Christmas Oranges

A few years ago, when Macey first got a Christmas stocking at our house, she was puzzled by the extra large orange in the toe of the stocking.  "An orange?" she asked quizzically.  That got me to thinking about the tradition we have in our family about putting oranges in Christmas stockings, and I wanted to write it down.

When I was a kid, stockings hung on the wrought iron divider between the living room and dining room.  Initially they were the traditional red and white fur ones, our names written on them with glitter glue by Mom so we could tell them apart.  Eventually we each got striped ones.  Mine was red, white, and green.  I still have both.

Stockings were always an afterthought for us kids in our Christmas toy frenzy.  We'd be so busy playing with all the goodies Santa brought that we wouldn't even think about the stockings.  Midway through the morning, one of us would remember: Stockings! and we would sprint towards them, hanging off the wrought iron, stuffed with goodies.  Sometimes I would remember before my sisters, but I wouldn't say anything because having those stuffed stockings hanging there kept Christmas going just a little bit longer.

They were filled with chocolate Santas and foil Christmas bells and candy canes. Hershey Kisses and Rolos. Sometimes small toys like those water games with the rings that you try to get on the little pegs or the Wooly Willy with the metal shavings that you could use to give him hair or a beard.  Sometimes we got Tinker Bell nail polish or Dr. Pepper flavored lip balm.  There was always a handful of nuts in the shell (Almonds were the best. Brazil nuts the worst.  Who can crack those shells anyway???)  At the bottom of the stocking was a giant red apple and a softball sized orange.  Mom told us they were so big because they came from the North Pole.  The fact that apples and oranges don't grow that far north not being an issue because, well, Santa.

We always knew we were at the end of the stocking when we got to the fruit.  It always tasted just a little bit sweeter than usual, and I liked to keep mine in my stocking so I could eat my North Pole fruit on my own time, savoring each delicious bite.

When I became a mom, I continued the North Pole apple and oranges but not the nuts.  I would go to Kroger a day or two before Christmas Eve and look for the biggest most perfect specimens I could find and hide them away until the big night.  I continued the story of how they came from the North Pole with my kids, and they always looked forward to eating fruit from Santa.  Eventually, oranges became the only fruit put in the stockings.  Still big, bright, and blemish-free.  

My mom was born in 1939, so figuring that her family got fruit from Santa, this is nearly a 100-year old tradition.

When I got to thinking about why we put fruit in our stockings, I thought about how Mom didn't have the luxury of year-round oranges when she was a girl.  Citrus was a seasonal fruit back then and also fairly pricey, especially for her mom who was a widow with 7 kids.  It would have been a real treat to get an orange and some nuts and candy in her stocking.  My dad, who grew up in a more well-off family, also got fruit in his stocking.  He loved tangerines, and his sister told me the other day that they always got a tangerine in their stocking.  

So we continue this tradition, whose meaning, like many traditions, may one day be lost to time.  I give my kids oranges because my mom gave us oranges because her mom gave her oranges...I hope this will continue on into the next generation because those North Pole oranges are just so much sweeter than regular ones.

The Year Without a Christmas Letter

Every year, I have copied and pasted our Christmas letter to this blog so I can have a record of what happened in the weeks and months before. I pride myself on my quirky ruminations and tell myself that people enjoy reading what I write. Ha. 

This year was different. This year, I got disgusted with photo cards and other people's good news. I don't care this year. It has been a crappy year, and I didn't have the energy to pretend otherwise. I sent old fashioned Christmas cards and was hard pressed to do that. 

I thought about trying to write a clever letter using the analogy of the flooded campsite on our trip to Virginia Beach in July. It would have been a funny but poignant letter. I would have talked about how all of the signs were there...the marshy ground, the lack of grass, the ruts from tires driving in mud...How we didn't pay attention to any of the signs, and how we were shocked when we came back from the aquarium to find our site in 5 inches of standing water. How we bugged out and went to a hotel and then found a new campsite nowhere near the beach, which was my main objective for camping. How we were put on a hill at the next site, which was fine, but challenging, and how freaking hot it was and how the bugs just ate us up, leaving welts that stayed for days and days. 

I would have figured out a way to work all that into what this year was like. Kirk flying to Minnesota all the time to help with his dad, who was stuck in the basement because he couldn't do the stairs, his mom trying to take care of him but not succeeding. Kirk's work laying people off right and left, the writing on the wall for him but trying to ignore that his job was in jeopardy. Me getting an extra class at the last minute, something I'd never taught before and wasn't interested in teaching at all. 

Then Kirk's dad being dropped at the rehab center, which fractured his neck and spinal vertebrae.  Getting the call at 2 a.m. that if Kirk was hoping to see his dad before he passed, he should come now. Milt's injuries, caused by negligence, killing him a few days later. The trip to Minnesota for the funeral, seeing for myself how Jean should not be alone anymore because she has memory loss and her friends and neighbors are worried about her and wondering why we aren't doing anything. Coming home to begin the search for a place for her. One of the few good things finding a nice place a mile away from our house. Bringing her here on the sly because she wouldn't have come if she had thought she was staying for good. Having her live with us for an entire month. Finding furniture at the consignment stores and pretending we had it in storage so she wouldn't stress about the cost. Finally moving her in to her new place to "try it out for a few weeks" and thankfully, praise God, finding she likes it. 

Then Kirk losing his job like he thought he might. Severance til the end of the year. Me still working, doing back to back senior retreats between Thanksgiving and Christmas that were incredibly stressful. Still trying to have meaningful lessons while being out for two full weeks. Trying to shop and have a good Christmas but worried about money (again). Not being able to do much of what I wanted to prepare for the holidays... 

And all these sound like first world problems as I look back over this, but damn, it was a hard year, and I had no idea how to put this in a Christmas letter, so I just didn't. 

The end.

Thoughts on a Saturday Morning

It's been a while since I've written.  I'm too exhausted most of the time to do much of anything once I'm finished with work and house or yard stuff.  I miss writing, though, so I'm taking time this morning to put some thoughts down.

I haven't written anything about going back to work.  I'm not sure why.  It was a huge change in my life for sure.  That whole time was pretty overwhelming, so maybe I just didn't have the words.  I do now.

When it became clear that I needed to find a job, I wasn't sure where to even look.  I had been out of the workforce for so many years that I was pretty sure I would be stuck with retail or something similar.  I was sitting on the patio checking email one day when I got a blast email from Holy Cross that they were looking for a theology teacher and campus minister.  The thought crossed my mind that I could do that.  I had worked with kids and ministry all my life.  I used to teach.  I thought about it for a hot minute and then moved on.  The next day, I saw the same notice on Holy Cross's Facebook page.  I got that nagging feeling in the back of my mind like I do that this was something I needed to pay attention to, but again, I scrolled on.  Not long after that, I got another notice about it.  I can't remember now if it was an email, or it came up on Facebook again.  This time, I thought, "Okay, God.  I hear you."

I reached out to my high school friend, Susan, who works there and asked about it.  She was so supportive and encouraged me to apply.  Kirk helped me get my CV together, and I emailed it in on a Monday.  That night, the principal called me to see if I would come in for an interview on Wednesday.  I did, and by the following Monday, I had the job.  I would be the senior theology teacher for Catholic Social Teaching, have a class of sophomores for Paschal Mystery/Church History, and shadow to be the next campus minister.  It was so fast, I didn't even have time to think, but when I did, I panicked.  Holy crap!  I hadn't been in a classroom for years!  The last time I taught, I used an overhead projector.  I was so scared of the technology piece I almost shut down.  The curriculum was a breeze, but my tablet sent me into a tizzy. But there I was, going back into the classroom where I knew I belonged.

It was a rough start.  OneNote.  Teams.  Online learning for kids who had Covid.  Masking up every day.  Creating content.  It was a s t r u g g l e.  I was blessed to have a great principal who sat with me and walked me through how to use the gradebook.  How to make a seating chart.  How to do lunch count.  Our IT guy is a SAINT on earth.  He was so patient with me and worked with me without any sighs or eye rolls.  I learned stuff.  I created lessons.  I had success.  I failed a lot.  My brain was exhausted all of the time.  I slept in my room during planning periods.  I loved, loved, loved my students...Well, most of them anyway!  Lol!  

I loved my job, but I felt like an imposter.  How could I possibly be doing this?  I kept waiting for someone to see that I really didn't know what I was doing but I kept getting good reviews on my observations.  I got kuddos from my principal, constant reassurance that I was doing a great job.  Eventually, I began to believe in myself.

Part of me felt really angry that I was back at work, that my life was upended without my consent. I didn't want Kirk to know I was happy at what I was doing.  Part of me felt like this job, if I had to work, was my consolation prize from God.  That if I had to work, then I was going to be able to do something that I loved, and it gave me the chance to be creative and have fun and have time off to nurture my soul. It took me a long time to let go of the anger and just enjoy being at work.

I still feel like an imposter.  I still have some resentment for having to go back to work without my consent.  It's not as strong as it was, and that's good.  I often ask myself if I won the lottery would I still get up at 5:45 every morning and go teach a bunch of teenagers.  I think yeah.  I'm pretty sure God put me here for a reason.  I love what I do, and I'm not done yet.

My Cousin, Jim

It's Derby weekend here in Louisville, and naturally, my thoughts turn to my cousin, Jim.  Jim lived in Kansas City, and for years, no, make that decades, he came home the week before the big race to take in the spectacle that surrounds the First Saturday in May.  Jim was my oldest cousin on my dad's side, a kind of hybrid uncle/cousin/big brother kind of guy.  He was funny and interesting, and he never hung up the phone after a chat without saying, "I love you, Sharron."

Jim loved the horses.  He loved the track.  He loved studying the racing forms and going to the backside and getting a look behind the scenes.  Beyond the track, he loved the Pegasus Parade and the Great Steamboat Race and the hats and the SHOW that was the Derby.  And, he loved the people.  He was the people-ist people person I knew.

Every year he came to Louisville for the races, but he never had a ticket when he left for the track.  He knew he could find someone selling them outside the gate.  Sometimes he ended up in the infield.  Most of the time, he got in the grandstand or in a box.  A few times, he made it to Millionaire's Row.  Regardless, he almost always paid less than everybody else, and, rain or shine, he always had a good time.  I can picture him heading to the track now...sports coat, a colorful tie, a hat on his head, racing form in hand, wearing sensible shoes in case he ended up in the infield.  He'd have a big smile on his face, ready to go. 

He stayed with his dad, my uncle, until he passed away.  Then he stayed with my dad.  After my dad passed, he stayed with me a year or two until he found that he could have a place of his own for a minimal cost in the dorms of the Presbyterian Seminary just up the road.  

He came alone for many years, then he met his wife Patty and introduced her to all things Derby.  She came with him most of the time, but if she had to work, he would come by himself.  We would always get together, sometimes for lunch, usually dinner, and he would regale us with his stories from the track, this year or years past, and he always had a story.

Jim with my sister, Colleen, and me, May 5, 2017

He never met a stranger.  Jim could talk to the hitching post and have a great conversation.  He was interested in people, and when people know you are interested in them, they talk.  It must have been the reporter in him, but he could get anyone to open up, and usually find a connection between himself and whoever he was with.  He was amazing like that.

I always called him each year to see who he was betting on.  He gave me excellent tips, but I am a shy bettor, so I never won much.  Jim was the first person I called when my best friend and her husband won big on the Derby after Maximum Security was disqualified.  He was the first person I called when I learned Bob Baffert had been banned from Churchill Downs.  I'd like to call him today and get his thoughts on the deaths of the horses this week and the suspension of Saffie Joseph.  I'm sure he'd have some things to say. Even though he lived in Kansas City, and I am in Louisville, he always had the scoop.

Jim passed away suddenly in February.  He was on a long vacation in Florida with Patty and their friends, and he and the guys were about to hit the links for a round of golf.  We got the news one day that he was in the ICU and the next day, he was gone.  I still can't believe it.

I'll be thinking of him tomorrow when we sing, "My Old Kentucky Home."  I'll picture him in the grandstand, hat on his head, racing form in hand, shouting, "Go, baby, go!" as the horses round the last turn and head down the homestretch.  This year, I know he will win big.

I love you, Jim

A Bible Story

When we were kids, our parents had a big, grayish-blue Bible with a picture of the Virgin Mary on the front.  It sat on a shelf on the end table in the living room.  My sisters and I loved to look through that Bible. There were colored pages inside, which you never found in a Bible.  Pictures of the Vatican and a priest saying mass.  There was a section of Old Testament stories with a classical painting to match.  Daniel in the lion's den, Sampson, and my sisters' and my favorite: King Solomon and the 2 women claiming the same baby.  The picture was dramatic.  King Solomon sitting on a throne while a large, buff man holds a baby upside down by an ankle, preparing to cut him in half with a sword...I was always fascinated by that picture.  

The New Testament had a section, and I loved the painting of young Jesus at the Temple.  He looked so angelic with the halo behind his head.

 

The Stations of the Cross were also in color, one page ripped in half diagonally.  I don't remember it ever being taped back, just tucked into the place where it went.

We never read the Bible.  There were pages for recording births and deaths, and when I got older, I wanted to put our names in it, but my mom wouldn't let me.  I guess it was more of a decoration than anything, but that Bible was in the living room on the end table shelf for as long as I can remember.

When Dad died in 2011, my sisters and I divided up his belongings, and I didn't end up with the Bible.  We had all loved it, so wherever it went was fine.  I didn't really think about it much after that, and time went on.

Fast forward to 2020.  That summer, I was volunteering with Produce and More, giving out books in the West End of Louisville.  People would donate children's books for me to pass on, and sometimes I'd get a cash donation from someone who wanted to help but didn't have any books to give me.  On those occasions, I'd go to the Goodwill to look in their book section as I could get children's books for .50-$1 each.

One day when I was there looking for books, I saw a Bible that looked exactly like the one we had growing up.  I thought, "Oh wow!  That's just like the one we had!" I thought about buying it, but then thought it would be silly to buy it since it hadn't been ours; it just looked like ours.  Then I thought, "No, if you don't get it, you'll be sorry," so I bought it for $2 and brought it home and put it under the coffee table as an homage to my parents.  

The Bible has sat on the shelf under the coffee table in my living room for almost three years.  Today, I decided to do a little rearranging and deep cleaning.  Instead of dusting around the books on the coffee table shelf (Shhh.  Don't tell anyone I do that!), I took them all out and wiped them down.  

When I pulled out the Bible, I thought about the picture of King Solomon and opened it up to the page to have a look.  Being the historian/genealogist I am, I wondered who had owned this Bible before, so I turned the pages to see if anyones' names were written down.  I thought if there were, I might reach out to see if they would want the Bible back.  The genealogy section was blank.  I looked in the front...nothing but a small, blank piece of paper.  I flipped through the pages, and at the very back of the book, tucked in between two pages, was a yellowed sheet of paper.  "Hmmmm," I thought, "I wonder if this will tell me who this belonged to."

I unfolded the paper and saw that it was a telegram. "Western Union" blazed across the top of the page.  I read on..."WLT LUCKETT FOR FITZPATRICK..." 

Wait.  What?  That's where my grandpa worked.  That's our last name...

"TELEGRAM RECEIVED ONLY TODAY HEARTIEST CONGRATULATIONS HOPE HENRIETTE BABY FINE WIRING PARENTS LOVE ALBERT...

What the heck???  Henriette was my grandma.  Albert was her brother.  I looked at the date on the telegram...March 5, 1932.  My dad was born in 1932...February 18, 1932...91 years ago TODAY.

I looked at the Bible in disbelief.  Did someone in my family have the same Bible and took it to the Goodwill, and I found it?  Was this ours???  I knew how to check.  I turned to the page in the Stations of the Cross section, and there it was, the torn page, now taped back together, but torn just as I remembered it.  

This was my mom and dad's Bible.

But how had it ended up at the Goodwill???

I called my sisters.  We all thought each other had the Bible.  None of us had seen it for years, but I thought Colleen or Jennifer had it, and they thought I had it.  We have no idea how it left our possession and ended up at the Goodwill.  None of us would have given it away.  The only thing we can think of is that it was put in a box and inadvertently given to the Goodwill.  But then had it sat there on the shelves for nine years before I found it?  Did someone else have it and drop it off?  Where had it been all that time???

We have no idea exactly what happened, but somehow, our family Bible wound up at the Goodwill and NINE YEARS after my dad's death, I found it and decided to buy it not knowing it was ours and put it on the shelf of my coffee table where it sat, unopened, until today.

And then today, on my dad's 91st birthday, I opened it up to see who it might have belonged to and found the telegram congratulating my grandparents on his birth.  I can't make this make sense except to say...

The universe is full of miracles!

Plastic Memories

Spring is here, and I was working in my yard this week. I love yard work. I love the physicality of the shovel in earth, digging down into the dirt and turning over new possibilities. I love seeing perennials poking their green shoots up through last year's mulch, remembering that I'd planted something new there last year and here it is coming back for another season. I love dividing the bounty of hostas and day lilies and black-eyed Susans, moving a plant from the sun to the shade or the shade to the sun so it can thrive in a new spot. And I love the anticipation of what is to come...the flowers and the full leaves, the caterpillars and butterflies, the birds and frogs that visit my yard each summer. 

My backyard especially has undergone massive changes in the last five years. When we moved into our house 20 years ago, there was a huge silver maple smack dab in the middle of the relatively small space off the patio. In one corner of the yard, which was covered in pine needles, we added a playset for the kids, complete with swings, a slide, an elevated "house" and a small bench and table. The big maple always shaded our yard, and with kids playing in it all the time, nothing much grew in the back besides hostas. Even grass struggled. 

The kids were always in the back. The girls played house and store and school. They brought out stuffed and plastic animals and had a zoo or a vet shop. They took their baby dolls and Barbies and backpacks full of plastic food and dishes outside and set up whatever imagination station they could think of that day. Kyle and his friends turned the backyard into a battleground. He had an old, wooden Army supply box full of GI Joes and plastic army men and dinosaurs, and he'd bring the whole box outside and create battle scenes and bomb the enemy with pinecones. When he got older, he and his friends had airsoft gun wars around the house, and the play set was a favorite spot, having the high ground and all.  

I'd sit on the patio, in the shade of the maple, and watch the kids play. I'd sometimes dream of a well-manicured yard and spent time researching colorful shade plants for the day when I wouldn't have to worry about them getting trampled on by little feet. 

About five years ago, since the kids were now in their late teens, we figured it was time to move the play set on. We offered it to our neighbors across the street, who had two little girls. They were thrilled to have it, and I was happy to see it going to a new home. I went to work laying out new hostas and azaleas and rhododendrons in the yard where the play set used to be. I found some grass that did well in shade and rejoiced when it came up and stayed green. I added hellebores, coral bells, hydrangeas, and ferns. I planted impatiens in the summers to add color. Every once in awhile, I'd dig up a green army man or a plastic hamburger or a yellow airsoft pellet. I'd throw them back into the dirt for someone else to find one day. It was a beautiful shade garden, and I loved knowing there were hidden pieces of the past planted alongside the flowers. 

Then we lost the maple. 

Three years ago, it dropped a major branch onto one neighbor's fence. There was a small knot hole that hid the fact that the entire branch had been hollowed out. We cleaned it up and had the tree inspected and was assured that it was fine and healthy. A year and a half later, another branch fell onto a different neighbor's roof, crashing through the attic and into a bedroom closet. That branch had also been hollowed out. A couple of weeks later, we had the tree removed. 

Our yard looked so different. It was bigger, brighter and open. What had been shaded for most of the day was now in full sun. The hydrangeas wilted by early afternoon. The ferns dried up. The hostas got scorched. I began planting and digging and moving things around. Some things adapted. Some things died. I was excited about having more sun. I tried putting in a small garden. It did okay but not great. I had no idea what else to plant, so I planted nothing. 

This week, I finally decided to start reinventing the yard. I edged a bigger space along the fence for more plants. I put in a witch hazel and a deciduous magnolia. I divided the hostas and hellebores and dug up the overgrown black-eyed Susans and cut back the forsythia. 

 Along the way, I found the remains of a plastic army man, some airsoft pellets, and a penguin. 

      

Each one took me back to when my kids were little, playing under the maple tree for hours on summer days. I could see them in my mind; their sweaty, popsicle-streaked faces, their bare feet, the girls' toes painted with bubblegum pink polish, clothes dirty and grass stained. It took my breath away how fast time has gone. One of those kids is getting married in October. Another graduates college next month. The third is finishing her freshman year of college in two weeks. How is this even possible?

 

I left the army man, the pellets, and the penguin in the yard like I do every time I find one of those plastic memories. I know there is a hamburger, part of a toy baby carrier, a plastic play fork, a Barbie shoe out in the yard somewhere. I hope I keep finding them year after year. I'll keep putting them back in the dirt, and I hope when I'm gone from this house, the new owners will know that the backyard was once a playhouse, a zoo, a battlefield, and a store. A place where kids lived and played hard, where imagination ruled, and a mom sat on the patio and took it all in.

How We Met

October 18 was a Wednesday that year, and Wednesdays were Ladies' Night at Horsefeathers.  My cousin's boyfriend had recently broken up with her, and she wanted to go out and drown her sorrows.  She needed a designated driver, so she called me.  

My limited nightclub experience had been confined to the Bardstown Road/Baxter Avenue bars.  I had never been to Horsefeathers, but even with my minimal knowledge of clubs, I didn't have high hopes of having much fun that night.  There were just a handful of people in the bar when we walked in, but even so, my cousin knew several of them.  I got my free soft drink and followed her while she made the rounds.  We finally sat down at a tall table near the dance floor, and I sipped my Coke and kept time to the music while my cousin talked to friends.

People had started coming in, and before I knew it, the dance floor was filling up.  My cousin was still chatting away, and I began people watching, but I really wanted to dance. In a booth against the wall were three guys in their early 20s.  I could tell they were soldiers by their haircuts and black watches.  They were cute, and I watched them spitting ice at a waitress when she wasn't looking.  It wasn't very nice, but it was funny.  One of them caught me laughing at them and smiled at me.  

My cousin was wrapping up her conversations, and since she had work and I had class at UofL early the next morning, I knew we'd be leaving soon.  I saw an older guy making his way to our table.  I thought he was another of my cousin's friends, but he started talking to me.  All of a sudden, he turned around, and one of the soldiers was standing there instead.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked.

"Oh gosh," I said, "we are about to leave."

My cousin looked at me, knowing how much I'd been wanting to get out on the dance floor, and said, "Oh, go ahead.  We can stay awhile."

So the soldier and I walked onto the dance floor and started...talking. He told me his name, Kirk, and asked me mine.  He was from Minnesota and confirmed he was stationed at Ft. Knox at Armor Officer Basic Training.  He said his buddy's wife had just left him, and he was the designated driver that night.  I told him I was an English major, and we talked about books we'd read and who our favorite authors were, all the while barely moving to the music.

After about 15 or 20 minutes, my cousin was tapping on her watch.  I told the soldier I had to go, and he walked me over to the table.  The whole way back, a voice in my head was whispering, 

"Don't let him get away!  You will regret it for the rest of your life!"

So I did something I never did with a guy I had just met in a bar.  I said, "Why don't you give me a call?" and wrote down my number on a napkin.  He wrote down his number for me, and then my cousin and I left.

In the car on the way back to her apartment, I told her, "I have just met the man of my dreams."

She laughed at me, but I said, "I'm serious! I've just met the man of my dreams."

That Friday at dinner, the phone rang, and it was Kirk.  "Hey!  You might not remember me, but we met at the bar the other night..."

We made plans to go to see a movie the next night.  I didn't want him to know where I lived just yet, so I told him I'd meet him at the McDonald's on Bardstown Road by the Showcase Cinemas.  We saw Dead Poets' Society and after we went to Shoney's and sat in the booth until well after midnight drinking coffee and splitting a hot fudge cake.

For our second date, I drove to Ft. Knox, and he took me repelling off the training tower and made me spaghetti.  I knew by December that I wanted to marry him.

That was 1989.  He moved to Ft. Hood, Texas in February, and after his brief trip to Saudi Arabia for the Persian Gulf War, we were married in August 1992.  We lived in Texas, Arizona, and Hawaii before coming home to Kentucky where we have raised three wonderful children, now about the same ages we were when we met.

Sitting here on Valentine's Day thinking about those young kids we were, we had no idea what life would throw at us.  We just knew we loved each other, and that has been enough.