I just met the most fascinating young man. Yes, fascinating!

He stepped out of the pages of time to usher me into a place in line (in front of him) at the bookstore. Double-breasted jacket with crested buttons. Shiny loafers with little tassels. A red paisley bowtie. And manners … wow. Right outta the movies!

Thankfully there was a long line at the purchasing counter, so we could strike up a conversation. It’s the one time I could have stood in line for hours! How fortuitous for me that Starbucks is just next door to the bookstore — and that he suggested we adjourn to the coffee shop for (sing, please!): Getting to know you! Getting to know all about you!

I shall paint a portrait for you.
A face chiseled from the kind of bronzed sandstone formations that one finds in Monument Valley. Eyes that crinkled into long dashes with the joy of laughter in our conversation. Closely cropped hair — such that none could possibly be out of place. Long slender fingers that would grab much more than an octave.

That’s the visual. Here’s what was beneath:
This young man is so well read, such an artful conversationalist, and knock-yer-sox off interesting. Skipping from the topics of books, to race horses, history, religion, travel, dancing, music and more … he spoke like a kind of statesman. Or maybe he had just memorized charming lines (lots of them) from an old Cary Grant movie?

He may have been born the year I started college, but that’s almost not believable. Didn’t he really move through time from an earlier era? A period in history where conversation replaced emailing. When books were held in our laps and pages turned with licked fingers.  During a time when mothers coached lovely manners into little boys. A time when there truly was a Southern Gentleman.

Thank you for a lovely afternoon.

I read this little poem (below) as a new bride. From college to career to marriage took a few short years, so I was still in a learning mode. Still figuring out how to be a woman and a wife.

Our new home in a squeaky new subdivision was inhabited by Army officers and their families, so we had lots of commonalities. Husbands came home from the Post around 4:30 every day. Lawns got cut and watered on Saturday mornings. Guys had ‘strak’ haircuts and the gals all sported the bouffants of the 1970s. Our husbands had either just come home from Viet Nam or were about ready to go back.

Everyone blended together so well … except for “The Lady Next Door”. She was the exact person that Judith Viorst was writing about in this poem!

She wore a full coat of makeup with meticulously coiffed hair and hot pants (yes, hot pants) to carry out the trash. And to walk their little dog. And to get the mail from the mailbox. And to the commissary and PX.  And everyone’s husband noticed … except perhaps hers.

It was hell living next door to “The Lady Next Door”.

The Lady Next Door
A poem by Judith Viorst

The lady next door,
Who weighs eight pounds less than I do
And wears peach face gleamer and tawny lip gloss to take out the garbage,
Has lately been looking at my husband
As if he were someone like Robert Redford,
And she were someone like Ali McGraw,
And I were someone like Mother of the Year.

[continue reading…]

An excerpt from Pope Francis’ homily on Ash Wednesday:

“When you do something good, almost instinctively born in us is the desire to be respected and admired for this good deed, to obtain a satisfaction.

Jesus invites us to do these works without any ostentation, and to trust only in the reward of the Father “who sees in secret” (Mt 6,4.6.18).”

As the late (and much loved) Sister Perpetua used to say, “The best gifts are those given anonymously.”

For so many years after the death of my parents and the complete dissolution of my little family, I lamented the fact that I was totally alone on Christmas. It seemed unbearable. This holiday had always been heralded with long hours of preparation — luscious decorations, joyful music, presents, pretty dresses, scrumptious food, and family festivities.

The celebration usually began about noon on Christmas Eve (with Lily’s tamales) and continued through the evening of Christmas Day with turkey and the trimmings. There was eggnog.  Yum … mince pies!

Through the years, Christmas worship varied according to where we lived. Carol singing in the Baptist church, Episcopal or Catholic Midnight Mass, learning Silent Night in Hawaiian, and enjoying special Christmas drums of the Santa Clara Pueblo people under a starry sky.

The quiet and solitude was not a gift at first. It was necessary to escape the sadness by going to Santa Fe, where new memories were ultimately made. The fragrance of piñon fires mixed with a delightful aroma of roasting ancho chilies — throw in the crunch of new snow underfoot. Mix in the Native American traditions of Christmas Eve bonfires and streets lined with glowing luminarias. The Holiest of Christmas Eve services is the Midnight Mass at St. Francis Cathedral, with native drummers, Mexican trumpets, harps, incense — and prayers mixed in several languages.  Santa Fe. A holy place to spend Christmas.

Now, at home on this rainy hillside, surrounded by black furry mounds of sleeping cats and my trusty dog, Fiona, I listen to carols from Pandora filling my art studio. Not tired from hours of holiday preparations. Not distracted by travel or people. Reflecting pleasantly on the Christmas celebrations of the past 68 years — unwrapping each one and savoring it, before calling forth the next one. It’s perfectly okay to be alone, when one has so many wonderful memories.