Ivy....

I am now Gma, to another sweet girl. She was welcomed into our family yesterday about 2:00PM EST. She has beautiful brown eyes, and sports a beautiful fur coat. On Christmas Eve, she was adopted and saved from a terrible fate. She is between 7 months, and 18 months old. The girls are ecstatic with their new little addition. Jason can firmly state, he is definitely the head of household of a family of girls.

Welcome Ivy, I can hardly wait to meet you.

Ave Maria...

Ave Maria is my favorite Christmas song. The reason is clear from my last post. Of every artist of which I could have chosen, why did I pick this one? I picked Celtic Woman because, this is the closest one to Wendy's young voice. Yes, my sweet daughter has a classically trained angelic soprano voice.

By the time she was age twelve. Wendy was singing in French, Italian, German, and English. She used to practice everyday standing in the kitchen while I fixed dinner. So, everyday I fixed dinner listening to the sweetest voice I have ever known. Wendy continued voice training until she finished college. My fondest memory, cooking dinner while going to the Metropolitain. I remember peeling potatoes with my back turned to the sink, while tears streamed into the sink. I remember grabbing the sink with both hands to steady myself when she would hit a high C, E, and yes, A.

Wendy had many songs in her repertoire, but O Holy Night and Ave Maria were my favorite. After all, they are as close to any angelic song, which could have been sung that evening long ago announcing the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem.

Wendy's voice was as clear as any angel. Although, I am her Mother. Wendy and I would travel to nursing homes where I would play the piano and she would sing, bringing tears to those in the attendance. Not only to the residents, but also the staff. I would look for any venue in which Wendy could practice singing to an audience. In the beginning she was very shy and for her this would be a difficult task. The first time she sang O Holy Night in church, she trembled. Yet, even though she was nervous with stage fright, and also by the large quite critical audience, she never missed a note.

Until Wendy finished college and became a working adult, she and I would favor certain neighbors with her beautiful voice as we Christmas caroled. I should say she would sing, and I would listen. I only rang in on the last verse of We Wish You A Merry Christmas. In thinking back, I often wonder how she sang so beautifully, bundled up on such cold winter evenings. I never questioned then, although now I am a amazed.

I have such fond memories of Christmas past shared with my only daughter, my dear, darling Wendy.

The Infants....

Every time I look at a newborn baby, I am amazed. The wonder of it all has never ceased to amaze me. I was a Labor and Delivery Nurse for many years. I never tired of the birth process. Although as a mother, I have gained great respect for the miracle.

I was expecting my first baby on December 28, 1968. I remember sitting and looking at the Christmas tree thinking, how in the world did Mary do this? How did she travel on a donkey to Bethlehem? I could hardly ride in a car comfortably.

Then I realized on January 6, 1969, Three Kings Day, how she did it. I became a Mother on this date. We celebrate this official date as the day the Thee Kings arrived at the stable to worship their King. Mary gave birth to her infant in exactly the same way I did. Although the time was different, the place different... the birth process was the same.

I gave birth to my first-born son in a hospital. I swaddled him in a clean white blanket. Mary gave birth to her first-born son, our Lord and Savior, in a stable. She swaddled him in swaddling clothes. I am not comparing myself to the Mother of Jesus. I am simply comparing myself to another Mother who was delighted and happy with her newborn infant. Everything that she suffered to deliver him was worth it. I feel the same way. Everything I suffered was worth it.

Mary and I only have three things in common. We both love her son, Jesus. Mary was Mother to our Redeemer, the Messiah. I was Mother to a little red haired baby boy, named Mark. We both gave birth to sons as our first-born children. We both watched as our wonderful sons, died. We felt more pain at their death, than anything we ever suffered at their birth.

Mary suffered as she cared for her dead son in the tomb. She did not understand that He would rise again. For three days, she wailed and sobbed thinking her son was lost to her forever. Then on the third day, she watched as He rose from death. I never had to suffer for three days thinking my son was lost to me forever. I knew from the moment of his death our separation was only temporary.

Oh sweet Mary, I love you so. Thank you for riding on a donkey, for giving birth in a stable, and for crying at the cross of Jesus, for it is through your pain and through your Son, that my son will live again.

The Nativity...1954

I was 6 years old when my Mum brought home the little Nativity set. We were living in Panama, and it was Christmas 1954. The little Nativity had a cardboard stable, and little plastic figurines. There was a little bit of straw on the cardboard roof, to represent a thatched roof. I was enthralled.

From that moment until I had children of my own, this was the only Nativity set I ever owned. Each year, I was responsible for setting the up little stable. I took such pride in that I always tried to place Mary looking straight down into the face of baby Jesus. Joseph was always towards her back as though he was offering support. Every year, I would do something different with the shepherds, kings, and animals. One year I made snow out of cotton balls. Every year, I tried different lighting effects such as the use of a flashlight. One year I made the mistake of using a candle and almost burned everything up. My Mum came to the rescue with a glass of water.

For my entire life, up until I no longer had children living at home, this little Nativity set was the only one we ever used. Over time, the color started to come off of the little plastic figures, the cardboard stable was held together with tape, and I tried to replace the roof straw with grass. Over the years, the job of setting up the Nativity was given to Wendy. I remember that she took as much time setting up the little cardboard stable as I did as a little girl. Setting up, this little Nativity set was one of the hi-lights of my life growing up. Watching Wendy take the same tender care became the hi-light of my Christmas's as an adult.

There is a sad ending to the little plastic Nativity set. I have no idea what ever became of it. After almost 50 years, it just disappeared. This knowledge continues to bring tears to my eyes. The little Nativity was not only a part of our family tradition, for me it represented Christmas.

Christmas Tree...

When I was young, our family put up the Christmas tree about ten days before the holiday. Of course, at that time all Christmas trees were live. My Dad always seemed to have the knack of picking out the perfect tree. I never remember going as a family to tree shop. Daddy would always arrive home one evening with the tree tied to our 1951 or 1960 Pontiac.

I remember my Daddy taking lots of time deciding which side of the tree was to face forward. He was always careful to have the tree placed away from electrical outlets and chords. My Mum was the director, and my Daddy was the worker.

Daddy strung the tree with the large multi-colored old fashion Christmas lights. I do not remember seeing the tiny Christmas lights of today until I was about 16. When he finished the lights, we hung the Christmas ornaments. I remember our hands painted ornaments were made of very fragile glass. Many of our ornaments dated back to WWII. Every year at least one fell and shattered. I can remember crying each time the fragile glass scattered on the floor. Even at such a young age, I knew the broken ornament was irreplaceable.

After the lights, the ornaments placed, came the best part, the careful hanging of the silver icicles. At that time, icicles were made of lead. We did not know that lead icicles were dangerous. It was years later before they completely disappeared from the market. I remember using boxes and boxes of icicles. After the tree was covered in silver ice, Daddy would place our Christmas Angel on the very top. I never remember using another Christmas tree topper other than this angel.

My Mum used a crisp, freshly ironed, white sheet as a tree skirt. After the sheet was in place, Daddy would turn of the room lights, and turn the tree lights on. I can still feel the excitement, which I felt as a little girl. I remember sitting up late on weekends looking at the wonder of our beautiful, ice-covered tree. The colored lights shimmered in the refection of the icicles.

To this day, I can honestly say, I have never seen more beautiful Christmas trees than the ones my family shared. I think the secret was lead icicles. The cellophane silver ones purchased today are not the same. I remember being so disappointed with plastic icicles that I quit using them all together. I started using garland as a young mother, never to return to icicles.