No pens or pencils

Auld Lang Syne

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Fri, 11 Jan 2019 19:25:00 +0000

When my kids return to school after vacation or break, I am not eagerly hurrying them on their way, shoving them on the back as they slouch out the door.

A weird mother maybe, but I'm sad.

That goes for my husband returning to work, too.

While we were all together the two weeks of Christmas break, there were squabbles and irritations and arguments over Christmas presents, and there was the stress and labor involved in party preparations and then the frustration when I realized I hadn't gotten to everything on my list.

But we also played numerous games, of the board and card variety. I learned that while playing Clue I will always be like that slow-witted police detective in crime novels who is forever confounded by the methods and the success of the sweet old lady or eccentric private investigator. Diligently I would narrow things down, doing my grunt work, and as soon as I knew two things for certain, someone else would win. Daniel, who is only eight and had never played Clue before, won our second game! I was proud, not envious at all.

Santa brought Daniel a drift bike (the toy that caused the arguments), and Gabriella and Daniel, giggling, drifted on my tiled kitchen floor for what seemed like hours a day. Even while trying to load my dishwasher, make homemade bread, or prepare food, I enjoyed watching them do donuts and didn't mind too much when they slid into cabinets, tables or appliances.

A racing video game brought by the man in the big red suit was a big hit with Berto and Ana, but my husband seemed to be the one who liked it most. Despite not being keen on gaming myself, I actually had fun watching him speed down exotic dirt roads or paved highways, crashing through fences and pitiable trees when he off-roaded into an oddly realistic yet foreign environment.

What tale to tell from New Year's Eve? Nothing. It was sedate. In contrast, the snow that fell most of New Year's Day was a beauty that reminded me of the melancholy Dan Fogelberg song, "Same Old Lang Syne". So I played it repeatedly as I quietly prepared a turkey with all the fixings for my family. I listened and watched through my kitchen window as the lovely and gently transforming snow drifted for hours, feeling wistful and enamored by Nature's quiet, simple grace. Tiny crystals almost too minute to notice until I peered into the gray day at just the right point were followed by large, fluffy flakes.

My children marched out into the freezing temps again and again, but I didn't have their bravery. They even made a miniature ice rink beneath the swing set - something I told them they could do, having a gift for understanding and sympathizing with the sometimes dangerous schemes of childhood, but then regretted when our Phoenix kids tried to turn on the hose in below freezing weather. (What were they thinking?!)

On one cold evening, I took a walk with my kids, endeavoring to find the sidewalk beneath the snow, trying not to slip or trip as we admired our neighbors' still blazing Christmas lights, greeting many of those neighbors, including some teenagers who were going about at their mother's behest or their own volition, shoveling neighborhood drives.

All the time spent with extended family around Christmas was cherished. We caught up with my husband's uncle and aunt whom we have not had the good fortune to see in many years, and his aunt shared family stories and pictures with me. My husband Matthew and I were both grateful to his brother Steve for making a point of spending a lot of time with his nephews and nieces, because our children enjoy his company so much. Matthew's parents accompanied our family to Albuquerque's River of Lights, and though it was freezing, we got many keepsake photographs of them with the kids by huge, incandescent displays.

On the last weekend before a return to normal routines came the amusement of watching all my children and their cousins, including the teenagers, don crowns for Three Kings' Day while their parents snapped pictures.

The laughter, the aggravations, the snow, the craziness, the relaxation, the late nights, the long sleep ins, the boring stretches, the busy days, the craving for the company of family, and the moment when you want a break from them for months - that's Christmas break.

And it was good.

Berto and St. Nick (in his own words)

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Fri, 07 Dec 2018 16:22:00 +0000

I am 15 years old, and I believe in Santa Claus – although I haven’t always. When I was young, Santa was an intriguing topic for me. I believed in the jolly old man with an extreme case of dad-bod, dressed in a red suit because I trusted my parents. My parents told me he was real. Besides, what evidence did I have against them? Santa Claus showed up every Christmas. Every year, my siblings and I would awaken before the crack of dawn to wake up our parents, who we assumed would be well rested and willing to sacrifice an hour or two of sleep to see what Santa had brought us. The moment our parents stepped out of bed, we were in the mentality of an Olympic sprinter. Our finish line was just down the hall and to the left, where our presents sat under our 7-foot-tall artificial tree, with a blanket wrapped neatly around the base. Each year we experienced the rush of Christmas morning. But then I grew up.

As I became older, I pushed the thought of the magical man to the back of my more logical brain, simply accepting but not quite believing. At that point, I found more magic in the presents than the man who delivered them. Around the age of 10, I began thinking about Santa again. My parents explained where St Nick’s magic came from by telling us that Jesus gave the jolly old man the power and ability to deliver presents because what he was doing gave so much joy to children all around the world. As a devout 10-year-old Catholic, it made some sense. After all, if Jesus had the power to do anything, why not? In my heart though, I knew. It was illogical. Santa Claus wasn’t real; it was my parents. After all, why else would I be unable to request one million dollars from him?

I finally went to my parents, taking them aside as to not ruin it for my siblings by declaring I did not believe.

“I have a question,” I told them.

“What is it?”

“Is Santa real?”

My parents paused.

“Do you really want to know?” My mom asked, in that moment unintentionally answering my question.

“Yes,” I said. “Well, I already know, but…”

“No, he’s not,” my parents responded kindly.

My parents continued to explain to me that now that I knew, I was “part of the magic.” Whatever I did, I couldn’t expose what I knew to my siblings. Each year I had to act as if I was just as steadfast about believing in Santa Claus as I had been five years ago. I assured them it wouldn’t be an issue. However, I didn’t really feel so magical.

The first Christmas that I was in-the-know, setting out the festive snowflake shaped sugar cookies and milk in a bowl of ice (to insure it was cold), I felt a little empty. I didn’t understand why, but it wasn’t the same. The joy of Christmas had mostly filled me up, and the wintertime spent in our humble house in Chandler, Arizona, reflecting on the birth of Jesus was still thoroughly enjoyed. The topic of Santa just didn’t feel the same, however. Christmas Day, the presents came, taken out of their hiding spot in my parent’s closet. In my mind, I was torn. I saw how happy my siblings were, as was I, and I knew what my parents were doing was special. But it didn’t feel magical.

Over the next year I matured. I became taller, more intelligent, and was able to wrap my head around more things. And I think that made all the difference that year.

That year at Christmas I felt especially good about everything. As my family and I watched the Nativity Story, I felt the spirit of Christmas fill up inside me. I felt happy for my siblings, and my mind was free of any “stress” I had felt the year before. I went to bed excited to wake up the next morning and find presents under the tree. Sure enough, my siblings woke up before the sun on a once again frigid yet snowless Arizona Christmas morning. I felt a crazy sense of anticipation that felt almost nostalgic, as if it was from three years ago. I felt good, but the magic of Santa still wasn’t quite there. For the sake of my siblings I rushed out through the hall to the tree behind them, taking time to turn on the light so we could see our presents. But I still didn’t see the magic completely.

While we were opening the presents I looked at my siblings, pure joy lighting up their eyes in a Christmas fire as they tore through presents and stockings, and at my parents, looking tired yet completely overjoyed at the experience and feeling they were giving their kids by being Santa Claus. In those two seconds, something clicked. I recognized the magic. The magic was real. Santa was real. I was experiencing it. It wasn’t about the magic sleigh, or the immortality of Santa Claus – it was about the spirit of Christmas, the feeling of giving and receiving gifts, and the elation of it all. My parents were not obligated to be Santa, but out of a desire for us to experience that magic, they were. But it was not only them, it was me too. I was Santa. I was keeping the magic alive by convincing my siblings of the existence of the mythical, yet very real man.

What I realized that year was very important, and made me truly believe Santa Claus was real. Believing in him will make all the difference. I will be able to keep that spirit alive for my children and all the little kids in a world where Santa’s magic is dampening, being smothered by newer generations who believe children need facts, not hope. Indeed, what would Christmas be for kids without the jolly old man?

Other posts about the Jolly Old Man and his magic:
Berto and St. Nick
Santa and St. Nick

Home for the holidays

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Thu, 06 Dec 2018 17:53:00 +0000

Snow on the Sandia Mountains

This time of year makes me think of Albuquerque, of the road trip from Phoenix through Flagstaff, Arizona and Gallup, New Mexico to this mountain town dominated by its peaks in the east, tinged an unusual shade of pink at sunset (hence their name, meaning watermelon in Spanish).

It reminds me of struggling to find presents for nieces and parents-in-law; of sewing felt ornaments in the form of stockings with stitched names during the car ride, scissors, glitter thread, and scraps of felt scattered at my feet; of favorite road trip music (country stations, Allison Krauss and Union Station, Gordon Lightfoot, Bryan Adams, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Diamond, Journey and more) and holiday tunes by Jewel, Michael Buble and Nat King Cole; of a crowded, packed car and fast food lunches; of taking the same route through town to my in-laws house each time we came.

But here we are. In Albuquerque. Now.

No Christmas road trip necessary. We can see family easily, scant preparation and only a few minutes of travel required.

I like road trips. I'll miss taking the one between these southwestern sister states.

But, if pressed, I must confess that I like living here more than driving hours to be here.

It is a very good sign, I think - an indication of openness and happiness - when you move to a place that reminds you of every other place you've held dear. While walking or driving around in Albuquerque, I have been reminded of the expansive park near my grandparents home in Idaho and of the many small towns in that state where my relatives yet reside. I have recalled Tennessee, because I finished the first book about my childhood here, and I am again in an environment where the leaves on broad, beautiful trees hail the seasons. Of course, Arizona is present in my thoughts: the culture, history and landscape of both states are similar in several regards, and Arizona and all the loved ones there are just a reverse trip across state borders.

So this is Advent, and here we are already, in what could be characterized as our Christmas town. The first snow has already come; snowmen were promptly built by my snow-starved children.

Gifts for relatives this year will be delivered on Christmas Day with smiles after traveling but a few miles from our own home, taking a fresh and already oft-traveled route. Over the hills if not through the woods, to my in-laws house we'll go.

Gratitude is ne'er too late: holiday tables and runners (of the road)

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Wed, 28 Nov 2018 21:19:00 +0000

On a small brick wall beside me was this guy:

I was walking my dog while my children played on the park equipment nearby, and I noticed something move and looked up. Like a member of the paparazzi, I followed him around, snapping photos. Though he seemed nervous, he couldn’t help but pose and show me his tail feathers.

His kind I have seen before, you know; I live in New Mexico, and they are the state bird for a reason.

Have you seen one run? It’s charming. Two were sprinting across the dusty expanse near the glass recycling bin one day when I was pitching my myriad fragile receptacles in. Watching those roadrunners fly (not literally) across the dirt - as if they were in a race and had left competitors in the dust, out of sight, far behind - made my day. Maybe they were being chased by Wile E. Coyote.

Thanksgiving has come and gone, but I wanted to share that I’m thankful to live in the land of the roadrunner.

I’m also grateful that my father-in-law helped my husband and me build a grand table for our larger home that has room for the company of plenty of family and friends. The new table in this friendly house is an entertaining dream come true.

It’s pub height, so loved ones can stand or sit around it comfortably.

Of course, I wanted it pub height – taller than the original plans pulled from Ana White's website.

Then I despised it for being so tall, as if it had chosen to be so against my will. Without stools, it felt like a giant in my kitchen, devouring space while crowding the wall. I argued with my husband on and off for weeks, practically demanding that he help me chop of its legs or at least bring me the ax. He insisted that we would do nothing until we found stools for it; then, we would see!

It wasn’t until Halloween night when family came over for trick-or-treating, and all the adults stood around the behemoth with their sodas and pizza, gabbing, that I realized I had known all along what I was doing, and it was perfect. The next day the extra-tall stools for it were delivered, and my table and I have had amicable interactions ever since. It no longer sulks, pushed against the wall, out of place and under-purposed. I no longer glare at it, wishing it were different. My children sit at it every afternoon and evening, twisting on the swivel stools that look as if they were designed for it.

There are greater things to be grateful for post-Thanksgiving, beyond state birds and tall tables.

For one thing, I have the courage to keep writing even when it seems I may never be successful or have not worked hard enough yet or don't have the "right" ideas or the best methods of executing them. And I am amazed by the support that my husband has and continues to give to me in my endeavors.

More than anything I feel I am extraordinarily blessed to be surrounded by my family, so insanely, incalculably grateful to God for Matthew and our four children, Berto, Ana, Ella, and Daniel. We are happy together in our new home.

And this year we spent Thanksgiving with extended family for the first time in many years, and in addition to our appreciation of the company of those loved ones, I'm thankful that I didn't have to make the turkey! (Mine always seems dry.)

Thanksgiving has passed. This is my belated letter of gratitude. I have done my duty.

Come now, Advent. Come Christmas. My candles are lit. I'm ready.

A Post in Pictures: Why Albuquerque?

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Thu, 25 Oct 2018 20:04:00 +0000

Nearly every afternoon during summer, storm clouds crouched on the Sandia Mountains, and then sprang upon the valley in the evening, hurling lightning bolts and sometimes hail.

This autumn rain we've experienced this week, though, is just a persistent drench with no drama, like a sourpuss who stands around looking gloomy, bringing everyone down without saying a word.

Yet, the fall colors on the trees are heightened by this moisture, and that brings me again to a realization I had soon after we moved here:

I love Albuquerque.

Ironically, I believe I'm happier to be here than my husband is - and he was raised here!

It was a surprise to me how quickly I embraced this region, how easily charmed I was by the novelties and the enchantments that drew me in and helped me feel at home.

When I first had an inkling we would be moving to Albuquerque, I began to question it almost immediately with some anxiety. I wondered why God might want us here. I couldn't think of a soul who needed us - whereas there were other places in which we could be useful.

Why did I assume it had to be about necessity? Though it isn't deserved, perhaps it's about Providence and these blessings:

My husband really likes his new job in town, and there are far more opportunities in his current company to grow than there ever were in his last place of employment.

My children see their grandparents almost every weekend, and their aunts, uncles, and cousins often (something that was missing for the first many years of their lives). They have all made new friends and gotten involved in their schools.

As for me? I am just plain happy. Sure, I worried when we first arrived - about good friends for my children, about finances, about how I could best serve my family and the larger community.

But even if someday we roam again, searching out a new place to call home, I will forever be grateful to Albuquerque for one beautiful thing: here I finished my book, a story based on a childhood Christmas. In Albuquerque I accomplished a long-held dream; I was successful.

What are the other reasons I love it here? Why is it "The Land of Enchantment" (New Mexico's state nickname) for me?

The Summer

We moved from Phoenix, so you can only imagine my awe and wonder when I was able to sit outside all morning until lunchtime quite comfortably, reading or jotting down ideas in my writer's notebook. It felt miraculous not to be chased inside at 8 am by terrible, rapidly rising heat.

The Balloon Fiesta

There are few things that can enthrall and make one recapture childhood joy as swiftly as a hot air balloon gently riding a wind current. Early each October here in Albuquerque, the city hosts its annual Balloon Fiesta, and people come from all over the world to pilot these lighter-than-aircraft or to watch their colorful shapes fill the expansive southwestern skies in the early morning. I stood outside in the street and gawked unabashedly.

The Autumn Colors

It has been a very long time since I lived in a place where I noticed the change of seasons, because Nature alerted me so dramatically to their passage.

In Phoenix I strained and searched to find one tree that hailed the fall, and if I spied even the slightest change, I applauded it. But Albuquerque trees put on a parade of hues as the weather cools: plum, red-gold, burgundy, orange, and even florescent yellow. It thrills the soul. I had forgotten the splendor of autumn.

The Sandia Mountains

I've seen these mountains before while visiting my in-laws for Christmas and never really cared about their majesty. But things have changed, and they are there before me every day as I walk my Yorkie friend Taz, and I'm in love. I've come to stay, and they will always be there.

I'm home.

The genesis and the realization

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Sun, 30 Sep 2018 22:29:00 +0000

Last week I gathered up and organized manuscript pages from two different drafts of the book I mean to publish this year, putting them once again into numerical order and placing them, feeling fulfilled, in a neat stack on my humble writing desk.

I am done with my book. And this organizing was a sign to my husband and to myself that I will no longer let my work litter the floor of our room and, more importantly, that I consider this story finished, as far as writing is concerned.

The desk at which I write and have worked for more than two months revising my story since we moved here is one my husband had before we were married 17 plus years ago and one that had its surface attacked by silver sharpie, wielded by the hands of our firstborn when he was little. Its knobs fall off occasionally, and its varnish is worn away on the edges.

But small and humble though it may be, it sits before two large windows with two more windows on its right hand side. I have always wanted a desk with a view, and now I have it in our Albuquerque home, looking out over trees and flowers and bright blue southwestern sky each morning, dreaming and writing.

Those windows caused my manuscript to wander away a few pages at a time from their piles on the floor by my writing space; I often pushed the panes open to let in the breeze. If I wasn't working from the pages that floated like miniature magic carpets stitched with words, I didn't mind that they seemed intent on leaving me for more exotic places. Yet for weeks now it has been a huge mess, a reminder that work was ongoing, like some huge remodeling project: Pardon our Dust!

But now I am done. And I wept tears of joy over my laptop. I'm satisfied. I have completed it. It's finished.

My heart is in this story and has been since I first wrote a much shorter version of it for my high school creative writing class.

I wasn't the star student of that class. For one thing the teacher, a charismatic woman with long, wavy blond hair and a younger husband, often couldn't read my writing, even noting on one of my assignments, I bet this would be a pretty good story if I could read it. I also struggled with dialogue and devising interesting plot lines. But when I wrote this short story based on something that happened to my family when I was a kid growing up in Tennessee, the whole class applauded it and gave me wonderful encouragement and feedback. Our "cool" teacher had that look on her face and tone in her voice that every creative person wishes to see and hear. My story had touched her.

So I began writing the whole story, and from the beginning my dad and my writing mentor, author of the The Dragon at the End of Forever series, supported and encouraged me.

Wow, what a long road to fulfillment. Over the years I have written many drafts of this novella, trying to improve it. I didn't always succeed, for at least in one draft, I managed to completely destroy the tone of my tale while trying to satisfy my critics. Early on, I sent off copies to publishers and received form letter rejections and personal rejections that addressed me by name in typed or handwritten particular notes of encouragement. I saved those.

I sent this manuscript to my future husband before we met in person, and he thought it was a great story, and from then on he believed that I was a writer, believed in my dreams. (And still does, though I have yet to bring in loads of money from my efforts.)

I've also, as I alluded to above, shared this beloved story of mine with a couple people who did not like it at all. Even though it broke my heart, I did find nuggets of wisdom in their feedback, and I hope I have used those experiences to mold my novella into something greater.

A couple of years ago I read one of my earliest manuscripts - I went back to the beginning, one might say - to my children, and as they listened intently they revived long dormant hopes and plans. Still, I wondered aloud as I read my own words, "How was I a better writer then than I am now?"

After my recent painstaking efforts, I know that is not true. I have grown as a writer, and I know my story reflects that metamorphosis.

Now I will put it out there for everyone. And it's a terrifying thing to let go of something held so dear, the genesis and realization of a dream, at last. I could edit for years, tinkering endlessly with little words, and make excuses for not showing my heart, my work, to the world, but I have been guilty of telling my husband, "If I die young, please make sure my book is published. Have my dad edit it, but make sure it's published." So I know what I must do.

And I'm doing it.

I've done it! You can find my book, The Christmas List, on Amazon HERE. It is a holiday story of love, family, struggle and faith based on real events.

A tragical birthday

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Fri, 27 Jul 2018 03:10:00 +0000

Our family of six moved from Phoenix to Albuquerque four days before my daughter Ana’s 14^th birthday.

But, so help me, I tried to make it good. I tried!

With boxes still enveloping us, I made homemade pancakes. A good beginning if not for the fact that we had no syrup. Midway through cooking, I ran to the store and picked up a store brand variety called “Old-fashioned Syrup” which I thought might be code for “slightly healthier.” Why, oh why, was I thinking healthy on a birthday?

Unfortunately, old-fashioned meant pure unadulterated molasses with a hint of sugar to take the edge off. We should have made gingerbread cookies with it.

“Yuck!” my kids exclaimed in unison with properly contorted faces.

“What? What is it?”

Even with my penchant for gingerbread men, I couldn’t stomach the flavor.

Out I trot to a different grocer to pick up some that was unapologetically sugar, and since we had just moved, ran to the discount and dollar stores next door to find laundry hampers, curtain rods, and waste baskets. Feeling guilty about my long absence, I picked up a bunch of sunflowers to present to my birthday girl.

I still needed to figure out the cake. It was supposed to be a purchased ice cream cake instead of a homemade confection per tradition. Unfortunately, I didn’t know where any creameries were and before I could find one, I had to spend an hour on the phone with our insurance company sorting out the new home and auto policies with a very talkative, if helpful, young man. When I finally was released to call an ice cream shop near us, the lady nicely informed me that I should have placed an order yesterday.

I dove into boxes for missing baking gear. Then I went to the fridge to lay out ingredients for cake.

We had no butter or eggs.

Well, I still needed to get my daughter gifts anyway, so I rounded up Ana and her younger siblings, and off we went to two more stores. At a home improvement store Ana got her wish: plants to place in a large flower bed that was all her own. Though she fretted they were too expensive (I guess her dad and I had been stressing a lot about the new mortgage), she finally choose four blooming beauties, and we headed to my sixth store of the day.

I may say that I am disappointed that Albuquerque did not fly a banner over our heads at this point declaring exuberantly, “Thanks for helping our economy, you fabulous, frustrated new residents!”

We grabbed butter, eggs and a can of whipped cream topping.

On the way out of that shopping center, I turned right onto a busy street, and we nearly got hammered by an aggressive sedan that raced up behind us. I thought rush hour was supposed to be better in Albuquerque!

At home safe but flustered, I labored over a fatty chocolate cake for my sweet girl and offered to spread mint chocolate ice cream between its layers.

My husband came home late from his new job, and after I had irritated him by crying and complaining about crazy Albuquerque drivers, told us that we shouldn’t physically put ice cream in the cake. Instead of homemade ice cream cake, my daughter was to have plain old cake with ice cream!

Valiantly my son Berto and I attempted to write “happy birthday” with the whipped topping on the barren expanse of the cake. Alas, the pressurized cream ejected from its can with all the force of a fire extinguisher. It was all we could do to make the carnage resemble “Happy Birthday Ana”.

As we woefully surveyed our erratic clouds of whipped writing, we realized we had no matches, no lighters, nothing to spark her candles, those candles we had lumped together from the junk drawer the movers had packed with the kitchen stuff. (You cannot imagine our relief when we came up with 14!)

“Really?” said Ana.

My husband and I argued about what to do. Try to start a flame with flint and knife? Search all the boxes yet unpacked for matches that were overlooked? Go yet again to a store for a lighter? He left to procure a lighter.

After his return and a chorus of Happy Birthdays, I sliced into the cake which quivered and…

“Oh, Ana, it’s crumbling,” I moaned.

My daughter and I looked at each other and burst into tears. It had all become far too "tragical", as Anne of Green Gables would say.

But we soon realized that such a mad birthday must surely be more hilarious than heart-breaking 10, maybe 20 years from now – give or take a few.

Nevertheless, I vow that Ana’s 15^th will be a different level of celebration. Perhaps I’ll launch fireworks, organize a parade, buy her a pet ferret, send her up in a hot air balloon, or hire a boy band to serenade her all evening.

But we will never – EVER – move near her birthday again.

A long goodbye, a fond farewell

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Sat, 23 Jun 2018 00:10:00 +0000

I had to go to the Chandler Downtown Library to settle a debt my children and I had accrued over several months, perhaps years.

While paying the fines I told the gentleman behind the information counter how I had routinely brought my four kids there since my teenagers were little tykes - for story time and to stock up on books and movies every summer. His sympathetic smile and kind words indicated his understanding of my gratitude for that institution's role in my family's well-being for so many years.

"I'm old-fashioned," I declared. "I still prefer books and newspapers to all this computer stuff." I indicated all the technology usurping more and more floor space.

I was not to visit that library again. We were moving far from the realm of that colossal building with its broad windows letting in a refined degree of intense desert light; tree-lined courtyard with avenues created by concrete benches where you could sit a spell and peruse newly acquired tales; and friendly saguaros and lantanas edging the sidewalk.

Thus began my goodbye tour.

To mail a last package from my Arizona address I went to the downtown post office next, a place from which I had shipped all my Christmas packages, being at once cheap and traditional. To the gentleman there behind the counter, I exclaimed, "I still believe in the US postal office!"

"Well, that's one person!" he joked.

Au revoir to a perfectly plain and comfortable United States Postal Service building where I saw great diversity in my fellow citizens.

On Pentecost I helped out with our parish celebration, and fellow parishioners and volunteers continually came up to our family, wishing us well, expressing surprise that we were moving and that they would miss our presence. Some got emotional and so did I. It was a difficult parting; we had raised our family in the faith at Holy Spirit Parish, where three of our four were baptized, for 15 years. People had often come up to us after mass to assert just how much our kids had grown from the babes in arms who joined God's family years before.

Later that day my Moms' Group, begun with strangers who fast became dear friends, had a party. My artistic friend Holly,with whom I visited the UK in April 2015, generously hosted. Driving to her beautiful home, I was feeling sad and wistful, most afraid of this good-bye. For within this group were the ladies who helped me raise my children during easy and trying times, who helped me fix myself when I was feeling lost, overwhelmed, uninspired, inept, besieged, or just plain tired and old. And their children have been for some time friends so invaluable to my own kids that they are family, cousins or siblings of the honorary kind, the bond growing stronger each year as they've passed through the stages of development from toddler to teenager - even as families became busier and some moved far away; moms went back to work; and those remaining stopped seeing each other as often for birthdays and holidays.

But we managed our farewell during this final gathering, said "until we meet again", and I cried only when the moms presented me with gifts I did not expect: a beautiful memory book of our families' time together, charming dangling earrings just my style, and a necklace meant to symbolize the unbroken chain of friendship.

There were more final face to face conversations with friends, one final park play date for my kids with friends who helped them get through their first and final year at a new school. At a bowling party I broke down as I looked into the face of a very dear comrade in the trenches of motherhood and then quickly and tightly embraced her. At a simple yet truly satisfying gathering of relatively new family friends at their home abutting coyote inhabited desert, I broke down for quite different reasons and found comfort in the husband's and wife's extraordinary empathy, reluctant to have to remove myself from such easy reach of it in the very near future. And I had to witness the last meeting of my son and his best friend from the Moms" Group (they've known each other since they were potty training), for I was the bad guy come to pick Berto up.

On the morning we left our little home in Arizona, I was at first more stoic than I had anticipated, perhaps too weary from cleaning and sorting and looking for little forgotten things and too many goodbyes, poignant or perfunctory, to cry that much. But then I choked up while walking a last short time in that little empty house that had sheltered all of our children during their babyhood. I went then to say goodbye to my Eucalyptus trees, two giants in the front, westward-facing yard that had sheltered us as best they could from the staggering Phoenix heat and who had provided me with the exotic green wreaths tinged with a hint of purple with which I adorned my door each autumn and winter. And I broke down as I hugged them (yes, hugged them). I prayed that whoever came after us would appreciate those lovely monoliths and never, ever think of cutting them down merely because they shed too much bark in a monsoon storm.

Nothing dries tears like adventure, however. I closed my car door with a damp face but by the time I opened it again at a gas station in Flagstaff, I was feeling the exhilaration of being on the road, driving the highway myself, and heading to a new home for my family.

Arizona holds many friends and memories and a permanent place in my mind and heart, but New Mexico is just next door and, after all, it too is an enchanting part of the great American Southwest.

Mother's Day by any other name is just a day

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Thu, 17 May 2018 19:39:00 +0000

This year on Sunday, May 13th I slept in, and that was quite a boon. I felt my luck. When I awoke, the kids were working on a homemade sign for me (our family designs banners for each other on special occasions). My youngest daughter, Gabriella, had made me oatmeal - not from a packet but with raw oats from a tub! It had no sugar, but it did have loads of fresh strawberries and bananas, and I really enjoyed such a healthy and hearty start to my day. My youngest son, Daniel, made me coffee from scratch. As it had been sitting around for some time, he heated it up in the microwave. I wish I had taken note of the time he punched in (two minutes!), because when he carried it to my chair, the cup was so hot, I couldn't hold it by its basin for more than a second. I thanked God that my little boy had not scalded himself with it while waiting on me.

Mother's Day is not my favorite holiday.

Do I still wield its power in order to enlist my family's help cleaning the house? Do I leverage it in an attempt to cut down drastically on arguing and whining? Do I demand the right to sleep in? Well, sure I do. Like many mothers, I'm desperate.

Do I want my own mother and mother-in-law every year to have the best possible day, to feel spoiled and adored? Absolutely!

But I don't like the day. A mother who doesn't like Mother's Day is like a romantic who doesn't like hearts. I'm both of those anomalies!

Reader, understand. I love my four children fiercely, and I love and feel intense gratitude being their mother. I don't credit myself entirely for their intellect, their talents, their hearts, or their good looks. I didn't design them (but I did choose their dad). I see the amazing masterpieces of God that they are, and I thank him, because I am a far, far better mother to them than I could ever be without his help.

But, quite simply, I do not like the pretentious pressure of one day called Mother's Day, and I don't enjoy all the hard-hitting reminders and advertisements that businesses pound us with for weeks beforehand.

What I want for Mother's Day will never change, because, essentially, it is what I desire every day: a clean house, peace in my family, and sleep. In fact, I want extra sleep for every holiday including President's Day! Will I always get these things? No, surely not, but I am not a "stuff" person. If tangible gifts come my way, I appreciate far more all the handmade cards, letters, and signs my children bestow over any store-bought article that I absolutely don't need.

When my kids are grown, they can just call me. I'll have slept in, my house will be clean, and I won't hear their petty arguments or their whining. My heavens, how I'll miss them! Please, God, may they come over early and bring the grandchildren!

The Generous One

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Wed, 18 Apr 2018 17:57:00 +0000

Adversity helps us recognize the generosity of God, allows us to stand beneath his wings when we find no other shelter.

Of course, we can recognize Providence in the moment or understand it in hindsight. Both have been part of my family's experience these past several months.

The temptation to file these many days under tribulation was quickly discarded once I read a concise definition. No, we have not had tribulation. We have cradled insecurity in our bosoms; we have worn anxiety like a cloak some days. But we have not known great suffering in my estimation. God is good, and we are grateful.

Grateful for unanswered prayers.

Grateful for worry that brings us closer to understanding others' experiences and imparts wisdom.

Grateful for friends who pray, worry for us, ask about our circumstances and extend gifts of time and advice.

Now Providence is something of which I feel wholly unworthy, but it fills me with love like flowing water when I reflect on how it has accompanied us since last summer.

My grandfathers passed away, and it was a terrible time. In mourning with my family in Idaho and feeling utterly exhausted and as taut as barbed wire, I decided, rather irrationally, that it was time for my family to sell our little house in which we had lived quite happily for almost 15 years.

To make the transition to a new home much less stressful, we ditched our plans to put this house on the market (after consulting multiple contractors and agents) and sold to an investor who very generously offered to let us have three months free rent and then two months additionally at our mortgage rate. Little did we know what a blessing that would be! The days of those months ticked by, and we couldn't find a home here in the Phoenix valley, though I prayed hard day after day, growing frustrated and depressed, eventually turning to bribing God by attempting to correct past sins, becoming convinced that they were preventing my prayers from being heard.

It seems silly now, though I'm sure that downtown library in Dickson, Tennessee is glad to have back the overdue book that I finally returned after more than 20 years. (Don't laugh, Dad.)

Now it's clear why we never found a house here; why the homes we loved in this valley were not to be ours though we tried; why my husband couldn't find a job in Phoenix when he left his old company, though he networked aggressively and submitted his resume religiously.

What a straight path it has been, littered though it was with hard stones and humility, what an excellent plan it was given the events we did not see coming - and here I stand now, looking back and praising God!

How generous is the One Who first loved us! For my husband has a good job at last, and the offer they made to him brought tears to my eyes, realizing again God's generosity; we did not expect it. We also found a home afterwards on the second day of looking - a home that reminds me of the one I really liked here that a friend advised me was just a place marker for the one we were supposed to have.

When my grandfathers died, and I attended their funerals over one long weekend in which I cried a river with my parents and siblings, the loss of my grandpas - not one left in this world - struck my core. To find comfort I wanted a fresh place, a new home for my family that would remind me of how I felt in my grandparents' homes.

I should have known God would mold my prayer into something better, giving me not what I selfishly desired merely as balm for my aching heart, but something that was life-giving for my family - not a place to remind me of grandparents but a place that would give my children what I had known and appreciated keenly: a home with grandparents.

My kids will finally live near grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins for the first time in their lives. There will be birthday parties and holiday meals and relatives to come to their sports games and school events. Great, everlasting memories will be made. Stories will be created and enriched.

I have for many years preached that family and home are everything. I wanted a shell, a mere house, an impermanent thing, but God gave my family Love, gave us time with Family.

God is good; I am His witness. He is so very good. Truly, His mercy endureth forever!

Epiphanies and Uncertainties

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Tue, 09 Jan 2018 18:50:00 +0000

Phoenix is always a strange place to be around this time of year. Some trees are dropping their leaves. Perhaps it finally grew cold enough at the end of December to inspire them to shed the glory of last year. Still, with this weather it is nearly always a good day in winter to go to the park. Why, I just recently enjoyed a hot afternoon hike with my children beneath the January sun!

Did you know the Christmas season ended for us Catholics yesterday with the The Baptism of Our Lord? I was going to get a few more carols strummed on my guitar last evening and ended up looking at photo albums instead. The pictures of our little children playing in this house and yard that we no longer own made me wistful. Our family is experiencing a time of transition and uncertainty.

I have so many emotions lately! That is always true with me, I'm afraid, though I am trying harder not to be led by my feelings and not to let them spill forth from my mouth - that is my perpetual resolution for self-improvement, and I don't need a fresh year to remind me of it.

Aside from emotions I had many small revelations and minor disappointments this past Christmas season. This last Sunday was the feast of the Epiphany commemorating the visit of the Three Wise Men and the revelation of the Messiah to the Gentiles. Epiphany is a great feast and an important one to me. I love the story of the wise men. I am grateful to be a Gentile who has seen the light. But this last feast day found me not altogether happy with every change that has occurred in our family life these past months nor entirely without fear when I try to plan for our future. Where will our own star lead us?

On a more frivolous note, because I am currently employed in retail and often work weekends, I was unable to have friends over or prepare all the usual yeast breads, cakes, and gingerbread camel cookies that I typically do, and I may have even cried about it - mostly because I just really wanted some homemade bread to stuff in my face while spending time with people I love!

On the way home from work that evening I found Rosca de Reyes at Walmart to serve my family for the special occasion, and I played We Three Kings and O Holy Night on my guitar at the dinner table. It was still a celebration, just not the one I hoped to have. Yet, my oldest son Berto made sugar camel cookies all by himself for the family, for me. He also, with Papa's help, made the cookies for Santa this year, and can you imagine how proud these efforts made me? They were very good cookies, too.

Beyond the revelation that my son may enjoy baking like me, I had other important epiphanies this past December.

While preparing one morning to read at church for the fourth Sunday of Advent, I read the Gospel passage where Gabriel visits Zechariah and greets him thus:

Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you shall name him John. And you will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord.

Zechariah later responds:

How shall I know this? For I am an old man, and my wife is advanced in years.

Then Gabriel replies:

I am Gabriel, who stand before God. I was sent to speak to you and to announce this good news. But now you will be speechless and unable to talk until the day these things take place, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled at their proper time.

Never before had I been so fascinated with this passage! Often have I overlooked it in favor of that greater announcement that Gabriel makes to a young woman named Mary, but several things struck me quite powerfully this time. Why, oh why, did Zechariah question the answer to his prayer, no doubt a prayer that he made fervently and doggedly for years in hope of God's reply? Could it be that by the time Gabriel visited Zechariah, Zechariah had long since given up on this prayer, on uttering his pleas, and resigned himself to God's silence or a definitive "no" from the Most High? Why else argue with an angel, God's messenger? For Gabriel specifically said, "your prayer has been heard"?

I don't know the answer, but I find the whole thing very, very interesting, and as someone who has sometimes felt like God's 11th hour baby - haven't we all? - when it comes to prayer life, it bolsters my faith - and also encourages me not to argue with God's messengers when they come at their proper time.

The other small revelation I had came from a conversation I had with my friend Dana. We were speaking about the suffering we see in the world, and she brought up that old saying, "God doesn't give you more than you can handle". Dana added something like this: "But he gives you right up to that limit."

I told her I felt the saying was trite and added, " Sometimes I see people, and I think they have more than they can handle."

Later in the car - again on the way to or from work - I was thinking about my own response and feeling a little appalled by my own cynicism. My speech was not hopeful or encouraging, probably because my family was having a rough few days - mostly my fault, I must say. In the car it occurred to me that, yes, perhaps that old saying did need a bit of editing but it was not to be discarded like stale dessert, for if one just adds a few more words, I think it makes sense to me:

God doesn't give you more than you can handle [with His grace].

Three times I begged the Lord about this, that it might leave me, but he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness." I will rather boast most gladly of my weaknesses, in order that the power of Christ may dwell with me. 2 Corinthians 12:8-9

Unanswered and Grateful

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Sat, 18 Nov 2017 00:03:00 +0000

Gratitude can be found in unlikely places:

One can feel it while sitting in a chapel and listening to a fellow volunteer explain the Gospel parable to children, hoping to gain new insight, too.

One can experience it while watching bees hum around a honeysuckle bush that produced more reddish-orange blooms in a week than it has in a year.

One might find it in the simple yet challenging endeavor of winding pliable Eucalyptus branches around and through each other to form a wild wreath, however strange and ill-proportioned it may appear to visitors on your door.

Ironically, it can also be found in a change of circumstances that, on the surface, seems bad and unsettling.

And it can certainly be found, just like that classic Garth Brooks' song claims, in unanswered prayers.

Throughout this past summer and fall I thought the thing I really wanted was a new home for my family. I prayed diligently for God to guide us to the house that best suited us in the right location - not too far from work, church, schools and friends.

I walked into place after place and got discouraged. Often I didn't understand why I couldn't like a house. They were nice, but they elicited nothing from me save ambivalence. I kept praying, and - at last! - we encountered a house that felt immediately like home to me. I was so excited that I trembled as I texted my husband. It had the perfect rooms for our children, the ideal spaces to entertain friends and family. Unfortunately, it wasn't in the best location for schooling. We hesitated, and someone else made an offer while we were debating and sorting out the details.

Then another house, completely different from the first one we loved, came on the picture a few weeks later. It felt more like home than the first, seemed a better fit. As we quickly made our offer, however, other offers were coming in, and another family was blessed with that home.

So we toured more homes that made me feel uninspired, including one quirky one in a nice neighborhood in the right location that we didn't make an offer on because I was indifferent to its charms. Boy, was I being difficult!

Yet now I am grateful for the indecisiveness that resulted from my perplexing feelings.

Two days after Halloween we received some news that altered our circumstances; it could logically be perceived as an upsetting and unsettling change in our fortunes.

No longer could we continue to shop for houses. We needed to adjust.

My first emotions about this news were surprise and sadness at the conclusion of a long, important, and mostly fulfilling episode in our family's life. The news wasn't a complete shock, but it was of such a nature to make one take a step back to evaluate the future.

As for the house hunting? I was glad it was over! I was relieved!

It is always surprisingly refreshing to receive a slap in the face that reminds you of what's truly important to you in life. The larger, nicer home? Not so important to me it turns out. All that anxiety, all that discouragement for nothing. My faith is tried by silly things. Family, love, health and security - those really matter. Home is truly where the heart is. God didn't answer our persistent pleas, but now I understand why. Thank God for unanswered prayers. I cannot imagine the stress my family would feel at this juncture if we had gotten that big home we desired, that I desired for my family.

There was another feeling, too, that rushed in upon the heels of surprise, sorrow, and relief.

It was excitement. Perhaps a slightly inappropriate emotion to feel at the time, I definitely felt it. If the river suddenly changes course, one must anticipate adventure.

This change has come in Autumn, not the most auspicious time of year in which to face a drastic change in circumstances, but we have desired this kind of change for a while. It just came about in a more urgent way than expected, but I am resolutely - may God help me not to waiver - anticipating growth and opportunity to spring forth.

Lastly, though it is entirely secondary to more important considerations for my man and our kids, a most welcome opportunity for me followed the cease and desist of home shopping.

I got to write again.

I realized as I cried with joy the first day I earnestly played with words - not just spinning sentences in my head but actually putting paragraphs and ideas down - that no beautiful home could make me as happy as writing can, particularly writing on my book.

As I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving, these are the things for which I am personally grateful: unanswered prayers; another Thanksgiving and Christmas spent in the only home my kids remember; brave, new horizons, diverse opportunities, and wide open possibilities; and a chance to renew the pursuit of my passion.

May we all be blessed with a well-timed slap in the face occasionally in order to realize what we really value! And may we learn to, not just embrace, but squeeze the life out of change.

On homes and grief, life and loss

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Wed, 23 Aug 2017 18:35:00 +0000

In a joking way I have always asserted that it would take an act of God or nature for our family to move from this little house in which we have known love, good health, security, and happiness these many years.

Now we've sold our family home, and I can only say that, in a way, I came to the decision because of an act of God.

Both of my grandfathers passed away this late spring and summer, and I experienced a real emotional crisis. As my extended family's loss began to sink in, I felt so badly for my husband who had lost all of his grandparents in the past couple decades, his paternal grandfather before we were even a couple. Losing our grandparents feels like an indelible marker on the road of life: You Are HERE.

And I just want my grandpas back. It was a comfort to know they were in the world even though I spent so much of my life hundreds of miles away from them.

I look back to when I was a teenager and recall how very unhappy I was to be moving from Tennessee to Idaho. And now? I earnestly thank God for that time I had with my grandparents in Idaho, camping, talking, shopping, eating meals, taking walks, that I never would have had if my parents and I had stayed in that beloved home in Tennessee so far from extended family.

My generous husband flew me up late June for what turned out to be a brutal weekend in which I attended my paternal grandfather's memorial service on Saturday and then my maternal grandfather's funeral on the following Monday. The true solace of those few days was the raw beauty found in mourning with family - some of whom I had seen seldom or never actually met before - in telling stories of Papa and Grandpa for the benefit of each other, singing their favorite songs, and listening reverently as "Taps" was played in the quiet of verdant cemeteries for each by an Honor Guard sent to pay tribute to their military service in WWII.

(I will never forget the beautiful image of my mother, her sister, and three brothers standing in a line before their dad's coffin, hand joined in the solidarity of grief.)

Still, emotions ran high during conversation, company was kept late and sleep was elusive, and the evening before my Grandfather Asher's funeral, my sister and I had a vital but highly charged conversation that drained both of us further. (Yet I know Grandpa, who undoubtedly had many difficult family discussions in his life, would have been proud of us for clearing the air.)

When I got home 4th of July, I felt I looked about 50 after sleeping fitfully and eating poorly and balling my eyes out on multiple occasions. In the car ride home from the airport, I sprang the news on my husband that, after talking with my brother and parents about my feelings, I wanted to sell the house. Then I balled again in his arms when I saw that he and Berto had refinished my dining room table as a surprise.

Honestly, I don't know what I've done, why I've done it, or what I've gotten us in to. In large part the idea of selling this house was a way to avoid succumbing to depression in the wake of such a huge loss, a loss that felt so much heavier, because Grandmama Asher, to whom I was very close as a young woman, passed away when my youngest, Daniel, was only six months old.

I thank God for the time I had in my Grandparents Asher's house. I always felt at home there, loved, well cared for, and I admit that my memories of being in their large, rambling home with its spacious yard in a small town made me long to give my family something like it now that both of them are gone - a sort of legacy of the home they created for their grandchildren to visit.

So I have taken a leap of grief and faith and said goodbye to the small but only home my family has ever known since our oldest, Berto, was a mere babe in arms.

Over the years I thought on and off about it whenever our 1240 square foot house felt overwhelmed by our family's activities, but something about the realization of the life marker that clearly states "You Are HERE" gave me an attitude of now or never, leap or sigh.

I can only hope we find a home that reminds me of all the love and joy I knew in my grandparents' houses.

Our beloved Grandpa and me

The home my grandparents made

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Fri, 30 Jun 2017 05:12:00 +0000

Tuesday night I lay awake in bed thinking about how strange it would be to enter my grandparents' house and neither of them be there.

And then I cried silently while my husband slept next to me, the tears matting my hair and dribbling into my ears.

I love Grandpa and Grandmama's house in that small Idaho town where both my parents spent years of their childhood. Even though my grandparents didn't acquire that house until I was a teenager, it's the one I associate most with their presence. And so to be in it, and they be absent, will be very sad.

It's a fine, old two-story home, partitioned into many rooms that have changed slowly over the years, but those rooms always seemed to be brimming with family, with life, and with small, energetic dogs who followed my grandfather around. How many of our clan have spent several nights or even years under the same roof as our patriarch and matriarch in their welcoming home where the coffee and conversation flowed freely?

In the summers of my teenage years, I used to spend the night often - even bringing along my best friend Sarah - and loved the middle room upstairs with its window overlooking a slice of the front yard and its enormous pine trees. I loved Grandmama's fine garden to the back of the garage, that garden she seemed to call forth effortlessly, though I know she must have labored in it continually. I have good memories of sitting on the front porch with her, snapping green beans from that verdant plot into huge bowls.

I loved Grandmama's colorful flower borders by the front walkway, now gone.

...and the raised flower bed and outdoor seating area in back that Grandpa built

...the knickknacks, multiple prints of famous artwork, and abundant furnishings that my Aunt Stephie helped to collect, mostly from yard sales

and the spacious park at the end of the street where Grandmama and I used to walk before stopping in a little cafe to get smoothies or coffee.

Just last October I was in that house, and as usual an abundance of family was there - some I did not expect to but was overjoyed to see - and a new little dog whom I had not met, and the coffee percolated constantly in an industrial-sized coffee machine.

My Grandmama died more than six years ago, but I sat with Grandpa out back beneath the awning he had made as he told stories about his wife, including all the classic ones about how jealous she could be, once telling a waitress to "Get your damn hands off my man!" I love those stories, because I am a jealous woman myself, and they explain where I got it from.

Grandpa was starting to forget things, and there were so many people around, and so he asked me which one I was. I told him I was Hillary, nicknamed Hoodoo, and I reminded him of the time I lived with him and Grandmama for a brief time in Boise after my family moved back to Idaho from Tennessee and how I disliked my new school so much - built like a prison with slivers for windows! - and was so slow getting up and ready for it that Grandpa, who loved to tease, called my walk to the bus stop (or ride if I were running late) the Hoodoo Trail of Tears.

His eyes lit up with the memory, and he exclaimed, "That's right!" and chuckled afresh. (It was a story he retold every time I saw him, but I had to tell it this last time.)

On Tuesday I found out Grandpa had passed away, not even a month after we lost my Grandfather Hylton. Our family's grief is compounded. My mom and dad have each lost a parent. My siblings and I have lost both our grandpas. It's a summer for grieving.

I won't hear Grandpa call me Hoodoo again or see that tell-tale twinkle in his eye or hear him chuckle at his own stories.

I won't get another chance to ask him about his service in WWII or the crazy adventures of his unusual childhood.

And I am so sad and heartbroken for my darling mother, his daughter.

But I am sure that whenever we may enter that house again, even while now missing both Grandpa and Grandmama terribly and feeling their absence keenly, it will still be brimming with family and love.

In Memoriam: Grandpa Hylton

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Sat, 17 Jun 2017 21:40:00 +0000

Memorial Day will be one of many days for my family to remember the man who was my grandfather, C. Lee Hylton, in the years to come. He was a veteran of WWII who joined the Navy near the end of the war when he was just 16. In my grandfather's own words, he was a "hillbilly boy" who had "no whiskers yet, just a wild ambition with a lack of wisdom".

He passed away recently just after Memorial Day on May 30, 2017.

One of his many grandchildren and great grandchildren, I am the granddaughter he called "Tank" when she was an infant because of her chubbiness, and dubbed "Hildy Bee" in her teenage and adult years. I can still hear the way he used to say, "Well, Hildy Bee..." in his gentle, joking way. I can hear his joyful, subtle laugh, a laugh I heard often when I took my own children to visit him. It is my great pleasure and privilege to write about the man who was my Grandfather Hylton.

Grandpa traveled the Pacific with the Navy, but most of his life was spent in Idaho's small towns and wilderness areas.

He was working as a shepherd on West Mountain when he met my grandmother, Alverna, a book keeper in a small store in nearby Council, Idaho where his older sister was a clerk. They married in 1948. Little did Grandma know then that her husband would soon become a different sort of shepherd and that his life's work was to have a far greater impact even than service to his country.

His vocation came to him quite unexpectedly, and it began with a conviction that struck his heart like lightning.

Papa, as many in our family called him, labored in an auto body shop repairing the damaged steel frames of wrecked cars after he and Nana married. He was a drinker in those first years of marriage and child rearing - not a habitual one, but a man who drank to excess when, as my Grandma put it, "the wrong friend came around".

One of those errant friends worked with my grandfather. As they were leaving the shop one day, he turned to Papa and said out of the blue, "You know, if we don't change our ways, we're both going to hell."

That very next Sunday, Grandpa took his family to church. When the altar call came for people to confess their sins and offer their hearts to Christ, my grandmother handed their baby son to Papa and hurried to the altar to kneel. He was mad that Nana beat him to the punch. The following Sunday it was Grandpa's turn to give his heart to the Lord. That was the year 1952.

Reverend C. Lee Hylton

Two years later they were headed to Los Angeles Bible School. Grandpa and Grandma had saved their money, so that Papa could train to become a pastor.

Upon their return to Idaho, they were given several small churches one after another, called "missionary churches", as their little ones grew up. Preaching and extravagant living rarely go together; it always seems incongruous when they do. Papa did not make much from doing the work of God, so he painted houses during the week, no doubt mulling over the Word of God and his sermons for the coming Sunday with each rhythmic brushstroke.

Though my grandfather dedicated years of his life to shepherding churches in Idaho, what really ignited him was traveling as an evangelist, going to other congregations to preach each night of the week in order to revive the faith of communities. One of his revivals lasted five weeks! Papa even brought his family here to the towns around Phoenix in his evangelical mission.

A favorite sermon to deliver, one that he preached several times over the years according to my dad, was born of his experiences as a shepherd on West Mountain. My grandfather encountered many a mountain stream while herding sheep. Those tributaries in Idaho are beautiful, pouring forth cold, clear water from the heights. But they sometimes become clogged with the debris of nature, mud and stones and fallen pine branches. When Papa saw such diminished watercourses, he knelt to scoop out the detritus from their chilly, trickling water until they rushed again through the lush mountain meadows as they were meant to do. This was an allegory for what we must routinely do in our relationship with our Maker, Papa asserted: we must remove the litter to receive the rush of grace and love that God so freely and mercifully gives each day.

I didn't get to spend much of my childhood with my grandparents. They were in Idaho, and we were in Tennessee. But I knew my grandpa as a man short of stature but full of fire when he delivered a sermon, a man who always wore weathered cowboy boots - something I loved about him. And he was a man who had a strong voice for hymns as well as preaching, one who was never ashamed to sing praises to the Lord as his wife skillfully played the organ. One of his favorite hymns was "Down From His Glory".

When my Aunt Cheryl told me how Grandpa used to love to sing that song, and I looked it up, I could hear my Grandpa's fine voice and see his face tilted just so as he sang it in the small New Plymouth, Idaho church where I heard him preach as a teenager.

What is Grandpa's legacy? Every one of his three sons has served as a pastor and each of his two daughters married one. They hold fast to their faith, regularly work to share it with others using their unique talents and have passed it on to their own children. His grandchildren know how their Papa praised and loved the One who came down from His glory to win all our souls, the One Who once spoke to and changed Grandpa's heart through the blunt words of a friend.

That man's name is Jesus, and He has now another stalwart servant in His loving arms for all eternity.

A post in pictures: Gorgeous Bath

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Thu, 20 Apr 2017 20:52:00 +0000

Pulteney Bridge in Bath, UK - one of the grandest bridges in the world

I was watching Persuasion the other day while folding laundry, and as Anne and the Admiral strolled through Bath, I suddenly recognized a fine old landmark.

"Hey, I've been next to that tree," I thought. "I took its picture!"

Then, suddenly, I was back in beautiful Bath with my good friend Holly, posing for a picture on Pulteney Bridge over the River Avon, delighting again in the graceful curve of the Royal Crescent, relishing the incredible buns in the oldest house there, Sally Lunn's Historic Eating House, getting chills of excitement as I walked above ancient water systems at the Roman Baths, and shopping near the gorgeous Bath Abbey constructed of that most famous limestone, Bath stone.

Holly and I visited Bath in April 2015, enjoying fine weather the entire time in a town where one of our favorite authors, Jane Austen, set two of her novels and where Austen herself lived for about five years.

I remember my brother saying. "All women are like, 'Ooooooh, Bath!', and men are like, 'Phflut, Bath.'"

What does my brother know? After all, does not Bath have the Jane Austen Centre? - a lovely place in which I wrote a love letter to my man with an old fashioned quill and blotter? (He didn't even appreciate the thought and effort; my note wasn't amorous enough!)

My nose looks enormous in the picture, but I don't even mind. I'm in Bath!

Is it not a charming place where my friend and I enjoyed a scrumptious tea at The Regency Tea Room (upstairs at the Jane Austen Centre) before posing elegantly with Mr Darcy?

How about the Roman Baths, constructed in 70 A.D. and smelling of and draining history?

(Though I wasn't tempted to plunge into that water as the Romans routinely did, I thrilled to walk across ancient stones upon which they trod, to view rooms, drains and ancient artifacts that they utilized, and to learn of the temple they once erected there to the goddess Sulis Minerva.

I must say, however, that the mineral water, such as Jane Austen and her friends would have enjoyed in the Pump Room, tasted terrible.)

Is Bath not the only place to boast the gorgeous Royal Crescent, completed in 1775 and designed by John Wood the Younger to give the growing Georgian middle class elegant town living in terraced houses?

And that fine old establishment that serves the most heavenly buns, Sally Lunn's?

Indeed, I defy my big brother. Bath is one of most beautiful places in the world with some of the lovliest architecture, and I - lucky girl! - got to experience it firsthand

As I strolled along the Royal Crescent two Aprils ago, intoxicated by its romance and history, I imagined taking my handsome husband to the luxury hotel that now occupies numbers 15 and 16 on a romantic vacation someday.

It would be just like a Jane Austen novel.

Maybe a little more amorous.

It's been decades....

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Thu, 16 Mar 2017 17:23:00 +0000

I had a dream I put on jewelry to go out and look at the stars.

If the night sky was going to be resplendent for me, then I had better make an effort, and so I put on a brilliant sapphire tiara and long sapphire earrings and stood out on a balcony, wooing the galaxies.

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That dream was inspired by my first proper viewing of the stars since camping with family on my great-grandfather's claim during the summers of my teen years.

Friends invited us to their home in Eastern Arizona for spring break, far from this dusty old town and its light pollution. My husband and son wanted to go skiing at the still operating ski resort near our friends' home. My oldest daughter wished to spend plenty of quality time with her close friend. As for me? I wanted to hike, but high on my list of things to do in the country was to look up in the big, dark outdoors with all my city children and witness their awe.

A couple of years ago when staying near the Grand Canyon, I forgot to escort my children out for the big show. This time I had already put the little ones to bed when Analisa asked me, "Mama, are we going to look at the stars?"

I hastily grabbed the younger two from bed and fled outside and down the porch steps and walkway. After asking my daughter's friend to turn out the garage and porch lights, we spun around beneath a multitude of magnificent stars, the hazy clusters like enormous shimmering jewels, like my children have never seen. I sent one of the kids in to fetch their papa. I held Gabriella in my arms, and Matthew held Daniel, and I could not help but exclaim repeatedly to my family, "Isn't it gorgeous? Isn't it the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

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I often will gaze into the night sky when I'm taking out recycling or trash at night. I can pick out Orion, and I'm always happy to see my friend the moon in all his moods.

But the stars appearing above my front street are only the most demonstrative ones. A chance to see the stars in full regalia is rare and humbling. For the many of us living a city life with maybe a daytime hike or short road trip here and there, the opportunity is far too rare.

So my advice?

Don't forget the stars. When you're out camping, sojourning in a cabin, or even traveling a long stretch of empty highway between towns at night, look up! Visit the real superstars of the universe. You don't even have to wear jewelry for the occasion.

Junkin' it up

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Thu, 09 Mar 2017 17:35:00 +0000

If you want to be embarrassed about your family's spending/eating habits, just call your credit card company to report fraudulent charges. As they quote back to you a weekend's worth of expenditure to verify legitimacy, your embarrassment will grow.

"Wildflower...not sure what that is. Does that sound right?"

"We ate there Sunday after church. It's a bakery-cafe. It's fine."

"How about Smashburger?"

"Uh, yes..."

"McDonald's?"

"That's right, too, I'm afraid."

"Robert's sizzling Barbecue?"

"That's a food truck that comes to my husband's work."

"Krispy Kreme's?"

I giggled.

"Boy, I'm really beginning to feel embarrassed about my family's eating habits! We're just such a busy family, you know?"

Indeed, how far my family has fallen!. We used to be the frugal ones, visiting McDonald's only on road trips, eating out only on special and rare occasions. We were so frugal and proud of it, in fact, that we scoffed at all the families who blew their money on fancy restaurant food as we smugly ingested our frozen pizzas, chicken nuggets and canned vegetables at home!

Now most evenings find us on the run to practices, meets, classes and games. Last weekend was especially hectic. A football and soccer practice Friday night, A football practice and three soccer games on Saturday (at least I had a roast in the crock pot for supper!). Then Sunday we spent the morning and afternoon at church for the installation of our new priest in the parish and a reception with the bishop afterwards. Thus, we walked to that bakery-cafe to eat light buttery pancakes, skillet potatoes and greasy link sausage for breakfast between masses.

My scintillating conversation about junk food receipts with the credit card rep ended with him ribbing me about the outrageous amount we spent at Krispy Kreme.

"$54 on doughnuts did seem like a lot! I'm just saying..."

We both laugh as I exclaim, "It was for the soccer teams, for end of season...honestly!" A pause, and then guiltily, "Well, I mean, we did eat the leftovers..."

I didn't mention that the "leftovers" were approximately two dozen donuts.

Home, Husband!

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Thu, 02 Feb 2017 17:51:00 +0000

At some point all marriages with two or more offspring reach the point where it's mostly about the kids. “I’ll meet you at the soccer field” becomes the most romantic invitation ever!

Every morning I shave my legs with high hopes, fantasizing about a glass of port and the kids going to bed early. But by the time evening comes around with its homework, dinner prep, and sports practices – and very little quality time with my guy - I’m exhausted and feeling that the day was a waste of good makeup. Suddenly I’m cuddling my mattress, snuggling my blanket and whispering into my pillow about just how much I love my bed. And the kids are still up!

I heard that just running errands together can be beneficial for a busy couple, but I think one recent jaunt to the grocery store - where we got into an argument about spending more time together - belies that advice.

It doesn't help that our home is so small there is no privacy from the kids. The desktop is in our bedroom, for crying out loud! Maybe we could just slide the mirrored doors closed and neck in our bedroom closet. Or at least talk about taking a dream trip far, far away for our anniversary during which we'll sleep 12 hours every night and have hanky-panky in the middle of the day when we're still feeling peppy!

If I can't have more time with my spouse - if I can't literally stand by my man more than five minutes during the day - then I think I know what I need to curb my loneliness.

I need a home husband.

People (egotistical/delusional men? weary wives relieved to foist their man off onto someone else for several hours?) coined the term "work wives" to describe intelligent, efficient, pleasant women who make the work place run smoothly. My husband has two or three of them, the filthy polygamist!

Well, I’ve decided I need a man about this house who I see more often and speak with regularly.

We can discuss world affairs, the latest Netflix series and talk about what we did over the weekend. I can delegate tedious tasks to him like fishing in the garbage disposal for a clog. He can make coffee, and I’ll dictate my novel to him. And he won’t balk at the occasional paint or carpentry work.

If I get real lucky, he’ll like long walks in the country, enjoy opera and be an excellent gardener.

Yeah right! Enjoy opera?

Who am I kidding here?

I'll just go meet my man at the soccer field. Maybe there's time for a quick kiss.

Perfume for sale! Tree Hugger or Fresh Bread

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Thu, 19 Jan 2017 16:54:00 +0000

There are legends of people who don't wear deodorant, because others assure them that their natural scent is so enticing, deodorant or cologne would only corrupt it.

My dad used to say fresh alfalfa was my mom's natural smell, and his expression clearly showed that he thought it was the best scent in the world. He made rabbit fare sound romantic!

I recalled this the other morning while lying in bed. My hair smelled really bad. I had spritzed myself with perfume the evening before, and the perfume had mixed with natural oils and big city particulates in my hair, making my crowning glory malodorous. I'm surprised my husband didn't move to the couch during the night.

My husband has a good scent. I joke about finding his sweet spot, behind his ear or on his neck beneath his whiskers. I'm pretty sure he could go a good three days without a shower and not offend me.

However, my scent comes from whatever Mother Nature decides to slap on me as soon as I step out the door after my shower. If there is even the slightest breeze, heat, humidity, pollution or dirt around, I end up smelling like dust, exhaust fumes and wet, decaying leaves. My skin and hair just soak it up! I suppose it's nature's way of claiming me, but no matter how romantic being an outdoor girl sounds, it certainly reeks! Even my expensive perfumes are whipped into submission by my inherent tree-hugging wild woman.

Maybe I should only hug Eucalyptus or Cedar trees from now on?

My husband, chivalrous as he is, actually told me recently that I smelled good - late in the day, too - but I'm pretty sure that was only because I had skipped my usual make-up routine, and he was grasping for something to compliment.

Fresh alfalfa? I'd be happy just to smell like stale cheerios! I don't smell like anything fresh unless I've just pulled a loaf of bread from the oven.

Hiding vehicles and avoiding calls

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Wed, 11 Jan 2017 18:08:00 +0000

The three most irritating sounds are a doorbell, the knock, and a phone ringing. They mean someone is about to bother you, and usually uninvited.

How do we handle the strain of knowing our cellphones – an inhumane tool of intrusion that we carry around with us - could go off at any moment? No wonder people have such short attention spans! They’re slaves to the knowledge that their dentist, child’s teacher or hair stylist could interrupt their life at any moment via a ring, buzz, beep, or annoying pop tune.

A few days ago my prehistoric cellphone was dying. Normally that would be a crisis of near apocalyptic proportions for the modern-day human enslaved to technology. I cast about halfheartedly for the charger, but all I found were the revitalizers for my kids’ tablets.

I figured my dumb phone would pass with dignity into temporary night. Instead, it kept emitting death yelps every few minutes for more than an hour, persisting like an opera tenor who keeps singing despite the improbability of drawing deep breath after stabbing himself. Eventually, I began screaming at my phone during each mournful beeping, “Just die! Die already!”, while wishing for a rubber mallet to help it along.

Thankfully, my husband’s number has its own ring on my cellphone, and it’s the only sound I truly welcome from it most of the time. But even then, when he calls from the store one too many times with a silly question, I want to remove him from my contact list.

I blame my aversion to being bothered on my dad.

On many Sundays of my childhood, Dad drove our car into a little hollow in the field behind our house to hide it. If someone unexpectedly knocked at the door on the weekend, Dad gave the silent, urgent command for us to stop in our tracks and crouch down out of sight of the windows. Then he held a finger to his lips with the intense look of a hermit. It was like freeze tag, only more tense. We dared not move or make one little squeak, no matter how our hamstrings ached, until the intruder gave up his efforts to bring us to the door.

Maybe that’s why I got into trouble with the law several years ago when my oldest son Berto called 911 by mistake as I was vacuuming. When I took the receiver from my laughing boy and hung it up, I thought it was merely a telemarketer - until a policeman banged on my door a few minutes later.

I wasn’t expecting a policeman, so I didn’t answer the door. I interrogated him through the wood, asking why I didn’t see his patrol car (around the corner, apparently) and what precinct he was from. Eventually, however, he tired of my evasive maneuvers and quite dramatically threatened to knock down the door if I didn’t answer it. At wit’s end, I called my husband at work and cried, “Honey, there’s a man at the door who says he’s a policeman! What should I do?”

“Answer it!” was my pragmatic man’s reply.

The thought had never occurred to me.

I’m this close to parking my minivan in the backyard on Sundays.

Favorite Christmas tradition: letting go...

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Sat, 24 Dec 2016 22:05:00 +0000

Taz, our Yorkshire terrier, yanked his leash out of our younger daughter's hand last Saturday evening as I was finally decorating our home with nutcrackers and their snowman friends and my husband and oldest son were stringing lights on our roof. Our dog tore after a cat, but when the cat jumped our neighbor's low wall, Taz instead slid full force into it, causing a debilitating fracture or serious neurological damage (the specialists could not tell for sure).

My daughters were near hysterical. I was terrified for the poor creature, and my husband asked no one in particular, "What did you do to this dog?", when he saw Taz's immobilized state.

That is how our last week of Advent began, with a trip to the emergency vet where my husband and son waited five hours on a Sunday with little information.

We do know his left leg is lame, and our normally energetic fella gets to spend weeks in the kennel or a small room on strict bed rest.

Thank God, the days have improved since that unfortunate event, though I'm certain this Christmas will be remembered for it. After the initial tears and fear that our poor terrier might never be the same, we petted and loved him, forced him to take his medicine and more water than he freely imbibed, and I wiped his little tush as if he were my fifth baby. We nursed our pet while watching Christmas movies, threading a popcorn garland, playing games, making construction paper adornments and during breaks from shaping and baking cookies and stirring fudge.

We made do, putting on Christmas cheer after temporarily despairing of its arrival this year (at least for my part).

So I - and I hope my whole family - will have good memories of honored family traditions along with the bad ones of unexpected injury and its trials.

Every year I learn anew to choose which traditions to reign in, which ones to let go, and what new ones we can attempt to establish amid the chaos.

And you know what? This is what I've learned this year:

It's okay to try to choose the perfect gifts for relatives, but then realize you don't know what they are or where they can be found and just send something you hope they like (because you like it)..

It's okay to eat frozen pizza on Christmas Eve, because you waited too long to order tamales from a fine Mexican restaurant or farmer's market in town.

It's okay to begin baking and decorating just a week before Christmas.

And it's certainly alright not to hang up every last ornament to save yourself some time after the Christmas season has passed.

It's okay not to send Christmas cards again this year to childhood friends and distant relatives, even though you really wish you had.

And realizing that, since you are a Catholic, the Christmas season does not truly end for you until a few weeks from now at the celebration of the Baptism of our Lord, it's fine to send your big sister's family, also Catholic, their Christmas gifts in January.

It's all okay. Traditions should not be burdensome even though sometimes they are burdens we carry with love, no matter how exhausted or out of sorts we may be.

So here's to another Christmas Eve, my friends, anticipating Santa and celebrating our beautiful Jesus by going to Mass or another lovely church service.

May God bless us, everyone, and a very Merry Christmas to you all!

.

My favorite things: being a Christmas tumbleweed

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Wed, 14 Dec 2016 20:12:00 +0000

I have multiple personalities when it comes to Christmas. I vacillate between behaving like an angel or a Grinch for weeks.

Tumbleweed Tree

Like a tumbleweed I'm blown back and forth from one side of Santa's wintry highway full of merrymaking and carol-singing in front of brightly festooned, enormous pine trees whose trunks are surrounded by shiny packages and the other side on which all the disillusioned elves hang out and drink their peppermint schnapps around a landfill of broken ornaments, tangled non-LED lights and noisy, worn out toys.

Makes you want to come to my house for Christmas, doesn't it?

But I would warn you off that inclination. Though my tree is up, it only has a few scattered ornaments on it that the kids have brought home just this past week. A lonely picture of Santa climbing a chimney does grace the wall in the living room, but not one of my collection of nutcrackers or snowmen has yet been paroled from storage.

And I've eaten pretty much every batch of Christmas cookies I've made thus far by myself; I need the fuel to keep going through all the mood confusion.

Plus I'm afraid I couldn't entertain you with my usual flair. I was unable to practice carols on my guitar for more than a week because I cut my middle finger on a wicked serrated knife my parents-in-law gave us in a set last year at Christmas. They said that sharp knives do less damage because you don't have to work at chopping stuff. It's only about the hundredth time that knife has quite easily sliced my appendage. I think I'll regift it.

Still....despite my decorating laziness, my scarred middle finger and my recurring desire to meet my husband under the mistletoe, not for a kiss but a boxing match, I've had some truly bright moments this Advent.

Just yesterday I was full of spirit...Christmas spirit! I listened to a beautiful recording of my friend Camille singing in a wintertime concert. My son's teacher gave me a delicious bag of chocolates. A bell ringer for the Salvation Army entertained shoppers with his rambunctious rendition of "The Twelve Days of Christmas". And I spent the whole wonderful day with my husband being scouts for Santa, flying across town from Walmart to Walmart, and every Walmart we entered was filled with helpful elves - all with gray hair and a great attitude despite their long, busy shifts accommodating anxious parents.

We also had a delectable lunch in a festive Mexican restaurant, new to us both, where we enjoyed, not schnapps, but margaritas.

Gosh, just remembering it all makes me feel like dragging some boxes out of storage, picking my guitar, and hanging up some mistletoe in order to smooch my man when he comes home.

Though the Grinch could sneak up and ransack my cheerful, hopeful mood at any moment, the energy, joy, excitement and love that I felt yesterday is what the Christmas spirit is about, my friends.

I'm grateful that, for now, this tumbleweed is sticking on the festive side of the road.

My Favorite Things: Christmas songs and singers

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Fri, 09 Dec 2016 04:31:00 +0000

You're on one side of the holly-and-ivy, Christmas music fence, or you're grimacing, arms folded on the other....or, yes, you're that one standing on the rails above, belting out the tunes on road trips and light-viewing expeditions, caroling even though you don't have the foggiest idea what wassail or figgy pudding is or why Jesus and Mary came sailing in on ships of three.

(December 2013)

Those of us belting out the Christmas tunes ( starting in November) have our favorite songs performed by favorite artists, and we won't hesitate to defend what we believe is the "greatest rendition". Here are some of my favorite holiday songs and Christmas carols sung by both contemporary and legendary performers:

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" and "I'll Be Home for Christmas"

Frank Sinatra

I think a great vocal gift is especially highlighted by simple and restrained arrangements, and this is how I feel about The Sinatra Christmas Album. I asked to borrow it from a teacher in middle school after I found a cassette version while helping to clean her home office. I have good memories of listening to it by the Christmas tree, Sinatra's voice making me feel more than a little wistful during these two beautiful songs especially.

Michael Buble

Listening to Buble's voice is like being wrapped in layers of silk: soft, luxurious and soothing.

James Taylor

Want to become wistful again while at the same time feeling comforted by a favorite uncle? Listen to Taylor and his guitar.

"Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire"

Nat King Cole

Who can beat that voice, like clouds of perfectly whipped cream on a satiny custard pie? With this song, no one can.

Michael Buble

Oh, am I mentioning this gentleman again? The silk thing, you know.

The Carpenters

I think my dad believes there was never a woman blessed with a finer voice than Karen Carpenter. He may very well be right. If Buble's voice is silk, then Carpenter's is lush velvet.

"God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings"

Barenaked Ladies with Sarah Maclachlan

If you were stranded at a mountain cabin for the holidays with talented musicians and great vocalists and everyone pulled out their instruments and began to sing carols, this is what it would sound like. The arrangement and tempo are interesting, and of course Maclachlan's voice is absolutely captivating and gorgeous on "We Three Kings". It is one of my favorite versions of any Christmas song or medley ever.

"O Holy Night"

Celine Dion

I once cried over a glass of wine when Dion's version came over the radio after supper. My husband and I were in the dining room, overhead lights low, the advent wreath lit in the center of our table.

Dion does this classic carol justice, avoiding vocal acrobatics that dilute the lyrics. The choir of children in the background only amplifies her annunciation of its message. It's a crystalline version.

"White Christmas"

Bing Crosby

Was there ever a man born with richer resonance in his voice? There's a reason we will listen to Crosby sing "White Christmas" every year.

The Drifters

Yes, it will always remind you of Home Alone, but have you encountered a more whimiscal version, one that makes you feel this peppy and carefree while listening to a group of singers with such vastly different but complementary tones? I haven't. They had me at doo-wop!

My Favorite Things: The Nutcracker and other traditions

noreply@blogger.com (Hillary) — Wed, 07 Dec 2016 19:02:00 +0000

Ballerinas are some of the most beautiful people in the world. Never did I wish to be one, but my admiration for their art and the sacrifices they make to pursue it is high.

This past Sunday I took my beautiful oldest daughter, Analisa, to a performance of The Nutcracker by Ballet Etudes. The theater was lovely and intimate, the costumes bright and extravagant, and the dancers - some very young children - performed the classic tale in exquisite detail.

I even took pleasure in people watching, noting how many families and couples were attired in their holiday best. The little girls were especially elegant in their fancy coats, sparkling dresses and shiny heeled shoes. You know what kind of crowd you're in when you exclaim to a four or five-year-old girl, "Just look at your beautiful coat!", and she replies, "It's a cape."

Now I understand why families and friends make this part of their celebration every year. It was our first time, and I wish I had started taking Ana earlier, but I hope it will become a tradition until one day I am taking my grandchildren, too.

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This December, my friends, I have chosen a theme for my writing; my favorite things about the holidays. Going to see The Nutcracker is certainly now one of them, and here are a few more:

- eating pie for breakfast Thanksgiving morning, watching the parade and Miracle on 34th Street, and having a second Thanksgiving on Saturday at my friend Geraldine's house

- playing Christmas carols for my kids on my guitar

- taking a Christmas Eve hike

This technically isn't a tradition yet, but I told my friend Holly it should be. A couple years ago we said goodbye to the stressful preparations for the big day and let nature help us get in the spirit as we admired Arizona's natural winter adornment, ate chocolate-dipped shortbread and enjoyed the cool weather and company of good friends.

- watching The Nativity Story each Christmas Eve night

My dad introduced us to this film, and I am forever grateful. This is the best telling of the nativity story ever - better even than Linus' recitation in A Charlie Brown Christmas - just an all around great movie, perfect in its moments of subtlety and faith. And the Three Wise Men are absolutely lovable.

What are your favorite things? I would love for you to share them here. May you have a blessed Advent and a Merry Christmas!