Looking Ahead

Alyce is here. She is working on her wedding reception. She is smart and organized and is thinking of everything.

I am a good listener, and, when the snow is not swirling and covering everything in about five inches of itself, I can take her places. Such as we did yesterday. We found the little lights for the Chinese lanterns. We bought vases for the gorgeous yellow roses she'll have here and there. She also bought a cute little outfit for herself. (But that was beside the point, sort of.) We went to four hotels looking for their wedding night lodgings.

That was yesterday. Not today, though. The snow is swirling and laying itself over everything.

Mostly, I am her Idaho sounding board. I hope that is a good help. Well, I'm also the purse for out here.

May 1, 2009. Her wedding day. I think of the beauty. This place, the season, mostly our daughter.

Christmas Past

Music. It has blessed my life. And I love the music of the Christmas season, love to hear it and to sing it. Always I loved to sing the carols. We did that every year at home. My mom would play, and we would all sing.

Of course, I wanted to go caroling. When I was old enough to go to Mutual, I got my wish. We would gather at the church, climb into cars, and meet at the houses of friends, get out and sing, load up again, and drive to the next place and ooh and ah at the Christmas lights as we went. No snow to worry about. This was southern California.

The best times were the hayrides because we were out in the cold air, together with friends, singing carols through the town. And sitting on hay bales. Not sure why, but that made it so much better.

I grew up in Santa Monica, a beach town, so a hayride seems unlikely, but we did it. Our ward got a big flat-bed truck, stacked hay bales on it, and we kids piled on of a Christmas Eve. Then we met at someone's house at the end for hot cider or hot chocolate and cookies.

Always in our family, with our children, I wanted to go caroling on Christmas Eve, and usually we did. We made a decent little choir. My kids can sing, you know. As they grew, we grew from mostly melody to parts, with altos and tenors and more basses than one. (We'd always include "Far, Far Away On Judea's Plain," because we liked to hear our boys sing those low moving parts on the Glory to God refrain.)

Often we had snow to fuss with--Idaho is no beach town--and always we had to bundle up, but that was just part of it. When we got home, Daddy would light a fire. We'd peel off our coats and mittens and mufflers and caps, and have our own hot chocolate and a bowl of chili.

I love that we did it, love the memory of those times.

The Christmas Tree

It was always Wayne's job to string the lights on the tree.

We had differing ideas about what made a good looking tree. He liked sparse and open. I liked full and bushy. We usually compromised and got the kind I liked. We’d set it up together, and then he’d get the lights on. In the early days we had strings of lights with screw-in bulbs. They were Christmas lights, but they were bigger than what we use now. Once they were on the tree, I’d unscrew every bulb, put a reflector behind it, and screw it back in. I liked the reflected lights; they took me back to my own childhood Christmases. But those lights got hot, actually melted the needles of the fake tree we had for a while at 722.

I mention it because yesterday morning I finished putting the lights on the little tree I bought. Lola and Bryan came and helped me set it into the stand, and I keep it in plenty of water. The fragrance of it has sweetened the air in my house, which is why I always like a fresh tree. I’ve put it in the east corner by the front window. A good place, one we never used before, and I have fixed it so the light switch turns the tree lights on and off. Handy.

My wreaths are up already, and today I’ll finish trimming the tree, put the skirt around the bottom, vacuum the room, and set out some familiar Christmas pieces: the old snow globes, a few Santas, and my nativity set—made for me in 1979 by my friend Joyce. Then the house will be looking like Christmas.

But the lights. It’s a hard job for me to do alone, not impossible, but hard. I kept looking across the room as I worked to where the tree stood that last Christmas we had with Wayne. I knew he wouldn’t be there. It's nearly six years, after all, but I looked anyway, half expecting to see him. Well, that’s just what happens when you want something so much; you think it might happen.

I can see him in my memory, standing by the tree. That year, 2002, I came home a few days before Christmas. I had been somewhere out of town, visiting one of our children, I think, and had Christmas on my mind as I headed home. We’d need to get a tree, get going on things. You know how the mind goes home before you get there.

I walked in and there stood Wayne beside a big beautiful tree. He had chosen it—a compromise tree, sort of—brought it home, and decorated it entirely, lights and ornaments and everything else. It was all done. A surprise for me, a gift for me. I will not ever forget his face.

Now the rest I do not exactly remember. What I hope is that he saw in my face that I was pleased and very glad for his gift. No buts, no reservations, just “how wonderful it looks, how wonderful that you did this, oh thank you.” That is what I needed to say, to show him, because I saw in his face a clear, open plea for exactly that, for me to be happy with it. Oh how I hope I showed him that I was.

Stop! He Said To the Pea Juice As It Flowed Into the Mashed Potatoes

You probably didn't know this, but I grew up in a family where we all mixed our cereals, and so I thought cereal mixing was a universal practice. Not until Wayne and I were married did I learn the truth: it is not universal. Apparently it was a Brimley thing. It was not a Wayne Gordon Schiess thing. He did not mix cereals. Surprised I was, but I knew I could adjust. After all, such practices are a matter of choice. I did think he was missing out on something pretty okay. He did not think so, and the vehemence with which he declined to mix is what really stunned me. He was adamant, would not even entertain the thought of it.

He was equally adamant against sharing food, as in trading bites. That seemed to be more fundamental to me. I mean, if you love a person you might like to share. Not so with him. I tried to take his attitude not personally, and eventually I did. It was, for me, a matter of understanding and acceptance of him. My sister Lucile recalls that Wayne didn't like his foods to touch on his dinner plate. I'm not sure what prompted his attitude or his strictness in it. That's just the way he was, a phrase I became well acquainted with in the many years I knew him.

It's true. We are not all alike, and they say that's a good thing. Families have their customs and quirks, and those get passed along. In the Brimley family we liked to invite people over to share a meal. I wanted to invite people over for Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas. He did not want to, so we didn't. About the cereal, some of my kids mix, some don't. I think they're food/bite sharers. Not actually positive there.

This post is prompted by Ann's Cereal regulations. Carol's Corner will have more to say on the subject of cereal.

Thanksgiving Report

The day has passed. Thanksgiving. It saw us actually giving thanks some. Ann's doing. Wow.

And it brought my granddaughter Cory for a Saturday stay, and, because she was here, all who live here and are affiliated with this family came to see her. All except Michelle, who was sick, and Jeremy who was working on his school project due today.

We did draw names and have the customary debate associated with that activity. The subject is not always the same, but there is just about always a debate. We did laugh a lot and tell stories, do a dance step or two, chase after the little kids, eat sandwiches and yum-yums, and mostly just sit around. I guess that's our main way of having a good time.

Twenty-four sleeps until Christmas, Clayton.