Growing up in the ’80’s, I pretty much think all sweaters were “ugly.”  Perhaps a better word would be garish.  So I am loving this recent trend of having “ugly” Christmas sweater contests!  They’re silly and it’s a light-hearted thing to do.  Truth be told, I think some of them are cute.  I have one with a whole village that lights up and I really like it.  My husband just had an “ugly” Christmas sweater day at work.  Next year I’m going to get him one that says, “Yeti Christmas.”  It would be a fun follow up to the shirt I got him last year that reads, “Big Foot doesn’t believe in you either.”  It’s not my thing but it makes him happy.  Anyway, I had to bring the little one in for a check up and her pediatrician’s office was completely decked out!  There were “ugly” Christmas sweaters aplenty.  We saw reindeer antlers, candy cane headbands, bells jingling from elf hats, light up Christmas bulb necklaces — and then there was this guy.  He was proudly rocking the sweater his mother had made for him.  What a cool mom and an even cooler son to wear it!  The sweater had everything — Santa, stockings, a Christmas tree, a penguin, a gingerbread house, a Christmas garland draped with colored ornaments, mistletoe, poinsettias, a snowman Christmas card etched in tinsel, girl and boy gingerbread people and, perhaps funniest of all, lace doilies on his back covering him like shoulder pads in a football game.  It was the sweater to end all sweaters.  American actress, writer, and Saturday Night Live alum Kristen Wiig said, “There’s something about a Christmas sweater that will always make me laugh.”  This one certainly made me laugh and brought with it a good dose of Christmas cheer.  Long live “ugly” Christmas sweaters.

For as long as I can recall I have stared up with fascination at this particular fountain in the mall.  No matter how many times I have seen it; I am still enthralled.  It has held my interest through childhood, puberty, adulthood, and technology.  The Italian actress Sophia Loren said:

“There is a fountain of youth: it is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of people you love.  When you learn to tap this source, you will truly have defeated age.”

We saw Santa tonight and were walking over to eat afterward, as is our tradition.  I looked as my little one scrambled up the cement sides of the fountain just as I did when I was a kid.  I saw her peer over as far as she could to look into the water.  All of her movements I had once done; her awe I still retained.  So engrossed was I in watching her that I managed to forget my ever present iPhone dangling from my hand.  I shot this just as she turned around and exclaimed “MAMA!!” for me to see, and my heart was full.  Always having been in a family of three, God was merciful.  My parents may be with Him in heaven but He blessed me with a handsome husband and a beautiful little girl, both of whom are loving and kind.  And so the circle continues.  In Native culture life is not linear; it is cyclical.  I knew as we all stood gazing up at the fountain we would be drawn inevitably to return to it again next year, full of the same excitement, wonder, and joy; the fountain of youth.

Growing up in an apartment that did not have a fireplace, I always yearned for one.  I wanted it to be a rustic stone one with a nice mantle.  And I was always concerned about how Santa was going to come.  When I got married and we bought our home the first thing I fell in love with was our white rock wood burning fireplace (“Austin stone” if you want to be pretentious.)  It’s not huge but I do not like the idea of burning a ton of wood; I really try to leave a low environmental footprint.  This was our first fire of the season and outside our Holy Nativity glowed while the sweet scent of pinion filled the air.  We were supposed to go to an annual Winter Ball but I am still really sick.  So we snuggled up as a threesome instead and I introduced our little one to my parents’ favorite movie, “A Christmas Story.”  Mama and Daddy were both little in the ’30’s.  I wasn’t sure she’d like it but she laughed when the hounds made off with the turkey and watched the whole thing.  The Dutch Post-Impressionist painter Vincent Van Gogh once said:

“One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it.  Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way.”

I do not think most people look past the wisp of smoke.  But tonight, under chenille blankets instead of glittering chandeliers, I know we all shared a blazing hearth.

Our little kitten Blue has certainly made himself at home.  We all love him beyond reason.  Lately though he has started to turn up in the oddest places, sort of like our little one’s Elf on the Shelf.  He has been in a (thankfully empty) giant pasta pot on the stove, he has appeared on top of our baby doll’s tipi, and his most recent hang out has been inside our Christmas tree.  I had forgotten how WILD Siamese are.  They’re climbers, they’re hunters, and they’re talkers; plus they are incredibly smart.  We have a Bengal who is more domesticated for heaven’s sake!  And our little guy, who is a rescue, is only half!  Thankfully he is still so tiny he cannot weigh down the tree enough to tip it over.  But he’s batting shiny ornaments, chewing on tinsel, and just making a general nuisance of his adorably handsome self.  He literally fell asleep in the “branches” and was so camouflaged I did not even discover him until he decided he wanted to get down.  The American naturalist Joseph Wood Krutch once said:

“Cats are rather delicate creatures and they are subject to a good many different ailments, but I have never heard of one who suffered from insomnia.”

So currently around our house there are twelve presents hiding, eleven sacks a rattling, ten squirrels a leaping, nine possums riding (on their mama), eight birds a chirping, seven fish a swimming, six raccoons playing, five shredded strings, four crashes heard, three French tins, two turtles loved, and a Siamese in the Christmas tree.

Sick.  So sick.  The little one and I have been coughing uncontrollably for days.  I finally broke down and went back to the doctor for my wicked sinus infection that has lingered for weeks.  I have BARELY left my bed; meanwhile little miss walking pneumonia is bouncing off the walls.  It would seem her Christmas break has started an entire week early.  After hours of hacking up my lungs I finally staggered over to soak in a warm bubble bath.  The steam was just beginning to rise and I eased back with a contented sigh.  Just as I closed my eyes a gust of cold air came bursting in along with this adorable little sprite.  “Mama, are you taking a bath?” she asked peering down at me.  “Yes, honey,” I replied through slitted eyes.  “Can I stay with you?” she asked in her innocent voice.  “Sure, sweetheart” I said hoping she might get bored and leave.  The next thing I knew there were bath toys assailing me from every direction and squeals of delight as she shrieked “Save me!  Save me!” to some poor animal who had sunk.  Rummaging around for what was poking me, I retrieved it thinking I would have some respite.  After closing my eyes once again I opened them upon hearing “HO HO HO!”  This sweet angel was looking at me with bubbles on her face and giggling with uncontrolled glee.  What would I do without my little one?  The American poet Sylvia Plath once wrote, “There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.”  I feel the same about my precious little girl.  She lifts my spirits, loves me unconditionally, and lends everything in my life wonder, magic, and joy … making my life bubbly.

The first time I heard Andrea Bocelli I was standing in line at the register at Victoria’s Secret.  Say what you will, but I think they were brilliant to have played him in the states so early on in the beginning of the ’90’s.  I bought a CD for my mother as a Christmas present and, upon hearing him, she literally looked transported.  This was a woman who had studied the classics on the piano for more than two decades; she knew her music.  We even had a cat named Pavarotti.  However much like his namesake, I confess I found him to be fat and somewhat cantankerous, God bless him.  Mama loved The Three Tenors (Placido Domingo, Jose Carreras, and Luciano Pavarotti) but NOTHING compared with this man.  His breath was effortless; his control impeccable.  Although able to hit high notes that can give one chills, his range is broad and he has a beautiful lower register.  I fell in love with him beyond measure and then I happened to catch his concert on PBS at the Roman Colosseum years ago.  My heart cracked looking at the beautiful, deep blue lights and realizing he could not see them.  He sang with his eyes closed and I found myself thinking what an incredibly handsome man he was.  When I learned he was coming back to Dallas I asked my husband if he would go.  I could not believe my beloved said yes without a trace of rancor.  Sadly, as important as music is to me, we pretty much have vastly divergent tastes.  And I consider myself to be well rounded — from Willie Nelson’s twangy Texas songs to Linda Ronstadt’s mariachi classics; from Guns N’ Roses’ heavy metal to old school disco.  I love Nat King Cole, Bette Midler, Latin Gregorian chants, and on my playlist is everything from Rihanna to Madonna.  I love Boston, Cheap Trick, Journey, Heart, and too many others to blather on about.  My beloved’s genre seems to pretty much encompass folksy ’70’s songs like “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head,” which is one of his favorites.  Other than a fairly recent night out to hear Tony Bennett, we had never been to another concert together and I was thrilled to be going.  Music for me is like breathing; it is an integral part of my life.  I spent my early years singing and it is a love that has remained deeply ingrained in my heart and soul.  At our wedding I had the Biebl version of “Ave Maria” sung (do yourself a favor and Google it; you won’t be sorry) but of course the Schubert version is the one most people are familiar with.  And NO ONE sings it like Andrea.  (Google that, too while you’re at it.)  Following in Pavarotti’s wake, Andrea Bocelli has also made famous opera arias crossover into the “popular;” my favorite being Turandot’s “Nessun Dorma.”  To hear him perform my two favorites of his live was so intense, so exquisite, so painfully beautiful; it was like a taste of heaven.  In his own words:

“Opera is complex for those who perform it, but also for those who listen to it.  It takes more time, more patience and more spirit of sacrifice.  All this is well worth it because opera offers such deep sensations that they will remain in a heart for a lifetime.” ~ the incomparable Andrea Bocelli

The famous Italian Renaissance sculptor and painter Michelangelo once said, “The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection.”  Being able to create a likeness of someone from paper in just minutes is a fascinating, dying art.  “Cutting portraits” became popular in the mid-18th century, as they were a more affordable alternative to portrait miniatures the wealthy could have painted.  Ever since our little one was born, I have taken her to have a silhouette made; her sweet face in profile.  I remember the first year she was basically just a beautiful head but the artist captured her long, thick eyelashes, pert nose, and full rosebud lips to perfection.  The second year she looked exactly the same only I remember feeling triumphant because he had cut one tiny curl coming from the back of her head at the bottom by her neck.  The third year I noticed a bit of a break in the front; wisps of hair were beginning to form over her forehead.  By the fourth year she had an abundance of curls that did not even go past her ears.  But OH I was so proud!  And now look at my girl this year!  That’s perfectly spiraled, thick, golden red princess hair even if I do say so myself.  You cannot see the color of course but that truly is her likeness.  In fact seeing this year’s hurt a bit.  For the first time she did not have the rounded babyish cheeks and chin.  There is an air to her that seems more like a young little girl; no longer the infant, baby, or toddler — perhaps rather a shadow … of the divine perfection.

Today is my parents’ wedding anniversary.  They were high school sweethearts and together for 44 years before my father passed but they were only married for 30.  Of course they did not live together; Daddy served eight years in Korea and was in college after that.  I also suspect that my genteel, white grandparents did not approve of the American Indian boy literally from the other side of the tracks.  Despite everything thrown at them, they finally married.  My grandmother Maris came to love my father dearly and he was like a son to her in her last years when she had to stay in a nursing home.  Daddy was always teasing Mama.  He joked that their wedding anniversary was just “one major disaster after another” referring to the bombing of Pearl Harbor.  Although they are both in heaven now, I believe God sends us little reminders to let us know we’re not alone.  Last year I blogged about finding my mother’s final Christmas card to me and guess what literally turned up on our coffee table today??  Her cardinal Christmas card.  I could not quite believe it; my red headed mother who loved the cardinals so.  The American writer Richard Bach said, “True love stories never have endings.”  My parents’ love story continues in me and lives on in their grandchild, who shares my mother’s name and my father’s birthday.  They left behind the greatest thing possible:  love with no end.

As I mentioned in my previous blog, we now have a reindeer living with us.  His name is (insert juvenile snickering) Chestnut Jingles.  The seventh grader in me just gets a kick out of that.  On the subject of chestnuts, I have actually blogged about them from one of our trips to Paris.  I had no earthly idea what they were.  Even when they told me I did recognize the word.  I’d heard the incomparable Nat King Cole sing about them for countless Christmases but I had never really seen or had one.  They roasted them on the street and they are one of the most delicious things I have ever had.  But I digress.  The wonderful thing about Chestnut Jingles is that he takes Noel the elf back to the North Pole each night, but our little one is allowed to touch him!  (If she touches Noel Magique Christmas magic will be lost.)  Like the excellent pet sitting assistant she has become, she has fed her reindeer carrots and apples and admonished me to look after him while she was in school.  Before she left she gave him fresh “hay” — the glittery “pine needles” from our aluminum tree — and put it in his stall.  I thought that was so magical and clever!  She brushed him down and then covered him with this “blanket.”  The patterns in the paper towel remind me of the designs in a Native American horse blanket.  She’s a natural.  So this is how I chose to photograph him, just as my little girl left him … loved, cared for, and awaiting her return.  One of my favorite American writers, Erma Bombeck, once said, “There’s nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.”  I want to stay a child at Christmas for as long as reindeer fly.

After several years of avoidance I have finally succumbed.  My little one told me hesitantly this morning and with a heartbreaking hint of sadness that all her friends at school had an elf.  “An elf?” I said thinking of the demonic looking little thing that everyone Pinterests about; that’s a full time job.  “Was I bad?” she asked, bringing me back to the present.  “Oh honey NO!”  I exclaimed as I knelt down to brush back her auburn curls.  “Then why don’t I have one?” she asked with eyes as wide as Betty Lou Who.  Feeling just like the Grinch, I heard myself saying, “Those elves are snitches, you know.  They tell Santa.”  And then, without guile, my little one turned to me and said, “But Mama aren’t I good?”  In an instant I knew what I had to do.  I called a family meeting and announced to Daddy that our girl wanted to have an elf in the house for Christmas.  My mother always adored Tinker Bell and, borrowing from that, I asked if our sweet girl believed in Christmas magic.  We all put our hands together and I was surprised when my beloved was the first to proclaim, “I believe” in his low, mellifluous voice.  Our little one’s eyes visibly widened as she fervently said, “I believe.”  Then without hesitation I said, “I believe.”  Our heartfelt plea went up to Santa at the North Pole and I looked toward the fireplace, saying that’s how he would get our request.  Then we were off; rushing to school and work.  Outside our Holy Nativity was not up; neither were our lights.  The Christmas tree was still living in the closet under our staircase and I had 200 Christmas cards to send out.  Then there was my work, physical therapy on my recovering broken shoulder, two grocery stores, reassessing our homeowner’s insurance which was coming up for renewal, and of course my blog.  My beloved fortunately had the day off and I asked him to please hit the grocery stores and drag out the tree.  I blew off the homeowner’s stuff and signing our Christmas cards, which left me JUST enough time after finishing everything else to run out and get the girl elf on the shelf our little one had asked for.  To my delight they also had reindeer!  I figured in for a penny; in for a pound.  So I picked out our two newest family members and rushed home to set them up.  We barely got the tree plugged in before dashing off to pick up our little one from school.  Usually we ask about her but this time we talked about how exhausted we were from being gone all day and that it would be so good to finally be home.  When we pulled up I quietly asked if something seemed different.  “Nope” the hubs said without a trace of melodrama.  So we unlocked the door and entered a silent, darkened house.  Even the wolfies were not there to greet us.  And then, as if in a trance, our little one went straight through our home and down into our den where she saw our Christmas tree sparkling with silver and blue.  “Daddy, you put up the tree!” she exclaimed.  “Nope,” my loquacious beloved replied.  And then she saw her.  Nestled toward the top of our undecorated tree a little girl elf peeked cheekily out from behind the lit branches.  We heard the most incredulous gasp followed by a shriek and a jump.  “MAMA!  MAMA!  SHE’S HERE!  LOOK!  SANTA REALLY SENT HER!  DADDY!  LOOK!!”  “And she must have brought our tree,” I said as if I were deducing a puzzle.  “SHE DID!  SHE DID!  SHE BROUGHT CHRISTMAS MAGIC!” our baby doll exclaimed with wonder and conviction at the same time.  “It says her name is Noel Magique” I told our little one and she said, “Mama!  Santa knew to send a French elf because you speak French!”  (Technically her name is not grammatically correct but I think it’s pretty.)  “CHRISTMAS MAGIC!!!” our little one exclaimed as if she’d just solved a puzzle of her own.  American author W. T. Ellis said, “It is Christmas in the heart that puts Christmas in the air.”  My little one had hers and rekindled our own.  Thanks to a five year old, it came to us complete with a little Noel Magique.