In the pinesap stickiness of Christmas Eve, each unwrapped ornament emits a fir-covered recollection. Here are Ma's fragile silver bells, circa 1952: banded in red and yellow, the paint so nearly gone, it's a rumor. As I hang them (third branch from the top on the left —always!) I can smell genuine cocoa bubbling thickly in the blue-speckled saucepan. It simmers to a skim on the back burner in wait for the tiniest of hand to sprinkle a dash of nutmeg over the top. What an honor to be trusted enough to add that precious spice!
And here is Memere's plastic purple pinecone, the last of a set of six, transparent and hollow with a tarnished aluminum feather in its center. None of the Cousins wanted it and when she passed, they let me have it without a second thought. Until they learned it is Bakelite, the real thing…very popular and oh-so chic in 1929. Now they eyeball the treasure, envision the Antiques Roadshow, but I've a different vision, an older vision…
of the Cousins drinking mulled cider from Memere's heavy-handled, emerald-colored goblets. A stick of cinnamon pokes the nose (and the eye, if you're not careful) and sparks a conversation on how one grows cinnamon in the first place. Does it come from a tree? A vine? A bush? Should we get the encyclopedia and end the inane chatter? No! — for what fun would that be?
There are seventeen of us, no…twenty, no…more, as with each passing Christmas a new Cousin, tiny and flannelled, wide-eyed and toothless is plopped into the lap of an accommodating relative. And one of us will begin to read Dickens's Christmas Carol, "Marley was dead, eh?" which leads to another argument among the Cousins because Cousin So-n-So reads his part in French, Bon Noel, ha-ha! Flaunting his Catholic School education in front of the public school Cousins and just how, pray tell, does one say, "Siddown and shut up, you big blowhard!" in French, anyway?
The girl Cousines will start to speak of fashion and "what are you wearing to Uncle John's (THE STATE SENATOR!!!) Christmas dinner tomorrow night?" We always refer to our esteemed uncle that way—all caps followed by three exclamation points. We are proud; we are impressed.
"Maybe Cousin Ronald will be there, too, home from college…do you think so?"
"So what if he is? Like any of us have a chance with him, eh? We're the poor side of the family, remember?" Says Cousine Renée. And a collective sigh is issued as we dream our girly dreams of third cousin, once removed, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Ronald. We, of dark hair and brown eyes, can do nothing but dream for he is beyond our reach.
"He skis, you know?!!" is whispered in awe. And a thirteen-year old schemes her aspirations, for surely the purest and the true st of Loves can conquer anything as mundane and archaic as a Class System!
Is it just me, or can you smell the apples and tangerines left to keep cold on Memere's back porch? The sharp tang of the dimpled orange fruit snaps me into Now. The clock ticks, the memory fades and here is
a miniscule porcelain Ark from Cousin Celeste who joined the Carmelite Sisters in 1960. The Ark has ocean waves painted on its bow and stern and I am journeying to Midnight Mass at St. Anthony's. Incense deep in stubby candles by the score, my knees are stiff—but oh!— my ears are gifted with only the sweetest of notes as Ave Maria lifts and rises past the balconies, spreading glory-on-high over the ceiling to blanket the congregation.
If left to my own devices, I'd go on
and on, entranced by nursery school glitter, spellbound by Styrofoam balls with red pipe cleaner hooks:
"Mommy, I want G.I. Joes and Star Wars guys!"
"Mommy, how do you spell 'My Pretty Pony' so Santa will know what to bring me?"
Velvet, the soft velvet of tiny green bowties anchoring diminutive plaid vests. Velvet, royal blue and stiff to form perfect pleats on miniature party dresses trimmed in lace so dainty only Santa's elves could have crocheted such a magical thing. Spun-sugar lace to dance alongside sugarplums. On and on… mislaid by
fir-covered recollections in the pinesap stickiness of Christmas Eve…Bon Noel!
Stopped in to read since I was in the neighborhood messaging you...Good god, I got goosebumps at the end of this deilicious piece, Pat!! You've reminded me of my Christmas's when I was growing up in Wisconsin...and Jerry's family, who, though poor, felt getting together for all holidays was the important thing. Sweet memories, beautiful write!!! (3 exclamtion points!) :)
Reviewed by Shawen Greer
1/2/2003
You already know how much I love this and respect your work...and I'm still stealing those lines!!!! LOL :)
Reviewed by na na
12/21/2002
Seems so large and so happy the family. And so much strong interplay throughout the article. Brings out nostalgia, love, devotion, and shows pride in your heritage and the ability to - over and over - enter into the same celebration; where happiness is there for all. All the historic places, all the camaraderie ... I can smell the fern and see the mistletoe and the Christmas tree and taste the eggnog, and almost feel like I am there as a part of the Holy celebration. You are a very good writer Patricia.
((Hugs)) and Merry Christmas for all your friends and family, and most of all for you.
Bill Murray
Through interviews with Lauren's doctors, along with those of other physicians, researchers, and clinicians who specialize in lung cancer, readers will have a better understanding of the disease.
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