The Reindeer Keeper

Getting a kitten was never a resolution. That is too strong of a word. It was more a Hope that at some point, it would happen if all the stars aligned. In other words, if having a kitten would work out in our home due to my son Brian using a walker. I had visions of a kitten getting in his way. Making him trip. Fall down. So, for a long time, I ignored wanting a kitten. That changed when Brian brought the subject of getting a kitten up, telling me it was a good idea. So did my two grandchildren. Not long after that a search began for our long overdue kitten. My grandchildren and I found the kitten on an Amish farm in a big, old Amish barn full of kittens. We named the kitten Daphne only to later be told by a vet that Daphne was a male. It was my son who named our kitten, Tony. And Tony joined our family in early summer. Tony fit in immediately. It was as if he was custom-made for our situation. He seems to sense the meaning of the walker. He stays out of Brian's way. If he happens ...

  A few weeks ago, I posted a photo of our Christmas tree after dragging it outdoors and standing it up by the bird feeders. I secured it to the post holding the feeders, thinking it would offer additional ways and places for me to feed the flock. After one of our windy, snowy, icy storms I looked out one morning and saw the tree had blown over. It was on the ground not too far from the feeders. After a while I went out to get it standing back up again beside the feeders. But I couldn’t budge the tree. It was frozen in place. I knew I’d have to leave it there until we had a warm spell. I thought that was that. But then, the funniest, strangest thing began to happen. It’s still going on as winter is far from over. The Christmas tree turned into a hotel. A busy and spacious Bird Hotel with a marvelous view of the field. It appears to be patronized by Cardinals, Sparrows, Blue Jays, Chickadees, Woodpeckers, Mourning Doves, Rock Doves, Crows, even Squirrels and Chipmunks. Some days...

Along with the Christmas ornaments my parents bought at what was once a Woolworths store in what was once a downtown, and along with an old, tattered elf dressed in now a faded green-one of my father's favorite elves-I've again gathered all the Santas big and small that were brought out to celebrate Christmas. A few, like the ones hand painted over fifty years ago and the tiny ones bought at a Britts Dept. Store when I was the Ad Manager, and the ones still intact but a little ripped, part of a paper chain and those bought at craft shows over the years all hung on the tree. Some of the Santas on display about the house I'd discovered in a magical shed full of Christmas wreaths and one-of-a-kind, handmade decorations and centerpieces out on a back country road-the very same place we've gone to for years in search of the perfect Christmas tree. One of those precious Santas came with its own wicker sled with its own wooden reindeer and miniature toys. The other one is made...

  When I was little and I didn’t feel good, my mother would take me to a particular doctor. While I didn’t like going to see the doctor, a big cabinet sitting in his office with lots of small drawers would distract me. There were so many drawers. Little spaces for little things. Spaces to put things in. Hide things. Arrange things. Each had a label. I couldn’t read so I never knew what any of the labels said but it didn’t matter. My imagination took over. Once I reached a certain age, my doctor changed. But my infatuation for such small spaces remained. When I was going into the fourth grade, we moved to the country and playing in my grandfather’s barn with my cousins became a constant. By then, my grandfather had stopped farming. Gone were the cows and horses— and the chickens. Left behind were the small, three-sided nesting boxes where the chickens would lay their eggs. The boxes remained intact. Some still had a bit of hay and ...

This past December when going to the woods for a Christmas tree, I came back home with two trees. One was for the living room. The other was for the room where Brian and I spend most of our time. We call it the Groove room. It used to be a back porch. Now it’s where it all happens; everything from singing and dancing to TV viewing and CD listening and writing and watching the leaves turn and the snow fall and the garden grow and the deer pass by. It overlooks the back yard and the fields; a rock wall where rabbits live and the old barn with a light in the upstairs window. I’d thought about putting a small Christmas tree in the Groove room before but I never followed through. Something was telling me to do it this past Christmas. So I did. Once Christmas was over, it didn’t bother me to take down the tree in the front room but that little tree on the old back porch was a different story. Brian and I weren’t ready to say goodbye to what had become our favorite little tree. So we ...

Two little ones came to stay for a while this afternoon. The first thing they asked was if they could make cookies. I'd anticipated the question. I had the dough chilling in the refrigerator. It wasn't long before the cookie cutters were on the counter and the fun began. It was obvious from the start that thing called Wonder had returned. The Season of Christmas was in their eyes, their smiles, their laughter. It was contagious. After they'd packed up their cookies and headed home, I discovered some of that Wonder was still about the kitchen; inspiring me to make my little, faceless gingerbread men and put them in the old tin sitting on the table by the front door. As I mixed the dough and smelled the molasses and cut the little guys out, baked them, cooled them down and filled that tin, my mind wandered back to that precious time of Wondering. We remember the red suit, the beard, the ho-ho-ho. We remember leaving cookies and milk on Christmas Eve. But when you're...

Simple things sometimes come with memories of a time-a person-a moment-even simple things like Jam Tarts. After filling her pie plates with crusts kneaded to the right consistency, my grandmother would gather the leftover dough and shape it into small balls. Then she'd take her wooden rolling pin and roll the balls out one at a time. When all the little balls were flat on the flour-covered counter, she would fill them with her homemade strawberry jam, fold the edges into the center and put the tarts in the oven of her woodstove. Anticipation would mount as the sweet aroma of jam and cinnamon blending into the dough filled the kitchen-the dining room-every room of that farmhouse. Once the jam tarts were pulled out of the oven, cold milk was poured into tall glasses. Then piping hot strawberry jam tarts were enjoyed. It didn't matter what time it was or if it was a sweltering summer day. They were enjoyed as much as any fine desse...