Lost and Found

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My six-year-old has developed a real affection for cooking.



He's become a pro at flipping pancakes and an expert at cracking eggs. More or less. So when I sat down to think up presents he might like this year, cooking gear was top of the list. As it turned out, that was a bit more challenging than expected. Plenty of stores offered tiny, babyish pots, pans and tools, but nobody seemed to have exactly what I was looking for, namely, tiny oven mitts. This may be because most people have the sense not to let a six-year-old stick his hands in a hot oven.

Yesterday was the day I set aside to finish up my shopping. Since I had a long and varied list, I started at K-Mart. If your goal is to squash the last drop of Christmas spirit right out of your soul, this is your place. I left with nothing more than a vague sense of anxiety and frustration. From there I headed to T. J. Maxx. My Christmas spirit was already limping and bruised. Two hours of aimless wandering later and it was on life support. By now it was pushing suppertime and I hadn't eaten since breakfast, so the plan was one more stop and call it a day. Heights Toy Center is only blocks from home, so that would be the final destination.

While they didn't have what I was looking for either, they were chock-full of what I had lost. Before I knew it, I was happily walking next door to Wordsworth, and across the street to The Toggery. And then around the corner to The Freckled Frog and on up Kavanaugh to Eggshells. As I walked, the cool air churned with a perfect sequence of delicious smells—Browning's Mexican Restaurant topped off with Starbucks. With each step, my spirits inched upward. As I shopped, the store owners and clerks took genuine interest in my search. If they didn't have what I wanted, they instantly suggested a neighbor store who might, like Kris Kringle kindly sending me to Macy's. If they did have something my budding chef might like, they patiently took me by the hand and showed me. Then they served me coffee and white chocolate macadamia cookies (dinner!). In each and every shop, there were more people behind the counter than in front of it. And all with smiles on their faces! I had stepped into a parallel universe.

When I returned to my car in the Heights Toy Center parking lot, I had a bag full of really cool child-friendly tools and a sweet "professional chef" apron, which I dropped off inside to have embroidered with his name. By the time I made it home, I still didn't have oven mitts, but what I had was much more valuable—a renewed sense of the season. Okay, I wasn't exactly thinking of baby Jesus in the manger. But I was thinking about the importance of simple human interaction, kindness, and peace. And I bet if Jesus had Christmas shopping to do, this is how he'd want to do it.



Merry Christmas! And if you find a pair of tiny oven mitts, give me a call.
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Southern Fried Sledding

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Kids who come up in the harsh conditions of the north tend to become hearty and rugged adults. Miserable and suicidal, but hearty and rugged. Kids who enjoy the milder clime of the south, on the other hand, tend to get creative.

Exhibit A:







Now why don't y'all come on in for a nice sweet tea?
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Tradition

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Since moving to Arkansas seventeen years ago, I still feel a little uprooted around the holidays. You'd think seventeen years would be plenty long enough to establish new traditions of my own, but turns out, it's not. The only reliable patterns that surface year after year are the inevitable knock-down-drag-out with my printer while making the annual calendars and my inability to book a flight to New York until ticket prices soar higher than Santa's sleigh.

A part of me still pines for the days when my big brother would come bounding into the bedroom I shared with my sister, loudly announcing the long awaited date, "It's Christmas! It's Christmas!" The day would then follow a predictable itinerary, which over time wore grooves in my long term memory. These days, rather than traveling comfortably in the groove, each year presents another opportunity to carve a new one. And this year, I think we're on the right path.




Motley's Tree Farm is the south's answer to a perfect Norman Rockwell family Christmas experience. It has all the things that say Christmas to me, just with a thick southern drawl. Before I sipped my first cup of complimentary cocoa, I knew it would be our new family tradition.


A One Tractor Open Hayride



Do You Smell What I Smell?



Here We Come A-Pig-Racing





When we finally headed for home, the tree that rode along with us was a living Leyland Cypress. When the season's over, we'll find a home for it in our yard. Maybe we can take root together.
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Family

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A couple of years ago I was in New York for Christmas, visiting with my fifteen-year-old nephew. I was admiring how he had transformed his bedroom, a room that twenty years before had been mine. The scene couldn't have been more comfortable and relaxed if Enya had been there, gently humming and rubbing my shoulders. For me, that is. What I didn't know was that he was inching his way out onto the skinny end of a limb. He was about to jump, crossing his fingers that I'd be there to catch him.

"Aunt Sue? Um. Did you ever, er, think I was . . . gay?"

"Honey," I said with gentle wisdom, "I've known you were gay since you were four."



You'd think having known he was gay since he was four I actually would have had time to prepare such warm and accepting words. But instead I think the brilliant response I dredged up was, "Uh, yeah." Even though I didn't have the right words on the tip of my tongue, they were always in my heart. Words like, you are perfect and I wouldn't change a thing about you. Well, maybe one thing. I've always secretly wished he was my son instead of my nephew.

The big news he was sharing wasn't really news at all. But what did surprise me was his courage. He was only fifteen when he came out. Fifteen! And his father—the strong, silent, scary type—couldn't have been an easy audience. I was as proud of him that day as I am disappointed by the New York State senate today. Their decision to reject the gay marriage bill makes me embarrassed to call myself a New Yorker. I guess Arkansas Senator Mark Pryor was right when he said, "You don't have to pass an IQ test to be in the senate."

But just when a person could get good and discouraged, there's Laurie Berkner to give us hope. Smack in the middle of her Family video, she casually welcomes a gay couple. Just like it's normal.



Now if we could just get senators to watch Noggin.
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