The Reindeer Keeper

Every family has their particular style when it comes to choosing and decorating the Christmas tree. Growing up we always went to the same place to pick it out. The man knew my mother would be looking for the biggest and the fullest tree so he always had some available from which she could make her choice. She was the 'Decider of the Christmas Tree.' We were like Santa helpers. We went along to tell her the tree she picked out was 'perfect' and most always it was. But a few times after the tree was up in the living room it wasn't quite as full as my mother had imagined. So my father would go buy another one; bring it home and put it up next to the original tree. And then-like magic-we'd have the 'perfect Christmas tree.' (One year my father cut too much off the top. But because the tree really was perfect-he taped the top back on with electrical tape and hid the tape with tinsel and decorations.) Getting the tree, putting it up, and securing it was j

There were two movie theaters in my hometown when I was growing up. I remember going to both of them. There'd be two feature films with an intermission in-between. That's when the newsreel was shown followed by trailers for upcoming movies. It was also the time to go to the concession stand for popcorn and a coke and a box of milk duds. Void of any special effects, movies back then were more about the story and most of those stories were westerns-so many westerns and so many famous cowboys like Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and John Wayne. But a cowboy who wasn't quite as famous was my favorite. I don't know why I liked Lash LaRue so much. Maybe it was because he dressed all in black-or had a horse with fancy accessories and a saddle which I loved. I wanted my parents to buy me one just like it. I didn't have a horse but it didn't matter. I wanted one just like his. He could ride his horse with ease while getting the bad guys. And he got those guys more often than

I can't remember one particular issue of the Christmas Ideals Magazine over another. I do, however, recall how anticipation built waiting for it to arrive. It came through the mail so every time the mailman pulled up to the mailbox sitting by the side of the road, possibility loomed. And when it was finally there, Christmas had arrived out in the country to those four houses in a row-at least according to reaction by my mother and aunts. The Christmas edition of that magazine was an art form. From amazing photography to creative decorating suggestions-beautiful illustrations-seasonal music-poetry-and short stories, that magazine offered something for everyone all wrapped up in a big red bow or better yet-a poinsettia as poinsettias were always featured throughout the pages. When I could pull it away from others, I'd slowly make my way from the front glossy cover to the back. I'd read everything even though I was young. That didn't matter. It was the Christmas Ideals

My mother worked nights as a nurse in the ER and from about a week before Thanksgiving up to the 2nd week in December boxes of  Christmas cards went with her to the hospital. Some nights she never had time for them. That's when she would come home when her shift was over and address a few. It was her way of unwinding. My mother was very organized. She had a special box where she kept the list of names she intended to send cards to, sheets of postal stamps-each with the same Christmas image, a telephone book, and decorated Christmas seals she would lick and adhere to the fronts of the envelopes-the last step before having my father take the cards to the post office to be mailed. Organizing the list took her a long time. She'd have to make calls to relatives for updates to some. I loved looking at the list. It would be all scribbles; some names crossed out and some new ones added. She had the neatest penmanship-very small letters but very legible. The Christmas cards my mot

Growing up we had one phone in the house. It was a rotary phone similar to the one pictured above but it was a different color. It was centrally located in the living room-sitting on the edge of a bookcase my grandfather made for my mother. It sat on top of a pillow on top of that bookcase because the thing rang so loud that it sounded like an alarm despite being turned down to the lowest level. With my father being a funeral director he was called when there were accidents. There were no rescue squads back then so many times the phone rang in the middle of the night. I'd usually hear the phone-then hear him mutter some words. A few minutes later the front door would open and off he would go on what we called an 'ambulance call.' Because of the phone's location there was no such thing as a private conversation. When friends called-words were chosen carefully. And when a boy called those words were scrutinized even more-especially with an older brother around who als

There was a girl in my high school homeroom who had a pony tail to die for. She really did! While she wasn't as perky as Olivia Newton-John-she was a cheerleader. Combine that with a pony tail and you're talking one popular girl. Sometimes instead of doing my algebra homework-which was the most dreaded of all homework-I'd watch how her pony tail would swing when she turned her head. It was astonishing to me how it flowed in symphony with her movement. I figured she must have practiced in front of a mirror to have it groove like that. You see, my hairstyle at that time was the beehive-teased and sprayed so heavily that a Grade-5 Hurricane couldn't have disturbed it. Adding to my fixation of her hair was how that pony tail seemed to curl down from her head like a perfect ringlet. I was convinced she must have used Spoolies. As if that pony tail hairdo wasn't enough sometimes she'd wear her hair down. That amazed me all the more because that hair of hers curled

On pg. 94 of my copy of this Betty Crocker Boys and Girls Cook Book there's a recipe for "Gingerbread Boys." It's rather worn-with traces of flour and stains from butter used when greasing the baking sheet so many times now that I really don't have to dig the recipe book out of hiding when deciding to bake another batch. I know the recipe. I know what to heat the oven to and how long to chill the dough and how long to bake the little guys because I make them every year. I have been for a very long time. It's one of those little traditions I do and when I do it I feel connected to what this season quickly approaching is all about. It's nice to think about that before the hustle and bustle runs rampant. That's why I like to get this cook book out early-sift through and remember. I actually think the cook book belongs to my sister-or my mother might have given it to all of us. It doesn't matter. What matters are the memories when looking at the fu

When growing up out in the country, Christmas came in the mail and I don't mean email. It was wrapped inside a protective cover but we knew it was the much anticipated Sears Wish Book. The pages upon pages full of toys were looked at and marked up and dreamt about. By the time Christmas finally arrived the catalog would be without a cover; pages would be worn-some ripped apart. That magic catalog was like having Santa's Workshop right in our home. I was intrigued by all the cowboys and their horses and the stagecoaches. I'm sure that was due to some famous cowboys at the time-Lash LaRue, Hopalong Cassidy, and Roy Rogers to name a few. One year Santa brought my brother a Hopalong Cassidy radio. I was just as excited as he was. 5 p.m. every night we'd listen to it while sprawled out on the living room floor. One toy my brother always circled was a toy cork gun. And for a few years, it would be under the tree Christmas morning. There were crows included that he'

I searched for a better picture to point out how much I loved my madras shirt but this is all I could find-geeky me with my hair in pin curls and barefoot. (While the pin curls are no longer, barefoot is still a preferred way to be). It was taken on a summer evening at suppertime when we all lived in a row of four houses out on that rambling country road. We'd pool whatever anyone had prepared for supper-gathering under an aunt's pine trees. And more often than not-I'd show up wearing my madras shirt. My mother (sitting beside me sipping a cup of coffee) would have to pry the thing off me to wash it. I loved that shirt! Actually I loved anything madras. Problem was I didn't have much of anything made from it hanging in my closet. Aside from that shirt and a madras pair of shorts my choices were limited. There was a store in our downtown that carried some madras clothing but they always sold out. And needless to say-there was no internet to turn to. So I turned to th

Nothing stays the same.Take for instance, my grandparents' farmhouse. If you rode by that place today-still sitting along a certain country road-you wouldn't recognize what was once the family homestead. It looks nothing like the photo above. But it doesn't matter. When I ride by-always slowing down a bit-I see it as it used to be. The screened-in veranda with its white screen door is gone as is the red-shingle siding all around the exterior. I still see it covered in red shingles. My grandmother's peony bushes are no longer there. Except for one, the poplar trees lining the cinder driveway are gone too. When I think of that driveway I remember crashing my bike on it as I rounded the curve behind the house. I still have cinders in one of my knees as a result of going too fast probably when I was told not to. I can envision mounds of snow that would bury the driveway and hear leaves scurrying across it in the wind. I remember being so afraid one hot summer night duri