Thanksgiving with the Alcotts

Currently Reading: Alcott in Her Own Time by Daniel Shealy and The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert

"November had come; the crops were in, and and barn, buttery, and bin were overflowing with the harvest  that rewarded the summer's hard work. The big kitchen was a jolly place just now..." 
~ An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving

Mine was an Alcott Thanksgiving. Yesterday, I spent some downtime reading the opening pages of An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving, between bits of the biography I started last week. Curled on the couch with my family tonight, we celebrated the holidays and Louisa's birthday with a viewing of Little Women (the 1994 version). The first bars of the opening music floated into the room and the tears were already in my eyes. After two days of feasting and thanking, decorating and Christmas caroling, the time was right to visit the March sisters.
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A few months exploring books in North Carolina, Corca Duibhne, Ireland, Philadelphia, and Cambridge, I am now back in Concord, Massachusetts with the Alcott family. Just in time for Thanksgiving and Louisa's birthday. This new (to me) biography is a collection of memories, interviews, and memoirs from those who knew her and the Alcott family personally: colleagues, peers, friends, and family. The book is my place to sink into on these cold November evenings, like a mug of hot chocolate, a warm blanket, my cozy refuge from the wind and the chill. I listen with rapt attention to voices and memories that bring me to a Concord I can only imagine and a woman I'm getting to know even better.

I have seen Louisa through the pen of the scholar, her own letters and journals, some of her literary works, and now through the descriptions of those around her. I enjoy viewing her through this alternate lens. New stories abound, new poses are struck, new words are said, forming images of her demeanor and character that didn't find their way into her works. In these memories, Louisa falls onto her bed with a dramatic flop; the barn rings with playful shouts and dramatic soliloquies; she whirls around and curtsies in the lane; she moves her hands to illustrate her words; she covers her pain with humor and "bright flashes of wit." I can finally see her as others did, and she is all sparkling eyes and droll comebacks and noble passion. She is no different from the woman I found in her letters and journals, but these memories serve to reinforce my image of who she was- the dutiful child, the passionate crusader, the witty storyteller, the sharp mind, the Jo-ian personality. Not a perfect person but perfectly herself.

Reading about her through the eyes of others holds both a danger and an advantage. Sometimes those we are close to know us better than we know ourselves. They see the good qualities that we overlook; they recognize the faults we do not see. Louisa was certainly hard on herself, with high expectations she felt she would never attain. (That sounds all too familiar to my ears.) She rarely wrote of her triumphs, except in the humblest of tones. So watching her laugh and clap her hands and keep a room of people in stitches with her witty observations is such a joy.

But even though they can observe us in ways we cannot, those around us often fail to know us fully, only seeing the part we present to them. They aren't privy to the struggles, the fears, the hopes that swirl around unseen in our minds and hearts. So much we keep hidden, even from our closest companions. No matter how close they were to her, most of her contemporaries couldn't know exactly who she was. And time changes our perspectives and our memories. I read these recollections, wondering how much of the writer's descriptions depend upon Louisa's fame and reputation, rather than their own opinions at the time.

These observations both hide and reveal the real Louisa, and I force myself to recognize that I too will never truly know her. But I never stop trying. In this book, once again, I find her, living and breathing, made alive through the words of her contemporaries, the world in which she inhabited and her relationships with neighbors, friends, and peers as real to me as any scene in my own world. When I look up, I am startled not to find her standing in front of me.

Loving...

Currently Reading: Villette by Charlotte Bronte and Early Irish Myths & Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz
(Finished The World of Downton Abbey in one day though... but I don't regret that 1 a.m. bedtime)

Every year, for Valentine's Day, Nate and I watch Jane Eyre (the phenomenal 2006 version from the BBC with Ruth Wilson and Toby Stephens). It debuted on PBS in February of 2007- the first Valentine's Day we celebrated together. Since then, it has become our Valentine's tradition- no fancy dinners, no bouquets of flowers... just the two of us (with Hobbes), burrowed in blankets on the couch,enjoying one of our favorite love stories.



Today, a list of things I love and am grateful for- because what better day to celebrate it all?

- At the top of my list: Nathan. While I won't get all sappy here, he really is my best friend, the sharer of all my adventures, my "sweetheart of the hawthorn hedges." I wouldn't be the same without him.

- My family and my friends. My life is so full with love from so many wonderful souls- my parents, who support me at every turn; my sister, who is my other half; my grandparents, those here and not here; my extended family, who are really just members of my immediate family because we're so close; my friends, with whom I share a million memories, and with whom I am closer than ever, despite the distances. I know God has blessed me when I think on all of the people He has put into my life.

And other little things:
- Watching birds with Hobbes as they gather the bird seed on our balcony, swooping and diving and chattering to each other in the cold winter breeze.

- The lovely purple shawl my Oma crocheted for me several Christmases ago that I hardly part with during the winter. Whether I'm cleaning, cooking, doing homework, or reading, it's there on my shoulders, keeping me snug and warm.

- Hot mugs of tea, steam curling from the surface invitingly.

- Inspiration. I have a harder time finding it during the winter months, but I'm starting to feel it take hold of me, like the first buds of spring returning. Inspiration to write, to desire, to explore. My blood quickens when it comes and the potential of the life ahead of me takes hold in all of its strength and its wonder.

- Writing this blog. I am so lucky that I have the chance to write about what inspires me, to share my thoughts and impressions with friends and family, as well as readers who have become friends and family. Writing has always been an outlet for me, but this blog has allowed me to challenge myself more and discover just how much I need writing.

- Stacks of books on my bedside table, waiting to be read and experienced.

- Mumford & Sons, every song resounding in my ears like a beautiful prayer.

- Creating in the kitchen.

- Our Ireland pictures.

- Serving communion at church.

- Dreaming of summer- farmer's markets, hikes in the State Park, starting another balcony garden, and driving with the windows down.

- Sunshine.

- Adding books to my Goodreads list.

- Wearing cardigans.

- Doing research at work.

- Accomplishing projects.

- Eating homemade yogurt.

- Shopping at Goodwill.

- Finding antiques.

- The color green.

-  Talking about kids' names with Nate, even though that's several years off.

- Adding quotes to my quote book.

- Listening to Opa's stories on my tape recorder.

- Planning for the future.

- Silence. I love stopping, making an effort to take in silence and calm for a few minutes of the day. Centering myself, saying a few words to God, recognizing the blessings I have. It doesn't happen every day, but when it does, I feel refreshed and in tune with who I am and who I want to be.

Love yourself, love the ones around you. "The greatest of these is love."

Happy Valentine's Day!

A Peek Into the Kitchen

Currently Reading: A Passion for Books by Harold Rabinowitz

I love my kitchen.



It's a tiny galley kitchen with barely any counter space but it is one of my favorite rooms in the apartment. Cooking was never my "thing" growing up; it was my sister who helped my mother make pizza dough and chop ingredients. It was never very interesting to me until I moved out and started living on my own in college. Suddenly, cooking became exciting and I looked forward to trying new recipes.



In my kitchen, I am able to express another aspect of my creativity. I savor the act of slipping my apron over my neck and rolling up my sleeves, grabbing mixing bowls and measuring cups. And with the holidays right around the corner and the semester wrapping up, I'm looking forward to all of the days I will have to spend creating in the kitchen. Lately, I have been very interested in creating homemade pantry staples, thanks to my new favorite cookbook, The Homemade Pantry by Alana Chernila. (Her blog is linked here; she is a great cook and very helpful. Both times I have emailed her with questions about yogurt firmness or cleaning my Dutch oven, she has responded within days.) Thanks to her cookbook, I blanched my first batch of corn on the cob this summer and I learned a wickedly delicious butternut squash soup recipe. Best of all, we no longer buy cereal, yogurt, canned beans, hamburger buns, or vegetable stock- I now make all of these things from scratch, which is gratifying in so many ways.


Granola cereal and yogurt
 
Not only do I know that we are saving money on our monthly grocery bill, but I have the satisfaction of knowing that we are putting healthier food into our mouths, without preservatives or an influx of sugars or sodium. It is thrilling and deeply soul-satisfying to cook. I agree with Alana: "the thrill is what keeps me cooking and sharing."



I am far from done with my experimentation. Cheddar crackers, fruit roll-ups, Italian salad dressing, and more are on my list. I have also found another cookbook that I will be reading over Christmas break called Make the Bread, Buy the Butter by Jennifer Reese, which will hopefully yield even more ideas and inspire me further to grab my kitchen tools.

While I am far from the perfect cook, it is a hobby that I have come to really love. It is relaxing (as long as I'm not rushing to put dinner on the table) and it is therapeutic. Turns out, cooking itself has a pretty fascinating history as well. Yesterday I finished the book Consider the Fork: How Technology Transforms the Way We Cook and Eat by Bee Wilson. I will never look at my kitchen gadgets the same way again. Turns out there was much I didn't think about when it came to what was in my kitchen and how the devices I take for granted- forks, fridge, oven- has had a profound impact on what we eat. The history of cooking is the history of humankind and a history of our cultures. Everything from ice cube trays to spatulas have a history, one that affected our ancestors and their survival for centuries. For instance, the invention of pots allowed humans to cook different foods together, instead of hanging individual pieces of meat or vegetables over an open flame. In addition, pots helped move us from a hunter-gatherer society to an agricultural one, for we finally had the means to cook the food we grew. Wilson includes discussions of how ovens have changed our relationship with fire, how the type of knives we use have contributed to human jaw's overbites, and the fear people had of refrigeration. I feel like I have a better appreciation for and a new awareness of how my tools affect my cooking. Occasionally, while reading late at night, I found myself sneaking into the kitchen just to open the cabinets and study my kitchen tools- what they're made out of, how they're shaped, and think about how much harder it would be without these devices. I truly feel that anyone who has a passion for cooking would learn so much from this book. I know that it has increased my passion and inspired me even further.

Have a great weekend! Here is a little holiday magic to start December off right!

Louisa and I

Currently Reading: Eden's Outcasts: The Story of Louisa May Alcott and Her Father by John Matteson

During our wanderings through life, we inevitably run into people we admire. People who inspire us because of their passions, their successes, or their perspective on life. Like anyone else, I have my heroes- my parents and my sister, my grandparents, my husband. I also have a world of heroes that exist beyond the flesh-and-blood world, ones that exist only as characters in novels. Jane Eyre is my ultimate literary heroine, closely followed by Jo March, Anne Shirley, Hermione Granger, and Liadan, while their male counterparts include Pa Ingalls and Sydney Carton.

It wasn't until I started reading Eden's Outcasts that I realized that historical personages don't figure among my heroes. There are many that I admire, certainly, men such as MLK Jr. or John Muir, women like Abigail Adams or Emily Dickinson, but none that I could truly count as heroes. My definition of a hero is a person whom I find is similar to myself, yet possesses qualities that I strive to emulate in my own life. A soul friend, an inspiration. Surprisingly for a historian, I never truly found that person in the annals of the past- until now.



I should have known, with my affinity for Jo March, that I would have been just as enchanted with Jo's creator, Louisa May Alcott. But I have found, while reading this biography, that I love Louisa May even more. With every journal entry or letter, I draw closer to her, realizing we share many of the same characteristics- good and bad. Unlike a literary hero, Louisa is human, and far from perfect. As someone who struggles to overcome my faults, I find in her a reassurance that we are all imperfect in some way and that it is part of who we are.

We are both passionate and creative; we are also both irritable, moody, and strong-tempered. As children, we tore voraciously into books, and stimulated our imaginations out of doors. We share strong bonds with our sisters and we find inspiration in nature and fellow intellectuals. We both grew up trying to please our parents, even in the midst of upheaval and strife. My excitement over the discovery of this new bosom friend reached its ultimate pinnacle when I read that Louisa even listed one of her favorite books as Jane Eyre, the novel I have prized since the age of 11. I couldn't help leaping off of the couch and doing a happy dance in my living room when I read that.

Yet there is still so much more about her that I admire- her drive and determination, even her struggles. I love her faults and imperfections just as much as I love our similarities. As I read, I imagine the questions I wish I could ask her or the conversations we could have had. I feel as if I understand her, and that is something I have never found with a character outside of a novel. It is refreshing and exhilarating. It is inspiring.



I still have several chapters to go before I finish this wonderful biography; this summer, I plan on diving into some primary sources- journals and the like, going straight for the woman past the analyses of others. I cannot wait.

I hope everyone had a happy Easter! Here are some of my favorite moments from my weekend.


Loving on my niece Lena


The bridge, overlooking the creek


Oma, the master chef

My lovely sister and I... and a tree which I then fell in love with


Oma, playing with her great-grandbaby


Newspaper reading is serious business


Dancing to "Let's Go Fly a Kite" :)

GRASS!!(Thank you, Lisa, for your amazing photography skills).
Have a great week!

I Arise Today...

Green beer. Leprechauns. Blarney and pots of gold. All sorts of things come out of the woodwork every March 17^th in the United States as we get ready to celebrate everything Irish for St. Patrick’s Day. This Saturday, I plan on indulging in my favorite St. Patrick’s Day tradition. No, I don’t paint my cheeks with “Erin Go Bragh” or pin a leprechaun button on my shirt. Instead, I pull my copy of The Confession of St. Patrick off of my bookshelf and reacquaint myself with the amazing man whose name has become famous but whose life and legacy are often forgotten. I won’t give you a biography of St. Patrick today, but merely a glimpse of what you can discover through his written work.

Yes, St. Patrick did exist. While exact dates of birth, death, and work in Ireland are hazy at best, the fact remains that he was real and he did spread the word of God in Ireland. He was not the first to do so but he seems to have been the most effective. While other missionaries, namely Palladius, were not familiar with the Irish people they were trying to convert, Patrick had lived in Ireland for many years and had a deep respect and love for the Irish and their culture. Two historical documents have come down to the 21^st century from this holy man of long ago. One is A Letter to Coroticus, Patrick’s response to a Roman general that had been kidnapping Irish people and forcing them into slavery. A former slave himself, Patrick’s ardor and strength of character are evident in every word. The second document is my favorite. The Confession of St. Patrick is an autobiography of sorts, in which Patrick explains the beginning of his own faith and dependence on God, his call to Ireland, and his work there. It reveals a man who was very different from the well-known depictions of an aged, white-haired, stooped man in a cloak. Patrick was tough, he was strong, he was quick-witted. He greatly respected the Irish people; he knew the Irish language. He felt uncomfortable and embarrassed of his lack of learning, especially his Latin. He was adamant and he didn’t back down. He was a force to be reckoned with, but also gentle and caring. He admired women and welcomed them with equal fervor to the fold. He felt grief, he felt doubt, he felt shame for the sins he committed in the past. He embraced the Celtic Irish culture, allowing it to flourish alongside the new Christian religion, thus preserving a language and an oral literature that otherwise would have disappeared. And, most admirably of all (for me), he had a very strong faith, a true faith. Not a faith of recent times, dripping in judgment and hypocrisy. But a true, unwavering faith in a power that loved all man... not because we deserve it, but because grace is stronger than our proclivity to sin. I think I would have liked to have known him- each time I read his work, I feel a little closer to a man I greatly admire and gain a little more inspiration on how to live my own life.

There is a poem attributed to St. Patrick that is fitting for today called “Faed Fiada” in Irish and “The Cry of the Deer” or “St. Patrick’s Breastplate” in English. Simple yet profound, it is a fitting symbol of how the Christian faith and the Celtic culture converged and intertwined, creating a beautiful and powerful new culture. As Katherine Scherman writes in The Flowering of Ireland, “If Patrick did write it...it exhibits not only his glowing imagination but an intuitive appreciation of the pagan background of his adopted country.” When I read it, I picture a man standing on a hilltop, shouting his words to the sun and the wind, celebrating God, celebrating the Earth, celebrating life. It is moving in its imagery and I share it with you today.

I arise today

Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,

Through the belief in the threeness,

Through confession of the oneness

Of the Creator of Creation.

I arise today

Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism,

Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial,

Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension,

Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.

I arise today

Through the strength of the love of Cherubim,

In obedience of angels,

In the service of archangels,

In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,

In prayers of patriarchs,

In predictions of prophets,

In preaching of apostles,

In faith of confessors,

In innocence of holy virgins,

In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today

Through the strength of heaven:

Light of sun,

Radiance of moon,

Splendor of fire,

Speed of lightning,

Swiftness of wind,

Depth of sea,

Stability of earth,

Firmness of rock.

I arise today

Through God's strength to pilot me:

God's might to uphold me,

God's wisdom to guide me,

God's eye to look before me,

God's ear to hear me,

God's word to speak for me,

God's hand to guard me,

God's way to lie before me,

God's shield to protect me,

God's host to save me

From snares of devils,

From temptations of vices,

From everyone who shall wish me ill,

Afar and anear,

Alone and in multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and those evils,

Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul,

Against incantations of false prophets,

Against black laws of pagandom

Against false laws of heretics,

Against craft of idolatry,

Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,

Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.

Christ to shield me today

Against poison, against burning,

Against drowning, against wounding,

So that there may come to me abundance of reward.

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,

Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,

Christ on my right, Christ on my left,

Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise,

Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,

Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,

Christ in every eye that sees me,

Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today

Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,

Through belief in the threeness,

Through confession of the oneness,

Of the Creator of Creation.

Slainte.

Finding Mr. Rochester

Currently Reading: The Last Storyteller by Frank Delaney

Every year, Nate and I enact the same tradition for Valentine's Day- watching the BBC's Jane Eyre on the couch, in the dark, as we shiver over the scary scenes and sigh over the romantic scenes. Celebrating with the ultimate love story is one of my absolute favorite traditions and makes Valentine's Day truly special.



I may not read what many call "Chick Lit" but I do enjoy a good love story. There are so many unique and precious love stories in the literary world that impeccably capture the awesome wonder and desperate pain of love. You can find it in the unwavering support Agnes gives David Copperfield or in the tragic love affair of Robbie and Cecilia in Atonement. One finds it in the sacrifice of Sydney Carton for Lucie's happiness or the quiet courtship of Laura and Almanzo. It is there in every conversation Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester have.

I found my Mr. Rochester a long time ago. As Jane writes at the end of the book, "I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest- blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband's life as fully as he is mine."


Summer 2007


Spring 2008


Summer 2009


Spring 2010


Summer 2011

Jane says it better than I ever could.

Whether you have love in your life today or are still waiting for your love story to start, I hope you have a wonderful Valentine's Day. Also, I would love to hear about some of your favorite love stories. There are always so many wonderful ones to discover. I'll be writing again soon- I have been a reading machine lately, so I'm looking forward to discussing some of my latest literary adventures. Happy Valentine's Day!

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Currently Celebrating: JESUS' BIRTH!

Merry Christmas everybody! What a joyful, loving Christmas it has been... and it's not even over. There are still so many family members to greet and laughs to share. I am tingling with anticipation still, as well as happiness as I look back on this glorious day. The living room is lit only with Christmas lights and the room is still. Silent. Watchful. The perfect ingredients for some good pondering.

Today is the day. The day where we celebrate the greatest gift of all: Jesus coming to earth for us. We hear variations of this theme in church all the time- especially on Christmas Day. How we give gifts because Jesus was given to us. How He was born just so that He could die for us. We hear this, we internalize it, and we move on through our day, our month, our year.

But when I stop for a moment, sitting here by myself, and close my eyes, I envelop myself in the reality of these words. It's no longer just a sermon topic. I feel the truth of it flicker in my soul; I recognize that these events actually happened and I feel His eyes on mine. I have only seen Him once, but He was majestic and perfect, and all I need to do is close my eyes to feel that peace and hope envelop me again. I know He is real and even though I am not the child He deserves, I still love Him with everything I have.

So, God rest ye. Don't dismay. Jesus is real and He loves you. Be merry.... be comforted.... be joyful! Merry Christmas!

Holiday Bookstore Happy

Currently Reading: David Copperfield by Charles Dickens and Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling

Merry Christmas! (Almost).

We are now back from the wonderful land of Hollywood, where we met Alex Trebek, Nathan tested his smarts on-camera, and we took a harrowing bus trip to Hollywood Boulevard (which was actually a bit of a let-down. Should've gone to the beach instead.)



You would think I would dread going from 65 degree, sunny weather to a cold and gloomy Chicago afternoon, but I was beyond excited to come home. It really hit me while flying over snow-capped mountains, leaving the warmth of California behind, that I will never be anything but a Midwest girl. I may not be a fan of bitter winds or freezing rain, but I love my seasons and their changing smells, the rolling farmland, and the perfect blend of city and country that defines the Midwest. Forget "California Girls"; I'll send Katy Perry some lyrics for "Midwest Girls."
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I am convinced that one of the best places to be around Christmastime is Barnes & Noble. Each time we have ventured out to complete more Christmas shopping, Nathan and I have always allowed an extra hour for some much-needed relaxing time at B&N. It is festive, in a "Christmas bustle/coffeeshop smells/holiday displays" kind of a way. Yet even in the busy store, quiet spaces materialize amid the presence of thousands of books. The harried voices of annoyed shoppers and the frustrated look of employees evaporates when I sink down on the floor with a book that has caught my eye, or window-shop among the bookshelves, running my finger along spines of old friends and new acquaintances. The world stops when I am in the shelves of a bookstore or a library. It is just me among books- no distractions, no stress, no interruptions. Just soft, slow breaths and the careful patience of a child working on penmanship. No spa can relax me the way being surrounded by walls of books can.


OK, this may not be Barnes & Noble but this is one of my favorite independent bookstores. The whole atmosphere is permeated with cozy book love.

Two weeks ago, we went on a little B&N excursion. Nate and I split up once we got there, meeting again in the Cafe area, armed with books to peruse over hot Peppermint Mochas. What a blissful and rejuvenating 30 minutes! With every page turn of Young Goodman Brown, I felt any stress melt away, leaving a strong feeling of utter contentment in its place. (That feeling is when I know I'm feeding my soul a gourmet meal). I couldn't help myself from looking up and gazing around at the shoppers laden with newly-bought presents, Nathan poring over his book, and the kids caroling on the steps of the Starbucks area. (They weren't very good, but one has to appreciate the sentiment. We should all bring back caroling....why did it ever die out in the first place?!) I was happy just to be there, part of that moment, part of that scene.

We also used this trip to stock up on Christmas presents at B&N. Every year, I try to be creative in my present choices, but I always come back to this decision: a book is the best present of all. Not only can you literally find a book for everyone on your list if you try, but books act as a connection between you and another person. I especially love giving books I have already read and enjoyed; nothing is more satisfying than giving a favorite book to someone else, knowing that many great discussions will follow as they read and love it too. Sharing books is magical- it's part of the reason why I love working at a library. The gift is not just the book- the gift is also an experience, a feeling, a friend, that can be found within its pages. Talk about expressing your love and appreciation for someone- what better way to do it than with a book?

Give a book this Christmas....and I hope you receive many as well! Merry Christmas!

Tis the Season!

Currently Reading: David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. Currently Re-reading: my favorite Christmas kid books

Turn on the Christmas carols and grab a candy cane, because my Christmas muse is still going full-blast. I just cannot get enough of this season. All I have to do is listen to O Holy Night before I am overcome with peace and hope and love and absolute happiness. And since I try to spend my life finding happiness in anything I can, I'm sucking the marrow out of this wonderful time of year. Nate and I spent one of the greatest Sundays of my life worshiping our Lord at church, finishing our Christmas shopping, strolling through the mall, and then finishing the night by wrapping presents and watching Rudolph and Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town. An entire day devoted to Christmas magic-making with the one I love? Perfect. :)


Our Christmas tree... why yes, our living room is snowing.

Tonight, I feel like reminiscing and revisiting some of my favorite Christmas books for children. (Warning: this is a LONG post... hope you stick with it!) As established in the previous post, when I think of Christmas, many of my thoughts and memories stray to my childhood. Christmas stories and books feature prominently on my shelf of Christmas memories. Unlike many of my memories, I can actually revisit my books- perhaps not reliving distinct moments, but remembering them with sharp clarity with every page I turn. So here are my musings on my favorite Christmas books...

I believe books and Christmas go together like cocoa and blankets... after all, the Christmas story started with a book- the best Book of them all.



"And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, 'Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.' Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.” (Luke 2:8) It gives me chills.
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I don't know why, but Jan Brett books make me think of my mother. I have no doubt she read them to us, but there is no specific memory linked to this- only a deep feeling of my mother every time I open a Jan Brett book. One of my favorites is called The Wild Christmas Reindeer. Jan Brett is a wonderful story-teller, but the true magic of her books lies in her illustrations. The main story, of a girl with the daunting responsibility of readying Santa's reindeer for the big night, dominates the center panel.



This is a North Pole unlike any in other stories. Santa and the elves live on a Winterfarm, which is strikingly Nordic-inspired; the reindeer have such lovely names- Bramble, Lichen, and Tundra. Along the margins, a separate story unfolds, purely in pictures. All of her illustrations are rich in detail and color, fascinating to behold. I have always preferred words to pictures, but these continue to delight me, even as an adult.


Not the best shot, but oh well.
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Who doesn't love Tomie dePaola? Especially when he is writing about a spit-fire of an old lady trying to make the perfect Christmas feast without magic- for "Christmas has a magic of its own." Be still my heart.



Merry Christmas, Strega Nona is by far my favorite Strega Nona book and never ceases to put a smile on my face. In fact, I just reread bits of it and I'm smiling away. The essence of Christmas is all here- the hurry, anticipation, excitement, and work of getting ready for Christmas. The comfort of tradition. Honoring the magic and love that celebrating Jesus' birth brings us. The bond of family and friends who come together to make Christmas special. It's the whole package.
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"Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse." Priceless. Classic. When you think of how ubiquitous this poem is, it's hard to believe this poem was penned in 1822.



From that early beginning, Clement C. Moore's "A Visit from St. Nicholas" still speaks to children and adults, encapsulating the glorious anticipation and delicious mystery of Christmas Eve. Without Moore, our image of Santa would be very different- for starters, he would not have eight reindeer or fly in a sleigh. (Do some research on the history of Santa... it's fascinating!) What would Christmas be without this little gem of a poem? Personally, I have always enjoyed the version illustrated by Scott Gustafson (a Marengo native!)



The colors are vibrant, practically bursting off of the page. I want to crawl inside each picture and wrap myself in it.
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Every Christmas Eve since my grandparents moved away, my sister and I pull out our battered copies of Little House books and skip to the "Christmas" chapters in each. As my sister keeps her hands busy (usually baking), I read aloud to her stories of Pa, Ma, Mary, Laura, and Carrie celebrating another Christmas. We smile, we laugh aloud, we wipe tears from our eyes, and then we sigh and look out the window, imagining Christmases of the past, and reflecting on our own fleeting presence in this world and the fragility of moments like these.



It is one of my favorite Christmas traditions and will always be part of the special bond my sister and I share. Last year, Nathan joined us at the dining room table, with his head in his hand, listening devotedly. And for the first time, all of the books were not lined up in front of me on the table. Instead, I read from A Little House Christmas- an actual collection of all of the Christmas stories found in each Little House book.



An amazing find (thank you, Jennifer) that seems to have been made for our tradition alone.
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Finally, my Christmas experience wouldn't be the same without the little-known-but-oh-so-delightful Mr. Willowby's Christmas Tree by Robert Barry. The plot is positively delightful- one that I think is entertaining to both children and adults. As a child, I always found great pleasure in the pattern of the story and the rhyme and rhythm of the words. The ending still makes me smile. But none of that explains why it's so special to me. Every year, my Oma will pull out a special stash of books that only appears at Christmastime. When I was young, I would read each of these books cover to cover- even the one that was only a book of carols. (I will read cereal boxes if I have to.) Anyway, our favorite was Mr. Willowby's Christmas Tree, and like the amazing grandmother she is, my Oma would always read it to us.



We could read it ourselves, of course, but there is something so very special about snuggling next to someone as you are read to. We made Oma read this book to us so many times that even now, as I open the cover and start reading to myself, her voice echoes in my head. I can perfectly remember how she pronounces "Willowby" or how she reads "She gave it a chop, and threw away....the top!" with a perfect upward inflection. It is amazing how twenty-eight simple pages holds indelible memories of a grandmother who has been everything to me- a pretty large feat for one little book.
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Just as Christmas has its own magic, so do books. The magic of books explains why we discuss them with each other, read them together, or seek them out in bookstores to wrap and give away for Christmas. Just like the newest Hallmark commercials proclaim about cards, books are not meant to be read alone. They are meant to be shared. When we share our books with each other, we forge bonds, reaffirm relationships, and create lasting memories. And we spread the magic.... the magic of love, comfort, and Christmas.

Yes Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus.... The Christmas Motherlode Post

Currently Reading: David Copperfield by Charles Dickens and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling

Happy Friday! I have wrapped the Christmas season tight around me lately and my soul is completely full. Right now, I am enjoying some "writing time" in my favorite coffee shop, surrounded by the Christmas spirit: Christmas carols on the radio, and the entire place draped in berries and lights and fake plastic pine. And this peppermint white chocolate mocha (I know.. be jealous, because it's amazing) is the perfect muse.
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We spent Wednesday night putting up our tree and now it truly feels like Christmas at home. Our first Christmas in our own home... it's enough to make me tear up.



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I know I'm not the only one, but when I anticipate Christmas, many of my thoughts creep back to childhood memories. Gazing into the flame of an Advent candle as "Heidchi Bumbeidchi" swells through the room instantly turns me into a child again, watching Oma light the Advent wreath. Certain songs or smells transport me to the Christmas where I got my dollhouse, the yearly tradition of decorating the tree with Mom, putting up Oma's Christmas Village. Memories that lie dormant all year long come into bright focus as December dawns: Giggling with my sister in my bed on Christmas Eve, sampling my mother's cookies, setting my St. Nikolaus boot on the windowsill, and waking up on the first day of Christmas break. What is it about Christmas that makes me not only remember past Christmases, but yearn for them?



One of my favorite things about Christmas is the dedication to tradition that we all, to some extent, participate in. We bake the same recipes we watched our mothers and grandmothers make, we watch the same beloved movies, and we strive to do everything the way it was last year and the year before. Tradition is cozy and safe, something that helps give our life meaning, and it holds particular importance with this most important and beautiful of holidays. My traditions connect me to my parents, my sister, my grandparents. It affirms who I am and what I believe in. And with each tradition I follow and each happy-cozy feeling that flutters in my soul, my faith and happiness and contentment with the world increases. My traditions are a way to declare my intense love for this holiday and my plan to celebrate it right.



Now I have the wonderful opportunity to introduce some of my traditions to Nathan, and partake in some of his, thereby creating our very own. I cannot wait to someday help shape my children's Christmas memories and give them, through our traditions and celebrations, the same sense of love and joy I get at Christmas-time.


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In honor of my Christmas-induced mood, I'm posting a letter from the editor of the New York Sun in 1897 answering the query of a little girl named Virginia. This may not be a poem, but it is so beautiful and eloquent, it may as well be. The fat bearded man may not physically exist but everything he represents- love, childhood, faith, generosity does exist. It started with a baby in a manger over 2000 years ago, and continues in you and in me.
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"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old. "Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. "Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.' "Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus? "VIRGINIA O'HANLON. "115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET." VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge. Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood. Merry Christmas! I pray that you savor all of your Christmas traditions and find joy in spreading a little Christmas cheer today!

Classics Itch

Currently Reading: David Copperfield by Charles Dickens and (recently finished) The Reader by Bernhard Schlink (Stay tuned for my next post about The Reader...it was amazing!)

It's that time of year again... frosty mornings, sleighbells jingling, and Christmas lights twinkling in every window. We put up our Christmas decorations already, serenaded by the sweet sound of carols, while my new "Fresh Balsam" candle tickled our noses with its lovely woodsy scent.


We are finally celebrating my favorite holiday of all and I relish every holly-filled, cozy-joyous day of it. This one is even more special because it is our first Christmas as a married couple, in our new place, and I am thrilled to finally start our own traditions as a new family.



But it's another time of year too... the time when I am all snug in my bed, while visions of classics dance in my head. Yes, classics. Wintertime is the beginning of what I am calling the "classics itch", when classics start calling to me from their place on the bookshelf. Though I would not label myself a classics junkie [a.k.a. I've read every single classic one bazillion times and can recall each in vivid detail] (except for Jane Eyre.. I practically need Jane Eyre in an IV), I thoroughly enjoy reading classics. Dickens, the Brontes, Wharton, Austen, Hawthorne, Alcott, Twain, etc., etc. To me, reading a classic is soothing and therapeutic, like meditating or snuggling under warm covers. Perhaps it is the language and style of writing- art forms that are rarely found in more contemporary novels. When I read a classic, I often read and reread the most lyrical passages, not because I didn't understand it but because I often lose the meanings of the words in the beautiful way it is written. The music of the words washes over and around me like water in a stream rolling over a stone again and again, as I float on the sound and cadence of the delicious writing. Why say, "Who knows what will happen" if you can write, "Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show." Pure music right there.

I enjoy knowing I am reading something that people have read and cherished for many years; classics are classics chiefly because their complex plots and rich characters have made timeless impressions on their readers. Characters like Sherlock Holmes, Jo March, Marianne and Elinor, and Jane Eyre have become as dear to me as anyone in the real world. (And if anyone knows which quote I just alluded to, you get bonus points). Simply put, reading a classic is comforting, and winter- with its bitter cold winds and snowy landscapes- creates the perfect environment for burrowing under the depth and weight of a good classic. Winter invites me to wrap myself in words and I wholeheartedly accept that invitation.



My classic of choice this time is Dickens' David Copperfield. Although I vacillated between this and Bleak House, the challenge of the sheer size of Copperfield (not to mention the beautiful preface that caused tears to well in my eyes) was enough to convince me. While classics will not be the only thing I indulge in this winter (and Lord knows that I read classics even when winter winds are not blowing), others on my list this winter include Charlotte Bronte's Villette, short stories of Eudora Welty, and Nabokov's Lolita. Sigh. It's going to be a good winter. :)

What are some of your favorite classics? Does anyone else have unique reading habits? I'd love to hear about them! Happy December!



P.S. So I think I'm going to stick with this layout for a while. (You never know though... I love to change my mind). I wanted something that was "me" and this one is perfect. I love reading outside in summer and these green leaves make me think of lazy afternoons in the grass with a good book.... one of my favorite ways to read. Let me know what you think!