This photo was taken many years ago when my daughters were young. They were acting out the Christmas story. Daughter #3 was Mary, Daughter #2 was a lamb, and Daughter #1 was one of the Wise Men. Our daughters used to put on a small play or puppet show every Christmas. Sometimes, when their cousins were visiting, the cast became larger.
Now that out daughters are all grown up, they no longer put together a play to entertain us, but since they did it every year when they were children I know the Christmas story is engraved on their hearts and that they will always remember that Christmas is not really about the presents we give to each other, but the gift that God gave to us.
Styles have changed and I am so grateful for that fact. The gigantic bow on my grandmother's head is really wild. Then there's the long gloves and the dropped waist with a gigantic flower arrangement attached.
I have no idea what the occasion is for this formal portrait. My grandmother was not Catholic. Dad says she was Protestant. Since her family was German, I have assumed she might have been Lutheran, but I don't know. I was told that when my grandfather married her, the ceremony was conducted in the vestibule of the Catholic church. They were not allowed at the altar.
She was a quiet woman. Her parents had a chicken farm in Pennington and when my father was young, he spent his summers there on the farm. I've never seen the farm--only photos of it.
My grandmother died at the age of sixty-three. I did not get to attend the funeral because I was babysitting my younger sisters and my cousins. My brother did not attend the funeral either. He was overseeing the construction work being done on our house as two more rooms were added.
I wish I knew more about her. I know she made dumplings, which my father loved. I know her cousin, Pearl, lived upstairs in the two-family house in Jersey City. But that's about it. I wish she hadn't been so quiet.
Pictured in the photo above are my three daughters along with a table full of unique and beautiful handmade items. My mother, Daughter #2, and I decided to go into business one beautiful autumn day. We gathered all our wares and set up a table at the flea market in Keyport.
Yes, once upon a time, in the dark ages before the internet, I thought I could make extra money by selling crocheted ornaments I had made. It took me at least forty-five minutes to make each ornament and then I had to stiffen each one. However, crochet thread was inexpensive. Though I knew I would not be making a decent hourly wage I was sure I would sell enough of my ornaments to make up the price of the materials. I believed my low, low prices would have everyone snatching them up.
My mother was a terrific artist. She always hoped to get extra cash selling her paintings. She hit upon a popular idea of decorating old saws with lovely scenes. She went to garage sales, bought old saws for next to nothing and turned them into beautiful pieces of decorative art.
Daughter #2 sewed doll clothes for the popular American Girl dolls. For a youngster, she had talent.
We did not advertise. At all. :-( Still, we expected hordes of delighted customers to show up at our table and purchase our exquisite handiwork.
A few people walked by. I sold two ornaments. It was very disappointing. If we had rent to pay, we would have been bankrupt on day one. :-(
I gave up crocheting ornaments. Now I'm trying to sell books. LOL! In 2011 there were three million books published. That's a lot of competition, but now we have the internet and social media marketing. I am doing my best to get the word out about my books, but it isn't easy. It does take time, but if I don't toot my own horn, nobody will know I exist.
I found a great link, SMALL BUSINESS MARKETING. It offers plenty of sensible suggestions for marketing your wares. I know now how important advertising is!
Last night, hubby and I worked for a few hours signing our Christmas cards, stuffing the cards in the envelopes, and putting on the stamps. Years ago, I made the process simpler by printing out address labels. I also put together The Marzec Times, our annual newsletter, which briefly covers the highlights of our year. We slip the newsletter inside the card.
Sending out Christmas cards is one of the traditions of the season I love. I haven’t seen Marie since college, but I send her a card every year--and she sends one back. Our neighbors moved away twenty-seven years ago, but we still keep in touch at Christmas time. It gives me a warm feeling to think about them and to know how they are doing. We probably won’t get together and visit each other, but it doesn’t matter. We remember each other and wish each other well and hope that next year another card will come.
To me, the emotional connection is the most important part of the tradition.
Fewer and fewer people send out cards these days. Yes, the price of stamps keeps going up, but spending 46 cents once a year on an old friend is a far cheaper than buying them a drink.
Posting “Merry Christmas” or "Happy Holidays" on Facebook is nice, but it will soon be forgotten in a cascade of hastily posted greetings. A card in the mailbox is a special surprise, one that can be held and remembered for a long, long time after its delivery. A card is a gift, real symbol of your presence to someone else.
Over the years, I have removed people from my card list. I usually give them a few years, and then I reluctantly cross them off. However, I will often email the pdf file of our Christmas newsletter to them. I figure it is something they can print if they like—or send it to their ereader. It is my attempt to reach out and keep in touch. I find it very sad that in our modern society with all our amazing communication devices, all I ever get from many people are a bunch of forwarded messages that contain nothing about their personal lives and many of those forwarded messages are filled with hate, which is even more distressing.
Please touch somebody in a special way this holiday season. Send them a real paper card in the mail. Give them a memory.
The Beast of Blackbirch Manorhas two covers, the one on the left is the original version designed for the digital edition and is still in use at Barnes & Noble's online site. The cover on the right is the one you will see at Amazon for both the print and digital editions. The story is my take on a classic Gothic as well as a retelling of Beauty and the Beast. The heroine, Victoria, was married by proxy to a cursed man, covered in fur and destined to become a wolf. The scene below is a dream sequence in which Victoria relives a horrifying moment in her life...
She heard the wail. It sounded more like the cry of a beast than a human. Searching though the long corridor in the basement beneath the manor, she shivered with only her thin nightgown to protect her from the chill. She loathed the basement where the dampness set mold to growing on the walls no matter how often the servants scrubbed it away and she feared the creatures that inhabited the darker corners. But she could not think about that now. Her bare feet made no sound as she hurried softly along the passage. She cursed Paul’s stubbornness for refusing to have her mother put away. If he would only listen to reason! She wanted to be free--like other young women her age. She was seventeen! She wanted to go to parties and dances. She wanted to fall in love. But there could be no peace in Blackbirch Manor due to her mother. It was as if the old house had become a prison for them all. Another animalistic howl sent ice tingling along her spine. An echo bounced off the solid stone walls. Stopping for a moment, she listened intently but heard nothing save the creaks and groans of the massive timbers as they bore up under the weight of the old dwelling. Her hands shook as she felt her way along the walls. She paused at the door to each storage room and barely breathed, waiting to hear the rasp of her mother’s labored gasps for air.
The darkness was complete. She could see nothing, but when she heard the singular creak of the heavy door that led from the basement to the kitchen stairs, she scrambled in that direction. The sound of her mother’s laugh, a wild cackle that seemed almost demonic, froze her heart. The hinge of the door that led outside squealed and she felt the draught of the wind rushing into the basement. Her heart quailed, for there could be no telling in which direction her mother would go once she escaped. If she ran all the way down the hill into Taylor’s Grove, everyone would learn the truth. That must not happen--no matter how much she resented caring for her mother. She did not want anyone to know of her mother’s madness. Stumbling up the steps and out into the chilly night, she saw she had only a pale sliver of moon to guide her. She ran into the kitchen garden, but her mother was not there. From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement at the corner of the house. Taking a deep breath, she sprang in that direction for all she was worth. More hysterical laughter echoed in the icy air as she rounded the corner in chase. An ache in her side slowed her, but she did not stop. Her mother must be headed for the gate! In despair, she wondered why no one else had come to help her. She tried to call for Paul and Ipsy and William--anyone--but though she formed the words with her lips, no sound came out. Off to her right, she heard the crush of leaves in the underbrush and the snap of branches in the woods. Someone--or something--was nearby. Fearfully, she looked this way and that, but all she saw were the swinging their branches of the black birches in the nighttime breeze--shadowing the pallid moon to leave her in darkness so deep that the gloom became as dense as a thick velvet curtain. Again, she heard the sound and the smell of terror filled her nostrils.
Without any other warning, she was grabbed from behind. And then she heard the scream, the hideous screams that echoed on and on. She woke and realized that the screams had come from her own lips. Her heart thundered as she stared up into the face of the Beast. He loomed over her, his powerful hands pressed against her shoulders, pinning her upon the mattress.
That's me on Thanksgiving 2010 with the two turkeys I roasted in the oven for the usual crowd. The oven died afterwards. It roasted those two turkeys with its last gasp.
I have a twenty pound turkey in the refrigerator at the moment. I hope all goes well on Thanksgiving.
When I was growing up in Cliffwood Beach, my mother went all out for Thanksgiving. She missed her family out in western Pennsylvania on holidays. There was one Thanksgiving when Dad drove us all out in a snowstorm to see my grandparents in Canonsburg, PA. On our arrival, my grandfather told us we were crazy. :-)
Most of the time, Mom cooked the special feast just for six--my father, my sisters, my brother, me and herself. However, there was one memorable Thanksgiving when my brother invited four of his classmates from college to join us. They came from India. One of them was a Muslim, so turkey was fine with him. However, three of them were Hindus and vegetarian. They wound up eating a lot of biscuits.
My mother's preparations for Thanksgiving started off a day ahead when she made three kinds of pies. She made only one mince meat pie for my father, which no one else would eat because nobody else liked mince pie. She also made apple pies and pumpkin pies--all from scratch with her own pie dough. (Rolled pie crusts had not been invented yet.)
My brother, my sisters and I were all Mom's apprentices. Each of us had specific jobs to do. I usually got the job of making the cream sauce for the cauliflower. My brother usually chopped up celery and onions for the stuffing.
Our feast consisted of mashed rutabaga, cauliflower with cream sauce, and onions with cream sauce, too. Having grown up in a house with five brothers, Mom always cooked enough for an army. There was not just the stuffing that went into the turkey, but another pan of stuffing as well. We had corn, sweet potatoes, and mashed potatoes. And biscuits, of course.
It was a lot of work.
I've cut down on the work by cooking fewer vegetables. We will have sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, and broccoli with cheese sauce. If someone brings something else--and they usually do--we'll put that on the table, too. Daughter #3 is bringing pies because I asked her.:-) Someone else is bringing bread.
I bought a bottle of Pinot Grigio today. If someone brings another bottle of wine, so much the better.
