At Christmas Trust Comes in Fragile Packages

Alison clutched the packet of icing in her hand. I closed my fingers over hers, squeezed her hand enough to make the icing flow and guided her fingers around the edges of the pre‑baked gingerbread man. She placed her other hand on top of mine to provide that extra ounce of aid that grandmothers love. I had bought a packet of four soft figures with two icing packs and one tube of red gel so we could have a grandmother‑granddaughter activity to do the day after Thanksgiving.

She trusted that my hand would lead hers and produce a cookie iced around with edges with two eyes, a nose, smiling lips and buttons. I trusted that a four‑year‑old would love anything that looked remotely like the picture on the package.

The white icing spewed a skin of sticky sugar on our hands as we finished outlining our "man." Alison grabbed the tube of red gel and squirted red swirls on her fingers and the belly of the cookie. She put the tube down and rubbed her sugary-red palms on her new white shirt. With her lips set in a firm line of determination, she reached for the next cookie, grabbed the icing tube and waited for my hand to close over hers. We had a pattern going.

"I'm making this for Santa Claus," she said.

"That's nice," I replied. Maybe I wouldn't have to eat one of our creatures after all. I'm not a fan of pre‑packaged ice‑your‑own cookies.

We finished our second cookie and started on the third one. "I have a cookie for Mrs. Claus, too," she said.

I didn't respond. These two icing packs were not going to be enough to outline four gingerbread men. As we worked on the fourth man, the icing ran out. Alison's eyes gleamed with a film of tears. "We haven't finished," she cried, her trust in grandmom dissolving.

Her dad, who appeared in the kitchen at the first sound of unhappiness, took over. "Now, Ali," Charlie said. "You know Santa Claus will bring socks to boys and girls who cry."

Socks? Then I remembered. My son was the man who hated socks and equated them with ashes and switches.

"But I don't want socks," she screamed.

"Then don't cry." Charlie left and I could see visions of the hated socks in her head. She sniffed back her tears, trusting that if she didn't, she would get socks.

In the meantime I had grabbed a bag of powdered sugar, some milk and a pat of butter. "Ali," I said, "we can make more icing." She watched closely and a smile shimmered on her lips. We finished our project. I had rebuilt her trust in me.

That night we snuggled into our coats for the trip to see Santa Claus, who would appear after the tree lighting ceremony in Old Town Alexandria. Alison refused to put on her wrap.

"We have to take the cookies to Santa Claus," she said, firmly staking out a spot in the kitchen.

My son started saying, "You know Santa Claus will bring socks..." But Beth, my daughter‑in‑law, shushed him. She grabbed four plastic bags and stuffed a gingerbread man in each one before placing them in a paper bag with handles.

I thought Alison would forget about the cookies long before we reached the stage to see Santa. She didn't. My son led her to Santa, and she handed him the bag of cookies.

Trust in the kindly figure, who would lift her onto his lap and listen to her list of wants, shattered.

"A child bringing Santa Claus a gift?" Santa bellowed. "I don't believe it." He held up the bag in one hand and shook a brown rope of bells in his other hand. The clatter of sounds almost drowned out his continued exclamations of "I don't believe it."

Ali stood immobile beside him like a deer stunned by a car's headlights. Her eyes stared at nothing, her eyelids didn't blink. My son grabbed her hand to lead her off the stage. Santa hurriedly reached into his box of candy canes and offered one to Ali. She didn't take it but Charlie did.

As we moved away from the stage's bright lights, Ali looked up at my son. "I didn't get to tell Santa what I wanted for Christmas," she said, her voice tentative with doubt and questions.

"He gave you a candy cane," Charlie replied.

"I'm sure we'll find another one of Santa's helpers who will listen to your list," Beth said.

I knelt down so I could look at Ali's face. "Trust me," I said, "Santa knows what you want for Christmas, and he will not bring you socks."

Translation bloopers

I was reading about the features of a new vacuum insulated food jar that I bought. The instructions said, "...it is also capable for stewing food. Please cook food via stove fire first. After boiling for a few minutes, then put the food into the food jar and screw the lid tight."

Always read the instructions first. You might get your laugh for the day.

Perfect

On a recent trip, my grandson, age 8, asked me to get a drink for him when I was getting up to refill my own glass. I forgot to ask him what flavor he wanted. Since we were in Hawai'i, I selected the guava juice for both of us.

"Perfect," he said, pronouncing each syllable of the word with precision and gusto.

No matter what you do for Brandon, he'll respond the same way. Do I always act perfectly for him or does he enjoy whatever I do even if it's not quite right? It doesn't matter. I really love being with the child, and he gets my undivided attention.

Recently I decided to apply Brandon's "perfect" response to the little things in my life. When I get eight green stoplights in a row, I say, "perfect." I try to pronounce the word just as Brandon does. Even when I sail through seven out of eight stoplights, I'll bellow out the word.

It's fun to salute the little things in life that go right, even those things that are not quite perfect.

Thanks, Brandon.

New Year's Resolutions?

When you think about it, New Year's Resolutions are really guilt trips for what you failed to accomplish during the preceeding year.

For years I had three resolutions -- lose weight, exercise and write. During the year my three goals always lurched to a crawl or just stagnated. Making these same resolutions every year got boring so I stopped.

Now I have another resolution -- be open to the all the possibilities that crop up in the next 12 months.

Don't fear something new. Change is good.

Look at all the new things that happened to me in the last year. I discovered crocs with a fake fur lining. A friend told me about the history lectures available from The Teaching Company, and I got hooked. I discovered Nintendo DS Lite and brain games. I took a creative non-fiction writing class and joined several class members in a monthly writing group.

I can't wait to see what next year brings.

"Close enough for government work"

The other day I was in the grocery store and the young butcher was weighing out the salmon that I was buying. I had asked for three-quarters of a pound and the salmon filet on the scale was a bit higher.

"Close enough for government work," I said. He looked at me with a blank expression. Another butcher heard my comment and came over. Neither of them had ever heard the phrase. I explained that while the weight wasn't perfect, it would do. I added that I had been hearing and using the expression for years.

When I got home, I googled the phrase. Wikipedia gave me the most information. I hadn't known that the phase "good enough for government work" originated in WWII and meant the work met rigorous standards. By the 1960s the expression had degenerated to the meaning I had always known -- not quite perfect. Wiki noted that the phrase was mainly used in the South.

This is not the first time that I've used expressions and get asked to explain what I'm saying. My, how the generations do change.

A cat story

The cat we didn't own died this week. I can't remember how Tonic sneaked his way into our affections four years ago. His owner joked that we were Tonic's god parents. We joked that we provided the cat with adult day care.

For his part, Tonic found a bit of cat-heaven on earth. We fed him expensive cat food, treats, shrimp, coho salmon and tuna. He slept on our slaps or snuggled beside us during the day. At night we let him outdoors. He went home to royal treatment from his owner who paid the vet bills and had the joy of cramming pills down a cat's throat.

When I hosted meetings of various groups in the living room, Tonic greeted each guest and persuaded at least one of them to invite him up onto the sofa. I usually didn't allow Tonic to sit on the living room furniture so he took advantage of the situation when he could.

Tonic never met a stranger. Another neighbor occasionally provided him with treets. And I heard a rumor that Tonic almost conned a cat sitter into thinking he was the cat that needed food and care.

We'll miss Tonic. He left a legacy of happy memories.

Housing shortage for Ghosts

Everyday you pass these modest forty- and fifty-year-old houses that blend in with their surrounding shrubbery and huge trees. A week later, there is a gaping swarth of land and you wonder what happened to the house and its landscaping. The only thing that's left is the asphalt or concrete driveway. The fabric of the manicured street now has a hole in it. In a few weeks, stacks of lumber and cement blocks line one side of the property. You know that a house twice the size of the old one will soon dwarf the remaining modest homes in the neighborhood.

It's a scene that is replayed too often in the city's modest neighborhoods. There may be a housing downturn in other parts of the country, but not here.

It's sad that no one apparently wants to take an older home and remodel it. I know a house is just mortar, brick and clapboard. But there is an ambiance to old homes that speaks to those of us who love history.

I remember going into a house, built in the 1850s, that had been remodeled into a shop on the ground floor with living quarters on the second floor. Pieces of history still lived in that house, including a ghost. The owner told me that two rooms on the second floor were always dust free and neat, no matter how messy the rooms had been left the previous evening.

Houses have to live long enough to collect ambiance or friendly spirits. And I still want to borrow that ghost.