The Creches

The Creches

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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.

The Dome in Darkness

The Dome in Darkness

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Driving in this morning, dark skies, rain on my windshield, I waited, as I always do, for that first glimpse of the city. It’s a low city, D.C., but there is a spot on the Roosevelt Bridge where you can see both the Washington Monument and the Capitol dome.

The Monument, earthquake repairs complete, stands in all its unsheathed glory. Now it’s the Capitol dome’s turn for repairs. It’s been more than 50 years since the last major work was done, and the dome needs cast iron filler, new windows and paint. Without them, the dome — and even artwork in the rotunda — will be in danger.

I’d dreaded the project, worried about how it would spoil the view of the Capitol. But what a picture it makes at night. The dome glows within its cage, giving the scaffolding an airy, ethereal feel and amplifying the impression the dome always gives, which is that it floats above the rest of the city.

The only difference is that now it looks a bit fuzzy around the edges. The scaffolding — and the darkness — make their own artistic statements.


(Photo: Courtesy Architect of the Capitol.)

That’s E-Life

That’s E-Life

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Speaking of the dark side, I’ve spent much of the last two days thinking, writing about and dealing with technology. The dealing-with part is funny, because while covering a competition in which students presented various expert legal systems (high-level stuff for my feeble brain), I was confronted with a tech emergency of my own.

My little digital tape recorder was suddenly beeping and declaring itself full. I made do the old-fashioned way — by taking notes. But the juxtaposition of the two events made me smile.

We are riding so high with our smart phones and tablets and computers — until we aren’t! That’s E-life, I guess.

(Old-school knowledge delivery vehicles.)

Cyber Shopping

Cyber Shopping

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I have not yet gone completely over to the dark side, but night before last I spent several hours succumbing to the unique pleasures of Cyber Monday. It’s a strange experience, shopping online. I’ve done it often before, of course, but never is such, uh, volume.

There are the obvious differences: One is not strolling through a store, searching for and finding and then touching the merchandise. One is sitting on the couch in fuzzy pink bedroom slippers while a cold rain falls. The coziness of the living room may inspire more of a spending frenzy. But I don’t think so. The bargains speak for themselves.

More to the point, there is an unreality to it. The slacks and sweaters and blouses look like paper doll clothes. I could almost cut them out and fold their little tabs over the shoulders of cardboard models.

But instead I whip out my tired old credit card, type in the numbers and click “Buy.” It’s all so easy and virtual — until the boxes and the bills start arriving. I’m expecting them tomorrow.


(Even cyber gifts must be wrapped in real paper.)

Back to Africa

Back to Africa

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I tracked Suzanne’s flight across the ocean — her plane was off the coast of northern Europe by the time I went to bed — and am now checking the status of her connecting flight to Africa. That plane is flying south over France, the Mediterranean, Algeria, Mali and Niger, and is scheduled to arrive in Cotonou at 9:30 tonight (3:30 my time) — 24 hours after we said goodbye at Dulles Airport.

Suzanne returns to a life I can barely imagine — a place where taxis are motorcycles, kings ride on horseback, and electricity and running water are sometime things. Her digs in the capital are relatively deluxe compared to her life in village, where she drew water from a pump, took bucket baths and shared a latrine.

What struck me most from the stories she told is the deep faith of the people. Some worship Jesus, others worship Allah, most all believe in magic of one sort or the other. Many educated people live their whole lives without riding on a plane or leaving their country. Their lives are hemmed in by the unknown far more than ours are.

I was thinking of this today while reading Ursula Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness: “‘The Unknown,’ said Faxes’s soft voice in the forest, ‘the unforetold, the unproven, that is what life is based on. Ignorance is the ground of thought. Unproof is the ground of action.”

Farewell to Suzanne

Farewell to Suzanne

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For six weeks I’ve been joking that I would tie Suzanne to a chair to keep her from boarding the plane back to Benin. Now the moment is here: she leaves today.

But I’ve come up with a better idea. In a month I’m planning to visit her.

So it’s “see you soon” instead of “goodbye” — “a bientot” instead of “au revoir.”

Don’t know how I could let her go otherwise …

Farewell to the Teenage Years

Farewell to the Teenage Years

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This is the second to last day of the month — but the absolute last day for me to be the parent of a teenager. It was an era that began innocuously enough in October of 2001 — but stepped up in intensity as years progressed and there were three teenage girls in the house.

Oh, the drama! Oh, the laughter! Oh, the driving lessons, the boyfriends, the required parental participation in track meets and band concerts and cookie dough sales. Oh, the anger and the misunderstandings and the hours spent waiting for texts and phone calls to be returned. Oh, the late nights and the early mornings and the long talks after which things finally seemed right again.

It’s all part of growing up, I know, part of separating and achieving independence. Also nature’s way of preparing parents to be empty-nesters.

Now that the waters are calmer (notice I said “calmer” not “calm”), now that I have three young adults who are kind, generous and funny — in other words, now that the teenage years are ending — it’s possible to write a post about the teenage years. Before now, it hasn’t been.

So here’s to the next era, when all three girls are in their 20s. Can they be that old? Can I? Nah, it isn’t possible!

Thanksiving Table

Thanksiving Table

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The Thanksgiving table before the bird, before the whipped yams with candied pecans, before the oyster stuffing and the mashed potatoes and the broccoli with capers. Before the pumpkin praline pie.

Before the wine and the “cheers” and the conversation.

Before the Black Friday sales, which had not yet started when I snapped this shot, which I’m happy to say we did not attend.

Before the day we leave for home, which (sigh) we will do soon.

The Thanksgiving table is behind us; the gratitude remains.

The Guestbooks of Thule

The Guestbooks of Thule

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I’ve always been an adventurous traveler, preferring trips to places
I’ve never been before. I’m seeing now what great good comes from
returning over and over to the same place, a family place, in this case a cottage named Thule. 

Flipping through the old guestbooks here, seeing the girls’ handwriting change through the years, reading entries from those no longer with us, I gain for a few minutes what I’m always craving but so seldom have — perspective.

I remember the party boats, campfires and paddles into secret coves, the skits and the late-night swims. I also recall how nervous I was when the children were young. Would they fall out of the canoe? Could they swim across the lake and back?

Reading the old journals, it all comes back to me — the time when Claire split her foot on a shell, the visit when Suzanne almost drove her grandmother’s car off the road, the summer when Celia learned to kayak. All those visits are part of them, part of me — and part of this place. Reading the guestbooks brings them alive again.

Time for Sun

Time for Sun

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What a difference the sun makes. It’s cold, slightly above freezing, a steady breeze blowing off the lake. But the day is friendly, not the alien weather of yesterday, which was inhospitable to humans.

I say this from experience, after first rambling along the shore and then trudging up to the ridge, where the combination of exertion and distance from the lake made the temperature almost bearable.

Today there are sounds of life, some hammering next door, an occasional car engine. It’s time for me to go outside — if for no other reason than to know how good it feels to come back in!