The entrance to Drury Lane: to the left is Lake Superior, to the right is a donut shop
On the shore of Lake Superior, there is a small independent bookstore in Grand Marais, Minnesota, called Drury Lane Books. It’s my happy place. When I feel tired, sad, angry, or bored, I conjure up an image of the charming store, then I walk inside and sit in the window seat lined with a bright-blue cushion. In my hands I hold the perfect book, pulled from a glossy-white shelf. And I fall hopelessly in love with the characters and their stories. It’s Zen.
A cozy nook inside of Drury Lane
Last October my sister and I actually visited Drury Lane three times in one weekend. (I bought a collection of short stories and two novels.) During our first visit, the churning waves on Lake Superior roared so loudly that conversation outside the bookstore was difficult, unless we wanted to shout. And while we could have sat in the wooden chairs on the beach and read our new books, the cold, strong-fisted winds would have ripped pages from our hands. The next day the winds abated, but it was still chilly. So, we read our books in a local coffeehouse while sipping hot mugs of tea and coffee.
Drury Lane dreaming puts a smile on my face.
A great place to read a book, as long as Lake Superior is behaving
Ziva and her birthday present, big enough for her and a small pony, January 2024
Ziva was born in Barrett, Minnesota, on a rolling farm, but has lived her life in Wisconsin at the tip of Lake Superior. Her father’s name was Rufus and her mother’s name was Ziva. So, yes, Ziva is named after her mother, but she is also named after Ziva David from the TV show NCIS. I think the Ziva David character is very kick-ass with a great sense of humor. Our Ziva, however, is a forty-six-pound baby, who has more in common with the Cowardly Lion. But our Ziva does make us laugh. Her full name is Ziva Baby, and it suits her
March 2019
If I show you a picture of Ziva, you will probably think she is a black poodle. But, we’re not so sure. When Ziva was three-and-a-half months old, two different poodle breeders told me she was actually a blue poodle. “What’s that?” people sometimes ask. In Travels with Charley, John Steinbeck describes his blue standard poodle, Charley, by saying that he looks like a dirty black poodle who needs a bath.
When she was three months old, I enrolled Ziva in a puppy socialization class. She had mixed feelings about the course. She was okay with the part where she got to sit on my lap while the dog trainer answered questions. And she didn’t mind being passed around from human to human. But when it was time to mingle with the other puppies, she crawled under the bench and hid behind my legs. Finally, the dog trainer placed us with a group of designer micro dogs, figuring the teeny-tiny pups wouldn’t be as scary. Ziva still crawled behind my legs. When she finished puppy socialization class, she was given a certificate of completion. Purely a feel-good thing because she was too shy to socialize with the other puppies.
December 2013, a Bulldog fan
Riding high on Ziva’s lack of success in the puppy class, I enrolled her in an obedience class. She loved it. No one expected her to play with the other dogs. She excelled, and after two sessions, she was clearly the teacher’s pet. Me, not so much. Turns out it was not your traditional sit-stay-come-heel class. I had unknowingly enrolled Ziva in a class that was for people who wanted to compete in dog shows or obedience trials with their canines. Ziva learned so quickly that the dog trainers used her to demonstrate different walking moves and turns. The problem? When I had to perform with Ziva, I was all left feet, with no sense of rhythm. Ziva got praise, I got scolded. We only went back to the class a third time because I had to return a collar I had borrowed. After we dropped off the collar, I told the instructor I had to take Ziva out to go potty. But we got back in the car, and feeling like that adolescent girl who couldn’t make the pom squad, I cried. Ziva licked my chin, and crawled onto my lap. We became dog school dropouts.
Ziva with her favorite toy, Ducky
For years Ziva was a reader — books, magazines, and newspapers. She loved to chew on the written word. I still have the copy of All Quiet on the Western Front that we both savored, except I wasn’t the one who left teeth marks on it. I learned to walk around the house and make sure every book and magazine was put where she couldn’t reach it. But her desire to read triumphed, and she became resourceful. She put her paws on tables and scooped up books. She threaded her face between two couches set at a right angle and slipped my quilting magazines off the bottom shelf of the end table. She poked her snout between the chairs at my desk (placed to keep her out) and selected books off the ledge under the desk. When I successfully blocked these accesses to my books and magazines, she started reading boxes of tissues. So, I left old newspapers on the coffee table in case she wanted to read. About once or twice a month, I’d return home to find shredded newsprint all over the floor. These days she seems to be over her urge to “read.” Perhaps she has become farsighted.
May 2018, after a day at the spa
If her sister, Cabela, had a toy she wanted, Ziva would run to the back door and pretend she wanted to go outside. Cabela loved to play outside, so she would drop her toy and run to the door too. My husband or I would open the door. But as soon as Cabela was outside, Ziva turned around and grabbed the toy Cabela had dropped. Cabela is gone now, but Ziva uses this technique on my husband and me. She stands by the back door and pretends she wants to go outside, when we open the door, she does a half turn and stands in front of the microwave, looking up at her bowl of treats. We laugh at her and turn away. But she will do it again and again because she occasionally gets the treat.
Ziva loves a car ride, January 2023
Ziva loves to go for rides. She knows when it’s Sunday morning because that is grocery shopping day. She loves to hear “Want to go to the bank?” because she can withdraw treats. When we get the suitcases out, she knows we are going to Michigan. Sometimes Ziva gets carsick, so we keep old towels and blankets on the van floor, and on long trips we give her Dramamine. She is a true road warrior.
Ziva is ready for the big game between the Buffalo Bills and the Kansas City Chiefs. She believes she has the best seat in the house. It’s a bed sized for an Irish Wolfhound or a Great Dane. She has room for a companion on this bed, but she would object to another dog sharing it. However, she would share her oversized cushion with my seven-year-old grandson, who snuggles with her on the couch. He has already tried out the bed and declared it “very cozy!”
but I’m pulling for the Bills, who have never won a Super Bowl.
And no, Ziva doesn’t think it’s necessary to watch the action. She will just listen to Tony Romo and Jim Nantz call the game. She doesn’t care about the temperature and wind conditions on the field. She doesn’t care who wins. But she likes that Taylor Swift is there cheering on her beau. And by the way, so does my eighty-three-year-old mother, who went to see Swift’s Eras Tour in the theater and loved it. After all, “Girls just wanna have fun, that’s all they really want.”
My husband and I walked into the grocery store on Sunday morning, and while he bought his weekly lottery ticket, I walked toward the deli. I never hang around while the clerk at the service counter tells him that he hasn’t won anything. And I hope if he does win something, it will only be a small comfortable amount, enough to pad the savings account a bit, with some left over for a reasonable amount of fun, like a car trip to Maine instead of a first-class world cruise.
Before shoppers can reach the deli counter, they are tempted by a large oval salad bar, filled with leafy greens, hot and mild peppers, shredded cheeses, tomatoes, sliced eggs, julienned carrots, olives, and loads of other assorted toppings. I never buy anything from the salad bar. It’s expensive, so I slice and dice my own salad goods. Also, while I’m not too worried about germs, I draw the line at eating food that has been sitting in the open, and crammed with serving utensils that have been handled by lots of other people. But I always look at the salad bar because it’s big and strategically placed.
As I neared the salad bar, I spotted a gleeful chickadee pecking at some salad fixings. I thought about the chickadees in my yard who visited the bird feeder and had to eat ordinary black sunflower seeds. I stood and watched the audacious little bird who had invaded the grocery store. I should have been grossed out, but I was amused. Humans take so much wildlife habitat that I had to admire the plucky little fellow who had somehow found his way into a large grocery store and was helping himself to the salad bar without using tongs.
I wasn’t the only human who noticed the black-capped bird enjoying a spread so big he must have felt he had won the lottery. A deli clerk hustled up to the salad bar and tried to shoo the bird away, but chickadees aren’t that intimidated by humans, and he refused to move. The food was too good. The clerk reached for him with both of her hands, and I think she could have managed to cup the feasting bird in her palms. But just as she was about to try, she hesitated and pulled her hands back. She went to the deli and came back with two plastic containers. She tried to capture the bird between the two containers, but at the last moment the bird zipped to the other end of the salad bar and kept eating, after all it was a smorgasbord.
The clerk rounded the counter. “Get away from my salad bar,” she said, waving her hands at the bird who took flight and landed among a gathering of grapes. The grapes were all packaged, so he headed to the tomato stand. When the clerk approached, he decided to check out the watermelon. She followed him, and he took off again. He flew to the meat department and landed at the back of a shelf filled with trays of chicken. Two more clerks arrived and the three of them stood in front of the meat section, discussing how to catch the chickadee. But the little Houdini escaped again. This time he soared to the ceiling, where he could evade capture and have a bird’s-eye view of the store while waiting for a second chance at the salad bar.
My husband and I finished our shopping without seeing the chickadee again. After we paid for our groceries, I turned to head back to the deli. I wanted to ask if they had caught the chickadee. But I stopped. If they had hurt or killed it while trying to catch it, I didn’t want to know. I had been tickled by the little bird who had invaded the grocery store and grazed at the birdfeeder of his dreams. And, I worried the little fellow’s bold adventure would end badly. I felt guilty that I had taken joy from a situation that had put the wee bird in peril.
This past week I had the pleasure to sit and color with some five- and six-year-old children. We sat in small chairs at a short-legged table. Scattered along the table were boldly colored plastic travel containers meant to hold bars of soap, but which instead held crayons, both broken and whole.
Our coloring sheets were all winter themed. Snowmen, mittens, penguins in stocking caps, penguins ice skating, a snow globe filled with miniature log cabins.
We chose our colors carefully and kept our eyes on our papers because we each had a vision for our piece. But, of course, we talked — we were, after all, a community of coloring companions.
Inspired by the picture of mittens, we talked about gloves and mittens. They’re the same thing, said one child. Actually, I said, with mittens all your fingers stay together, and with gloves each finger goes in a separate finger. The child kept coloring her mittens, and said, Yes, but they’re the same thing. I let it go. She will learn about the differences between gloves and mittens soon enough. No need to rush these things.
We talked about our artwork. Do you like my rainbow mittens? Look at my penguin’s hat, isn’t it pretty? Do you like my picture? The children weren’t shy about crowing or asking for compliments. At five and six, they’re so unabashed — Look what I made, don’t you love it? I answered each one of them — Yes, so colorful! Such a pretty green hat! So lovely!
It won’t stay that way. Soon they’ll learn: Don’t boast, don’t brag, don’t fish for compliments. And for a moment, as I looked at their proud, happy faces, I wondered if there couldn’t be something in-between.
The editor of Perfect Duluth Day puts out a list every two years or so.
The “Guide to Duluth-related Blogs” was published in 2022 by Perfect Duluth Day, which is itself a blog, along with an events calendar and a section called “Saturday Essay,” where I’ve had three essays featured over the last couple years. But until yesterday, I hadn’t known that I’d been recognized as an active area blogger. This isn’t a prize or a big coup, but it made me smile like a red-carpet celebrity anyway.
In the photo to the right, I’m the blogger in the middle, standing in front of Lake Superior in Two Harbors, Minnesota, wearing my favorite raincoat, a raspberry red, flannel-lined Pendleton that I bought while shopping with my favorite aunt. My granddaughter took the photo.
I’ve been blogging since fall 2020. One Hundred and ninety-five people follow my blog. But out of those 195 followers, a certain percentage are hustling products. For example, I write about my dogs a lot, so occasionally companies who use blogs to market canine merchandise will “like” and “follow” my blog. Most likely an algorithm does this for them. And while I don’t write about makeup, skin care, or fashion, I have some followers who sell beauty products. Again, probably an algorithm, however misguided because I don’t wear makeup or use skincare products.
I don’t want to know how many of my 195 followers are companies trying to hawk products. Instead, I enjoy the people who interact with me via likes and comments. It’s heartwarming to know that something I wrote resonated with someone out there. So, thank you to all my readers. And thank you to Perfect Duluth Day for recognizing that I’m an active blogger in their area. As someone who knows she should get more exercise, it was nice to be labeled as active.
In an effort to hit 200 followers, I’m posting this picture of my standard poodle, Ziva. She had a bath and a haircut today at the doggie spa. She’s wearing a crystal and faux leather collar my mother bought for my first standard poodle, Bailey. As you can see Ziva is a reluctant, humble diva (but only when I take her picture). So, if there are any companies out there selling glamorous dog merch, turn on your algorithms. Ziva might be in the market for a glitzy coat, fur-lined booties, or specially formulated dog shampoo.
Bogey is the tall, fluffy poodle. Ziva, my poodle, stands in front of him.
“We’ve had this conversation before,” Ziva says. She is smaller than Bogey, four years older than Bogey, and a guest in his house. And he could easily knock her to the floor. But none of that stops her from putting her four paws down when he tries to play with a toy at night.
“Don’t touch that ball. Definitely, don’t squeak that ball,” Ziva says. “I tell you this every time I come to visit.” And she does. For the last eight years or so, Ziva has accompanied my husband and me to Petoskey, Michigan, whenever we visit my mother.
A moment before this photo was snapped, Bogey asked my mother to open the closet door. (If you look to the right in the photo, you can see his box of toys in the closet.) His yellow duck rested on the top, but Bogey selected the white ball because it has a delicious squeak, and because my mother will toss it in the living room for him. This is his nightly routine when we aren’t visiting Mom, and he sees no reason to give it up just because there’s company.
This bothers Ziva. And it bothers me too. Everyone has settled in on a couch or a chair. The humans are talking and watching TV. It’s hard to hear anything over the noise of Bogey’s squealing ball and stomping feet.
Tonight, Ziva rebukes Bogey as soon as she hears the first shriek from the ball. She springs from the couch where a second ago she seemed to be in a deep sleep and barks as she approaches him. Bogey drops the ball before she reaches him.
“Go ahead. I double dare you!” Ziva says, watching Bogey while she looks askance at the ball. They stand close together, frozen, for at least a minute. She doesn’t make a move for the ball because she doesn’t want it. She never wants his toys. At eight o’clock at night, she wants peace and quiet. Bogey has turned his head away, and refuses to make eye contact. He waits for her to go away, but she doesn’t. Not another word passes between them. Like a pair of disgruntled lovers, they’ve had this conversation so many times over the years that it has now become a wordless exchange, each side knowing what the other side would say if they did speak.
Ziva, asleep, yet completely tuned in
Ziva refuses to retreat. Finally, Bogey gives up and leaves the ball. He crawls under the long skinny table behind his favorite couch and sulks and waits. Ziva returns to her favorite couch.
Ten minutes later Bogey emerges from under the table and silently shuffles to the closet. He roots through his box of toys and pulls out a multi-colored stuffed caterpillar. He slinks into the den with his toy. He knows if he enters the living room with it, he won’t be allowed to have it. The ball Bogey had wanted to play with still lays on the living room floor. If Ziva heard him, she ignored him, allowing him a small victory.
Even tucked out of sight in the den, Bogey knows not to make the caterpillar squeal. He’s a very smart dog, and he has never won this argument.
One of mom’s trees before she started putting them in front of the mirrored wall in the living room. Unfortunately, I have no pictures of the later Christmas trees.
At Christmas time when I was a child, my mother transformed our old farmhouse into a magical place. Fresh boughs of evergreen, sprayed with canned snow and trimmed with white twinkle lights, nestled on the mid-shelf of the corner hutch in the dining room. The soft glow of pastel-colored icicle lights outlined the large picture window in the living room. A tall, portly Christmas tree festooned with old fashioned ornaments and C7 lights stood in front of a mirrored wall, which made it appear as if we had two trees. Mom always bought a real tree. She would ask the attendant to hold tree after tree, while she walked around each one. The tree had to look good from all sides, and the trunk had to be straight. Once she sent my father to pick out the tree, but only once. Father’s tree spurred a loud conversation and a few tears.
Mom baked loads of homemade cookies, filling round tins with Mexican wedding cakes, sugar cookies, peppermint meringues, gingerbread men, and spritz cookies. In the days before Christmas, I skimmed cookies, sneaking one now and then from a tin then rearranging the remaining ones to fill the empty space.
The weekend before Christmas Mom took us to the American Soda Water Company, a place filled with bottles of the tastiest soda in so many delicious flavors, such as grapefruit, grape, strawberry, cherry, orange, root beer, cream, lime, cherry cola, black cherry, and more. She pushed the cart in which she had placed a wooden case that held twenty-four bottles. My siblings and I buzzed around the aisles plucking our favorite flavors and some of our father’s favorites. After we filled the case, mother placed another empty case on top of the full one. We would leave the store with four cases of soda, enough to see us well into the New Year because we weren’t allowed more than two or three a week. But we pilfered the occasional bottle of soda. Eventually, only empty bottles remained in the wooden cases, and Mom returned them to the soda company and collected her deposit, a nickel a bottle.
Winter at the farmhouse. The only animals we ever owned were dogs and cats. But it had been a working farm at one time. The buildings in the background belonged to neighbors.
On Christmas eve, my siblings and I nestled under our covers and tried to sleep. And when I couldn’t, I peered out the small window at the side of my bed and searched the starry sky, hoping to spot Rudolph’s red nose. However, by the time I was six, thanks to a know-it-all neighbor boy who was three years older than me, I knew there was no Santa Claus. Still, wanting to believe, I looked for Santa’s sleigh in the sky, and when I spotted red lights on a commercial jet heading to Billy Mitchell Airport, I would pretend it was Jolly Old St. Nick with Dasher and Dancer, Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid, and Donner and Blitzen, all led by Rudolph and his shiny nose.
Eventually all was quiet in the house, my siblings and I softly snoring and dreaming of Christmas morning. At this time, my mother’s shift as Santa’s elf would begin. It took her hours to wrap presents for her four children. She couldn’t do this ahead of time because she needed her Christmas bonus from Marc’s Big Boy where she worked as a waitress, which she received just a few days before Christmas. Bonus money in hand, she drove to the store and paid off the layaway balance on our gifts, which she hid in the trunk of her car until Christmas Eve when her children were all fast asleep. Each package she wrapped with bright cheerful paper and tied up with ribbons or decorated with bows. She artfully arranged them under the tree as if she were staging a scene for the Gimbels storefront window in downtown Milwaukee. Then in the wee hours before dawn she slipped into bed for a few hours’ sleep.
We had strict orders not to wake my parents too early. This meant we weren’t to get out of bed until about eight o’clock. But sometimes before dawn, we might tiptoe down the stairs and into the living room to see the presents under the tree. We kept our distance, not wanting to break the mystical spell of the Christmas tree tending to our gifts tucked under its boughs. And we didn’t want to get into trouble with our parents. We tiptoed back up the stairs and climbed back into our beds. Waiting.
Christmas morning, circa 1969
Christmas morning never disappointed. We opened our presents one at a time because my parents wanted to see us enjoy each of our gifts. Mom was a wonderful Santa. There were always some toys from our lists, but each year she surprised us with wonderful presents we hadn’t even known we would want. Puzzles, games, art supplies, books, pajamas, and clothes spread across the floor as we unwrapped our gifts.
Once the wrapping paper was cleaned up and breakfast had been eaten, our job was to stay out of the kitchen and out of Mom’s way as she began to cook Christmas dinner, a feast of turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green bean casserole, all cooked to perfection. Later we would be asked to set the dining room table, and after dinner we helped wash and dry the dishes. But Christmas morning and afternoon belonged to us, a time to play with our new toys and games.
In mid-afternoon Uncle Freddy and Auntie Pat arrived with our three cousins (Brian, Dee Dee, and Lisa) and Nana Kitty. We ate at an elegant, second-hand burl wood dining table covered with a crocheted cloth my mother bought at an antique store. Before we filled our plates, someone said grace, giving thanks for our feast. Then began the passing of the dishes and the filling of the plates. With twelve people seated around the table, this took some time. It was fair game to interrupt any conversation with “Could you please pass me the . . . ?”
Christmas dinner. From the left and clockwise: Auntie Pat, me, Steve, Nana, Mom, Uncle Fred, Kimberly, Dee Dee, Suzanne, Grandpa Howard (who had recently married Nana) Brian, and Lisa. My father took the photo, circa 1972.
At the end of the day, when the dishes were done, when the company was gone, except for Nana who stayed to babysit us, my parents would meet up with friends at a local theater to see a movie. It was the perfect end to a perfect day. My siblings and I would fold up the crocheted tablecloth, exposing the thick pad that protected the dining table, and set up our new art supplies. We painted or sketched or wove hot pads while Nana visited with us. We snacked on cookies and soda. At bedtime we put on our new Christmas jammies. As we drifted off to sleep, we knew before we could do it all again, we had to wait 365 days. A lifetime to a child. A snap of the fingers to an adult.
Christmas gives me the blues. I miss the magic of childhood Christmases spent with my siblings, and I miss the magic of Christmas mornings I spent with my young children. I miss family and friends who have passed away, and the special Christmas traditions we had. Because nothing stays the same, nostalgia can be heart-wrenching.
So, I’m weaving some new traditions into some old ones.
When I was in my twenties, my mother-in-law took me to my first ballet, along with my two sisters-in-law. It was December, so of course, we went to The Nutcracker. I loved it. For two hours enchanting music, graceful dancing, sparkling costumes, and magical sets swept me away to another world. Attending The Nutcracker with my mother-in-law became a tradition for a handful of years.
This year I took my twelve-year-old granddaughter, Clara, to see The Nutcracker, her first ballet. My mother-in-law would be happy to know I’m reviving her tradition.
Clara and I were dressed in the past and present. I wore a pair of old garnet earrings given to me by a friend, a black-and-red plaid sweater given to me by another friend, and a string of pearls given to me by my mother. I carried a black purse my sister had sent me. Clara wore a black skirt I’d bought her, black leggings, and a cream-colored sweater with a brown geometric design that her grandmother had worn when she was young. We were wrapped in the beauty of the present and the comfort of the past.
The ballet started at two o’clock, so we left the house at one o’clock. Because it’s a short drive to Symphony Hall, we arrived early. Happily, we discovered a foosball table in the lobby. This might be an odd place for a game table, but Symphony Hall is next to a college hockey arena. (An air hockey game would’ve been more appropriate, but they are noisy, like the ear-splitting clack-clack of a pickleball game.) There was no foosball table when I went to the ballet with my mother-in-law. But she would have approved. She liked quiet adventures. In her seventies she painted her nails with canary-yellow and key-lime-pie-green nail polish. She changed the spelling of her first name. She asked me to take her to see Willie Nelson. She went to see The Pirates of the Caribbean with me.
My granddaughter reached the foosball table first. She dropped the ball down the side chute and pushed and pulled on the handles. “Want to play?” I asked. “Sure,” she said. A small smile tickled the corners of her mouth.
Dressed in our semi-elegant, mostly black clothes and coats, we stood opposite one another. We cranked handles and spun our foosball players. Trash talking was minimal. We focused, each of us giving 110% to our plastic, featureless foosball athletes. The game went back and forth with the lead changing many times, but in the end, I prevailed by one goal. I wanted to do a Chariots of Fire victory stride, but well . . . I was wearing pearls.
The lights reflected in the window make it appear as if the sky has lights that illuminate the Aerial Lift Bridge.
It was after 1:30, but the ushers still weren’t taking tickets. I wondered why there were so few people in the lobby. But then a ship came through the canal, and the staff, Clara, and I walked out onto a balcony to watch it glide into the harbor. No matter how many vessels we locals see enter the canal, we never tire of watching them chug under the lift bridge and into the harbor to take on a load of cargo. After the ship passed by, the staff, Clara, and I returned to the warmth of the lobby.
The ushers still weren’t taking tickets, and I got a strange feeling. After I talked to one of the staff, I found out the ballet actually started at three o’clock. Clara and I had been an hour early. We had time to whittle away, so we explored the lower level of the building. We sat in lobby chairs and watched people walk by. We checked out The Nutcracker merchandise. I bought Clara a light-up wand made of optical fibers and myself a pair of socks decorated with nutcrackers.
Finally, the auditorium doors opened, ushers handed us programs, and we found our seats.
Shortly after three o’clock, the lights in the auditorium dimmed, the orchestra began to play, and the curtain rose. My Christmas blues were chased away by pirouettes and leaps, jumps and high kicks all performed by dancers in colorful costumes. Some of the old tradition of the ballet I’d seen with my mother-in-law remained, but it was given a new twist. Instead of being set in the Victorian-style home where Clara’s family and Drosselmeyer gather on Christmas Eve, the set had been transformed into a train station. The ballet was still set in the early 1900s, but the dancers, other than the lead ballet performers, were dressed as street vendors, travelers, lumberjacks, and gingerbread cookies. I have to admit that at first I missed the version I’d seen with my mother-in-law. But the ballet was so good. And clinging to the past too tightly brings a sense of melancholy. Nothing stays the same. So, I let it go and wove the night’s new traditions in with the old.
If life were A Christmas Carol, my mother-in-law would have been Fred, the ever-cheerful nephew of Ebenezer Scrooge. She knew how to keep the spirit of Christmas in her heart all year long and how to rise above characters like Scrooge. (Circa 1935, I chose this photo for the cover of the book I helped my mother-in-law write about her life because it captured her personality so well.)
After rounds of curtain calls and clapping until our palms hurt, Clara and I exited the auditorium. We left the bright lights of the lobby behind and walked out into the dark, cold night. We stuffed our chilled hands into our mittens. Beneath our stylish coats, our hearts were warm.
And for a while my Christmas blues were banished. Maybe next year we will go to the symphony or a Christmas play, then the following year back to The Nutcracker. It’s good to look to the future.
Writing Near the Lake 