December 26, 2007

• Christmas Night Reflections

  
  Another Christmas Day has come, and as I write, is almost gone.
  Our second Christmas in the Ozarks, a lovely, sunny blue day, the air crisp and tangy as cranberries.
  A Christmas full of blessings, of intangible gifts.
  On
  Christmas Eve, our little family group gathered at our house for
  supper. This year, it was just the four of us who live in Harrison —
  Doyle and me, his mom Ruby — our only living parent — and my younger
  son, the only one of our four children who able to join us, the others
  many states away.

  

  

  
  
  

  As we four celebrated together, we were each so
  aware both of how happy we were to be well and here together, and also
  of those we love who were far away in miles, but near in spirit. My
  older son, spending his first Christmas in Colorado, and also his first
  Christmas away from all of his family, snowed in all day alone in a
  blizzard, but fine and warm and toasty and enjoying his two days off
  work. Doyle's two children and their families — including our two
  granddaughters — in the Sarasota area. Doyle's sister and her family in
  cold Spokane. One of my sisters and her girls in the busy D.C. suburbs.
  My two younger sisters and their families, also in sunny Sarasota. My
  baby brother, who recently moved from Palm Tree Land to icy Chicago.
  We talked to them on the phone, and thought about them all and missed them, but we felt them close to us.
  We
  also felt very near to our loved ones who have gone on before us,
  especially to our parents — Doyle's father, who died in 2004. My daddy,
  who died the day after New Year’s in 2005, and Mama, who flew away last
  April. Although we missed them all, we also felt they were not far
  away. With every day I live, the more real the afterlife becomes to me,
  the thinner the veil seems between us and eternity. Maybe it's more
  real because so many people I love are already there.
  After dinner
  on Christmas Eve, with the Christmas tree lights glowing and candles
  flickering around the house, we visited, telling stories in
  time-honored Southern fashion, and talking about days gone by.
  A
  special gift, my Protestant son went with me to Christmas Eve Mass at
  11 p.m., which was a deep joy for me. A joy to be praying and singing
  with others around the world, welcoming the newborn King, and a joy to
  be kneeling beside my grown-up son.
  We had a joy-filled and festive
  Christmas Day, even though our family group was small. We did all the
  usual things, with the day centered around cooking, opening presents,
  and serving and eating a huge turkey dinner. Ruby walked Doyle through
  making her special dressing, and it turned out great, even though we'd
  forgotten to buy sage, a crucial ingredient. Our menu was a patchwork
  quilt of families and friends and favorites … Ruby's cornbread dressing
  and orange salad, a favorite from Doyle's childhood … scalloped
  pineapple, one of my favorite Mississippi recipes … Doyle's yummy
  homemade rolls ... and a pecan pie like Mama always made, using the
  recipe on the Karo syrup bottle.
  When we finally got the table
  cleared and the good china and silver soaking in warm soapy water,
  Doyle and Ruby and I piled in the car for our now-traditional Christmas
  trek into the Ozark countryside. Last year we took her to the Buffalo
  at Mt. Hersey, but yesterday, we drove down to Boxley Valley, hoping
  the elk herd would be feeding. We were rewarded with a multitude of
  elk, more than we've ever seen. One pasture would have a big herd,
  heads down, grazing comfortably in the slanting gold light, and then
  around the next curve, another pasture would be full. Even though they
  seemed as tame as cows, it was still magical to see the dignified
  creatures, feeding quietly in the valley with the blueing hills behind
  them, lit up in the last rays of a setting Christmas sun.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  

  

  • 11:22 pm
  • 9 Comments