Christmas Memory

The traditional nativity was enacted, with the narrator reading the beloved and familiar verses from Luke. The Angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds, who journeyed to the manger to find Joseph and Mary, cradling the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes. “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” (Luke 2:13-14). The pantomime ended with the cast and congregation singing “Silent Night.”

It was the conclusion of the usual ward Christmas party, with one departure from tradition: instead of Primary children, the nativity story was portrayed by the fifteen and sixteen year olds. I don’t know how their Sunday School teachers persuaded them to don old white temple dresses and pose as angels, or to wear striped bathrobes as shepherds, but they did, and that night they played their parts with reverence, and a sense of awe came over all who watched.

For me, it was especially touching to see my sixteen year old son as an angel, the light shining on his straight blond hair as he stood next to his best friend, nearly a foot taller, with jeans and sneakers showing under the old white dress, and his five-o’clock shadow making an appearance too. But in that moment they were angels; they believed; and we believed.

These special young people have gone on to missions, college, graduate school, marriage, families, and mortgages. They are faithful and stalwart ward members living in many parts of the country, and they still hold that spark of reverence in their hearts that we all felt at that memorable night. And for that and many other reasons, their interpretation of the Nativity will always be one of my favorite Christmas memories.

Christmas in the Neighborhood

Today's Guest Blogger is JoLynne Lyon, a friend and fellow writer.

We moved to our little farming town when we were newlyweds. The first time I went out of my new door and took a walk for exercise, two of my neighbors popped out of their homes as I walked by.

“Are you stranded? Do you need a ride?” The two old gentlemen said almost exactly the same thing, as if the only reason I’d be out walking was because I could not drive. The important thing was that they wanted to help.

Now, thirteen years later, they are both gone, leaving holes in the neighborhood like gaps in a smile.

I knew Henry the best because he was out the most. He walked an old springer spaniel while his wife, Amanda, busied herself in their home and garden. After the dog died Henry walked alone, or rode an ancient bike. His energy was astounding. To this day I am not sure how old he really was. He was a retired teacher, and in his retirement he began pursuing the things that a career and seven children had kept him from doing. He tutored the neighbor girls next door. He learned to paint. He continued farming the field across from our house, and the view changed every year, from wheat to alfalfa to corn. One year the harvester could not get to the wheat on an uneven piece of his land. Henry and his grandson threshed it by hand.

I was salvaging lumber outside one day when I noticed a longhorn cow in my garden. “Hey!” I yelled. I let the hammer’s handle fall into my free hand and glared at the cow. She shook her two-foot horns at me and glared back. I had decided she could help herself to our red ripe tomatoes when Henry appeared and matter-of-factly guided her back to her pasture. She was not my cow. She wasn’t his, either.

I told Henry’s relatives how much I admired Henry and his energy, and they would hesitate, nod and leave it at that. Perhaps by then they were already getting hints of what was to come. Those of us outside the family did not realize he was losing his memory until the process was well underway. One bitterly cold night Henry appeared on my doorstep, asking for help because he was locked out of the house. We persuaded him to wait for his family at our place. He did not want to at first, perhaps because he was embarrassed. He chatted quietly while his expression asked how this could be happening to him.

I don’t know the details of his illness, and I wouldn’t tell them if I did. The weight of that story would crush many, many more years of vitality and health, of learning and determination, of fatherhood, of a whole long line of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren that turned into decent people. Still they gather across the street at Christmas, crowding the circle drive in front of his son’s house and the driveway to the side of it. I don’t know most of them. I knew Henry, and this Christmas I can only remember our last holiday visit to his home while he was still in it.

We brought our children and ate toffee made by Amanda, and chatted. Henry was subdued and quiet, but he talked to the children at their level, and I was relieved that my whole family was content to sit for a minute instead of rushing off to deliver the next treat to the next house down the road. Henry showed the kids the trinkets he and Amanda had collected over the years: some tiny skaters that glided over a pond; a penguin and a Christmas tree that danced. The kids were delighted.

Eventually we did go, and two houses down the road was Grant’s home. It was his last Christmas there, too. On past Christmases I had delivered treats during his and his wife’s family party, when their little living room had been so packed that the air was steamy and the windows dripped. This night, Grant’s wife, Bernice, greeted us alone. Grant, the man who had come out on his front porch and offered me a ride some years before, could not make it to the door that day.

“I hope you have a good Christmas,” Bernice said as she took our plate of goodies. “But you will, because you have children at home.”

That Christmas season had seemed like one endless checklist, and delivering treats had been one more item to mark off. I hadn’t planned on having an epiphany that night. It just came, thanks to my neighbors.

“I don’t want to be stupid,” I told my husband after the kids were in bed. “I don’t want to wait until the good times are over to realize we were in them.”

One of Grant’s grandsons lives with his family in Grant’s house now. Amanda lives on in the house she shared with Henry. His paintings hang on her walls, and on a wall in their son’s home, too. Amanda still chats with us when we bring treats by. Her collection of singing, dancing decorations has grown, but the silent one with Henry’s picture on it touches me the most.

Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men

Last night my husband asked me what I’d like for Christmas.“Well, to start with, I’d like peace on earth, good will toward men,” I began . . .

When visiting Dayton Ohio recently, we attended an event at Wright State University’s basketball arena. We circled the outer lobby of the facility, looking for our section, when a sign caught my attention. Actually, I stopped right in my tracks; the sign read “Bombers Club.” I wondered where “Terrorist Club” might be. I later learned that Bombers Club is an elite group of sponsors who have their own suite. Dayton is the home of aviation, the hometown of Orville and Wilbur Wright, and Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, among other av1ation-related facilities and museums. Of course the Bombers Club was around long before 9-11, and I don't suppose changing their name is an option. Longtime residents of Dayton probably don’t think twice about the club’s name.

It made me think of the changes in my own life since 9-11. We bought our home 15 years ago from a couple who retired and moved to be closer to their son. Years later, on the morning of September 11, 2001, the woman and her daughter boarded a plane in Boston, bound to LA. Instead of arriving in LA, it plowed into the first of the two Twin Towers that were the terrorists’ targets. I believe our home mourned. I knew where the daughter’s bedroom had been (from the color of the carpet) and I stood at the kitchen sink, wondering how many meals the mother had prepared from that very spot, and how many times she must have glanced out the window to see what her children were doing.

Boarding a plane, which some people still refuse to do after that agonizing day, is increasingly stressful. Every time we arrive at an airport, we are subject to modifications in the security screening procedure, even to the point of the new “three-ounce containers, one quart zipper bag in your carry-on” rules. You can’t even take a large tube of toothpaste which has been rolled up, with an ounce or two of paste left. No, the tube must be three ounces or less when it was full. A piece of foil-wrapped gum can set off metal detectors. We are forced to take off sweaters, jackets, shoes, watches, jewelry and belts, and to empty our pockets of any objects which might contain metal. Laptops must be taken out of their cases and scanned separately. No doubt the next time I travel, there will be a new rule in place. I have yet to fly when the alert level has not been “raised to orange.” It’s less stressful to simply plan ahead for these regulations, arrive at the airport earlier and follow all the rules, created to catch the bad guys, which inconvenience the good guys.

I think of the scripture, D & C: 9:30: “I tell you these things because of your prayers; wherefore, treasure up wisdom in your bosoms, lest the wickedness of men reveal these things unto you by their wickedness, in a manner which shall speak in your ears with a voice louder than that which shall shake the earth; but if ye are prepared ye shall not fear”, and still I wonder how we could have prepared for such a catastrophe to happen in our country. I believe, though, that the scripture has personal application. If we think of the worst that could happen to us in our own lives, preparation takes on a different meaning.

Preparation could mean having your will, power of attorney, living will, and other pertinent documents up to date, so family members will know of your wishes. That could save many agonizing moments and decisions, and also spare them many legal questions, if all is in order. Discussing these subjects with our children may not be easy, but it’s important. Deciding on guardianship of young children requires soul-searching and prayer, and the hope that the guardians will never be needed.

Simply knowing that we as parents have made these provisions will give our children a feeling of security.

I believe that if we listen to our prophet and follow his counsel, we shall not fear. Our 72- hour kits and emergency plans should be in place. And as we are reminded every April and October in Conference talks, we should do our best to get out of debt. We should do a better job of taking care of each other.

Then my Christmas wish takes on a different meaning, and reminds me of the many aspects of life in which I can prepare, and the importance of establishing peace in our own lives and families. And then, having done all that we can reasonably do to prepare for whatever may happen to us and our loved ones, we can take comfort and strength from the counsel of this hymn, one of my favorites:

How gentle God’s commands!
How kind is precepts are!
Come, cast your burden on the Lord
And trust his constant care.

Beneath his watchful eye,
His Saints securely dwell!
That hand which bears all nature up
Shall guard his children well.

Why should this anxious load
Press down your weary mind!
Haste to your Heavenly Father’s throne
And sweet refreshment find.

His goodness stands approved,
Unchanged from day to day;
I’ll drop my burden at his feet
And bear a song away.

The Legacy of the Glass Grapes

And it came to pass that there was a certain Mormon Sister, an industrious and cheerful homemaker, who sensed an emptiness in her life. But, ever diligent, she quickly found the source of her discontent. It was the lack of ornament on her coffee table (although, technically, ‘coffee table’ is an oxymoron in the Mormon culture). As she bore the important calling and responsibility of leading her fellow Sisters (another oxymoron) in matters of Home Beautification, she girded her loins and bravely marched into her local craft shop.

In an inconspicuous corner of the shop she found her answer in the form of walnut-sized round glass balls, rather like large beads, in great abundance. A rainbow of gold, red, pink, orange, pale green, and oh, yes, purple, glowed warmly at her. They could be wired together in clusters, trimmed with florists’ leaves, and made into an article of rare beauty─a clump of glass grapes.

Thrilled with her success, she began to impart her knowledge and skill to other Sisters, generously sharing of her time and expertise. And it came to pass that the home of every Sister in her stewardship (except the home of Sister Evergreen, who had spent five years in a commune) was graced with the centerpieces. It was as close as most Sisters would ever get to stained glass windows, anyway.

It was mesmerizing to gaze upon them as the sun shone through the lovely orbs, sending their soft beams of colored light throughout the room. Fretful children were quieted by simply gazing at them, and more than one miserable infant found relief by finally cutting a bothersome tooth on the cool, hard, smooth surfaces of the grapes. A mother was heard to croon: “And here’s little Nephi’s first tooth . . . isn’t it sweet?” while pointing out small scratches on her treasures.

And then the centerpieces took on a life of their own. Like the omnipresent (although admittedly bio-degradable) zucchini, they seemed to reproduce overnight, and began to appear all over the state of Utah, and their popularity spread throughout the Intermountain West. The Sisterhood, a strong and generous network, became anxiously engaged in spreading them across the land. It was a bountiful harvest indeed.

Within months there was not a state in the nation which did not boast at least one of the beautiful artifacts. They materialized at wedding showers, birthday parties, and anniversaries, and became as prolific as . . . well, as the Mormons themselves.

The first Christmas after their debut (The Christmas of The Glass Grapes), was fruitful indeed, nearly as successful as The Christmas of The Crock Pot, more appreciated than the Christmas of the Thigh Master, more appreciated than the Christmas of the Chia Pet, less dangerous than the Christmas of the Veg-o-Matic, which increased holiday visits to the emergency room for sutures, and definitely less painful than the Christmas of the EpiLady (the EpiLady was an alternative to leg-shaving, a device that promised to painlessly pluck hairs out at the root, while in reality causing more weeping than a Hallmark commercial).

At the height of their popularity, though documentation has not been found to substantiate this claim, some historians suggest there was even a resolution before the House which proposed that the glass grapes replace the humble (though admittedly edible) Sego Lily as Utah’s State Flower. Following spirited nonpartisan debate, however, it was defeated by a narrow margin.

The cultural importance of the grapes is undisputed. For example, at a Hooper, Utah high school graduation ceremony in 1968, one senior was heard to sing his own version of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, including the line, “He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of glass are stored.” The centerpieces inspired several novels. The Grapes of Glass, a self-published work which which unfortunately sold only 75 copies, is listed on The Endangered Books List. The author's next attempt, Grape Gatsby, was even less successful, and his heirs recently disscovered a partial manuscript among his papers, entitled Grape Expectations. Historians also note that the glass grapes were not a strictly Mormon phenomenon, though a special regard for them is evident in family histories and photographs.

After a time, the glass grapes were gradually replaced with the next generation of centerpieces, Handi-Wipe Bouquets, which had the extra advantage of being useful when their beauty faded. An entry into a newly discovered journal may provide some enlightenment as to why the grapes declined in popularity: “I curse my glass grapes whenever I dust. They are impossible to keep clean.”

As the years passed, sadly, the glass grapes largely disappeared from public view and into the realm of eBay, where they are touted as “e-treasures, antiques, vintage collectibles, a delightful remembrance of this mid century era, for which you may bid with confidence.” Though a popular item on Antiques Roadshow, the centerpieces tend to have more sentimental than monetary value.

A few families quietly continued with the tradition of making and cherishing the centerpieces, and one collector even boasts a four-generation collection of the grapes, calling them “a better reminder of my heritage than the many LDS books I inherited from my grandmother.” One, one enterprising young man, a promising student in electrical engineering, actually made a clump of them into a lamp.

Reports also exist of family squabbles over Grandma’s clusters of grapes and her grape-making supplies after the funeral luncheon, and there were even challenges to the deceased's will, though other women are apparently “too embarrassed to admit they even knew how to make" the centerpieces.

Even now the grapes wait silently in attics, basements, and thrift stores, dusty and neglected, in hopes that they will someday be discovered by an archaeologist who might say:

“Aw, heck! Just another Mormon fertility symbol, circa 1967, though this particular shade of pink is rather rare.”

Book Signing at Borders

December 1, 2007

I highly recommend the triple hot chocolate from the Borders cafe, topped with whipped cream and shaved chocolate curls . . . oh, and I had a good time at the signing, too.