River, the
Laughing gulls and Caspian terns,
the grassy shoreline, the smells of
the marsh, the loblolly pines on the
horizon – I knew I was home. And
though I sometime fantasize about
moving to places we’ve visited like
Ireland, Montana, Maine and Nova
Scotia– I belong to this place … and
just as our children want to wake up
in their own homes on Christmas
morning, we’re happiest to wake up
here in our Marion Station home this
Christmas morning – and every
morning.
Our children remain well though
all are stressed with the recent
financial recession. Becky, Harry,
Benjamin and Connor are in New
Jersey and doing well spending time
with the boy scouts and soccer.
Kelley is in Maine and just had a
baby girl – Hannah Grace. Dominic
lives in Columbia and is excited to
be working in the new Maple Lawn
community near where we used to
live. Lara and David moved off the
Eastern Shore after David graduated
from Salisbury University last
December. They moved into an
apartment not far from Dominic.
Danny and Amber bought their first
home and moved to Front Royal,
Virginia. Their new house sits on
the top of a mountain at the end of
a three mile dirt road. Albert and
Ruth had a baby girl in January –
Bailea May - who is as cute as a
baby girl can be. Dan and I visited
them in Florida last April and were
able to see Bailea again in July at
Becky’s house just before Dan left
to go out west. Little Daniel is has
started school. Mia and Grace
continue to enchant us – in stereo -
with every visit.
2008 has been a tough year for
us. We’ve suffered losses of loved
ones, job loss, and sickness. For
most of the year, Dan has been
working out of state. When his job
in Ocean City was completed in March
he couldn’t find any work in
Maryland. Through the Iron Workers
Union he found short-term jobs in
West Virginia, Ohio and
Philadelphia. This became increasing
difficult with on-again-off-again
schedules, travel and strenuous
work. Opting for better pay and more
long-term work, Dan set out for a
job in Wyoming in July - then ended
up working on a wind turbine farm in
Kansas. He’s been living out there
since, with only one 4-day visit
home in September for our
anniversary. Thankfully he’ll be
home for Christmas.
This is the first time in my life
I’ve lived alone. And, I’ve
developed some interesting skills in
Dan’s absence – like how to … manage
a flock of free-range chickens,
battle an infestation of poultry
mites, relocate – not kill - black
snakes, discard dead animal
carcasses, fix and maintain an
electric fence, balance the
eco-system of a pond, repair a sump
pump, jump start a car battery, take
metal to the scrap yard – and get
paid for it!, add a phone jack, and
start the truck with a screwdriver.
I learned how many roosters are TOO
many (more than one). I’ve also
learned why people who live alone
become eccentric about animals,
talking about them like they’re
people, and fussing over them too
much. In solitude one becomes more
aware of the actions and responses
of creatures. The animals have been
great company for me, but I realized
after a friend said, “You sure talk
a lot about your dogs” that I may be
in danger of becoming eccentric. I
secretly wondered if naming all the
chickens after French literary
heroes or making home-made broth for
dog-food gravy was too over the top
for a normal person.
In
the past our Christmas card picture
was taken on that year’s vacation.
Since times were tough this year, we
took no vacation. So I decided to
use a photo from the trip I took to
Ireland in 2007. As you can see, I
added a caption - a quote by Taylor
Caldwell. Sadly, being separated
from Dan also means I’m separated
from my proofreader. I still swear
I’m dyslexic. My writing is always
marred with typos. Dan usually finds
them. I emailed this card to the
printer having proofed it FIVE
separate times in the course of
eight hours.
That night when I was describing
the card to Dan on the phone, I read
the quote to him and noticed that I
had typed Taylor Cladwell
instead of Taylor Caldwell,
transposing the 2nd and 3rd letters
of the last name. I shrieked and was
so mortified – having a typo on the
cover of the Christmas card!!! Dan
tried to comfort me with this
amusing statement …. “Well, Taylors
should be CLAD well.” Please forgive
the typo – It would have cost $160
to fix.
I took the photo on the cover of
this card one dreary February
afternoon on the Beara Peninsula in
County Kerry. The place is known as
Cashelkeelty stone circle, and it
stands on the summit of an ancient
trackway known as the “Old Green
Road.” Talk about being alone!
Traveling by myself, I trekked a
mile off the main road, straight up
the mountain to find this stone
circle. Nary a soul was on the path.
Standing on the summit, the
landscape stretched out for miles
with views of the Slieve Misk
Mountains, random villages and the
Kenmare River. The only sound was
the wind sweeping across the summit
and whistling through the mountains.
I chose this photo for our
Christmas card because I recall how
I felt just after snapping it. I was
miles from anyone I knew suddenly
awash with the awareness of being
alone – but not alone. It was later
that I found the Caldwell quote and
it seemed so fitting. Not so because
it matched how I felt on
Cashelkeelty … but fitting because
of what it says about Christmas. If
we look deep into the season of
Christmas, we find that which
dispels darkness, defeats loneliness
and conquers the loss we feel with
human separation. We find love. With
love we can never be alone.
In April my mother died. She
followed her brother Bob who had
died just four months earlier. My
mother and Uncle Bob were named for
my grandmother’s sister and brother
- Robert and Elizabeth - who died in
1914 just weeks apart at the ages of
16 and 18. It’s strange to ponder
that coincidental repetition of
another Elizabeth following her
brother Robert as time circles
around us. Several friends and
family members have also suffered
losses this year, and this will be
their “first” Christmas without that
loved one. We think of them with
special fondness this year.
In doing my research for the book
I’m currently writing, Thin
Places – Celtic Doorways to the
Otherworld – I read this quote
by the late Celtic mystic, John
O’Donohue. He said …
If you could interview a
baby in the womb, and it
asks you, “what’s going to
happen to me?” You’d say
“you’re going to go through
a dark channel. You’re going
to be pushed out. You’ll
arrive into a vacant world
of open air and light. The
cord that connects you to
your mother is going to be
cut. You going to be on your
own forevermore and
regardless of how close you
come to anyone, you’ll never
be able to belong in the way
that you’ve belonged here.”
The baby would have no
choice by to conclude that
it was going to die. … when
in actual fact .. it’s being
born.
As we navigate through the
revolutions of the passing years,
Christmas is a time when we pause.
We stop and reflect on birth,
beginning, light coming into the
darkness – a light that the darkness
cannot overcome. We look forward to
another year and hope for blessings.
It’s a time we remember everything
we ever loved, when joys and sorrows
are magnified and felt stronger than
other times of the year. Love is
what knits the Christmases of our
past into a garment of memory that
warms us and cloaks future
Christmases. It’s that love that
pushes us year after year to make
this season special.
I have a Christmas card on my
desk my brother Mickey sent me last
year. In it he wrote, “thanks for
your Christmas card and letter. I
don’t know where you find the time.”
One thing every human being on earth
has an equal share of is time. We
all get 24 hours in a day. And
though the extra pressure of
Christmas preparation challenges my
abilities to get this card and
letter out - there’s no task that
supersedes connecting with you – to
let you know that you matter to us.
Dan and I are blessed to have
lives connected to so many people.
.. and it is to those of you that
have made a difference in our lives
that we send this card. It may be
the subtle difference made by a
business acquaintance or neighbor.
Or it may be a huge difference made
by a close friend or family member…
but that difference you make in our
lives - subtle or deep - is such
that without you, there would be a
vacancy. And yes … my house is
dirty, my shopping isn’t done, my
gifts aren’t wrapped, my
preparations not yet complete … but
our Christmas memories rarely
include the clean house and the
gifts. We remember people and the
times we shared. We remember you
this Christmas. We thank God for you
and pray that your Christmas is
happy and full of joy.
May God bless you and those whom
you love.
