Thursday, December 25, 2014


When I  was in 4th grade, it came to me that writing was to be a part of who  am. And that's the way it was for many years. 

When I was in my 30s, a tragic family happening brought my writing to a sudden stop, and that writer's block seemed permanent. My husband waited patiently for its return, and so did I. It didn't happen.

One Christmas morning, a lovely handmade secretary desk appeared within my home. It was for me. "It was made for you and no one else," my husband said. "I have missed your writing. Now your writing MUST return, for you cannot let that desk sit by itself, unused." 

That desk did lead me back to writing. To this day, through these many years of marriage, that desk reminds me of the love my husband feels for me.


Sunday, December 21, 2014


     I was a child of the 1940s, and in that decade of my childhood, my father would insist that our family always have a live, balled Christmas tree. After Christmas, year by year, each live tree would then be planted in our yard outside where we could see them easily from our large windows. 
   As we grew older, our yard was dotted with those Christmas trees that had lived so briefly in the house with us. We would look upon those trees that had started small like us, and had grown along with us, and we'd try hard to imagine all over again the year each tree had spent its Christmas in our home.
   Now I'm in the seventh decade of my life, and in the valley where my husband and I built our retirement home in 1993, we have outdoor Christmas trees in good supply. While they make me think of my father's living Christmas trees, these stately woodland evergreens of my senior years do have one important difference: From where their feet are planted, they grew naturally and not by transplant. And they have reached up to the sky far longer than any family of humans has resided on this property, and several of them have reached a height of at least 100 feet.
   Each year, long after Christmas is over, these trees remain before our vision, elegantly draped with snow and ice by Mother Nature. Sometimes wind or sun disturbs the branches just enough that they will shrug and toss away the ice like broken crystal, and we can hear it happen. It sounds like tiny bells.
    Then Mother Nature kindly comes along and decorates them all over again for us, until the winter's done.