Christmas in the Mountains

"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire

Jack Frost nipping at your nose..."

So often I think of this song when I think of Christmas in the mountains.

Not in a isolated shack on the side of a mountain surrounded by trees.

But on a short dirt road at the mouth of Ethel Hollow.

A four room house situated on concrete blocks.

A chimney at the center of it's four corners.

A black potbelly stove in the kitchen.

A skeleton key for the front door.

A back door key I never saw.

It didn't matter though.

A closed door was as close to locked as it got in Ethel.

"Yule-tide carols being sung by a choir

And folks dressed up like Eskimos..."

On Christmas Eve, my father sang Nat King Cole's version of this song to us as we pulled silver tree branches from cardboard tubes.  The rest of us sang Christmas carols we'd learned at church and school.  But mostly, we laughed and talked until the aluminum Christmas tree was standing in the corner of the living room, complete with ornaments, awaiting the final touch...a rotating color wheel that bathed it in yellow, red, blue and green light.

The sweetness of cakes and pies filled our home.  

Holiday treats sat on the living room table.   Mother's prized Lazy Susan was filled with an assortment of Christmas candy.  My favorites were the Ribbons.  They were sweet and colorful.  Some were fruity while others were pepperminty.  All nearly too big to fit into our little mouths, but that never stopped us from trying...and drooling.

Small wicker baskets held Almonds, Hazelnuts, Brazil nuts, Walnuts, and Pecans.  A pair of pliers (the mountain version of a nut cracker) lay nearby.  My father taught us the art of cracking walnuts without pliers though.  He'd hold two walnuts in one hand, close his fist, and squeeze.  Only one could survive that pressure, leaving the other, cracked open with all the wonderful nutmeat exposed.  We'd peel off the bitter inner layer and eat the good parts.  

A fruit bowl held red delicious apples and fragrant Florida oranges.  We'd squeeze an orange and roll it around on the table until soft.  Then we'd unwrap a candy cane and plunge it inside to make minty orange juice.  We'd eat as much of an apple as we could but they were almost always too big for little tummies.

We'd wake before dawn on Christmas morning to the aroma of turkey and dressing combined with cloves on a country ham.  Jumping out of bed, we rush into the living room...to the Christmas tree...to the toys we'd waited for weeks to play with.

Christmas was a lesson in patience and anticipation.  

We waited all year for the season.  

Only at that time of year would we sing, in ernest, of baby Jesus in the manger with Mary and Joseph. Of the three wise men and the star that lead them to Bethlehem.  

Only at that time of year would we get to choose our three "most-wished-for" toys from the, thick and heavy, Sears and Roebuck catalog.

Only at that time of year would we get large oranges and red delicious apples that were both sweet and juicy.

Only at that time of year would we lay awake in our beds, long after our parents had turned off the lights, whispering and hopeful that the night-noises we heard were from Santa on the roof, beside the chimney that lead to the fire place in our room. 

We understood that it happened once a year. 

So, we appreciated it more. 

We learned the best things were worth waiting for.

Merry Christmas!

May this be your season to make happy and lasting memories!

Happy Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to my wonderful mother!

Remember your mother today.

Cook dinner for her.

Take her to the movies.

Send her flowers.

Cut her lawn.

Take her to church.

Sit with her at the beach.

Join her in the kitchen.

Sing her a song.

Bring the grandchildren to see her.

Sweep her porch.

Wash her car.

Brush her hair.

Paint her nails.

Take her for a ride and open the sunroof.

Play Skipbo with her.

But whatever you do, 

Don't forget her today.

Your life is never that busy.

Your day never that full.

Your time never too important.

Hug your Mom and wish her Happy Mother's Day!

Voter #243

Gray clouds, thick with rain, hover above the school where I work.   A young man, who has just voted in today's election, hauls my griddle and the remnants of our Cinco de mayo celebration to my car and set them inside.  He asks me about our school before adding that his son will attend here in the fall.

Rain drizzles lightly onto my scalp as I close the car door and stand there listening.  He apologizes before admitting his ultimate plan to enroll the boy at the prestigious private school a few miles up the road.  Pulling out his phone, he shows me a picture of the smiling four year old.  Finally, he asks my name and introduces himself.  We shake hands and part before rushing to seek shelter inside our cars.  Turning the key I sit, momentarily appreciative of the warmth and dryness of my little car.

It is 5pm on election day.  I have a 40 minute drive home and I still have to vote.
Today's election is not presidential but it's important.   I'm afraid the number of voters might be low. This damp and drizzly weather may be regarded as another reason to stay home and leave the voting to others.  I must admit, all I can think, as I inch my way north through heavy traffic is,  I just want to get home, change into my favorite pajamas, aka leisure wear, and chill.  But, of course, voting is non negotiable.  No rest for the weary (me) until it's done.

So, I stop for coffee, and then continue north.  I wrestle with the idea that I'll have to wait in a long line of voters because the issue of today's election is a hot item.  I dread the thought of entering my neighborhood school, only to be slowed down and assigned a spot in the slow march toward the library to be greeted by pole workers, tired from the throngs of voters through out the day.

Perhaps I'll see neighbors or long lost aquaintences from the subdivision and strike up conversations. Maybe, just maybe, I'll run into one of my children's former elementary school teachers who happen to be working late.  I wonder if they'll remember my children, or me, considering the fact that my youngest just graduated from college last Saturday...probably not.

As I suspected, the streets leading to the school have absolutely no traffic.  Turning onto the drive that leads to the school, I note the nearly empty parking lot.  I pull into a space directly across from the entrance and park.  Two women, wearing "I voted" stickers rush to their cars.

Now fortified with coffee, I step out of my car and head toward the school.  Once inside, I walk the empty hallway to the library.  There is one man in line. The worker at the desk asks me to fill out the necessary form.  I do and hand it to her, along with my license.  From there, I am directed around the corner and handed a ballot inside of a large folder.

The voting booths stand silent.  There is no line.  I walk inside one and open the ballot.  Reading and rereading the proposal, I am more sure than ever that my original voting plan is correct.  So, I mark the ballot, remaining true to my original decision.

It is close to 6pm as I feed my ballot into the voting machine and hand the folder to another worker.  I smile at her and ask, "What number am I?"

"243.  There are stickers over there if you want one."  she says before returning to her book.

I spot the "I Voted" stickers sitting on a table and stuck to the back of a chair.  I pull one from the chair and stick it onto my jacket.

#243.  Really?  

What a small turnout!  I can only hope there will be a large number of "after six" voters who will descend upon this school, filling the parking lot and the halls inside.  That the workers behind the counter will have to set their romance novels back inside their purses to accommodate the flow.  But I know this is wishful thinking.

"How's your mom doing?" a worker asks as I head toward the exit door.

"She's fine," I say and smile.

"Tell her I said hello" she calls before waiting on the next voter.

I exit the school looking forward to the comfort and warmth of my home.  Voters entering the building exchange smiles and greetings as we pass.  I am thankful for the few who have come to exercise their right to vote.

Unlocking my car, I open the door to escape the drizzle once again.  For just a moment, I take in the, mostly empty, parking lot and wonder which of my friends and coworkers will complain to me about the election's outcome, even though they did not bother to vote.

I'm getting too old for this.

My patience is short for those who choose to allow something as simple and easy as casting a ballot become too much of a burden.

I start the engine and pull out of the lot, knowing that I have done all I can to change this situation.  I can only hope that it is enough.

Just Get Up!

Waking up is a sign of life, 

proof that you're still in the land of the living

...that your time isn't up.

As long as you wake up, 

there is hope for anything you choose.

However, we often begrudge the act of "getting up".  

We tap the snooze over and over, 

happily sliding back into warm blankets for ten more minutes of

...interrupted sleep?

We lay there, vacillating between sleep and awareness, 

too tired to get up,

too awake for peaceful rest.  

But mostly, we worry that we will oversleep. 

The hardest thing to do is actually the best cure.  

Get up!  

Turn off the snooze.  

Start your day.  

And it can only help
to wrap your hands around a fantastic cup of coffee.

JUST GET UP!

The Joke's on Me!

This morning I ground fresh beans,
made a great cup of coffee,
brought it upstairs
and sat down to write.

Thirty minutes later I remembered and took my first sip.

COLD!

The Gift of Art

I quietly stole away from the family on Mother's Day afternoon for a moment of reflection.   

Driving down main street of my little community, something caught my eye.  

Having passed it, I looked in my rear view mirror.   

Is that what I think it is?

At the next street, I turned left and doubled back.

To my surprise and delight, it was what I thought...FRAMED ART.  

I parked and took my phone (aka. camera) from my purse.  

Waiting to cross the street, I saw this piece straight ahead.

Young Woman with a Violin
(Saint Cecilia), about 1612
Orazio Gentileschi, Italian

Bude Sands at Sunset, 1874
John Brett, English

 I continued my walk toward the first picture I'd seen and found it just beyond the ice cream stand.  

Neptune, God of the Waters (tapestry fragment),
between 1500 and 1525,
Unknown artist, France/Netherlands

The next treasure I encountered was of Neptune.  It stood  nearly as tall me.  Sadly, the artist remains unknown.    

There was a map attached that showed the locations of six more pieces of art clustered in the downtown area.    

I checked the battery of my phone ...low.  I had to hurry.










                                      This piece and I have history. 

          

The Wedding Dance, 1566
Pieter Bruegel the Elder,
Netherlandish

I found a humongous poster 

of it in a little shop in East 

Lansing when I attended MSU.  

It hung on my dorm room wall my senior year.

The Trapper's Return, 1851
George Caleb Bingham, American

Celadon and Amelia, 1793
William Hamilton, English

My treasure hunt lead me to these:

What a lovely Mother's Day gift!

       

Seascape: Sunset, 1861
Martin Johnson Heade, American

The Lily Pond, 1886
Charles Harry Eaton, American

The Wreck, 1854
Eugene-Louis-Gabriel Isabey, French

All were provided by the Detroit Institute of Art's INSIDE OUT program that brings reproductions of great treasures into our community through the Knight Foundation.

Important Work

March on Washington, August 28, 19963

Fifty years ago this week,
a young Negro mother hugged her husband,
smiled "I love you",
and with her eyes, reminded him she was in support of his decision.

Their five children watched him stow several printed signs and a suitcase in the belly of a bus
bound for Washington D.C.
He then return to hug each one tightly
before smiling at his daughters
and exchanging a "take care of your mother" look with his sons.

The small family stood by their car and watched as the bus pulled out of the station.  The drive home was long and tearful until the mother reminded them to be strong because their father had gone to do "important work".


Fifty years ago today,
that young Negro man,
my father,
represented the N.A.A.C.P. of Logan, West Virginia at the March on Washington.

Jesse Martin, Sr. N.A.A.C.P. president, Logan, WVA

He joined in solidarity with thousands of others,
black and white,
rich and poor,
to watch and listen to a young Negro preacher,
wise beyond his years,
deliver a speech that would move a nation.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Today,
Fifty years later,
Dr. King's speech about equality, acceptance, understanding, and his dream for this nation
is one of the most recited, discussed and studied in United States history.

It opened wide the door for a "peaceful" Civil Rights revolution.

It serves as a reminder that we must never forget where we've come from
and never give up on this
"important work".

Simple Things

It's amazing how the simplest of things can be the most memorable.

This morning I sat down to breakfast.

Suddenly the room brightened and my eyes were drawn to the kitchen window.

Sunshine streamed through blinds casting shadows,

no...light through shadows, 

that brightened cabinets and walls with its design of diagonals.

Beautiful.

Simple.

I left my breakfast in search of a camera.

Surely there was more of this "simple beauty" throughout the house.  

And there was:

...across the drawers of a chest

...illuminating closet doors

...resting on a bed quilt

And then,
as quickly as it had brightened to a blazing contrast of light and shadow,
it softened.
Outside, a haze of clouds slowly crossed the sun, stealing the magic.

Often natural beauty is fleeting,
but the joy,
the lift of spirit,
the childlike smile it brings,
lingers
and sometimes,
commits itself to memory.

Like the song that plays on the radio and takes you back to the exact moment your first heard it floating through an open dorm room in college.

Or the Cardinal on your fence that takes you back to a childhood nature walk when your father said it was your state bird.

Funny thing is, you never know when or what will trigger this new memory in the years to come.

You only know that, right now, it has changed your mood and insight for just a little while.

Again

The amazing thing about fifth grade writers in late January is that they've become fearless.

The amazing thing about blogger Lisa-Jo Baker is her ability to draw writers together every Friday to write on one topic for five minutes.

Mix the two and you have a Language Artsy Friday afternoon in my classroom.

We'd just spent 45 minutes reading and sharing books with our second grade reading buddies.  The room was so full of students sitting in pairs, the second grade teacher and I had to tiptoe our way through.

Finally, the second graders were gone and it was time for writing exercise.

Before the topic, we agreed to write prose rather than poetry or lists.

Twenty-five students sat eagerly, notebooks open, pens in hand, waiting to give their all for five minutes on a writing topic.

Lisa-Jo did not disappoint.  The topic was "again".

Pens scratched noisily across landscapes of notebook pages in an otherwise silent classroom.

A focused silence, almost reverent.

I walked from table to table peeking over shoulders as writers quickly penned their thoughts.

The five minute mark arrived.

Notebooks in hand, students left their seats for the comfort of a large, berber rug.

They shared their writing and personal approaches on the topic.

• the meaning of the word "again"
• the sound of the word "again"
• sibling rivalry episodes that occur "again and again"
• vacations they want to take "again"
• going to school "again"
• being out of dress code "again"
• if I had my ____ "again"
• wanting to see a grandmother, long gone to Glory, "again"

I sat listening, in awe, to writers who once refused to write more than a sentence in September and October.

Writers who once drew stickmen in the margins of pages rather than write.  

Writers whose mantra was once, "I can't think of anything!"  

Now, I can send a one-word topic orbiting around the room and students willingly reach out to reel it in, ponder its existence, and then write on its relevance.

Today,

there exists a classroom of fifth grade writers,

who in late January, 

are fearless, 

and do not disappoint.

The Christmas Prayer

Friday, as the entire school prepared to leave for Christmas break, 

one of my students pulled an envelope from her backpack.  
She rushed to my computer desk and thrust it towards me.

"I forgot to give you this," she said.

The envelope held a Christmas card from her family.  

Inside, beautifully penned, was the following prayer:

"May our dear Lord be with you and your family as we celebrate the birth of Jesus, 

the Savior of the world.

Usher you into the new year in victory,

grant you peace and grace for the year ahead. 

Amen."

Mychelle

Hot and Dry

Trees line three sides of my backyard.

I hang bird feeders in them.

Each day grateful diners serenade their thanks.

Most mornings I sit on the deck sipping a good cup of coffee.
The low hum of cars from the nearby highway is as soothing as listening to waves on the beach.

The problem lately...it's been too hot.

So, I've sat in my air conditioned kitchen sipping that coffee.

It has been a hot and dry summer here in the midwest.

My lawn, although low cut and well trimmed, is both crunchy and the color of hay.
The crabgrass, which manages to stay green through drought, is blonde as well.
Fortunately, I've maintained flower beds of blooming perennials that are hardy and find their way in arid weather, plus I water them no matter what.

This morning I awoke at 6:17 to the slightest pitter-patter of rain.

Rain!

I opened my bedroom window and was welcomed by a cool breeze.
The weatherman made it clear that this reprieve would be short-lived.
I'll take it!
Now to brew that coffee and get out on the deck.

Diva Love!

I ring the bell while peering through a glass door.

"Hey Gi-r-l!", coos our hostess as she opens the door and embraces me in a hug. 

 "So glad you could make it!" 

She leads me through the foyer to her spacious living room.

This is my reentry into the Divas Book Club.  

The ladies take turns standing and extending their arms to me.

Their hugs are honest and strong.

I feel as if I've never been away.

We bring ourselves up-to-date over Grapefruit Margaritas 

and then make our way to the dining room 

for dinner and politics.

Oh, I've missed this!

Finally, we discuss possible books for the September meeting.

Seven books 

and a field-trip to the local Barnes and Noble later, 

we decide on one.

The next meeting place?

 My house!

Green Dot Stables - A Sure Thing!

My daughter and I were near the end of a great day together.  

We'd picked up breakfast from Avalon Bakery, 

shopped the Eastern Market, 

explored Belle Isle's Conservatory, 

and finally,
driven across Detroit for
what she promised to be

a treat.

It was a little spot at 

2200 West Lafayette called, 

"Green Dot Stables".

There was a horseshoe on the entrance door.

Hmm...a sign this place needs luck
or
just a decoration?

Thirty minutes, one shared meal of five sliders, a salad, two orders of fries, one cool Summer Soda, and a Mint Julep later,

Summer Soda:  Lemon-Basil-
Cucumber-Vodka-Soda

House Salad: Chickpea-
Tomato-Cucumber-Herb Vin

Lamb Slider: Rosemary
Hummus-Pickles

Shredded Pork Slider:
Pork Butt-Slaw
and
Au Poivre Slider:
Beef-Peppercorns-Cognac Aioli

Hot Brown Slider:
Chicken-Mornay-Bacon
and
Mystery Meat Slider:
Today's mystery was
Lengua.

The Quintet (my moniker)

Truffle & and Herb French Fries

Le Poutine French Fries

 I concluded
luck wasn't an issue.

Green Dot Stables is no outsider!

It has the winning combination of

great food prepared from scratch,
"Just Right" portions,

reasonable prices, 

and a pleasant atmosphere!

Get in the home stretch for Green Dot Stables.
Odds are,
you'll enjoy it!

The Danger of the "Single Story"

The realtor who helped me find the house I live in today, I met more than 20 years ago 

under totally different circumstances.  

She had been invited to speak at our elementary school, during Black History Week, about the continent on which she was born, 

Africa.  

She stood in front of a gym full of students and spoke into the microphone with a soft voice, 

a soothing accent, 

and a slide show projector.   

Students watched and commented quietly to each other about pictures of the Africa they'd expected: dusty roads, 

women in tribal attire, 

and barefoot children.  

However, 

they soon were amazed to see pictures of 

bustling cities, 

new Mercedes, 

and Nike sneakers.  

Cee Cee's point was to expose our students to more of Africa in order to change their mindset and appreciation of it.    

She understood the meaning of a term I've just become aquainted with, "single story".  

When we know only a "single story" of anything or anybody, 

it can lead to stereotypes.  

She wanted to break the stereotypes our children held of both Africa and it's people.

Today, there is another woman, 

Chimamanda Adichie,  

sharing the same message in a way that helps us realize,

we too,  

may be creating stereotypes in our minds 

and passing them on to our children 

when we place too much weight on the "single story" we think we know, 

rather than dig deeper 

to find it is simply 

one chapter 

of a much larger book!

Resurrection Prayer

We thank you Lord for blessing us to live beyond the days when we thought Easter was all about the bunny, colored eggs, candy, shiny new shoes and white lace gloves.

We thank you for so many Easter seasons when we listened to spirited sermons and heart felt songs, and then reflected on 

how you had to carry your own cross, 

how they offered you vinegar instead of water, 

how the first of your two crucifixion mates mocked you 

       and the second asked that you would remember him in Heaven, 

how the sky grew dark so people could think about what they had done to you, 

how you asked God to forgive them anyway, 

how you died and rose on the third day morning 

      (even though as many times as we counted, it was really only two), 

how the angel rolled away the stone to reveal an empty tomb, 

how we could not wait to get home to ham, potato salad, turkey, dressing, 

      chocolate cake and sweet potato pie.

We thank you for Blessing us to live long enough to understand that it’s not so much about how Judas betrayed you 

and Peter couldn’t believe his own three lies 

and that there is no bunny that could possibly lay eggs, 

but how you willingly laid down your life in sacrifice for our sins 

and that it was an “ah-hah” moment when we realized 

this made You the Lamb of God.  

We now know that the number of days between your death on the cross and your rising up is not as important as the fact that You Arose!  

We understand the reason for this season is Your Victory over death and what that means for us as Christians.  

We now understand that though we enjoy having ham, potato salad, turkey, dressing, chocolate cake and sweet potato pie in celebration, 

You are the Bread of Life. 

We thank you Father for the gifts of age and wisdom.  

We pray that you will allow us to continue growing in Your Word as we strive to be more like you, while living our everyday lives.  

But mostly Father, we thank you for your forgiveness.  

It is proof that you understand our short comings.  

We thank you that your promises are kept, 

and that your love for us is infinite and unwavering.  

It is in your precious name that we pray and are able to have faith, Amen. 

Mychelle Martin

April 11, 2004