose something else for you? Yes, yes! And it came wrapped in the signature silver Bergdorf's box.

Well, I have much more to write, but am going to conserve some energy and see if I can cop some reading time. I don't know how hectic it will be in Room 103, what with H., Fig, Punch and Sug. But I've been writing for an hour now.

I hope you unwrapped some lovely moments on Christmas. There were pretty ones for me and pretty ugly ones. I guess I will take the whole package.

Love, Alice

TCOY

1. WRITING JUST NOW. Staring down fears, embracing good things. Weaving stories to remember. Facing reality.
2. Hot tea.