The Night Before Christmas

Every year we would go to Grandma's for Christmas Eve.  There was no river to cross but our trip did take us past the family sawmill and up the hill through the woods to Grandma's house.  I was told it was tradition for Santa to decorate the Christmas tree as well as bringing presents.  That was not the tradition at home, only at Grandma's, but I never really saw a problem with that.  When we arrived, the door to the living room would be closed tight in waiting for Santa to come and deck it out.  As the adults finished up getting dinner onto the table, my sister and I would lay flat on the floor trying to see through the thin crack under the door.

I never remember there being a specific main course we would have every Christmas eve dinner.  There was turkey or maybe chicken and probably a ham a year or two.  There was sometimes fish, though I never really got the hang of fish until I was older.  There might have even been a lasagna one year if it struck Grandma's fancy.  In later years, when we had all aged out of Santa we even had picnics with potato salad and hotdog cooked in the fireplace.  But when we were little the dinner did not really matter.  The food was always good but that part of the night was for the adults. 

Grandpa would sit at the head of the table and my dad would sit at the foot and the rest of us would pack in around the sides.  Sometimes it was just the seven of us – my grandparents, parents, sister, brother and me.  Other times my aunt and uncle and two cousins were there too.  We kids would eat quickly and wait impatiently as the grownups chatted and laughed and seemed to ignore the torture of our wait.

Eventually, the adults must have taken as much fidgeting and whining as they could stand.  Grandma would start clearing the table and my siblings and cousins and I would take off like a stampeding herd, racing hand and foot up the ugly green-carpeted stairs to my grandparents' bedroom.  We would clamor for a good spot on Grandma's hope chest with its faux leopard skin drape that sat under the large window.  There we would fall silent, pressing our ears and foreheads against the glass to wait for the first sound and perhaps even a sight of Santa or his team.  We clung to each other in giddiness, giggling in quiet, breathless gasps of anticipation.  I remember my oldest cousin, far too old to actually believe anymore, encouraging us to stay quiet and listen hard.  Santa was on his way.

And then we would hear it, faint at first and then rising to a glorious crescendo.  Sleigh bells!  He was coming!  He was here!  Santa had come and right at that very moment he was leaving presents for us all just downstairs.  It must have been an eternity for us to wait until we heard the bells again this time fading into the night, signaling the end to Santa's work there.

One of the adults probably called us back downstairs at that point but the sound of our excitement and trampling feet on the stairs would drown out even the loudest shouts.  At the bottom of the stairs the door to the living room stood open waiting for us.  Inside the room was aglow with warm light and all the beauty of the holiday.  The sheer awe of it was almost indescribably.  Grandma's plain old living room had been transformed.  The tree glistened with white lights, glass icicles, glittered wooden animals and birdhouses, strings of tinsel, and little silver foil cups each with Hershey's kiss inside.  Fresh green boughs covered the mantle glittering with more lights and dotted with red poinsettias.  On the table in the corner, two green ceramic trees with multicolored lights stood guard on either side of the hand carved wooden nativity that glowed from its own light within.  Best of all were the piles of presents, freshly delivered, spread around the base of the tree, sometimes stretching all the way to the arm chair near the television.  It was a truly amazing and delightful sight to behold.  And to think, Santa had done it all in mere moments as we waited breathlessly in the room above.

Of course, the truth was that Grandma had spent the day, maybe even more, putting up the tree and decorating before starting on dinner for that night.  She would bake several dozen kinds of cookies in the days leading up to Christmas too.  She must have been a very busy lady.  And all her work was not finished when she shut the door on the decorated living room and served up a wonderful meal.  Some time along the way I learned that after we had gone upstairs after dinner Grandma would sneak through a small door from the cellar way into the living room and would plug in the lights that encircled the tree and ran across the mantle.  Then she would descend into the basement, climb outside through the Bilco doors and run around the house ringing sleigh bells.  She would then sneak back in and be quietly waiting with the other adults as we thundered down the stairs to see what Santa had brought.  I don't know how she did it some winters with the ice and snow built up on the doors but she did – every year, until somehow we had stopped believing in Santa, of course. 

Several years ago when we had gathered at Grandma's for Christmas Eve dinner again, Grandma decided to revive the old tradition.  As we sat around the table over desserts, yes plural, and coffee and tea, lingering far longer than anyone in the under-ten set could have stood, she sneaked outside and ran around the house with her bells.  She made sure to knock on the window behind my father just to make sure we knew that it was her instead of Santa.  It always was her and it's almost better that way, believing in a real person and not an elfish saint.  Yet, to this day I'm still convince that one Christmas Eve I caught a glimpse of a reindeer hoof briefly dipping below the edge of the roof.  It was magic.  

Merry Christmas!

Happy Winter Solstice!

I always look forward to the winter solstice because I know that from this point on, the days will be getting longer again.  It also marks the point at which I let myself start thinking about next year’s garden.  Everything is going to be new for me next summer with the new property and new garden that, as of now, is still unfinished.  I have several packets of seeds left from last year but I know I’ll want to add some other favorites.  I also want to try some new vegetables that fit into my Shaker plan.  There’s going to be a lot of planning to do.

I’m glad I will have a lot to do, at least on paper, before spring.  Winter is such a tough time for someone who loves having her hands in the soil.  Here, it’s even a bit more difficult that I’m used to.  In the Adirondacks, the snow falls, any time after Halloween, really, and then it stays until spring.  It is very clearly winter and there is nothing that can be done outside because the garden is underneath a frozen blanket.  Here, in the Southern Tier, snow only lasts a day or two.  The largest storm we have had so far left about four inches of snow on the ground.  That was gone in two days. 

Winter! (for a little while at least)

So, I look outside at the bare yard and incomplete garden and think that I should be out there doing something – building raised beds or moving gravel for the paths or something.  Then I go outside into 30 degree weather and feel the frozen ground crunch under my feet and remember that there is nothing to do out there.  I just have to wait until spring arrives.  Nothing teaches patience like a garden.

There are things to do during the long winter, though.  I do a lot of knitting and writing.  That keeps me out of trouble.  Then there is the planning, of course.  I’m a big fan of lists and graphs and diagrams so it is the perfect season to indulge.  There is also the fun of finding creative ways to use the produce put up for the season.  We don’t have much from this past summer since I only had the small surrogate beds at work.  Still, my husband made his annual crock of sauerkraut this fall.  The crock we use was one that my grandmother, and probably her mother before her, used to make sauerkraut.  I like having that connection to the past both in the crock itself and in the process of fermenting cabbage in my own home.  There’s something comfortable in the older ways of preparing food and making things for our home.  I really enjoy modern technology but I think I will always be drawn back to doing things by hand.

This year's sauerkraut was ready for Thanksgiving

Adventures with Wool

Sometime in the middle of November I decided that I wanted to learn how to spin wool.  There was a small spinning wheel available for me to borrow and I ordered some wool to spin.  I watched videos on You Tube and searched spinning forums online.  I felt like I was ready to give it a try.

Merino wool – so soft!

The first challenge was the spinning wheel itself.  It took some time to figure out how it all worked.  Fortunately, my husband is great with mechanical things, even those with which he is unfamiliar.  When he figured out what to do with the wooden knob that was hanging from a bit of monofilament with a spring attached to the other end it was a revelation. 

Now, in the past I have learned quite a few things but researching a bit and then doing it.  That’s how I learned to knit and crochet.  In this case, however, I think I really needed to be taught in person by someone who knew what they were doing.  While I hesitate to call my self-taught spinning a disaster, I will declare it unsuccessful.  

My yarn was either too twisty or not twisty enough.  I also couldn’t manage any sort of consistent thickness.  I was treadling too fast or drafting too slow or the tension was wrong.  Maybe I just got the wrong type of wool to start.  I have read that practice and experience will help solve a lot of the issues I seemed to be having.  The thing is, the more I tried, the worse I seemed to get. (Having a raging cold at the time was certainly not helpful but I’m not going to blame it or the cold meds for my failure.)

I’d call it artisanal but that would be an insult to artisans.

After a fair amount of swearing, I was able to produce a small quantity of super bulky, two-ply yarn.  I was determined to knit something with it despite how embarrassingly horrible it was.  There was just enough to make a collar and I have to say, I am actually happy with the way it turned out.  It is warm and soft and doesn’t look that bad.

Finished collar – Not too bad!

Overall, I’d say it was worth a try and I’m glad I did it.  I also expect that I will never want to spin my own yarn again.  My husband also gave the wheel a try.  He had about the same success that I had.  Years ago he had made me a pair of drop spindles.  I had never tried one myself but he decided it was a good time to see how it worked since we had the wool and all.  It turns out that he’s quite good with a drop spindle.  So, while I have given up on spinning, he is working the rest of the wool into yarn for me.

Drop spindle with yarn