this christmas

this would be 
the Christmas 
that our children
gave us our past
in DVD without
our even asking.

we sat,
watching our 
younger selves
at just the ages 
the kids are now
maveling at 
how young we looked
and how rested,
at a time when 
we were not.

i had triangular hair
and I thought myself 
beautiful
though now 
it's questionable. 
at least i was thin.

it is also 
the Christmas
that the soul of
our family 
didn't make it.
and that happens
when december 
feels more like july,
when weather 
and flight schedules
rule our plans.
our Christmas morning 
was not nearly as punny,
with him not here,
we just did not feel
complete.

it was the Christmas
that i was reminded
that my father 
once jumped rope
to please (maybe impress)
his grandchildren,
and it was a joy
to rewitness
his conversations
with me
from so many 
years ago.

it was a Christmas, 
when my boy brought
his bride-to-be
home 
and he gave me 
the gift of time
with him,
which is so rare.

and it was the one
when my mother
told the story of
how she met 
my father, and
of the dress she wore
on their first date,
and my daughter found 
the dress
in her closet and
brought it 
down for 
show and tell.

it was also 
the Christmas
when i was 
so busy cooking
i forgot to 
take a picture
of my kids.

so.

it is like
every Christmas:
some sadness.
some joy.
some Christmas.
yes.







and writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.

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from the forest to the trees

i've written and rewritten these first lines tonight a dozen times, and nothing seems to stick. 

what i want to tell you about is how my sister has given me Christmas trees for years, trees made from candy canes and wood and garland and wire and some laden with snowflakes that in years of wear have lost some of their shimmer. there is a quirky tree that looks as if it belongs in Whoville, (one of the oldest and my favorite) and another with a heart for its star. i want to say how now i have a virtual forest of glittery trees and how each year i walk around the house and try to figure out the perfect place to put them. should i scatter them around or place them together? 

just about now in the Christmas mayhem comes the panic: what have i missed? presents not yet bought, things left undone that may never get done, and i forget that it is like this every single year. every. single. year. 

yesterday i unpacked my trees, placing them on the mantel — a new spot for them. and today, as i bought and wrapped and decorated my mailbox, i realized that i can't make the perfect Christmas for everybody like i tried to do for so many years. and actually, that is not my job anymore. my job is to create the space for family, and to make sure there is good food on the table.

it is probably not related, but this year i put a forest on my mantel, and somehow i seems as if i am finally seeing the trees.

writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.

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the first gift.

my friend George knows the storyteller's art. he pulls you in like fresh catch, asking you questions about yourself until he lures the conversation to the tale he longs to tell. i have always loved his stories, whether they be about his extended family or set in the high school locker room we girls could never enter, or at the 8th grade lunch table or about the quirky folks who made up our town when we were children. George seems to remember everybody he's ever talked to, the conversations he's had with them, moments in class from our junior year when a misstep by a classmate turned into the perfect comic moment. how his French teacher uncle always identified his students by name en francais. he is particular in his questions, mining for more stories as you talk.

i've probably known George my whole life — i don't remember meeting him at all. he was just always there, in kindergarten, in church, in the neighborhood. in his family he is the lone boy in a sea of older sisters. his father died tragically when we were in late high school. his father's twin sister lived next door to me. 

George's mother died this past week at 91, and though i couldn't make her service today, i sat down to write him a note. and then i thought better of it. and called.

when he picks up, his drawl of a voice stretches out for the length of the block where he grew up and where some of his family still lives. he is serious at first, though he assures me that all will be fine. his mother didn't suffer long. his father's aunt — also a member of our home parish — died at 100 only a few hours after his mother, so his extended family stands caught in their grief for both women, our tiny home church fielding two funerals in two days. we talk a bit about that, and then the stories begin, stories that follow a route through memory into laughter and back again.

i'm easily lured. as the last child of a family not kin to anyone in town, our family stories don't extend beyond a generation. But George is kin to practically everybody, by birth or by marriage. and he knows at least one story about almost every one of them. if i had a day or two to sit with him (and i wish i did) i know i would hear them all.

our phone call is cut short (at 45 minutes) because of a business call he has to take, but the time with him on the phone feels so much like the first gift of Christmas that i have given myself. i tend to forget, now that my mother is no longer living in the house where i grew up, how much that house and that place mean to me. 

yes, i could have written that note (i will Mama, not to worry), but now i will treasure the story that came because of the conversation. thank you, George, old friend. keep 'em coming.



writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.

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