A Walker in the Suburbs

Yesterday passed in a blur of family and friends, of early rising, early church, roasting and baking, stirring and stuffing. For many, today is a holiday, a day off work or school, time to ease back into ordinary life, to put aside the apron — or the bunny ears.

Claire and Celia assure me that no animals were harmed in the taking of this photo — unless you count excessive treat consumption as harm.

We have often wondered if Copper feels embarrassed by some of the costumes imposed upon him through the years. The only one we were sure about was when we dressed him in a hot dog costume one Halloween. That was … until yesterday. These bunny ears are a close second.

(Photo: Claire Capehart)

Today — 12/13/14 — is the last sequential date most of us now living will ever see. The next one won’t occur until the year 2101. 

I learned this from the Washington Post. Had I not read the Style Section I would probably have passed through the day oblivious to it’s being the last sequential day in almost a century. But reading the article, I realize how many other numerically remarkable days I’ve missed — 11/11/11, for instance, or 11/12/13. The 21st century has had a bounty of them!

I did note the numerical significance of 10/10/10 (in this blog, as a matter of fact). But that, too, was a matter of happenstance.

All I know is that 12/13/14 is less than two weeks till Christmas. And that’s all the numerical significance I need for now.

The Christmas tree moves slowly from hillside to hearth. It spent its first week in a bucket beside the garage, not the most glamorous entrance but a respectable path to greatness. It’s what happens to trees cut early. The old “hurry up and wait,” yes, but something more — a tree chosen by all of us had to be chosen early.

We wrestled the tree into the house on Sunday but until yesterday it sat darkly in the corner, displacing the console, lamp and rocking chair that are usually there. But yesterday Claire visited, worked her magic, and now the tree lacks only ornaments.

As the tree evolves, I have time to contemplate its significant moment of passage. Is it the choosing, the cutting, the standing, the watering? It is, I’m convinced, the illuminating. The red, blue, green, orange and white bulbs (not the fairy lights, but the real thing, the opaque C7s) have turned a field tree into an emblem.

The lights are on, the corner is bright again. Christmastime is here.

They came from Peru and Uganda and Poland and Germany. They were made of wood and porcelain, silver and stone. They were small and large, sweet and serious.

The creches I saw this morning after Mass were assembled for blessing. They were family heirlooms, souvenirs of travel, some a little battered around the edges.

The nativity scene I grew up with is in no shape to photograph. It’s battered and chipped and its little cardboard stable would be in the trash if I didn’t own it.  But it figures into my earliest Christmas memories and is precious for that reason.

This is a new creche, a little ornament I bought today. I’m giving it to Claire for her first Christmas tree. I hope it will work its way into some memories, too.