There's No Such Thing as Santa?

I still remember the moment.  I was six.  In the first grade.  The whole class was sitting on the floor, Indian style.  It is not called that anymore.  Indian style is politically incorrect.  Which is ironic, since it was chosen to replace the previous politically-incorrect name, "akimbo."  Now it is called "cris-cross-apple-sauce," which sounds completely ridiculous coming out of the mouth of a grown woman, unless she is a kindergarten teacher, in a festive and seasonally appropriate vest.

My first grade teacher never wore a vest, festive or otherwise, that I can remember.  And, I think I would remember if she had been wearing a vest that day, as it was Christmastime, and almost every other detail is burned into my memory.  As I mentioned, we were all sitting on the floor, listening to Ms. Moring (Yes, Ms.  It was the seventies.) read "The Night Before Christmas," (which is also, now, politically incorrect, but I am going to have to let that go, or I shall never finish my story), when a girl--a mean, busy-body, know-it-all, sort of girl--named Michelle announced, "Santa is just your mom and dad."

Just like that.

Quickly, and in slow motion, a shock-wave of enlightenment rippled through the room, as every child turned toward her, their mouths agape.  But, my mouth was the quickest.  I sat tall, and announced with certainty, "That's not true."

Ms. Moring cleared her throat nervously and quicker than you can say, "On Dasher, on Dancer," Michelle was scuttled away to the office on an errand.  Santa-sedition would not be tolerated.  Disaster averted.

Sort of.

There is an old saying, that you can't un-ring a bell.  And, it's true.  I finally had to ask my mother the truth about Santa.  But, not until after Christmas.  I may have been a fanciful and unrealistic child, but I wasn't stupid.  Who wants to find out the truth about Santa right before Christmas?

Did you notice, in the last paragraph, where I called myself "fanciful and unrealistic."  Well, that explains what happened next.

Even though I knew the (alleged) truth about Santa, I refused to accept it.  On Christmas morning of the following year, I got up at half past four, like I always did, giddy with excitement.  My parents had a deal.  We could get up, and open our stockings, but not our presents.  And we were not to wake them.  Well, we (my sister and I) were pretty good about that first part.  There was enough in our stockings to keep us busy, and Santa never wrapped his presents.  But that part about not waking them?  Well, let's just say, if you don't want to get up at 5 o'clock on Christmas morning, you should not have kids.

That Christmas morning in 1976, eleven and a half months after my mother looked me in the face and told me that there was no such thing as Santa,  I burst into her bedroom to show her my brand new dictionary and a watch with a yellow band; both gifts from Santa.  I told her all about the record player he brought me.  It was under the tree in the living room.  Did she want to come see it?

I'm sure she thought I was nuts.  And, she may have seriously considered bopping me on the top of my head, hoping to engage the "snooze" function.  I know that's what the grown-up-I would want to do.  But she couldn't.  My little sister was there, you see, and she was still pure.  Mom could not risk spoiling Christmas for her.

This (alleged) denial of mine went on for years, until finally, when I was, oh, maybe twenty-five (though still single and childless and hanging my stocking over her fireplace), my Mother announced that this was the year Santa stopped coming.  I assured her, she was wrong.  He was coming.  She assured me he was not.  I told her I had faith.  She told me I was crazy.

Christmas morning we all awoke to stockings, filled with goodies, suited to each of us.  Santa had come, once again.  I knew he would not let me down.

And, he never has.  Every year I hang my stocking, and every year there has been something in it.  Do you know why?  Because I believe.

I wonder what that little anarchist, Michelle is getting in her stocking this Christmas.

[The art is by Haddon Sundblom, an advertisement for Coca-cola from 1951.  His illustrations for Coke, starting in 1931, have done much to influence the icon of the American Santa.  If you find this even remotely interesting (as I do, obviously) check out the history of the Coca-cola Santa HERE.  

I picked this particular illustration, because he has a face like my father's.]

My Diana Years

Lady Diana Spencer became engaged to Prince Charles on February 24, 1981.  She was nineteen.  I had just turned twelve.  I had never heard of her before the engagement was announced, but she immediately captured my adolescent imagination.

Diana was young, pretty, a bit fleshy.  She seemed very accessible to me, the way many impossibilities seem accessible to Americans, especially the young ones.  I suspect it comes from being told we can be anything we want to be, if we work hard enough.  That's a load of carp really.  All the hard work in the world was not going to make me a tall, leggy, blond.  Or, a princess.  But, that did not stop twelve-year-old me from dreaming.

From the moment I saw her in that blue suit, showing off that gigantic sapphire ring, I wanted to know everything about her.  What she ate (very little, as it turned out), what she read (very little, as it turned out), what her life was like down to the minutest detail.  And then, I wanted to live that life too.  So, I thought.  I was twelve.  And a hopeless romantic.  What did I know?

She was pretty.  He was rich, and titled.  What could go wrong?

The Royal Wedding was in July, 1981.  There was an eight hour time difference between my suburban California home, and St. Paul's Cathedral in London, but it was summer and there was no school, so I stayed up all night to watch every second.  You might have been able to pull me away, if the house were on fire, but only maybe.  There was something about that day.  The combination of my youthful fancy, the sleep deprivation, and the pageantry of it all that just caught me up.  It felt like magic.

And, in a way, for me, it was.  The next day, I cleaned my room.  This was not a small thing.  My mother was of the attitude, that it was my room, and I could keep it however I wanted, as long as it did not escape past the door and into the hallway.  You can imagine the chaos.  But, all of a sudden, I wanted to be tidy, and take care of my things.  I wanted to grow up.  A nineteen year old English girl got married and I stopped being a little girl.  A bit dramatic, I know.  I mentioned I was twelve, right?

All through that following year, I saved my money to buy books about her, that were nothing more than photographs really.  I wore those pages out, dreaming.  There was on in particular, Princess by Robert Lacey, that also had quite a bit of text.  I devoured every word.  I can still remember the smell of the paper.

It didn't take too long to out grow being twelve.  And, while I maintained an interest in Diana gossip (for lack of a better word), the first blush of adolescent fantasy began to fade with talk of eating disorders, infidelity, and obsessive phone calls to other women's husbands.  I grew up.  I moved on.

Diana, died on August 31, 1997.  She was thirty-six.  I was twenty-eight.  I heard the news on the television, as I was unpacking all of my worldly possessions from moving boxes.  I had just bought my first house.  I was handed the keys that very day.  I felt like such a grown up.

At the risk of sounding like a melodramatic twelve year old, it seemed appropriate to me that I should share this day with her.  She was with me when I left the little-girl-me behind, and she left, just as I had reached a milestone of adulthood.  I was, of course, more than prepared to move on without her, but it was still sad. 

As I was unpacking, I found all of those old Diana books in a box.  A few days earlier, as I was packing for the move, I seriously considered throwing them away.  I felt kind of silly still holding onto them.  But, I could not part with them.  And, I was glad I didn't.  Silly or not, I loved those books.  They were such a part of my growing up.  I have them still.  Well, my mom has them, in a box in her basement.  (Did you hear that mom?  You have the times of my life in a box in your basement.  Think of that the next time you threaten to throw out anything we won't come get.)

I still think of Diana occasionally.  Neither of our lives were like we dreamed they would be in 1981.  But, I like my fairy tale ending, even if Hubband is not rich and titled.

Memories of the Fifth of July

Twenty-five years ago today, I got my driver's license.

I went down to the Department of Motor Vehicles with my mother, and a four month old baby named Nicholas, whom I was given charge of for the summer.  I know the driving examiner thought the baby was mine.  Perhaps he took pity on me, because he passed me, even though I almost backed up onto someone's lawn.

And, what was that mother thinking, honestly.  I had no business having full-time care of a newborn.  But he survived, as best as I recall.

My first solo trip was from my Aunt Jo's house to the Kentucky Fried Chicken to buy lunch for everyone. 

Later that day, I drove myself to stay the night with my friend Lorraine, at her brother's house, where she was  babysitting her niece and nephew.  

I saw my first Victoria's Secret catalog.  They were coming to her brother's house, addressed to the previous resident, but he was keeping them.  We giggled at this.  They seem so tame now.

We watched a documentary called Koyaanisqatsi.  It was different, and I am not sure I got the point.  I was sixteen.  Or, maybe I got the point and have since forgotten it.

We stayed up until the middle of the morning watching a seventeen-year-old  named Boris Becker win the semi-final round of Wimbledon.  I developed a mad crush on that big German.

This was a big day for me.

The photo is a still from Koyaanisqatsi.

Remember When Records Had Grooves

I have been thinking about the 80s lately.

I turned eleven in 1980.  It was a big decade for me.

For weeks, I have been knocking around ideas for a 1980s themed post.  Then, last week, Leah over at The Weather in the Streets beat me to it.  She did a fabulous job, and really lit my fire to write about my own 80s memories.  The problem is, I can't get them all to fit.  Every memory, every song, every lipstick shade, just sends me off onto another tangent, like a big box of nostalgia chow mein.  You can't pull out just one noodle.

And, I can't write just one post.  So, I've had to prioritize.

Many of my trips down memory lane, I found ended here.

 The corner of 16th Street and Broadway in Sacramento, California.  The home of the original Tower Records, and still the home of the Tower Theater after which it was named, by way of a drug store, but I am getting ahead of myself.

First, the disclaimer.  I have not researched this story, but it is well known in these parts and I did use to work there.  This is what I have picked up over the years.

The Tower Theater opened in 19-I-don't-know-what.  I would guess the 1930s, based on the architecture and the neighborhood.  In the 1950s, the Solomon family operated the Tower Drug Store, adjacent to the theater, when their son Russ asked his parents if he could sell records at the back of the store.  Soon, the store was more records than drugs.  Eventually, Tower Records became it's own entity, right across the street.  Then across the world.  Until Amazon.com and then iTunes ruined record stores forever.  But in 1983, when I began attending the all-girl Catholic high school a mere five blocks away, business was booming, and records were still made out of vinyl.

Sometimes in groups, often alone, I would walk down there after school, still wearing my blue and white hearing bone pleated skirt and white ankle socks.  My taste in music changed often and the list of records I bought I has no reason, thought there might be rhyme.

I bought a Def Leppard album, and Loverboy.  The very first Maddona album anyone I knew had ever seen.  We'd never heard of her, or any of the songs on it, but I thought it looked interesting and I was an adventurous spender.  That is also how I ended up with imported 12 inch singles from bands with names like Strawberry Switchblade.  Joy Division, then New Order, the Cure, OMD, ABC, A-ha whose lead singer looked just like this German boy I was madly in love with and secretly kissing when my parents weren't looking knew.  Phil Collins and Peter Gabriel.  U2 , INXS.  My mind boggles.  I can't even remember all the music I bought there.  And this is just the high school years.  I went to the Junior College not too far away too and that opens up a whole new can of Edie Brickell (the first CD I ever bought) and 10,000 Maniacs.

All this talk of music reminds me of Friday Night Videos.  Before MTV, before the whole country had cable and could see MTV, there was Friday Night Videos.  I think it was on after Johnny Carson.  Super late.  Once a week, for 90 minutes, you could see videos of some of your favorite songs.  And some of other people's favorite songs, which you hated, but you had to sit through, because this was before the DVR.  I remember staying up with a friend until 1:30 in the morning to see the video to Wham's Wake Me up Before You Go-Go.  We had heard the song, but never seen the group.  We were stunned.  Man, that was a lot of neon, and boy were they tan.

Do you see how I got off on the little television tangent when I was meant to be writing about Tower Records?  I haven't even gotten to the part where I tell you that there was a Tower Books, too (before Borders and Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com, again).  You could buy copies of Melody Maker, imported from England, which always seemed cool, because all the English bands talked about reading it.  One of my classmates was even so bold as to go down there, in full Catholic school girl regalia, to buy a copy of the nudie magazine Playgirl, because it had an interview with Paul McCartney in it.  I bought my copy of The Bell Jar there, so that I could be bleak and depressed like any self-respecting fifteen year old girl.

Oh, I could go on.  A little later in the 80s there was zinc pink lipstick and a job at, not one, but two ice cream parlors.  A little earlier, and there was my tween obsession with Princess Diana, which sort of dove tails into my own coming of age story.  But, I can't.  I just can't go on now.  Twenty-ten beckons.

A Proposal Story

The other morning, very early, I was coming out of the bathroom, and I was surprised to see Samuel sitting right in front of the door. It reminded me of the night that Hubband proposed.

I have heard several proposal stories over the years, but I like ours best. (Yes, I know, I am biased.)  So, that night, as Hubband and I lay in bed, reading, I asked him. “Honey, do you mind if I write and post our proposal story?”

“Yes.”

“‘Yes’ you mind, or ‘yes’ I can post it?” He was reading, so I thought maybe he misunderstood (failed to listen to) the question.

“Yes, I mind.”

“How can you mind?”

He gave me a look.

“But our proposal story is great!” I said.

He kept reading.

“What if I write the story, but don’t say that it is about you?”

He gave me another look. Even while reading he followed this illogic.

I pouted for a bit and then said, “You don’t read my blog anyway. I could just post it and you would never know.”

Another look, this one ominous.

“Fine,” I said. “I won’t write our proposal story.”

So, I won’t write our proposal story. But, I can write about other people’s stories, and maybe you will get some idea what ours was like.

I met a young and adorable (in a good way) couple on a cruise ship who got engaged at the end of a family and friend scavenger hunt. The last item on the list brought her to the steps of the church where they would later be wed. He was waiting there, wearing a suit, carrying a bouquet of flowers and, in front of pretty much everyone who mattered to her, got down on one knee and proposed. They were very sweet as they told it.

Our proposal story, which I am not telling, was far less orchestrated and populated than this one.

I heard of another hopeful groom who rented horses for a ride on the beach and then read a poem he had written before proposing. At first, I thought this was kind of silly, but I was told that it meant something to the couple and she was really happy. Good for them.

Our proposal story, which I am not telling, involved no sand, no pack animals, no words that rhymed.

But, my favorite proposal story of all time (mostly because it is so easy to mock) is one I saw on reality television. Bear with me. It was one of those wedding shows. The couple had been living together for years.  They owned a house together. She helped him pick out the ring, and knew that he was going to propose on Christmas Eve.

His set up: rose petals all over their bed and the floor of their bedroom, candles on every flat surface, and my favorite, a reindeer, fashioned out of twinkly lights, like you see in (tacky) people’s yards at Christmas, balanced dead center in the middle of the bed.

He videotaped the whole thing, (just in case they were ever on one of those wedding reality shows) and boy am I glad he did. But, I got the feeling that the camera, pointed directly at the bed, did not need to be set up especially for this event.

Anyway…on Christmas Eve, the appointed day, at the appointed hour, she walked into her room and looked around, stunned (like a girl caught is reindeer lights). He got down on one knee and pulled out the ring she had picked. She started to scream. Screaming, like I have never heard before. He couldn’t even say his prepared speech (I am assuming he had one). She just kept screaming, and jumping up and down on the bed, rose petals and lighted reindeer flying every which way. Then she started crying and nodding her head, and of course she put the ring on, which she modeled for the camera.

Our proposal story, which I am not telling, was not rehearsed or ridiculous, and only a little bit tacky.

The one thing these stories have in common, is that they suit the people in them. As did ours.

There was no speech, no poetry, no flowers. Just a boy, a girl, a question, an answer, a ring, a flushing toilet.

Very simple, very funny (the way I tell it).

It is a great story. Really. 

I wish you could read it.

Photo found here.

If I had my whole life to live over again...

...there is only one thing I would do differently.

Honestly, only one thing.  And that, is this:  Back in high school, when I had the opportunity, I would have studied Latin.

That's it.  Latin.  The only thing I would change.  That is not to say that I have lived a life without mistake or misstep.  Only, that I don't believe changing those mistakes or missteps would have resulted in a substantially different outcome.

I learned something from every broken heart, every melodrama, every missed opportunity.  The only thing I learned from not taking Latin, was French, and that has not been useful.

Had I taken Latin, I know for certain that I would be smarter.  I would have gotten higher SAT scores, I would be better at the NY Times Crossword Puzzle, and I might, someday, if she were very tired, beat my mother at Scrabble.

So, is there anything you would change?

What I Cherish

This is a Sepia Saturday post.

I am an American.  I have a lot of stuff.  Some of it, I like a great deal.  But, I don't cherish it.  I am not even particularly attached to it.  If you were to set it all on fire tomorrow, I would not care half a whit.  Assuming, of course, that I were insured, so that I could replace my charred stuff with new stuff.  Because, while I may not be attached to my stuff in particular, I think I am rather attached to having stuff in general.  I am an American.

There are a few items, however, which I do cherish.  Two of them are cookbooks, handed down to me by my Grandma Bunny, and (through her) my Great-Grandma Wieser.

We'll start with the oldest first.  Grandma Wieser's is a Woman's World Cook Book from 1931.

Well used, as you can see.  There is much text in the beginning of the book which I find quaint.  Menu plans for "reducing" and elderly couples, for example.  My favorite part though, is Grandma's notes.

On the title page she has made notes for herself on where to find, what I assume to be, often used recipes.  White sauce, page 315.  Standard Baking Powder Biscuits, page 252.  And, tongue, page 122.  Tongue?  As far as I know, Grandma Wieser was not famous for tongue.  She was famous for cinnamon rolls.  Unfortunately, a thorough scouring of the book provides not a hint of how she made them

There are recipes, written in pencil, faded and torn, on the inside front cover.  One of them calls for 10 pounds of salt.  Hmm.  Interesting. But, not cinnamon rolls.

Grandma Bunny's cookbook is a 1965 Fanny Farmer, which is not nearly as interesting or as annotated, though it does have a great recipe for scalloped potatoes.  Yum. 

Another great part about both books, and a quality which I have tried very hard to preserve, is all of the odds and ends tucked into the well worn pages.  That is how I came across this.

And, this.

This recipe for Rhubarb Des(s)ert came fluttering out of Grandma Bunny's book just the other day, prompting this post.  It has Grandma Wieser's name on the back of it, and I think it is in her handwriting, though their hands are similar, so I can't be certain.  I have used this recipe, passed it on to others, and eaten the dish it produces dozens of times over the years.  But, the recipe I am familiar with is called Peach Cobbler, and while it calls for the same amount of sugar, it always comes with the disclaimer that this is too much sugar and to use about half.  Well, no wonder.  The recipe is for rhubarb.

 Great-Grandma Wieser is in the center.  

Grandma Bunny is in the back row, second from the left.  

My mom is in the center of the front row.

These books are treasures to me.  I feel a vein of family history running through them.  And yet, there are so many things not tucked into the pages.  Menu plans for a well-lived life.  A recipe for happiness.  A tasty, low-fat, all-natural substitute for lard.  I can not open these books and access the wisdom gained from raising fifteen children, or being married over a hundred years.  I can not get the answer to one last question.  I don't hear their laughter in there.  Or feel the touch of their strong lean hands.  Sewing lessons, crocheting lessons, how-to-make-a-bed-the-right-way lessons.  Not in there.  Those things will never come fluttering out of the pages of these books, but out of my memories and those of my family.

So, yes I cherish these books.  But I would throw them on the burn pile with the rest of my stuff for just one more conversation at the kitchen table.  Maybe Grandma Wieser would make cinnamon rolls.  I'd pay closer attention this time.

This is a Sepia Saturday post.  

The Sweet and The Bitter

A few short hours after meeting my husband, I agreed to go home with him. But it is not what you think.

I was in law school and working at the County Jail, in the law library, helping inmates access legal information. This is where you start to suspect I married an inmate. Don’t worry. I didn’t.

Hubband was in law school too. The same law school. But we had never met, until there was an opening for a clerk at the library. He showed up for his first day of work, took up the desk facing mine, and began training for the job. I was training him.

It could be boring work, trapped in a dusty, windowless corner of a warehouse. So we passed the time chatting about ourselves, our lives, our families. Sometime before lunch that first day, he told me in great detail of his family’s farm in Washington. It had horses, blueberry fields, two ponds, the original barn and a windmill.

“Oh, that sounds beautiful,” I said.

“I’m going home for Thanksgiving. Do you want to come with me?” he asked.

“Okay,” I said.

Who does that?

Before we left, my father gave me a piece of advice. “This boy is proud of where he is from and he going to want to show that place off." he said. "You had better be appropriately impressed.”

My dad was right.

We drove north together in a dusty old Ford Bronco that smelled like dog and made so much noise I could barely hear Metalica playing. (This was a plus.)  As soon as we pulled off I-5 Hubband began pointing out the highlights. “There is so-and-so’s farm. We helped them with their livestock when it flooded. There is the river. There is where my uncle used to live. My junior high Spanish teacher lived there. She kept llamas for a while.” On and on it went. He was so happy to be home.

With my father’s words in my head, I did the best I could. I looked where he pointed. I “oohed” and “ahhed”. I asked meaningful follow up questions. I was as impressed as a girl could be. The only problem was, I couldn’t see a stinking thing. It was nine o’clock, on a November night, in northern Washington. It was as black as pitch.

The next day, and in the day light hours of the weeks, months, and years that followed, I really was impressed with his home. It is beautiful. Green. Quiet. Quaint. With noise and activity not too far away, lest you feel too isolated. A good Bible teaching church right on the river. Good book stores, good markets, good coffee. A tea house. Many times since, I have taken that same drive with him, and each time I feel same way I did the first time (I could see anything).

I feel like I belong there.

Hubband is getting laid off at the end of June. We are moving back. We had planned on moving back soon anyway, but we had wanted to do it on our own terms, not un-employed and living in his parent’s attic. It’s like a dream come true but not the way we dreamt it. We are overwhelmed and in a place of just processing all that is happening and all that must happen.

It is sweet and bitter.

A Teresa by Any Other Name

My mother wanted to name me Catherine.  My father wanted to name me Tracey.  They compromised.  They named me Teresa.

Women Named Teresa

Teresa?  But your name is Tracey?

Well, yes, and no.

My mother did not like the name Tracey, and also thought that it was a name I would outgrow.  Not a suitable name for a grown woman.  So, she suggested Teresa, the name of her best friend.  And, if my father insisted, they could call me Tracey.  Well, insist he did. So, the name on my birth certificate is Teresa,  but I have always been called Tracey by my family.

Women Named Tracey

I have had to explain my name several times throughout the years.  "Teresa?  I thought your name was Tracey?"  people ask, often with a tone that implies, I have somehow gotten it wrong.  "How do you get 'Tracey' from 'Teresa'?" people want to know.  Shrug, ask my dad.  Cashing birthday checks from my grandmother (written to Tracey) could be tricky.  I even had some brain-dead bouncer outside a bar accuse me of trying to use my twin sister's ID to sneak in.  Even if I were, I'd still be over 21 you dumb ass.  (Pardon my French.)  Or maybe he was just flirting with me.  You can see why maybe I didn't date much.

It would have been simpler if Tracey were a common derivative of Teresa, like Terri or Tess, but it is not.  I've been told it is common in Ireland.  Yeah, whatever.  I didn't grow up in Ireland.  But my high school trigonometry teacher did.  Mr. McGuigan.  He said Teresa in such a way--Trrayza--that the Tracey became quite obvious.  Thank you, Mr. McGuigan, for validating me and my deviant name.

As I understand it, Tracey is also a of bit a derogatory name in the UK.  A girl who is a bit vapid and stupid.  A waste of space or oxygen.  Too many of them I guess. 

It's not a great name.  I don't love it.  I don't even really like it all that much.  It's just my name.  Ho-hum.  But it is my name, so after September 11, I had it legally changed to Tracey, so as to avoid any more (serious) complications.  Only to find out, that on the birth certificates for my children, the State of California requires, not my legal name, but my birth name.  Big sigh.  So now, on paper at least, I am not even the mother to my own children.  Which is going to make it difficult to get them passports.  Maybe they are my twin sister's children.  Ugh!

Bureaucratic red tape aside, I have come full circle. When our daughter was born fourteen months ago, I wanted to name her Catherine.  Hubband didn't really like that name at first, but I talked him into it.  "My mother wanted to name me Catherine," I explained.  "But my father wouldn't let her.  They are divorced now."  So, our little girl is named Catherine.

Emotional blackmail?  Maybe.  I know you have to pick your battles in a marriage, but because of my (and my mother's) history with this issue, I wanted to win this one.  And, Catherine is a lovely name.