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.

This is going to make me sound really old but when I was in kindergarten we had pencil boxes.  All the other kids had yellow ones with school supply type things on them; mine was a King Edward’s cigar box.  I was never embarrassed; I loved the smell because it reminded me of my father.  There used to be a pipe store in the mall with the most wonderful aromas that were part of my earliest childhood memories.  They carry with them feelings of love and comfort.  Cigars are a rare indulgence for me but when I enjoy one it brings it all back.  I see big ash trays and remember watching Carol Burnett on Daddy’s lap.  I remember walking in restaurants where the first question was “Smoking or non?” and we always chose non-smoking because my father did not smoke cigarettes.  Interestingly, the word “cigarettes” comes from the French and was derived when peasants used to gather up tobacco discarded from the gentry.  They used to roll the remnants into “little cigars,” or cigarettes.  I love a cigar on a warm summer night but perhaps even more so on a crisp winter one.  Look at that plume of smoke in the background.  I limit myself to robustos these days (a shorter cigar) rather than Churchillls, the very long ones named after Great Britain’s former Prime Minister, who favored them.  Sir Winston Churchill once said:

“Smoking cigars is like falling in love.  First, you are attracted by its shape; you stay for its flavour, and you must always remember never, never to let the flame go out!”

On a primal level I suppose that’s part of why I enjoy them.  They bring back my daddy to me in those quiet moments filled with wreaths of smoke floating in the air and the rich scent of tobacco enveloping me like a warm blanket.  They remind me of huge, dark red hands, jet black hair, and the bluest eyes I have ever seen.  I will never, never let the flame go out; it brings the past present.

Welcome to Dallas, y’all.  I stopped when I saw this bad boy on my way in the mall and had to take a picture.  Like fine horseflesh, I also appreciate fine horsepower.  Just as I was snapping it but trying to look nonchalant, a mall security guy came by on a golf cart and asked if I liked his car.  We both just grinned, sharing a moment.  Even though I am not given to jealousy, I am glad to say although I love this car I would not want to have it even if I could.  We absolutely must get away from our dependency upon oil — both foreign and domestic.  Much like coal had its heyday in England, so oil must end as it is a finite resource anyway.  I am still praying for the Water Protectors at the sight of the unwanted Dakota access pipeline.  The horse transformed the lives of Native Americans and it has made my heart proud to see so many on horseback coming in to protest the black snake.  The Australian poet Pam Brown once said:

“A horse is the projection of peoples’ dreams about themselves – strong, powerful, beautiful – and it has the capability of giving us escape from our mundane existence.”

Maybe that’s why I admire it so … horsepower.