Twelfth Night, more isolation, and a killer dinner

 

Jacob, about six,
on Twelfth Night

Jacob making a wish

Thanks to Covid and unusually cold weather, I missed our annual Twelfth Night observance. I’ve said this before and you may be tired of hearing it, but when I was a child, we had a neighbor who held a Twelfth Night celebration that, as far as I can tell, was of her own making. She had each person throw a small evergreen twig into the fireplace and make a silent wish. My family adopted it, and my children have done it since they were very young. Of course, there was the year my ex tried to burn an entire garland, and my Megan came running to me, “Mom, Dad’s burning the house down!” He almost did.

Of my childhood custom, I should add that this neighbor couple, childless, became my adopted aunt and uncle, and spoiled me rotten. She loved to pick out clothes for me, with the result I had a more bountiful wardrobe than I had any right to expect. I frequently went back and forth between the two houses, and Uncle Jack, ever the gentleman, escorted me if there was the least hint of darkness. They used to take me to dinner, especially at the South Shore Country Club, then in its heyday of elegance. When I ordered fish because I really liked it, Auntie E., a devout Catholic, would say, “Oh, honey, you don’t have to do that. It’s not Friday.” I can see her yet—grey hair swept into a kind of chignon, wearing an elegant dressing gown, and delicately throwing a branch in the fireplace. Good childhood memories.

Back to Twelfth Night this year. Because we’re still quarantining, we were not going to have a fire in the indoor fireplace as usual, but Jordan offered to light small fire for me in the fire pit on my patio. That lonely fire for one, combined with the prospect of being so cold, sounded pretty bleak, and I declined with thanks.

They ended up doing a fire in their firebox on the front porch. Jordan sent me the above picture of Jacob making his wish, and I thought it was fun to pair it with a picture of him when he was about five or six. Two neighbors joined them, and Jordan asked for everyone to make a wish for me since I was hiding in the cottage. She told me hers, though I wanted to shush her—wishes are supposed to be secret!

If I had one wish tonight, I think it would be to have my garden magically reappear. I’m finding it dispiriting to look out at frozen plants—I think the one on the deck is a hibiscus, but the basil in my vegetable garden droops as though dead (which it undoubtedly is), so do the two lovely coleus plants in big pots by my door and the fountain grass in a big pot by the garden gate. Even the wonderful vine on the fence has given up and looks wilted. Were I mobile and the temperature not so frigid, I’d go yank those dead plants out. But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

My grits dinner

Tonight, I fixed myself a semi-complicated dinner—most meals get more complicated when you have to do everything on one hot plate. When the directions say, “Meantime, while the grits are cooking, fry the bacon,” I have to do that in stages. But my dinner was a base of cheese grits with chopped bacon, sauteed cherry tomatoes, sliced avocado, and a fried egg. So good but, omigosh! was it too much food! An hour later, I still have that full feeling. Reminds me of Jack, my sons’ Boy Scout leader, who used to chant, “I’m full enough!” after dinner.

Tomorrow, we have decided Jordan can safely come into the cottage wearing a mask. And I’ll mask. So that’s something to look forward to, plus I want to do a Zoom class on plotting and Jordan brought me the ingredients for a cranberry cake, so I’ll make that tomorrow. These isolation days go faster if I have chores. And writing doesn’t always do it.  

Sweet dreams. Stay warm and safe during this cold spell.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

The first real day of 2014

Did you know that today was considered the most depressing day of the year? It's because kids go back to school, people go back to work, and vacation comes to a crashing halt. Frigid temperature across this nation this year probably added to the depression.
Although it wasn't depressing, today was all those things to me--the day I planned to get back to routine, to do my yoga, to drink less wine, to get real work done at my desk. It only worked out medium well.
By coincidence, this is also Twelfth Night or Epiphany or, as my neighbor calls it, Little Christmas. It marks the night the Three Wise Man arrived with their gifts for the Baby Jesus, signifying the great gift God has given his people--the gift of a new life, led by a new savor.
I remember from my childhood the tradition of a neighbor who was a surrogate aunt for me. We each put a small branch of greenery on the fire and made a silent wish for the coming year. It's become a tradition in my family, and now we've roped neighbors Jay and Susan into it. So tonight, we each burned a branch (okay, mine missed the flames twice and Jay finally had to put in it for me--wonder if that invalidates my wish?). We had a jolly good time and had a supper of the beef casserole I mentioned last night on Potluck with Judy (http://potluckwithjudy.blogspot.com/2014/01/cooking-up-storm.html), So good that Jordan and I kept sneaking back for "just a little bit more" but it will feed Cox's Army.
And the reason I got fairly well off schedule today was that it too me most of the morning to make the casserole. The fellowship of family and friends was well worth it, and I'll make up the work another day. But, alas, not tomorrow. Since Epiphany is over, my task for tomorrow is to take down Christmas, always a sad chore.
So tonight I have the indoor lights on the mantel and buffet blazing and a fire in the fireplace. From my desk I can see the festive lights Jay and Susan keep in their arbor, and if I roll my chair to the other side of the office I can see their multi-colored lights on the front porch. One last night of Christmas magic. I love it.

The suggestion of sickness--or, how are you feeling?

My dad had an assistant (he called her his secretary/receptionist but that was in the old days) who would say to him, “Are you feeling all right, Dr. MacBain? You look a little peaked.” By the time he got home, he was a sick man, anxiously asking my mother how he looked and saying he wasn’t sure he felt good. He came from a family that thrived on illness. As a newlywed, my mom dutifully wrote her mother-in-law and once mentioned that Dad had a slight cold. Immediately his mother and sister were on the phone, worried to pieces about him. Even he could see the folly: “Do not ever mention illness to them,” he told Mom.

Yesterday I woke with some sort of stomach bug, whether a real bug or something I ate or what I don’t know, but I was in and out of the bathroom from five until ten in the morning, and then I was wiped out. By one, I was back in bed for a nap. But always my mother’s daughter, I soldiered on, made potato soup for eight people, and hosted a Twelfth Night party (see http://potluckwithjudy.com) Thought I felt okay if not great. My neighbor and I were in the kitchen when he asked “How was your day?” I confessed it was so-so, that I hadn’t felt well, and he said, “I can tell. You’re not your usual bubbly self.” Right then, I turned the wrong corner and began to wonder—if it was so obvious, maybe I didn’t feel as okay as I thought. Later in the evening, Jordan asked, “How are you feeling?” and Jay said, “She’s fading fast.” They all did the dishes and left with admonishments to go right to bed.

I would have told you it was midnight when they left, but in truth it was eight o’clock. I couldn’t have written or read a word if I wanted to, so I was in bed a little before nine. Slept, not soundly, for ten hours and feel better this morning but a little rocky still. More soup for lunch. Still, with Jacob’s help, I’ve gotten Christmas down and mostly put away and some computer work done.

So, was it really a bug or the power of suggestion or a bit of both? I don’t know, but I won’t say to someone, “Are you feeling alright? You don’t look well.”

Twelfth Night

Tonight is Twelfth Night, or Epiphany, the night when Christians recognize that God came to earth as a human being in the form of Jesus Christ. This revelation is particularly tied to the Magi, and I'v always thought of Twelfth Night as the night the Magi brought their gifts of frankincense, myrrh, and gold to the Baby Jesus. When I tried to explain that tonight to Jacob, he fixed me with a long look and said, "I don't know what you're talking about." (We've got to get that child to Sunday school!) But Twelfth Night is also the night when you must take down the last of the Christmas decorations, lest you run into bad luck.

When I was a child, neighbors semi-adopted me, showering me with gifts and attention. I called them Auntie E. (Emma Elizabeth) and Uncle Jack, and she, always the grand lady, had a tradition of each person burning a small branch of the Christmas tree on Twelfth Night and making a secret wish. We've done that in my family ever since. Jacob came into Tree Trimming in early December asking "Are we going to burn a branch tonight?" So tonight he was most excited that we were actually going to do that. From the pictures above, Jacob was obviously the focus of our celebration. It's getting harder and harder to find fresh greens, since everyone has fake trees, but Susan and Jay had a green wreath, and she brought the greens and took part in our burning ceremony--Jay was out of town. It's a nice way to put an end finally to the holiday season. And, fittingly, Christian, Jordan, and I put the decorations back up into the attic for another year.
As I said, I've been revising my second mystery since my mind was already in that world. But last night, to my horror, I disovered I only had nine chapters, maybe half the novel, on my hard drive; then I discovered on a zip drive a file titled No Neighborhood for Old Women revised. Guess what? I'd already revised it once and maybe done a better job. So now I'm starting all over, checking for extra words, outlining by chapter--nice that I have something to keep me busy. I'm actually not too upset--the more I go over it,the better I'll make it. I still feel that I don't have control of the plot, and I can pinpoint things that need to change.

Triva--a bit of Chritmas, a bit about food, my iPhone, and a rant against editing Mark Twain

This is Santa Mac, my newest Christmas decoration--Santa for obvious reasons, Mac for my father, R. N. MacBain, who was always called Mac but never wore a kilt in his life. Jeannie picked this up somewhere and said when she saw it she just knew I had to have it. When I was taking Christmas down, I was hesitant to pack Santa Mac away, so now he's on my bookshelf. It's okay to talk about Christmas one more day since tomorrow is Advent or Twelfth Night. I have also excused the people whose outdoor lights are still up on this basis. More about Twelfth Night tomorrow.

Betty and I went to Hot-tubs last night--she heard me rave about it and wanted to go. I had the sliders again, gave one to her and still only ate one and a half. Those little cups of complimentary beans are filling. When we looked at the menu, we really meant to split white chocolate blueberry bread pudding for dessert, but when it came to it, we just couldn't. Next time I'll remember: Life is uncertain--eat dessert first. The people at the next table had the bread pudding and Betty asked me if we could ask them for a bite but I nixed that idea. We had a nice young waiter who ended telling us he graduated from TCU in '09 and played football with members of the team that won the Rose Bowl. That strapping young man said the victory made him teary. Nice to see young people not afraid to cry, from joy or sadness, and admit it.

I've been in appointment mode--a haircut, the dentist, and today the audiologist. But the absolutely exciting, neat thing about all this is that I can take my new iPhone. In waiting rooms I can read e-mail, check Facebook, and even read the currenet book on my Kindle. I can't tell you how excited I am by that (okay, I know half the world is ahead of me) or by the fact that I'm learning to do all those things and more on the phone. A most appreciated gift.

Heard on the news tonight that there's a move afoot to make Huckleberry Finn and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer politically correct. One "scholar" has rewritten the works, changing the n-word to "slave." Can you not just hear Mr. Twain's reaction? My own is pretty vehement. You don't change classics, for starters. And I always remember my good friend C. L. Sonnichsen, the below-the-salt dean of southwestern historians (honest, that's how he described himself), who claimed if a word or thought or action was true to time and place, it belonged in the work. Elmer Kelton used to say we couldn't blame our great-great-grandparents for plowing up the prairie because they didn't know any better. Well that same generation used the n-word freely, and we should recognize that its use gives us a clearer picture of the culture. Another scholar was quoted tonight as saying the use of the n-word illustrated exactly what Twain wanted us to see in those books--that folks as different from each other as could be were able to form strong and important relationships. Edit Mark Twain? The mind boggles.

Twelfth Night

When I was a young child, we had neighbors who adopted me. They had no children, and I became the child Auntie E. and Uncle Jack never had. He was a great jokester but a true gentleman, always walking me home after visits to their house--where I felt as at home as I did in my own house. Auntie E. was a "lady"--I don't know how to explain that except she was always patrician, regal, all those things, though I suspect she came from rural roots--her sister, who I came to know well, was nothing like that.
Auntie E. instituted a custom that has continued in my family until this day, though I have no idea where she got it. She and Uncle Jack were devout Catholics, but I don't think this came from their church. But on January 6th, the night the three wise men are supposed to have arrived at the manger in Bethlehem with their gifts, Auntie E.always had us gather and each throw a sprig of evergreen on the fire, making a wish, which we could tell no one.
Tonight, sixty or more years later, we followed that ritual in my home. My children grew up with it, though I expect Jordan is the only one who folllows it to this day. Jordan, Christian, Jacob, and my neighbor Susan came for supper--Susan was essential because she had the only live greens, in a wreath that had been given them. I fixed a scalloped potato, ham and cheese casserole, and then we burned our greens. Jacob, who had been really a spoiled rotten brat when he got here, got in the spirit of things and told me he wanted to help me burn my sprig. It was all great fun, and, of course, I can't tellyou my wish--then it would never come true. Fun to think about what a three-year-old might wish. In sum, it was a night of ritual and fellowship and good times.
The arctic freeze that has hit most of the country is due here tonight, and the media have scared us witless with predictions of extreme cold, possible precipitation, etc. I can stand cold but not ice. I had three meetings scheduled for tomorrow and have re-scheduled all of them, partly out of concern for my dog Scooby. I can't leave him out in that cold but can't leave him in without me. Besides, it will be nice to sleep late and get going slowly. I've had to rush every morning this week--how un-retirement is that? I've manuscripts and books to read, email to answer, etc.--and a bit of leftover scalloped potatoe for dinner. I'll be a happy camper.

The pink Christmas tree

When I was a child, I had neighbors who, childless, adopted me as their own. I called them Auntie E. and Uncle Jack, and they probably provided most of the clothes I wore as a child. They spoiled me rotten, took me to the country club where, one night when I ordered fish, she, a devout Catholic, said, "You don't have to eat fish, dear. It's not Friday." They also took me to a fancy dinner club at the Chicago stockyards, where I remember branding my own steak. I was as much at home in their house as my own, and I adored them. In the dark streets of Chicago, Uncle Jack never allowed me to go two doors from their house to mine--he escorted me.
Auntie E. had a Twelfth Night custom that I've never heard of before or since--she would light a fire, and each of us in turn would throw in a small piece of the Christmas tree, making a silent wish as we did so. I thought it was charming, and I've carried on the custom with my children, though these days it's down to Jordan, Christian and me.
But I haven't had a tree in years. I used to cruise the streets, find one that had been set out, and furtively clip some branches. But each year more and more people go to artificial trees. I called Jordan tonight and asked if she had any live greens. She said, "Nope. That's your problem. It has been for 32 years (all of her life)." I told her this morning as I drove by a new house that stands out like a sore thumb in our neighborhood of charming old houses, I saw they had put out a pink Christmas tree. "I refuse," I said, "to clip a pink Christmas tree." Her reply was, "You may have to." I guess tomorrow I'll take clippers and drive the streets, looking for a green tree--or maybe a flocked white one would be okay. Pink is definitely out! Funny how those traditions get ingrained--if I don't have three small twigs, I'll feel really bereft. Then again, maybe it's silly to think of making a selfish wish on a night meant to comemmorate the arrival of the three wise men with their gifts for the Baby Jesus. The secular and the sacred.