The Reindeer Keeper

What do you get if you combine a rocking chair with a little ditty? If you happen to be talking about my grandmother then surely the two would lead to her sitting in her rocking chair humming and singing one particular short but sweet lullaby-type verse to any toddler perched on her lap or baby cuddled up in her arms. It didn't necessarily have to be bedtime for this to happen. And no matter the age, the little bundle lucky enough to be wrapped in her embrace seemed to sense how special the moment was as her reassuring voice would sing the simple stanzas over and over again. With her down-to-the-waist length hair pulled up in a bun and held in place with hair combs, and her black-laced shoes firmly set on one of her braided rugs, my grandmother's rhythm in both rocking and singing blended effortlessly as the simple words filled the room with a warm, comfortable, fuzzy feeling-the same sort of feeling you get when curled up with a good book on a snowy evening. The ditty was

I never knew why our Thanksgiving turkey had to be a Butterball. I never knew what the difference was between a Butterball turkey and a regular turkey. I just remember all of our Tom Turkeys had that same first name and they all came from the same neighborhood store. My mother would call a good two weeks out and put her order in. She never used a coupon. That little store never offered such things. My parents knew the owner. Most everyone did in our small town. When it was time to go pick the Butterball up and bring him home to roost, my father always wore a tie with a good shirt, dress pants and his winter coat and wool hat with a red feather on the side. My mother always went with him wrapped up in her red, woolen coat. My siblings and I would stay home and wait for them to return. It was quite an exciting time. Once back home, my mother would open the front door for my father who'd walk in carrying Tom inside a heavy cardboard box with handles on each side. We'd follow

There's nothing like baking cupcakes or cookies. It's even more fun to eat them or take them with you to school or the office or to someone having a tough day or a birthday or just to say hi. Back when I was a kid it was even more of a treat to have a Twinkie. My mother didn't buy them all the time so when she did, they didn't last very long. Having a Twinkie in your lunch box at school afforded you added value with friends and anyone else sitting within view in the crowded and noisy cafeteria when you pulled that so familiar and so highly revered little package out in a way that you made sure everyone saw it. And although you wanted to rip it wide open and gobble the two golden spongy logs down like you did at home, you'd slow the process down to a crawl and act as if no one cared what you had in your hand when you knew it was just the opposite. Methodically you'd take a bite and as you chewed with a heavenly smile upon your face you'd look around as if

 My younger brother was born in the month of May. Not long after his birth, my mother ended up in the hospital with blood clots in her leg. She spent a good part of the summer there and I spent alot of time with the new baby being cared for by my aunt just next door. I was eleven or twelve and that summer was all about the baby. As he grew-our bond became even closer. And one of the many things entwined in that bond was french toast-along with the citing of the first snowflakes falling and dancing aound the house to most any jitterbugging song on the radio. My little brother thought I was the best french toast maker ever-ever! But honestly-in today's french toast standards-my version of this breakfast tradition was rather simple. I only used Wonder bread because that is what my parents bought at the A & P. There were no fancy baked breads or Italian or French breads perfectly sliced in our home-just Wonder bread with those red, yellow, and blue balloons printed on the packa

                        My mother always said you spend the summer getting ready for winter. That never made any sense to me when I was growing up. I didn't connect the dots-between the clearing of gardens and washing of windows inside and out and the replacing of screens with storm windows and the fixing up going on-with the changing of the season. I never realized the sheets, along with sweaters washed in Woolite and blankets taken out of cedar chests and anything else that had been packed away in mothballs, were on the clothes line probably for the last time until tulips and daffodils announced the next season's impending arrival. I never questioned the picnic table and enamel chairs disappearing from the back yard as leaves swirled about. I guess I thought boots and mittens, scarves and snowsuits just appeared from nowhere as bikes and roller skates could be found hanging back in the garage. Slowly like molasses coming out of a jar-menus changed without my noticing from