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Cutting Down the Christmas Tree

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This year we went to a simple tree farm in Lewisburg, Ohio, from which you can see the farm where my dad grew up, and where my grandma still lives. There was hardly anyone there. There was no Santa or free hot cocoa or a tree shaker or wreaths for sale—just a guy and a fire and a log to sit on if you got too cold—it was perfect.

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After we visited my grandma and enjoyed my aunt Ellen’s bread, coffee and hot tea.

It’s a beautiful tree.

“Never worry about the size of your Christmas tree. In the eyes of children, they are all 30-feet tall.” —Larry Wilde

Related posts:

  1. Trimming the Tree
This entry was written by kara, posted on December 23, 2009 at 11:03 pm, filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post. Post a comment or leave a trackback: Trackback URL.
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    I needed this. marker board drawing in the boys’ bedroom ... Told the kids if they want anything from Target/Fresh Thyme for our weekly shopping trip, to make me a list. Family game night/Family Business/all sorts of family education happening here ... Best I could do. (I’ve been saying that a lot lately.) Last day/first. Goodbye 4th, 4th and 6th! Owen asked me close to midnight last night. I know the story: VBAC (my choice); no epidural (not my choice); regrettable IV drugs that stole my concentration; amazing parents and doula who unexpectedly helped me through transition; Andy, in that bright room with so many faces, who acted as husband/doula/dad in all the best ways. I can never remember the numbers, so I looked them up. "You were born at 8:27 a.m., 4 lbs., 15 oz.," I said. "James was born at 8:29 a.m., 2 lbs., 13 oz." I didn't tell Owen how they were both whisked away from me before I could even touch them. Andy and I made a long slideshow filled with pictures and videos and songs, and while watching it I could feel that early fatigue in my bones, their small body weight in my arms that calmed me like a drug, the heavy weight of near-misses when they loved to run in opposite directions both intent on finding peril. I remembered their bright eyes, near-constant "mamas," their rage over broccoli or a fallen train, their soul-deep love for their sister (still hinted at today, with uncharacteristically sweet thank-you's for the fab Nerf cake she made for them). While sorting through 10 years worth of pictures I was struck by the number of photos of both of them sleeping together: entwined, side-by-side, curled up like baby kittens, head-to-head, back-to-back, limbs thrown over each other. Sharing a room and clothes and toys and a cracked Wiffle ball bat and the "better" Nerf gun and the swing that doesn't hit the branches and the last of the Cheerios during a pandemic is a lot for anyone. And yet, they so often seem to be together. They look like brothers, but not alike. They are so very different from each other, in so many ways. And yet so parallel. I look at them and don't see miracles. Rather, I marvel at their very existence, once within me, now beside me, their separateness and connectedness and ability to eat all.the.food when once I counted breaths as they swallowed. Today they are both strong. Funny (the butt jokes my god). Compassionate (especially with babies, toddlers, animals, matters of social justice and, for the most part, each other). Complex. Alive. And 10. May, 2010 Some Friday beauty: this (https://blog.lostartpress.com/2020/05/15/answer-the-door/), written by the guy who signs my checks at Lost Art Press, and a peony about to bloom. Happy Mother's Day to this mom, who has given me many wonderful things, including a love of adventure and travel. (at the Grand Canyon in 1998 — our family drove from Ohio to California and back that summer, “a trip of a lifetime”) Happy Mother’s Day, Jill! You love us all so well. This cat better not destroy our indoor greenhouse tonight ... Sophie’s last strings assignment is to teach someone in her family how to play the violin, accomplishing the D scale and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, with video proof. So far she’s laughed at me, a lot. At least it’s a loving laugh ... It’s here, it’s here! Chris: “Just pick your favorite essays from each year.” Me: “OK, no problem, will do.” 474 pages later it’s here! Also Chris, in the book’s introductory note: “When you’re a publisher, you’re not supposed to express doubts about your books. But I was (and I still am) worried that this will be a years-long waste of effort and tree pulp.” but I get it. It’s essays, not how-to. And yet Chris let me work on this (and paid me for my work on this) for years just because I loved the essays and he loved the essays and we thought they were important enough to print. So hear me out: The illustrations alone will hold any woodworker’s interest for hours. And while the essays themselves serve as a perfect dessert to the four-volume series of Hayward books, they also stand on their own as timeless, delightful and insightful commentary on craft, labour, art, politics, nature, war, peace and everything else in between. Hayward serves as a mentor for any creator, whether they’re a craftsperson, writer, artist, potter, quilter, weaver, illustrator, gardener, maker of any sort. The essays begin a few years prior to WWII and continue through its aftermath. The similarities to society today are stunning. So if you’re looking for something new to read, check it out @lostartpress It’s like a bottle of bourbon or a book of poetry — you should only read a few essays every night. It has given me such joy to bring Hayward’s more lyrical writing to light. Me: “What do you want for your birthday dinner this year?” James: “Steak, salad, mashed potatoes and (Julia Child’s) chocolate mousse.” Owen: “Domino’s cheese pizza, Cheetos, Doritos, root beer and vanilla cake.” (picture is of Owen and James, 9 years ago today) One of our kids hit a wall today and I wasn't mad. Instead, I just felt so sorry for them, for all of us. They should be out of the house so much that I miss them, on their bikes, at friends' houses, at the ice cream place, at the park. Tonight I spent 32 minutes watching the compilation of pictures and clips I put together for Sophie’s 10th birthday as I prepare to make the same for the boys' 10th birthdays and with each photo I was reminded of how much we thrive on people, places and experiences outside of our home as much as we love our home and even though I keep saying how lucky we are to have jobs, to be healthy, to have each other, I also think it's OK and right to acknowledge to our kids, especially, that it’s OK and right and normal to miss and grieve what once was (I’m too tired to edit this). The songs we chose to go with Sophie's 10th birthday video ... "I see friends shaking hands, saying how do you do / They're only saying I love you ..." + "The times you were born in / May not have been the best / But you can make the times to come / Better than the rest." Andy, handing me a box of tissues — "Are you OK?" Ugh, this g-damn beautiful/awful life. (Photo by @mpace1 ) Found underneath heavy and impossible-to-move couch while looking for a slightly cat-damaged mouse. Everything here is fine, just fine, we’re all fine .....................
    TAP

  • Favorite Essays

    Choosing Compassion in a Culture of Fear

    Seeking the Bigness in the Everyday

    The Love in Trying

    The View from Up High

    Season of Innocence

    The Huffington Post guest post: Apologies to the Parents I Judged Four Years Ago, a TIME's top 10 opinion piece in 2012

    Simple

    Changing Love

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