The Reindeer Keeper

I can't single out one Christmas over another; one that stands out as the best Christmas ever for each year presents a different story of circumstance and expectations. But I can say that those Christmases spent in the country will remain in my heart forever. My aunt who swam like Esther Williams would on occasion say that youth is wasted on the young. I never understood what that meant until later in life. As a child, growing up in that row of 4 houses full of relatives was just the way it was to me. Having cousins, aunts, and uncles as part of my daily routine along with the surrounding fields and pastures; woods and old barn and chicken coop clubhouse and meandering creek-all just part of every day life. No other time of the year brings that all back around like Christmas does. My grandmother baking her cookies and Christmas bread; the heartwarming scent of fresh greens mingling with cinnamon and nutmeg; snow falling-and falling; presents wrapped in tissue paper held together

Besides the anticipation and warmth of family gathering what I remember most of those many Christmases in the country was the setting. As gifts were wrapped and distributed between the four houses; as the older generation shared traditions with the younger generation; as the wide-eyed wonder of Santa Claus was not only in the eyes of the children but the adults as well, something else was going on. Mother Nature was at play; providing perfect backdrops-enhancing that wonder all the more. I can still hear the crunch of the snow underfoot as we'd race down to the creek to skate.In the evening,lying atop that bed of ice, my cousin and I would "talk Christmas" as shimmering stars danced for us in the black-violet sky. The moon-a crystal white in the midst of those gleaming stars-seemed to touch the earth beyond the snow-covered fields glimmering in diamonds. Corn stalks left from the harvest assumed the role of toy soldiers in wait of Santa. Snow sprayed by the wind from b

My oldest brother and I were lucky for on Saturday nights our grandparents would take us into town to the movie theatre complete wih a balcony and ushers with flashlights. There were always two movies showing. Between the first one ending and the second one starting, a news reel featuring real news, not opinion and black and white promos of coming attractions, played. Then the fun started. It was time to play bingo. After paying to get in the attenda nt would give each of us a bingo card. Everyone in the theatre played bingo while eating popcon smothered in butter. There was never talk about needing a license or protests over kids playing bingo. It was simply fun; part of a Saturday night at the movies. A short man in a suit stood up on the stage and out of what seemed like a giant fish bowl pulled numbers painted on round discs one at a time; yelling the numbers so loudly until someone stood and yelled back, "Bingo"! The cards were perforated so as a number was called

For any and all who knew and loved our grandmother she was affectionately called "Giddy"; nicknamed by my brother when he was a toddler. She was the cog keeping us together; as strong a woman as I've ever known.She defined the power of a woman way before it became a cliche.Cook, baker, homemaker, mother, wife, garden tender, sewer, crocheter, rug maker-the list goes on defining this French-Canadian woman with high cheek bones and waist-length hair wrapped up in hair combs on top of her head. When I think Of Giddy this time of year it is her Christmas bread that fills my heart. The aroma-the texture-the taste remain in my memory of Christmases when we'd gather together out in the country. I can still see her in her kitchen with an apron around her and her strong hands stirring and folding; a few wisps of hair out of place as she works the dough just where it needs to be. She never measured her ingredients. She didn't have fancy appliances or a multitude of tv che

Just like anything else dolls define a generation-from rag dolls to dolls that look, act, and feel like newborns, dolls leave an imprint on those who receive them. I only remember one doll I ever wanted. She didn't cry or eat or roll over or walk-she was just a baby doll with two little braids on the top of her head, blue eyes, and a warm and happy smile. I remember the moment I unwrapped the box covered with red-tissue paper. There were no glitzy photos or warnings that what was inside was unsafe or declarations that batteries would be needed to make whatever it was function. It simply was a doll whom I scooped up into my arms knowing at that very moment Santa Claus had again received my letter and again made my Christmas dreams come true. Her name was Bonnie Braids. Bonnie and I spent many hours together-at tea parties, in classrooms on the side porch, on picnics in the back yard. We became good friends. When my oldest child was a little girl there was one doll constantly adver

For awhile my mother, 3 aunts and grandmother would get together once a week and create whatever it was they felt like doing. A few may have knit or sewn while others may have preferred to crochet. My mother was a talented seamstress; making tailored coats from Vogue patterns or suits with narrow lapels. She loved fabric. She loved fabric so much that for awhile she ran a fabric shop right off our living room decorated in antiques. I'd go in her shop in the evening and pick out bolts of fabric and mix-match them into outfits in my imagination. She carried all the top pattern lines and fancy feathers,pins, and jewels to make hats. Some times I'd bring a pad of paper and design my own patterns-or try to at least. My grandmother was always braiding rugs. Her generation never wasted a thing. Socks with holes were darned; discarded clothing debuttoned; cut into strips and braided into rugs of all sizes. My cousins and I used to lay on the floor in her living room and pick out mat

No matter how old we are, when it comes to Christmas that little child within us goes back to a place we keep tucked away in our hearts-a place we called home when Santa came down the chimney; a place where we'd put the cookies and glass of milk and sugar for the reindeer out-then hurry to bed but hardly to sleep. I remember such a place. It wasn't in the country with those four houses in a row. Rather it was a few miles away in th e small town where I grew up. Occasionally I'll drive by; feel a little anxious as down the hill I go,slowing when approaching the place still sneaking into my dreams. I can visualize my mother sitting on the front steps-smiling and waving-looking beautiful-watching me and my brother cross the road to play with neighbors who remain young in my mind. Although it is no longer a pale yellow and a 2-car garage stands where lilac bushes once bloomed, that house sitting next to the lane is where Santa made every Christmas magical for me. Somehow h

Well now the longest wait known to mankind would have officially begun; the countdown to Christmas would have been underway out there in the country. Any indication of it approaching would have been noted and talked about between my cousins and me over and over again. That aunt with the bright red lipstick took such care in buying her presents. She truly made her list and checked it more than twice. Even the paper she used for each gift was taken into consideration. There was a room where she would pile the presents in wait of Christmas. Whenever my cousin and I were at the house we'd go in that room and touch and feel and hold the gifts to our ears to see if we could possibly get a hint as to what was inside.We noted each sticker used to keep the present wrapped; each illustration on each tag. I don't recall we ever figured anything out. When the creek froze we'd spend hours down there talking Christmas; exchanging anything we might have heard. Some evenings we'd la

If you enjoy reading my reminiscing posts you might like to read my short story, "In Anticipation of Doll Beds", published in the Chicken Soup for the Soul book entitled, "Christmas Magic". It was released October, 2010 and includes 101 heartwarming stories. Another suggestion: Log onto Boomer Living; click on Coffee House Blog; scroll down to Hodge Podge-the name of my blog where you will find "A Plastic Santa-A Holiday Tradition." This entry looks back to the downtown of my hometown years ago when we had a downtown; of shopping in the hustle and bustle where everyone knew each other; where Newberrys and Woolworths each had live Santas and toy departments to die for! Hope you enjoy. If you feel like sharing traditions you remember from your hometown I'd love to hear from you! Wishing you a Happy Holiday season!

Although we gathered frequently there was something extra special about Thanksgiving. Besides the turkey and all those marvelous trimmings with homemade pies and my grandmother's famous-much anticipated Christmas bread-there was something else going on. Looking back it was an appreciation of and respect for this day set aside for gathering together and giving thanks. Whether in red vests or a suit and tie, my father and uncles dressed for the occasion. That one particular uncle who lived 45 minutes away was always dressed in his suit and tie. To this day I've never met a man so respectful of or in love with his wife-a spitfire of a woman who was small in stature but full of spirit. Of course the women dressed extra special too. My one aunt in particular always wore red lipstick and her hair was long and flipped up. I thought she was so beautiful. Many of the women wore aprons over their attire as they bustled about the kitchen. There were two tables set; one for the adults; o

Back when we all lived in those 4 houses in a row Thanksgiving was often at our house. Of course the hope was my father wasn't called out on an ambulance call or had calling hours at the funeral home to tend to but if any such scenarios arose Thanksgiving went on as planned for such happenings were a part of our daily lives. I loved the anticipation just as much as the dinner itself. My parents always ordered a Butterball turkey from a local family-owned grocery. They'd both go to pick it up. I can still see my father walking into the house with his hat and tie and long coat unbuttoned proudly carrying the thick cardboard box with Tom Turkey inside. He'd strut into the kitchen as if he'd gone to the woods himself in hunt of the perfect bird. The hustle and bustle was contagious as potatoes were peeled; stale bread cut up; seasonings gathered; squash readied to be split open; pie crusts made from scratch rolled out on floured boards; china taken out of the cupboard; c

There was a favorite story we asked to hear over and over when sitting at our grandmother's kitchen table with a favorite aunt who'd never married. It was this aunt we'd wait for a little after five o'clock in the summer heat; hoping she'd take us swimming across the road and down to that river with an Indian name. I couldn't really swim. I'd hold on to a big rock and kick while I watched my aunt. She was a beautiful swimmer; voted prettiest girl in her class. She'd methodically tuck her hair into a white plastic swim cap; then stand there-wetting her arms a few times while checking to see where we were; then stir the water a bit with her hands before diving in like Esther Williams. The best part came after the swim. That's when the graham crackers came out. They tasted so good as we made our way back home dodging cow pies. But it was when this aunt told a certain bull story that we became numb in silence around the kitchen table. No matter how many

I always liked the word-Veranda when used by the adults describing the screened-in front porch of the farmhouse. It was an elusive term; fancier than needed but it intrigued me; made me feel as if that farmhouse was a castle and my cousin and I were princesses-or something. We could have been whatever we chose for when pretending became part of the play-verandas or tree limbs or hayfields or rambling streams transformed into whatever it was that wo rked into the script of the moment. My most vivid memory of being on the veranda was far from the world of our imaginations. It was real. It was frightening and everytime I hear a clap of thunder and see a bolt of lightning sizzle the landscape I go back to that particular hot, summer night where we gathered together to watch it storm. Yes-watch it storm. My grandmother called us to join her as the wind began to pick up speed and little whirlwinds in the cinder driveway were whipping around like the warm-up-show of things to come. And

I don't remember much about the days when my grandparents' farm was thriving but I've heard the stories. It was always fun to sit around the kitchen table where my grandparents and aunt lived. We'd have a cup of coffee made in my aunt's simple coffee pot that only made 6 cups and enjoy whatever delight my grandmother was baking while we listened to the stories about "back then." "Tell us another one," we'd say. We never could get enough of tho se stories. One particular story was told over and over. It had to do with one mean chicken named Baldy. This bird earned the nickname because of the many fights he'd partake in around the barnyard. Baldy ruled the roost if you know what I mean-winning every battle he chose-leaving him "hairless" in the process. One battle he won every time the opportunity arose was with my oldest brother who was the first grandchild and constantly at the farm. Something tells me he was my grandfat

I really make an effort this time of the year to absorb all that's going on for it's a smorgasbord of the senses-just as it was when growing up in the country. When I hear the geese flying overhead I remember back to those times we'd be playing at the creek as fall was thinking about turning into winter. Making fortresses along that creek's bed by building walls of leaves all around us, we were able to see up and down that murky waterway just in case an enemy approached. Don't tell any grown-ups but one time intent in play we picked lots of berries of some sorts; then put them in a rusty old can full of creek water and built up leaves underneath and around the can;then we lit the leaves on fire. (I really can't remember who had the matches)! It fit right into the script of what was going on-surviving in an unknown territory or something like that. So our leaf fire quickly turned to smoke-lots of smoke. My two cousins were scoping the nearby field for twigs

It was like combining FAO Schwarz, Disney Land, and the North Pole into one. That's what it felt like when our grandparents, aunts, uncles and parents bought the remaining items from an abandoned schoolhouse and filled the old chicken coop with those desks, chalkboards, and books-lots of books. It'd been void of chickens for some time but there were still bits of feathers drifting about. Most of the windows were missing glass; the door crooked but none of that mattered to us even when it snowed inside. We declared it to be the Girls Club but allowed our boy cousin to join and when that cousin who wore dresses came to visit she was allowed in too but I think we might have been mean to her at times. Not really mean but throwing our weight around because we were older-and we certainly didn't wear dresses as we played and pretended in that old coop. Looking back we were babysitters of the younger cousins in the summertime and we didn't even realize it. To us,they were o

You won't believe what I'm going to tell you but even though I grew up in the country I never liked cows-with maybe the exception of black angus. My brother had a small herd of angus cows and when he went away to visit relatives I was left in charge of caring for them. I'd get up way before the bus came and go out to the barn; returning when I got off the bus in the afternoon. I didn't mind. I most likely would have been playing around there anyway. His cows never bothered me. They just wanted to be fed and let in and out of the barn that for years housed herds of dairy cows. By the time we all came along the herds were gone. Stanchions were vacant so it wasn't as if I'd grown up surrounded by cows. There was just something about those black and white beasts grazing in the fields of neighboring farms. With their big, bulging eyes, they'd stare as my cousin and I walked by; staring and chewing-and chewing some more as their tails constantly tried keeping th

I was in the 6th grade when my grandfather passed away. Glimpses of him remain vivid in my mind; suspenders holding his pants up; hands worn yet strong; his chewing tobacco in the checkered pouch. I can still hear the put-put of his tractor pulling a wagon full of hay over the plank bridge and up the hill; then down across the flatrock to the barn. We loved his tractor. We'd play on it when he went inside the farmhouse; pretending to shift it into gear and go on wild adventures through alfalfa and clover and then out of sight and into the big, exciting world beyond the horizon. It was small in size. Red-maybe an orangish-red with a seat sitting on springs that would bounce up and down. The bigger the bump, the greater the bounce. There was some kind of compartment that held nuts and bolts and screwdrivers and stray nails-anything he'd need should he break down in the back fields. He must have greased that tractor daily for it constantly smelled like those cans you'd squee

Just by virtue of being in the country made Halloween even scarier than it really was when interpreted through the eyes and minds of a kid. What might have been a cluster of leaves dancing past the cinder driveway or swirling atop an open field was actually a pack of menancing rats out to attack and devour trick or treaters. Barren trees became gnarled enemies that at any minute would join forces and nab all the children of the earth and take them off to certain demise. What cornstalks there were left standing in deserted fields transformed into haunting souls ready to avenge their fallen comrades of the field. Twisting vines once the lifelines of pumpkins now picked and gutted, carved and painted with candles flickering in their bellies, slithered about the fields anxious to grab hold of those who'd taken their fruit. Certainly under the cover of that purplish black sky they were not vines at all. Rather they were serpents-angry serpents who'd coil around innocent children and

Because my father was a funeral director when I was growing up we never really went on extended vacations. Back then funeral directors were also the local rescue squad-on duty 24 hours a day-7 days a week. I remember hearing him going off into the night after an accident call had awakened him. Besides that he was dedicated to the families who came to him in grief. He treated them as he would have treated his own family. With that said I never felt we missed out on a thing. The backfields and creek and barn with its pastures and pine trees across the road all were like a Disneyworld to me-maybe even better for there were no crowds or anyone trying to sell me a thing. It was full steam ahead for my imagination every time I stepped out the door no matter the season. Props were everywhere for me and my cousins-from haylofts to the grain shed; empty silo to creek grass. Our parents didn't have to spend a penny to keep us amused. Mother Nature took care of that. Looking back I rememb

Yesterday I was joined by the award-winning illustrator of "The Reindeer Keeper"-Suzanne Langelier-Lebeda at a book signing held at St. Lawrence University's Brewer Bookstore. The response to "The Reindeer Keeper" was tremendous. In fact, we sold out! The bookstore will be restocking their shelves with more copies and another signing will be announced soon. Interestingly many who stopped for their signed copy (in some cases-"copies")lingered. Conversations flowed-from personal Christmas memories and love of Christmas stories-to infatuations with old barns. I've let it be known that when I was growing up, my grandfather's barn was a favorite place for me and my cousins. We'd heard the stories of wayback when my grandfather and his hired hands would bring the hay in from surrounding fields under the sweltering June sun. Wagons overflowing with the hay made their way over the plank bridge to the side of the barn where it was then brought up

When growing up in the country-an aunt, uncle, four cousins and a black lab named Ranger lived for awhile in the farmhouse that once housed my grandparents and their six daughters. My uncle was a teacher and coach and my aunt-a nurse. They'd met when they were in the service. He was originally from Indiana and what I remember most about him was his rendition of "Little Orphan Annie." We'd sit in silence in the kitchen or on the veranda of the screened-in porch and listen to him. In his laid back voice he'd recite the lines until he reached the end. Then with a twinkle in his eye he'd look right at us and say in a stern and scary voice-"The Goblins will get you if you don't watch out!" I loved playing in that old home with my cousins. Inside and out we had so much fun-climbing trees, playing baseball or stomping around in a rambling stream running alongside the farmhouse.The water flowed through a tunnel underneath the road and wandered on down

My father was a funeral director and ever so often in the summertime he'd drive a big, black transport-of-coffins type van home for lunch. Back then the vans were not sleek and shiny and full of bells and whistles like they are today. This was more the type of a haunting getaway car for the gangsters in a "Godfather" type film. It didn't matter to us. It made the vehicle all the more intriguing so while my father was eating lunch my cousins and I would take the van for a ride-a marvelous joy ride amongst the clover and hay. Of course we told him we'd be careful; that we'd be right back but once we made it over the rickety bridge spanning Sucker Creek and then up the hill-it was a straight shot to those backfields. I can't remember how old we were. I don't think that old for my mother had a fit. (My father was always the one we'd go to first.) Once we were on that straightaway the fun began. Down came the windows as we stepped on the gas; our hair

I took part in an Authors event today held at a community library about two hours from where I live.I love doing these events especially when held in libraries. The smell of the books and quiet respect for one another does something to my soul. It was a crisp autumn day. Shuffling leaves as I carried my books into the building brought me back to growing up in the country and going across the road; then down to the woods with my cousin. Our grandparents owned the property. It was never referenced as the woods. To the family it was "the camp." Not your regular camp but rather a camp for orphans in the summertime. You see,in the nearby town there was an orphanage run by nuns. I remember going there with my grandmother who sometimes cooked for the children. I loved going there. In fact I think I would have stayed there if possible. Clean and bright with rows and rows of beds and children of all sizes and ages made it look like one big, happy family to me. Obviously I didn't

I grew up along Sucker Creek-a meandering little beast that overflowed its banks in the spring and became an outdoor skating rink in the winter. It was an all-season playground for me and my cousins. Our Uncle Paddy who just turned eighty this past July and is still a kid at heart built us rafts out of telephone poles. There were two rafts; one for the boys; one for the girls. All summer long we'd board our rafts; then steer our way around the creek by prodding a long steel pole down to the creek bed and then back up then down again-over and over while fighting off pirates or traveling to the ends of the earth-or at least the opposite shore. Whenever a bloodsucker found its way onboard, we'd swipe it off with our pipe and continue on. We could never swim in Sucker Creek. I don't remember ever wanting to. Spring's awakening brought overflowing banks and miniature icebergs crashing into one another. I loved their moaning sounds; twisting and shoving their way down Sucke

She never referenced a cook book. I never saw a measuring cup sitting on the counter; no fancy utensils or designer cookware. Despite the lack of what all the celebrity chefs saturating television these days use, my grandmother's plain bowls and wooden spoons were what she used when baking in her worn woodstove-the focal point in that kitchen of the old farmhouse. From her ability to judge a pinch of this and a dash of that to realizing by aroma that whatever she was baking was baked to perfection, my grandmother brought forth memories wrapped in pot holders for generations to come. My favorite memory coming out of that stove were her molasses cookies; melt-in-your-mouth molasses cookies so big that it took putting your hands together to hold just one-when you were a little child in your grandmother's kitchen.

I often laugh to myself when drinking a bottle of water. So much money is spent on those plastic bottles. Growing up in the country we had an endless supply of pure,fresh water. We didn't have to pump it. We certainly couldn't buy it. It came directly from a crack in the flat rock that spanned the lower hill down from the farmhouse going up to the barn. It was the coldest; most pure water I've ever tasted. One by one we'd lay flat out straight on our stomachs on the bed of rock and reach for the bubble. Some hot summer days it would be covered in stringy, green moss. We didn't care. We'd find a stick; then clear the moss away and enjoy that bubble. It was always there except when winter put an end to anything as spontaneous as a bubble laughing its way up from the earth.

I've described the old farmhouse where my grandparents lived when I was growing up in my previous blog. It sneaks into my dreams ever so often and when I wake up I am always disappointed that it was only a dream. I loved that farmhouse with all its imperfections. But when you're a kid imperfections go unnoticed especially when you're having fun. We were always having fun. And when our grandmother made donut holes we had lots of fun eating the warm little morsels.They were plain donut holes. We didn't need different flavors. We'd just fill little paper bags with them and run back outside to play. I hope I dream about those donut holes tonight!

Throughout "The Reindeer Keeper" I made reference to an old farmhouse which played an integral role in the setting of the story. Subconsciously when writing I was going back to my childhood; back to the old farmhouse which was home to my grandparents and their six daughters. There would have been a son-he would have been the oldest-but my grandmother fell while taking my grandfather water to drink. He was out in a backfield haying in the heavy heat of a June afternoon. I can still smell the cookies and breads; donuts and full-course meals coming from my grandmother's woodstove which she directed like a conductor of an orchestra. The kitchen was enormous with wainscoating and a built-in hutch to die for. The floor in the dining room was slanted but we didn't care. One room led to another. Bookshelves held my grandfather's western novels. African violets hugged the windows especially when the sun drenched them in warmth no matter what the season. A pantry full of sh

Follow me and get to know me; read my posts about growing up in the country for it is from such a setting that the basis for my wondrous Christmas story for adults stems. "The Reindeer Keeper" is a heartwarming must read of family and struggle; joy and sadness meant for anyone who remembers that feeling of truly believing in Santa Claus.Below is my first "Get-to-know-me" entry and check out www.thereindeerkeeper.com for more information. *Once you round the corner of that stretch of country road about a mile out from a town in northern New York you're getting closer to where 4 houses full of relatives once sat. Go over the small bridge; then up a little knoll and you are there.For those passing by there's nothing in particular about that stretch of asphalt. But then, they didn't grow up there. The property had been in the family for generations. My grandfather worked the fields; bringing hay to the barn-then up and into the silo in the sweltering June he