December 29.25: Coping, but barely

“The world is too much with us,”

by tentacles of phone,

we reach a saturation

and have to build our own.

A world of peace and order,

artfully designed,

comfortable and pretty,

a wish from hopeful mind.

A Camelot, a Neverland,

a world of let’s-pretend,

a fiction and a fable,

around imagined bend.

No realities allowed,

no such contamination

in hallowed comfy place,

address: imagination.

And when the whim and wink

(do you like the alliteration?)

are Lionel encircled,

childhood’s iteration,

what could be more healing,

more fun and fix than that?

Especially when genius loci

is Her Benevolence, the cat.

 

With thanks to William Wordsworth for the first line,

to our long-time contributor S.W. Berg for the pike,

to Emily Berg Baine for the photo,

and, of course, to Trouble,

the Essential Cat

(her motto: Every Village Needs One).

December 24.25; Coping, but barely

The door to my bedroom never shut tight,

much to my nefarious plotting delight,

so when I was presumed asleep in my bed

I was sneakily peeking and peering instead.

A slice of the living room was open to me,

and there was behemoth, our big Christmas tree.

It tried very hard to poke through the ceiling,

Dad seemed unjolly as he sawed with warm feeling.

But there it stood, regal, in brilliance and glisten,

as I tried to eavesdrop when I oughtn’t listen.

I never could hear much,

I could only see.

It forced me to wonder

if they were on to me.

 

 

In his younger years, my dad’s Christmas attire would have been a suit, dress shirt, cufflinks, and tie (with tie bar), the same as all the other dads on Christmas. In his later years, he allowed his real self to choose his Christmas ensemble: bright red shirt and bright green tie. You couldn’t look directly at him without shading your eyes. He practically glowed in the dark.

I give you that image for Christmas, dear reader, as a tribute to all the loved ones who are no longer with us but who have left indelible (and colorful!)  memories in us. Many losses are felt at this time, much emptiness, and there can be an ache to the holiday no matter the celebration. I hope that all who feel loss will have one glow-in-the-dark memory that brings at least a shake of the head.

Whatever your traditions, dear reader, may you find meaning in your stories.

 

 

December 23.25: Coping, but barely

Although it looks a lot like sand,

it’s on the way to something grand:

cinnamon, yeast, and melted butter,

a cup of scalded juice of udder,

with oof and **!@! and rolling pin,

muscling dough that won’t give in,

finally rectangle, shape hard-won,

but there is more before it’s done.

Roll and tuck and roll some more,

never mind what’s on the floor.

It will grace some winter morning,

this wrinkly, pallid sweet a-borning.

Pennsylvania Dutch Sticky Buns, a recipe on a notecard many years old now. When I was a young mom, these were Christmas breakfast along with a homemade cherry coffeecake. Tradition until life changed. A few years ago, I tried it again, and it was worth the mess when I watched my middle-aged son’s face as he peered into the bag: first disbelief, then flashback.

I’ve written about these before, and it bears repeating that the reason they are called sticky buns is the state of your kitchen when they’re done. Not to mention the soles of your shoes.

But a moment in a younger time is a great trade-off! I hope your holiday brings you a moment out of reality, dear reader, sticky or not. We’ve had enough reality, and it’s good to allow ourselves, if at all possible, a memory or hope that muscles down the real the same way I muscled down that determinedly feisty yeast dough. (Full disclosure: it almost won.)

 

 

December 21.25: Coping, but barely

Do you want your muffins dandified?

Your coffeecake all candified?

Streusel.

Do you rhapsodize and drool

for the frosting drizzle pool?

Do your eyes light up for lumps,

those sweet adrenaline pumps?

Ah, streusel.

Life’s troubles briefly mollified

with confection bumpily jollified,

the crunch is not hyperbolized —

may your days, dear reader, be streusilized.

December 16.25: Coping, but barely

In layers do we live life,

time-swaddling,

Scheherazade’s story veils,

a braided cloud,

a stew,

images in relentless stir,

ever borrowing,

each from the other,

ever building,

on, under, restless.

We cannot see one

except through another…

and another…

Just so does a layer of lights

obscure and jewel

the white evening.

 

 

December 10.25: Coping, but barely

As you know, dear reader, I went under the elevator this week. “Elevator” is the pretty word oral surgeons use for certain instruments designed to separate your tooth from you. I’ve had better weeks.

It seems to me that every one of us has something painful to deal with, whether pain of the body or spirit, and sometimes both. And let’s not forget brain pain. My brain is incapable of absorbing the times. We hurt; therefore, we blog (or bake). So many blog entries make me laugh or make me stop and ponder, and I am aware of the good they do. Ditto photos.

That’s why I am posting this photo of the model railroad village in its infancy. Our intrepid photographer, S.W. Berg, aka Bill, is creating this. Our memories of the set-up at our local department store and at Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry, not to mention in our basements (Bill tells me those are “pikes”) are enfleshed here.

Though some of you are also readers of Dan Antion’s blog, others of you might not be, and so here is the link to his blog today. His photos of Old Sturbridge Village at Christmas are to me much like Bill’s photo in that they bring a certain analgesic nostalgia.

Both Sturbridge and Bill’s village have real trees. But isn’t there always a deep reality to nostalgia?

December 5.25: Coping, but barely

‘Tis the week after Thanksgiving

and all through the house

there’s mess upon mess

and grouse upon grouse.

Things are misplaced

by invisible gnome

who ransacks and tangles

my piecemeal home.

Cleaning up from Thanksgiving

left me plopped in a chair

with a screeching to-do list

mauling the air.

And stir into the pot

of holiday mush

a molar extraction,

hence maniac rush.

Likely I’ll lose

two days, maybe three,

as consequence of

unloved surgery.

We all know the drill:

when days will be lost,

we work them in elsewhere

and some things will get tossed.

Next week is the loss

so this week has been

instead of days seven

a jammed nine or ten.

I’m huffing and puffing,

can’t read and can’t write,

I walked in molasses,

my kitchen’s a fright.

“I need it like a hole in my head” —

my words when I’m fretting.

The irony for Christmas:

that’s just what I’m getting!

 

Been there, done that, you say? Yep, we all know when we lose days next week we have to work them into this week. But did this cold have to happen? The snow is beautiful, the ice on the side streets, not so much. A sleigh and eight tiny reindeer would come in handy about now.

 I’ll be back to blogging as soon as I can be. Meanwhile, dear reader, I wish you a happy St. Nicholas Day, which is tomorrow. Maybe Dan and David will lift an adult beverage to the occasion.