Christmas Night

Fortune smiles on me.

Last night, after a leisurely day of doing stuff (including baking spritz cookies) Skarps and I headed to church. I was, once again, Mary in the Christmas tableaux. There is something about sitting up at the front of the church, with bright lights shining on you, knowing without looking that the pews are filled with parents, holding their children in velvet finery, eager and excited for what tonight and tomorrow will bring, and staring lovingly at a doll laid in a hay-filled manger, that brings the sacred close. My husband standing close by me, silently pretending to be the patient one who claimed a son who was not his. Sitting still in my blue gown and my chilly sandalled feet, I can only think of how much love there must have been that first night. Love of Mary, for this son she had brought into the world in such uncertain and difficult circumstance, love of Mary for the husband who guided her and protected her while honoring her purity, love of Mary for the God for whom she risked everything. There is Joseph, so kind where many other men would have turned their backs, loving his wife and the boy he will raise as his own son. The shepherds came to see the spectacle. The wise men came to see the king. And if God can be ascribed human emotions, how bitter sweet it must have been. To have a part of your own divinity be seperated from you, to have it live, breathe, eat and need tending. And to know that the worst of all things will happen. But yet, there is beauty in that moment of birth — whether it was ever there in fact, the moment has been beautiful in the imaginations of so many, it is beautiful by common consent.

Sitting up there, half-blinded by lights and blinking hard, I felt every piece of the history, pageantry, doctrine, faith, tradition, and hymns. I stole a forbidden glance at one of the shepherds. He was young, a first-grader named Noah, and oh-so sincere. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the wonder of the angel Gabriel’s message, next to his father where the podium usually stands. He knows the truth. He could tell it to you if you asked.

And then my husband, in the guise of Joseph, carefully escorted me down to the pews. And quickly I shed my blue robes and snuck around the church to play “O Holy Night” and “Joy to the World” on my trumpet. And afterwards I stood with my newly-returned-from-Puerto-Rico Sunday School kid next to me, and talked and rejoiced in my friends.

In the car, my husband and I sang through the Christmas section of a borrowed hymnal.

At his parents house, in front of the fire, we sang for them of the six-winged Seraphim. The cherubim with sleepless eyes.

Today, I have recieved a wealth of gifts. But the best of them were the joy in my grand-parents-in-laws’ faces as we talked to them. The enthusiasm with which my nephew exhorted us as we attempted to put together his pirate ship gift. The care with which my brother-in-law cooked our Christmas dinner. The health and vigor with which my father-in-law ate too much of it. The delight of calling my familiy, and comparing gift notes.

I got things, too. Many things. But the best things of this season are not things at all, but the chance to be a spiritual being. The chance to tell people you love them, and to hear it back. And the opportunity to be, just for a moment, Mary gazing at the Jesus-child in his manger, wondering at all those who came to honor his birth, and treasuring the memories of it in your heart.

What Love Looks Like

I hear people say that there’s no such thing as a perfect relationship — that they don’t believe in the love stories. In general, I think they are wise. I think that the fairy-tale of love is far, far away from what life truly offers. And I don’t think people should wait until they meet the person who dribbles rose-petals on their path and makes their heart go ka-lump every time they’re around. (And I really, really, really don’t think that when you can talk to your beloved without feeling butterflies in your stomach, it means that you don’t love them anymore and should move on.)

One problem with that, my friends. I am in a relationship that is marvellous and wonderful in pretty much every way. And despite having waited for 8 years in the expectation that at some point the ka-lump of love might diminish, it hasn’t. I love my husband far more today than I did 8 years ago, when he was a dashing sophomore and I a sweet and innocent freshman.

My husband is concerned with my guilt and stress levels. He says that they are past healthy. (Which made me feel guilty about how much I was feeling guilty, quite possibly proving his point.) So yesterday he allowed me to do all the things I felt needed to be done — up to a point. At about five he gently but firmly steered me to the couch. He removed my shoes. He lit a fire in the fireplace, and lit up the candles. He put up with me while I considered which book I would like to read (“Acorna” by Anne McCaffrey). Then I made a comment on how I wished I’d gotten around to making Spritz cookies like I promised so that I could eat them. Then he went into the kitchen (which he had earlier swept and mopped) and made me spritz cookies in the shapes of Christmas trees and stars, with sprinkles on them just like I like. And he brought me water.

My friends, that is true love. You don’t know how much he does for me, or how kind he is to me, because it’s the fabric of my everyday life. If I told you every time he did something wonderful, I wouldn’t write about anything else. I hope I don’t take it for granted, but I am not surprised when my husband is thoughtful, kind and generous. He is also funny, charming, playful, patient and handsome. And a darn good GM.

I do not know if this kind of relationship is possible for everyone. I don’t know if we got really, really lucky in meeting each other and growing together. I don’t know if the desire for such a relationship is unrealistic… just because there are people who do win the lotto does not mean that everyone can win the lotto. But I do want those of you who think it is impossible to know… a loving, kind relationship full of joy is not a dream. It is not a Hollywood fabrication. It does exist — and it can be hoped for.

The Red Sock

Even the moon turned blood red in support.

My friends, the Red Sox have won the World Series. That bears repeating: THE RED SOX HAVE WON THE WORLD SERIES. They swept the World Series. They ended it with a shutout. The Red Sox have won the World Series.

And we rejoice! Boston wholly rejoices that the curse is lifted, that the grandfathers of the Red Sox nation who lived until this day will not go into the dark without knowing that sensation of victory! We do not yet truly believe it in our hearts, but with our minds we know that the thing which is both impossible and greatly desired is NOT impossible. That sometimes, your best hope instead of your worst fear comes to pass.
The Red Sox have won the 2004 World Series.

In the rejoicing, however, there is a sense of loss. I think it’s like watching your child get married. You are happy, so happy for them. But yet, you know your relationship to them will never be the same. And in the first and closest case, it means that you will not be with them while they are having a marvellous time on their honeymoon.

It is the best lonely period to be hoped for. I find it impossible to be glad that the baseball season is over. I find myself jealous for just another day or two of baseball, please. But it is over. Gone. I am left alone — gaily waving with tears in my eyes at the door of the church. Five months of happy memories, but no new ones.

Do you believe me that my life changes when there is no baseball on? The sound of it. The schedule. The way it slips easily into my ears and keeps me company as I work, rest, travel. Football is no replacement. NPR is too depressing. Music insufficiently engaging.

A sacrifice I am happier to make this year than ever. You bunch of Idiots, who have become my friends unbeknownst to you, enjoy your offseason. Many of you I will see again next year. Others will go to other teams, where I’ll secretly root for you as long as you pose no threat. And in spring, new faces will be on the field.

World Series winning Boston Red Sox, thank you. Thank you for 85 years of anxiety, and one of exultation. Thank you for 170 games of baseball, sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly, sometimes heart-dropping, sometimes boring. Thank you for getting into fights with the Yankees, saying dumb things in post game interviews, and growing some of the world’s worst-concieved hair styles. Thank you for a year of fun baseball.


When I pass a stand of erstwhile unnoticeable maples, and am caught by the color of the leaves, that’s the the word that comes to mind. Vermillion. Brighter than red. Deeper, more passionate than burgundy. There are showers of gold along some roads — early to color, already gone. There are trees tinged with red, orange as flame in their hearts. And some rare trees, stark in brilliance against the blue October sky, are vermillion.

For all the pumpkins, it is red’s time of year to reign supreme. The trees are red. The sunsets, early, tinge the world with their crimson kisses. Noses, flesh-toned through the warm days of summer, reflect the season’s changes too. And the socks, even the socks are red as colored clothing faces winter birds in the World Series. And the blood of a sports hero tinges his sock with the team, the season color. A red darkening to brown with scoreless innings pitched.

Soon, we head into brown of pilgrim scenes. Then the dark pine green of Christmas. Finally, we settle into the long, bitter gray of ever-enduring winter, with only the faintest touches of purple at Lent, scarecly daring to believe that the light and misty greens of spring will ever arrive.

But for now, my friends, I am content to live in a world aflame with vermillion.

What Can Be Said?

What can I say about my boys, the Red Sox, which has not already been said by my friends this morning? They are a beacon of hope in a dreary world, even while they raise in us such high anxiety it is hardly to be believed. Who didn’t have heart palpitations last night, with Foulke up, facing the go ahead run in the bottom of the 9th having walked two? Who didn’t wonder if a ball sailing over a right field wall would dash our hopes of life and further sleeplessness? Who failed to marvel as umpires got not one, but two difficult calls correct?

Not I — that can be said.

For the record, I would also like to state that I honestly thought Alex Rodriguez was a better man than that. I have not forgotten that his youth and mine coincided in Seattle.

And tonight, hope again! And fear, my friends. Fear that destiny, fate, and long history move us towards heartbreak once again. Hope that this year, this time, this at bat, might be different. In a world where polling numbers and analysts tell us who we will elect, where reality tv is shot months before we watch it, where even a baby’s face and sex are known before it is birthed… two great nations stand facing each other, and do not know whether the morning brings joy and exultation, or the bitter and ashy taste of defeat.

How few things we do not, or do not expect to know in advance. How ill-prepared we are for the mystery of wait and see. But we were not supposed to be here. The prophets told us our hope was lost, our cause barren. The sages said that it had never been done before. Our own hearts told us that our team labors always under an ill star. But we are here. We hope. We live. We strive.

And all that may be said with certainty is that tomorrow, we will awaken to a great emotion. One nation will stand. One will fall. And the roll call of history will go on.

Vienna and Venice

I always find it rather overwhelming to contemplate writing complete updates of exciting adventures, especially when they’re 10 days in length. I mean, I wax on for the equivalent of two pages on a relatively boring weekend. What will my tally then be for an exciting 10 days? So then I put it off… and before you know it, I never did give you an update. So instead, I try to be concise. Clear. To the point. Shan’t use a word more than necessary. I shall be the soul of brevity, giving you only so much information (as is dictated by my wisdom and experience as an English major graduated from the august educational institution that is Connecticut College) as I consider to be elucidating and interesting, and critical to the story of our adventures, or, as they may be called, misadventures. I shall take no tangents, and my clauses (if I have any) shall be short and unparenthetical. Indeed, when I am done with this update, you shall all be comparing the sparseness of my prose to that of Hemingway, or others of the great sparse authors. Every sentence, every word, every syllable shall be key to the telling of the tale, and well-considered before being allowed entry into my tally.

Aw hell. Or maybe I’ll just use bullet points.

The journey in
We left work. We cleaned house. We finished packing. We took a taxi to the airport. We boarded our plane. The horrors! Seats! They were in the middle! Would sleep be ours? We feared.

Indeed, worst fears were realized. Sleep came but slowly. When at last it settled upon leaden lids, true tragedy struck. A woman in front of us had a heart attack, just over the point of no return. Doctors worked furiously for over an hour. She departed — we are told with good chance of recovery — when we landed in Shannon, Ireland.

We missed our connections. We slept not. We did not arrive in Vienna until 8 hours after our intentions. We were not met at the airport as promised.

The first encounters of Vienna.
Weary, we sought sustenance of the Austrian sort. Guided by hotel clerk, we went to the Cafe Wiemar. Write that down, friends, for if ever you find yourself in Vienna, it should be your first stop. Had hungarian goulash soup and wiener schnitzel. Had to bodily prevent husband from proposing to waiter who brought him hungarian goulash.

The time before the three Hacken struck
Our first full day, saw many dead bodies. Went to the imperial crypts. Saw increasingly ornate coffins of kaisers. Went to St. Stephens — creepiest cathedral in the known world, where even the statues frown menacingly down upon you. Went to catacombs below St. Stephens. Somewhat surprised that they seemed friendlier than the church. Saw really creepy pit where plague victims were indiscriminantly thrown, ossuaries, and rooms simply stacked with bones.

Then saw Roman ruins under the city.

Encountered that which is known as “creme schnitte”. Life will never be the same again, nor would I have it be. Made conversation with two short gay Jewish guys from New York.

Went back to room to dress in finery. Looked great. Shoes a tragic mistake. Like Cinderalla’s, they kept slipping off. Had tapfenspitz for dinner. Quite good. Gamers will come to know well in future days. Went to opera. Husband nearly killed me for picking such unpractical shoes. Opera quite as fantastic as hoped. Seats were amazing. There were even supertitles, to our everlasting relief. Came to the quick conclusion that the heroine of “The Flying Dutchman” a complete nutcase. Opera proceeded to last another 4 hours. After opera conclusion, had famous chocolate after-opera cake. Didn’t like it as well as creme schnitte, but ok.

Next day fewer dead bodies. More instruments of killing. Spent morning looking at the collection of arms and armour at the imperial palace, followed by the early instrument collection. Bought a toy morningstar in gift shop — plush. Bashed husband with it, playfully.

Went to Cafe Wiemar for fortification with Hungarian Goulash Soup. Husband spent time making up odes to it. Bought me some jewelry when thus softened by its paprika-y goodness. Went back to hotel to meet old college friend, “The Overlord of the Balkans” (TOOTB) — Mr. Hackett.

The strike of the Three Hacken
After feeding with the fine hungarian goulash of Cafe Wiemar, took Tootb to downtown Vienna where a run-in was had with Die BackenMeister. Boys barely dissuaded from trying to break into catacombs — probably by lack of liquid fortification. Using Tootb’s unerring sense, we located a bar called “Das Three Hacken”. Took this as a sign. Went in. Ordered three beers known as Edelweiss.

Having completed quota, proceeded to another bar. Ordered another Edelweiss. Came to the stunning and urgent conclusion that there were Irish songs that needed singing. Stopped a man on a street to ask way to nearest Irish pub. Happened to be (we think?) Irishman. Demanded to know the recipient of our votes before helping him. From directions given, unsure whether he was a democrat or republican. Eventually found bar anyway. Sang Irish songs loudly and badly, fortified by additional application of Guinness.

Came to realization we were too drunk to stumble home. Wisely ordered cab.

Tootb left following morning early, a stronger man than we. We slept until noon.

Further adventures in Austria
Upon waking, we went to medieval art museum at Belvedere. Then to a palace with labrynth and beautiful building high on hill called “Gloriana”. Watched sun set over good Austrian coffee in the Gloriana. Glorious. Went back to Cafe Wiemar for further application of Hungarian Goulash.

Managed to figure out how to rent a car, and do so. A Smart car. Breathing sighs of great gratitude that at least we already knew how to drive a standard, departed parking garage. Realized 10 minutes later that following signs for “Einbahn” with arrows was unlikely to lead to freeway since Einbahn means one way. Administered dope slaps, and got on freeway. Drove past spectacular scenery to city of Graz. Where parking costs more than even in Boston. Went to cool armory. Saw thousands upon thousands of bladed weapons, armor and early guns. (Matchlock!) Actually got to see a real, live, true version of exactly what I imagine my character’s weapons to be. Had argument with husband who insisted it is a flail. Told him I knew my own weapon when I saw it. Bought little copy of morningstar/flail in giftshop, along with roughly 4000 other books. Attempted to get to ancient Roman ruins, but were thwarted by the only mean Austrians to be encountered the entire journey. Returned weary to Vienna.

Next day, having concluded that if I did not take my husband to the Papyrus Museum I would hear about it for the rest of my natural life, we began with a quick trip to the Voltskirk (a favorite), and the Papyrus Musum. Itch scratched. Got back into car and begin to drive to Alps. Absolutely gorgeous. Babbling streams. Ruined castles. Bucolic fields. Turning leaves. High fabulous mountains. Hairpin turns. Fun driving. Got husband swiss hat. High point of entire vacation. Happily, only day of good weather in Austria was most important.

The journey to Venice
Took train to Venice. Many stops along the way. Spotted many exciting castle ruins. Need to go back to investigate. Wonder if next week would be too soon. Came up with corrolary, “In the dark, everything’s a castle!”. Alps beautiful, but train mostly went under, not through. Landscape suddenly flattened — suddenly Roman aquaducts make sense. Arrived in Venice late and carried luggate roughly 30 miles in search of hotel. Venice much more difficult to navigate than Vienna. Many bridges to go up and down. Found eventually, and collapsed.

The city of bad street signs
Next morning, went out to see St. Marks. Noticed high water in canals. Got to St. Marks square. Entire thing under 2 feet of water. Got onto duck walk. Ended up in Doge’s palace instead of St. Mark’s Cathedral. Saw many more ways of killing people (another armory) and far more roccoco baroque works with little cherubs than already weakened constitutions can handle. Fled from crowds and confusion in square. Noticed the impossibility of going and returning the same way in Venice. Resolved to return after dinner.

Had fine dinner, cost of which might have fed entire sub-Saharan Africa. Returned hopefully to St. Marks cathedral, having been assured that St. Marks was always open. After 2 miles of walking, found it closed. Sat looking longingly at it. Returned defeated to hotel.

Next morning, arose bound and determined to see St. Marks regardless. Square only full of 1 foot of water upon arrival. Managed to get in, hear some of mass sung in latin, see some works. Saw only reference entire trip to pifarri — a high, out-of-the-way drawing showed them. No other Venetians seemed to ever have heard of them. Finally, got to get into St. Marks. As glorious, golden and delightful as imagined. Maybe more. Took fill of mosaics. Spent nearly 4 hours. Finally emerged hungry but satisfied.

The closing of the chapter
Returned by yet another route to hotel and spent remainder of night reading Wodehouse in bathtub. Would recommend reading “Picadilly Jim”. Packed.

Awoke at 3 am. Went to airport before it opened. Went to Amsterdam. Had darn good nap on floor. Flew home. Arrived to find cats safe, and Red Sox still in it.

Philosophical reflections
Find self refreshed, renewed and restored — not only by the vacation, but by 10 days thinking of other things. Energy and spirits are high. Not even dreading winter with usual vigor. The holiday was well-conceived, and was wonderful. Wish all of you could have same.

The hills are alive

In a week and a half, A. and I will be winging our way across the Pond to regions Tuetonic. 10 days and several hours from now, we will be listening to the tale of the Flying Dutchman and the woman who loved him, against all odds. We will travel to see medieval arms and armour. We will hike in the Alps, and I will think not a little of Heidi. We will travel by rail over high, historic mountains to a city founded on Friday, March 25 at noon in the year 421 on marshy islands. I will stand inside St. Marks and if God has truly blessed me, I might even hear the polypony I so often imagined. I’ll see too the poryphory statues of the tetrarchs, the mosaics, the four mysterious horses of St. Marks. I’ll see the winged-lion of the Most Serene Republic. And I’ll pay way too much to sit in a cafe and drink coffee — perhaps the same cafe frequented by Lord Byron and Dickens.

It seems more than a thousand miles distant from where I sit now. It is a world distant. It is a place I visited often in fancy, but where I have rarely travelled at all lately, even in the realm of the mind. I have become too focused — to concentrated on a small and arcane realm of the world. Granted it pays well, but I yearn for vistas again. And I shall see them. And that, friends, makes me a very lucky woman.