Let's Open Just One by Ginger Simpson

“I think I hear sleigh bells,” my dad said every Christmas even though he was Jewish and didn't believe in the "reason for the season."  We'd scurry to our bedrooms and pretend to be fast asleep.  Being the oldest of four, I knew Dad was the one who went outside and attempted to make reindeer tracks in the dirt.  We didn't have a fireplace, so Santa had to come in through the door.  The important thing was that he came.

 How my mom and dad managed to give us such joy and the very things we wanted each holiday season when the raft shop where my dad worked at the local air force base paid ninety cents an hour escapes me now that I'm an adult and realize the cost of Christmas.  We thought we were in hog heaven when he brought home the canned rations packed as life-saving food for the misfortunates having to use the rafts.  They were a special treat to us.  Each one had a candy inside, and the crackers weren't bad either.  I can't recall a time those special treats didn’t put a permanent smile on my face and joy in my heart.

 Although Dad didn't actually celebrate the birth of Christ, he was always the first to shake the presents beneath the tree and search for gifts bearing his name.  Although we continually vowed to wait until Christmas morning to open gifts,  he was always the culprit behind the “let’s open just one.”

Sure, one package turned into two, and before we knew it, we sat amongst opened boxes and a landslide of wrapping paper, happy with what we'd received, but disappointed that once again we'd failed to wait until morning.  

So the tradition continues.  Christmas eve is our family time to celebrate, and I'm always urged on by my father’s voice in my head, telling me now from heaven, “just open one.  What harm can it do?”  Oh, we still have our Christmas dinner on the day of, and as a Christian, I celebrate the birth of Jesus, and I will be forever thankful for the parents he gave me...one Jewish and one Gentile.

We weren't rich in the financial sense, but in love we were millionaires.  I’d give anything to have any one of those Christmas Eves over again, and hear my Dad’s sweet voice talking to me for real.  He’s been gone for over twenty five years now, but if you're listening Daddy, your “not so” little girl loves you and the legacy of respect and determination we gained from you.  I miss you still.  You remain my heart, and in your honor, I'll always open 'just one' on Christmas Eve…or maybe we'll open them all.

Hope you have memories that warm your heart.

Happy Holidays from the Simpson Family.

Creativity by Katherine Pym

I am a Seattleite. I wasn't born there, but when I stepped out of the airport, I knew I'd come home. In the winter, the Northwest is like a great big wine cellar, cool, damp, with grey skies from October to almost the 4th of July.

The grey skies spit water; the streets are like film-noire after WW2, and being so far north, the skies are dark most of the time. People go to work in the dark and go home in the dark. As soon as the clouds disperse, and a little sun shines, people run outside and take deep breaths. They don shorts, socks, and sandals, t-shirts; then over all this, throw on a hoodie. As the skies brighten toward summer, everyone goes out to play. The days are longer, the dawn and dusk taking their sweet time to ease into full day or night.

In the Northwest, there's not much you can do in the winter but endure. Movies, the mall, bookstores, television. When the rain drips and forms puddles in the roads, plumps up moss so that you feel as if you're slogging through a swamp, I retreat into a world of make-believe.

Praying for Creativity

This summer the Northwest was wonderful. Blue skies and long days, warm enough to rival America's warmer states. We grew bushels of tomatoes, green beans and peppers. During this time, I became distracted, couldn't keep focused. I stared at my computer screen wondering why. My work in progress slipped. It became dull, disorganized. I was getting frustrated.

My husband is a Texan. Where I can endure the Northwest, long winters, he cannot. We have a little homestead in Texas, and toward the end of September, we piled into the car and drove the nearly 2400 miles to our cabin in the woods. Rain dogged us across the nation, but once we arrived, the skies were blue, the weather warm, and the bugs were swarming. Husband was thrilled. I was still disorganized, my writing dull.

Through my disorganization, I lost touch with the story line. Stephen King says a writer should finish the first draft within a 3 month time span. I fell deeply short of that, so I decided I'd start over my work in progress. Re-read. Re-write. The skies were beautifully blue, the days warm. Idyllic. My work went slowly.

Awhile ago our local news said a hurricane from the Pacific was plowing across Mexico toward the Lone Star State. Warm, moist air from the Gulf of Mexico poured over us, and a cold front from the North would clash with all these moist airflows. Storms would ensue with thunder and lightning. High winds. The temperature would plummet from the pleasing high 70’s/mid 80’s to unseasonable cold.

OMG, a weather event! Last year, the area had such a downpour, it dropped almost 14 inches onto our roof. It swept part of our driveway into the road. Others were flooded out. My Seattle experiences held nothing to this. We prepared for the worst. Still in shorts, I put on socks and slipped my feet into sandals.

For several days, the clouds dimmed the bright sunshine. Rain fell almost nonstop, but not the gully-washer of last year. This rain was a constant heavy drizzle. Big drops from the overhead trees plopped onto my head and shoulders. Steady. The air was cool, refreshing.

Couldn't go outside and play. Had to endure. Watching the skies drip, I reflected we lived in an over-sized wine cellar, but we had no wine. It was too wet to go out and buy some. We'll wait for the skies to clear.

Still in socks and sandals, I dug out my hoodie to walk the dog. Typed on my computer one and a half chapters. Researched and wrote a blog. Offered to write two more. Then a light bulb flashed in my eyes. An Epiphany struck. OMG, the rain outside was my type of weather. Like Seattle! It sparked and fed my creativity. I found myself back in the saddle again. 

My creativity glows when the weather is dull. How cool is that?

 http://bookswelove.net/pym.php

 

The Doughy Truth - A Christmas Story by Diane Bator

The Doughy Truth

            The gingerbread dough was too dry and crumbly that year, which hadn't happened in all my years of cookie baking, at least not with my gingerbread, and it made me crazy. Every time I'd pick up a chunk to knead velvety smooth, it fell apart in my hands then litter the table with crumbs. 

            I thought I'd followed the directions explicitly just as I did every year before we'd moved two thousand miles from "home". I blended the molasses, sugar, water and shortening together before adding the flour, baking soda and spices. I worked it into a huge cracking ball of over-floured dough, which should have been my first clue there was something not quite right, before covering the dough with plastic and stashing it in the fridge overnight. Just like every other year. Filled with dread, I decided it might turn out once the dough sat for a while.

            In the morning, I worked the could dough and fretted over the crumbles falling out of my hands. I willed the dough to take on the same smooth texture as years past so the boys could make the cookies they had bugged me about for days. I didn't want to let them down now.

            Despite the technical difficulties, three smiling faces perched around the our glass-topped table to happily cut snowmen, teddy bears and Christmas trees. The dry, cracking cookie dough did little to dampened their determination or their enthusiasm.

            I shook my head, amazed at their reaction then realized it wasn't the dough that made this the fun activity and I'd worried all night for nothing. The dough was merely the magnet that drew us all together. My three boys were just as happy with crusty, stubborn dough as they would have been if it was as velvety smooth as usual.

            They were baking cookies with me.

            Of course, the fact we'd all ended up covered in flour and gingerbread crumbs only made things that much more festive. Their laughter and cheer came from knowing most of their creations would be given to friends and teachers. Each cookie, no matter how imperfect, was filled with our love and the gratitude of being blessed for all that we have. Each other.

            While we are thousands of miles from our families each Christmas, we are constantly surrounded by people who love us and who have become as close as family over the years. Those same people who receive our cookies and homemade treats in their packages will know they were made by hands and hearts that care and are grateful for their presence in our lives.

            They are truly the greatest gifts we could ever receive.

Merry Christmas to All....