The Reindeer Keeper

The other day as big, fluffy, beautiful January snowflakes fell, Brian started listening to a Gordon Lightfoot CD I'd bought him for Christmas. I bought it for one particular song that he's always liked. After he listened it, I suggested he listen to the other songs, telling him the other Gordon Lightfoot songs were just as good. So he did. I was in the kitchen when a certain song started playing. It used to be a favorite of mine (still is) so I started sing ing as I began to gather ingredients to make him an omelet. "How do you know that song?" he asked. "I don't remember. I've just always liked it." "Come sit down and listen to it." So I did. It was peaceful sitting there with the snow falling about the fields. I went on a bit about the beauty in winter; the peace I find in the stillness and how absolutely breathtaking it was outside. Of course Brian has heard me go on and on about winter many times before. This time h

On mornings like this morning when waking up to a breathtaking soft and fluffy snowfall, I think of my mother. Growing up, on days like these, she'd go to our 'entertainment console'-a big, clumsy piece of furniture made for stubbing toes, where inside there was an AM/FM radio which was a big deal, a record player for all of our many 45 records and 331/3 albums (a really big deal) as well as a storage place for the albums-albums including Sonny & Cher, The Beatles, Glen Miller, Perry Como, Simon & Garfunkel, Boston Pops, Frank Sinatra, and So many more. Of all of her choices on those wintry, snowy mornings, she'd always select a Dean Martin album and when that funny and talented man began singing, "It's a Marshmallow World", she'd sing and dance around the house while dusting, doing dishes, making beds. She'd play that song over and over again. Sometimes, if I was there, I'd pretend to be annoyed-that's just what preteens an

When growing up and playing in the dining room of my grandparents’ farmhouse with my cousins, I remember being told to be careful of the china cupboard because it held all of my grandmother’s china, including tea cups with matching saucers and serving dishes, as well as plates and silverware kept in a particular box lined with velvet. We were told most everything in that china cupboard was kept for good. When I was a little girl I loved sitting in the middle of my parents’ bed and looking through my mother’s jewelry box covered with-yes again, velvet-midnight blue velvet. Everything in that jewelry box seemed to glisten. Gently touching the strands of jewels and stones and rings that glittered, I felt like a princess getting ready for the ball. But there were a few things I’d been told not to touch, like the long, narrow box holding my mother’s pearls and another holding a cameo brooch with matching earrings my father bought for my mother. I’d been told those pieces were kept for

Before last week’s mini ice storm I’d put some suet out for the birds in a clustered bunch of bird feeders. A few of the feeders are made of wood that’s now worn with plastic dividers chipped in the corners. One feeder is made of small, colorful pieces resembling stain glass that glitters when the sun is shining. Once the ice storm hit with howling winds and snow falling and ice forming, many of the remaining seeds in the feeders went flying. Many ended up on top of the ice covering the ground while even more of them ended up under the feeders. Seeds just sitting there on the ice and under the feeders attracted a variety of birds but more often than not, only the big birds were able to conquer the slippery ice; then grab some seeds and take off to a nearby tree to enjoy their winter feast. Of all the birds that were out there, it was one little bird that caught my eye. She was very small but determined. As my son Brian and I watched her fight for a seed, we found ourselves che

In early November, I received a Christmas gift from a cousin I spent most every day with when growing up out in the country in that row of four houses filled with relatives. The gift came in a large manila envelope. Inside there was a Christmas card with copies of what started out as an idea we had and turned into a ‘family newspaper’. I don’t know how old we were when we had the idea of ‘publishing’ a family newspaper but it didn’t take long before the idea turned into a reality. We called our newspaper the ‘Burns Row Journal’—named after our grandparents. We decided it would be a weekly. Starting out, we’d charge five cents a copy. Every Saturday night, the ‘presses’ were rolling, meaning we sat down and hand-printed four copies of our newspaper. Delivery was always Sunday morning to each of the four houses. While the first copies of ‘The Journal’ were small, content quickly grew to offer our readers more than just news, which was a combination of family news and national ne