By Emily Lundy
Once again, I wish everyone a Merry Christmas while I can. My favorite Christmas songs are connected to bells – with one ring to remind us of the new year and time to change ourselves into something better. All other rings thereafter are episodes, acts, flaws, disappointments to ring away the past. Here is the chance for a new start with a new year soon beginning.
I tried to think of my favorite Christmas, so difficult, because I really have loved them all. The best would be those spent with my grandparents in large gatherings; that can be no longer true or I wouldn’t be enjoying this Christmas as that grandparent trying to give joy to others.
It’s true Christmas as we know it should be simpler, less expensive, perhaps more old fashion. I wonder if my neighbors would go singing with me on Christmas Eve as we made it from one house to another. Or would anyone be willing to come to an “As you are” party with something good to eat on a plate.
My weaknesses in the culinary world have restruck. Innocently dining with friends last week, partly composed of ex-students and a friend of my older son, I heard a new story. This man, now a dad to two, remembered from the past a camping trip with my son and others.
That night, rain made them want to move the only vehicle and try some place else. My son’s Bronco was the mode of transportation, mired in mud that wouldn’t allow traction to free the wheels. Pushing, the boys tried wood, utensils, anything to put under the back wheels.
Then, my ingenious son grabbed a pan of food beside him, according to this tale, threw it backward and said, “Use this. It’s my mama’s cookies. They’re too hard to eat, but maybe they’re good for this.” Under one wheel went a mother’s love supposedly, and with human aid, the wheel caught power from the pan and out zoomed the Bronco. One boy was heard to say he thought he broke a tooth on one of my cookies. Laugh, laugh.
When I told this son later about such a situation, he could not recall anything. Of course, he and his friends are in their forties now.
But I’ve been thinking. If my child drove a Bronco, he was out of high school. It would have taken a really special effort to make cookies for someone grown.
I would really have deserved kudos.
Therefore, I’m thinking this didn’t happen; could it be a Tall Tale?
I believe I have heard all the stories about my cooking I can take. I’m ending it with the first one to my knowledge. The other son as a preschooler invited a friend to eat with us, telling him his mama could hardly cook. Later during the meal, I heard the guest say to my son as he ate, “Why, this ain’t half bad.”
Now, I’m going to focus on how grownups feel about being born for Christmas. That’s a story for later. Be safe.