My Favorite Ornament

 

The Little Angel

            Mother said that I smiled and laughed when she held me up to see the little angel hung high in the tree. Since I was only nine months old at the time I don’t actually remember this, but I do know that I’ve loved the ornament for as long as I can remember. Seeing her every year always brings, if not laughter, at least a smile to my face. Too fragile to hang now, she often rests in a place of honor on my mantel.

We’ve spent a lot of years together, 70 to be exact. Even though she remains in the form of a baby wrapped in discolored swaddling clothes, like I, she has begun to show her age. Her embossed paper wings aren’t as white as they once were, and the silver foil backing on them has peeled a bit around the edges. The points of her halo are also a little worse for wear. There are a few small cracks and even a small piece missing in the composite material of her face.

Unlike hers, my hair is no longer blonde like it was when I was a very young child. Yet in the important things, this little angel and I are still a lot alike.  Her eyes are wide with wonder, and she still smiles sweetly in anticipation of the joys of Christmas. May it always be so for me as well.

 

Take Joy

I am fortunate because for most of my life, I’ve been a happy person. Friends have accused me of wearing rose-colored glasses, and no doubt that is true. Certainly there are things in our world that are cause for great sadness and concern, and my own life has not been without problems. 2005 was a particularly difficult year because five people close to me died that year, beginning with my mother in April, and my husband only three days before Christmas. It took awhile to believe that I could ever be happy again, but I woke one morning knowing that I was not only going to be all right, I was going to be happy. Shortly after that realization I made the decision to be grateful for what I have rather than dwell on what I don’t, and to make a conscious effort to find at least one small thing each day that makes me happy. Often it is something as simple as really noticing the beauty in a single leaf that has fallen, or the way the light reflecting from a mosaic table casts dancing patterns across my living room wall. In these moments of true appreciation I find contentment and happiness.

Every year around this time in December, there comes a morning when I wake and happily greet something that happens only at this time of year. It’s the gift of an inexplicable effervescent feeling that I can only describe as joy. Christmas is coming! I’ll admit that once or twice I’ve been as bah-humbug as Scrooge. But I’ve also in turn embraced or dismissed everything from traditional Christian tradition of honoring the birth of Christ, the Yule Log blessings of the Celts, the gift-giving traditions from Saturnalia, kissing under the mistletoe from Norse mythology, the festival of lights leading to the winter solstice, to Santa Claus. In short, my beliefs and traditions have evolved over the years, but the one thing that has remained constant has been the feeling of joy.

As a member of a small congregation, I was often a part of Christmas programs. One year I read a poem that had the refrain “Take Joy!”  The poem has long been lost to me, but that refrain continues to come back to me. When I think of it two things come to mind. The first is that the feeling of joy that comes unbidden to me is a gift. The other is the reminder that I may also choose to search for, and take joy.

 In this busy time of year, in whatever your traditions may be, may you take joy.

 

I Also Remember

Over the last few days many have posted their memories of when they heard that President Kennedy had been killed. I was a junior at Alabama College in Montevallo, Alabama. One of my courses in Vocational Home Economics involved refinishing furniture. I had just applied warm oil to the beautiful walnut chair frame when someone came into the lab with the news. It seemed as if the world stopped and everything moved in a blur. Yet I continued to rub each section of the chair with a soft wool cloth until the oil was absorbed, finding the simple repetitive act of buffing the smooth wood somehow soothing. Fifty years later I remember that hollow feeling, and sometimes when I sit in that chair I find myself stroking the smooth wood.

As powerful as that memory remains, it was the news of the death of Robert Kennedy that has the most connection for me. My grandmother was visiting, and the two of us were watching television together when the news broke. She gasped and said, "Oh, poor Ethel, with all those children." To understand fully, you need to know that my mother, the eldest of five children, was only eight years old when her father was killed. When a former employee of her father came to the door, she and her brothers clustered around grandmother and heard her tell the visitor when my grandfather would return from an appointment. The man left, but walked only a short distance from the house, where he waited out of sight until my grandfather returned. He shot him at close range. My grandmother never mentioned how difficult it must have been for her, not only lose the love of her life, but to rear five children in a depression era world. In her softly spoken "Oh, poor Ethel with all those children" she revealed perhaps more than she realized. Her expressed empathy came from an understanding that most of us will never understand. When I think of the Kennedys, I remember, and am grateful for, the resilience of my remarkable grandmother.

  

In Gratitude

I've noticed each day that many are posting on Facebook short statements about things for which they are thankful. Somehow I never seem to get the memo that these daily things are coming. However, I'd like to share a longer selection that I read earlier this week at my writers club meeting.
     

I Am Thankful…….    

 I am thankful that my mother loved to read, and especially thankful that she read aloud the poetry, plays, short stories, and other writings that were part of the junior and senior high English curriculum. My earliest memories of when she read to me as we snuggled on the sofa are of a highwayman “riding up to the old inn-door” on a horse whose hooves went “Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot.” Of a raven who seemed to say only a single word: nevermore. Of a story that left unanswered the question: “the lady or the tiger?” As a child I did not realize that often she was reviewing for one of the six different classes she taught daily. Little Golden Book picture books, children’s Bible stories, Mother Goose, and other children’s favorites were among our usual fare, but even with their beautiful illustrations those books were no match for light brigades and ancient mariners.

 Because Mother shared her enthusiasm for books I was eager to learn to read. Although our town was so small that it did not have a library, I was fortunate that there were always books in our house. I suppose it was only natural since mother had grown up in a family that loved books. Her great-grandfather was said to have had over 4,000 volumes in his personal library. We had far fewer books, but there were always plenty to choose from. I was encouraged to read not only for my subjects in school but also for entertainment, information, inspiration, or just for the sheer pleasure of reading.

  

 It was evident that Mother’s students loved her, but I had given it little thought until I ended up in her class in the ninth grade. We had diagrammed sentences and slogged through rules of grammar during the first few weeks before starting literature. The first time we hit a difficult passage of poetry she said “Close your books and just listen.” Until then I suppose it had never occurred to me that Mother read aloud to her students as well. When she recited the selection in her beautifully expressive voice, my classmates were as enchanted as I had been as a child. Whether Mother read Shakespeare’s plays or other works, the words jumped off the page and came to life. We might not have been able to explain every line, but when she read to us we understood the soul of the work.

 When Mother died, former students gathered at the graveside to recite “Crossing the Bar” for her one last time. Afterwards many of their remarks to me began with “When she read to us…” They, like I, owe her our gratitude. Because she loved books many of us developed a love of reading that will last a lifetime. I'm thankful that my mother loved to read, and shared her passion with her students and her children.      

Why Scribblings?

If the truth be known, I was working so hard to get the blog started in the workshop, that my brain turned to mush. Naming my work stymies me, but you can only have so many pieces in an art exhibit listed as "Untitled" before it gets really confusing. My writing clubs also expect titles on work submitted. Naming things is so daunting to me that it's a wonder that my sons even have names. (There is a story there too. Perhaps I'll tell at a much later date.) Anyway, during the blog workshop Scribblings popped into my head, and that became the name. Not that I'm trying to defend it, but the more I consider it, the more appropriate it seems.

One definition for the word scribble is "to write quickly or in a way that makes it hard to read." If you've seen my handwriting, you know that mine won't win any penmanship awards. On the computer my writing is fraught with so many typos that sometimes it's also hard to decipher. There is also an implication that scribbled writing might not make a lot of sense. I can't deny it - that applies to me as well. I view the blog as a more immediate way of writing than a manuscript, something short, and an excuse to ramble without following a plot. I'm learning lessons along the way. Reading over my few attempts reiterates that there is a reason publishers have editors. 

Another definition of scribble has to do with marks that children make when they first put pencils or crayons to paper. In the most influential art education textbook for decades, Creative and Mental Growth, author Viktor Lowenfeld, defines the stages artistic development. The first stage is the scribble stage, from two to four years of age. Within that stage are steps, the last one being when the child begins to name the scribbles. Lowenfeld considered this a very important stage, even calling it one of the "great occasions in the life of a human" because it marked the "change from a kinesthetic thinking in terms of motion to imaginative thinking in terms of pictures.....the ability to visualize in pictures."

So here I am, a beginning blogger, fledgling novelist, trying to develop more imaginative thinking. Perhaps Scribblings fits me just fine. We all have to start somewhere!

Simple Gestures

My father would have been 97 this past Saturday. Although he died 20 years ago this past August, some things surrounding that time are still very clear in my mind. We had lived in Montgomery for over 35 years at the time, but it was his wish to be buried in the family plot in the town where he grew up. An evening memorial service was held in Montgomery, and then family members and friends gathered at the funeral home in Crenshaw County for a last viewing and prayer. As the procession made its way to the cemetery about 20 miles away. Along the way an overall-clad man, probably taking a break for lunch from work on his farm, was getting his mail from the mailbox at the roadside. When he saw the procession approaching, he turned toward us, removed his well-worn cap, and stood respectfully until we passed. This simple gesture for a stranger remains one of my most vivid memories of the day. I am touched by his kindness each time I remember it.

Yesterday the service for my father's 95 year old first cousin's was held at the same funeral home. Although her burial was in a different cemetery, we traversed much of the same route. Although I did not see that farmer, it made an impression on me that for the entire route, with the exception of three vehicles, all cars in the oncoming lanes pulled to the side of the road and waited until we passed. You might say, well, in the country..... but part of our route was along a divided 4 lane highway with a 65mph speed limit. Yet people stopped, because that's what people there still do.

Earlier when I mentioned a visit to that small town an acquaintance asked "Do you feel like you are stepping back in time when you go there?" in a tone of voice implying that people there are backward. I answered "no," but did not elaborate. Yesterday I realized what my answer should have been "When I go there, I do not step backward. I step into a place where customs are respected, and the common courtesies and simple gestures extended even to strangers still mean a lot.

Why Dabble?

Someone questioned why I used the phrase "dabbles with writing." By the tone of the question I got the idea that she perhaps thought I was being disrespectful to serious writers. Please let me apologize to any who might think that was my intent. Am I a beginner in the writing business? In many ways, yes. Even though I've been writing in some area or another for years, I am presently writing my first cozy mystery. Am I serious about it? Absolutely! But I also recognize that I am inexperienced both as a blogger and as a novelist, and one or more definitions of dabble certainly fit: "to scratch the surface of " or "to keep busy with" or "to do something in an intermittent manner." Sadly, I have not yet become a disciplined writer who puts in hours each day, but as some of my friends say "it keeps me busy and off the street."
I'm not so sure that to dabble is a bad thing. Whether or not my book is ever published, I've enjoyed writing it. O.k., I'll confess, slogging through some of the problems with it hasn't been my idea of fun, but the feeling of accomplishment when I stick with it is very rewarding. To me this is a lot like my years in art. I'm not good at everything - I'll never make it as a realist painter. But if I hadn't been encouraged to dabble, to stick my toe in, and try things, I never would have found the other areas where I am more competent, nor would I have had an opportunity to spend many years in the classroom teaching something I love. Thinking we have to commit to something fully and be immediately proficient is limiting. So dabble, my friends! To borrow an old phrase, "nothing ventured, nothing gained."

Are You Keeping a Journal?

I've started many journals or diaries over the years, and rarely completed any of them. My friend, Debbie Herbert, is the guest blogger on www.writersinthestorm.wordpress.com today, and gives some excellent tips for using journals or notebooks. I'm so lucky to be in a small group of writers with her, because her dedication to her craft inspires us every time we meet. She has a two-book deal with a major publisher that will publish her book in November. She's already completed the second book in the series, and has other manuscripts ready as well.
Check out her advice on journals in the guest blog Moving Past 'Dear Diary' and her website www.debbieherbert.com.  

Still Learning, Appreciating Zinnias

When I started this blog, I was in a workshop with a very patient teacher. Now that I've been on my own with it, I find that I probably should have made better notes! My children and some of my friends have declared that not only am I not computer literate, but also might best be labeled as computer dangerous. Sadly, they are right.
So when you do not see current blog entries from me it might be that I have nothing to say, or as in the last few days, that I couldn't find the right page that would allow me to do an entry.
As to something to write, there's no big news. I've been out of town again and came back behind in finishing a project.
 I do want to mention that the long drive home from North Carolina was made so much more pleasant by the sight of patches of zinnias planted in some sections of the median on I 85. I've rarely seen them so densely planted before, and at first didn't even realize what they were. The masses of green foliage topped with the bright blossoms made me smile, bringing back memories of the summer my late husband planted part of a field in multi-colored zinnias.

From My Favorite Chair

I've been away from home a lot recently, and have enjoyed every minute - well, almost every minute - of it. When one of my friends calls, she often begins the conversation with "Where are you?" Over the course of the last six weeks or so my answers have been varied because over the summer, my travels have taken me to Crossville, Tennessee, for a family gathering and informal reception to celebrate the marriage of one of my sons. To Radford, Virginia, for SUUSI. To Knoxville, Tennessee, for another gathering of family. Between those three locations I got to see all four sons, their spouses, and all of my grandchildren. From Knoxville I returned to Montgomery for a few days, then left with one son and family for a few days at the beach at Destin, Florida. I returned home on a Sunday afternoon, then left again Monday morning to attend and teach at a fantastic workshop for teachers held at a venue on an Alabama lake. Three wonderful days saturated with the concept of finding value by incorporating the arts across the curriculum - who could ask for more? But my travels were not over. After a few days at home I joined my cousins for a week at the beach in Panama City, Florida. It wasn't easy to tear myself away from family and the ocean, because both mean so much to me, but when my friend called again yesterday, it was very good to answer her question of "Where are you?" with "I'm talking to you from my favorite chair." As much as I love to roam, there really isn't any other place like home.

The Name Thing

My parents gave me the name Carol Ann Robbins at birth and, as was the tradition in the South at the time, I was always called the double name, Carol Ann. However as a teenager I thought it would be more sophisticated to drop the Ann, so when we moved to Montgomery and I began a new high school, I told teachers and new friends that I did not use my middle name. When I married I became Carol Robbins Camp, and signed all art I produced in that name. After many years I was divorced, but kept my married name. After several years I remarried and became Carol Robbins Hull. Subsequent art was produced under that name, but the question of how to make known that the work under different names arises often. In preparing to publish my first book, I have decided that I will publish it, and any future writing, under the only name that has been constant for me, Carol Robbins.
So there it is. That's why the blog is as Carol Robbins.

Day 2

Today we had our second session of the Blogging for Beginners workshop. I'm impressed that our very patient teacher managed to guide each of us through setting up our individual blogs, adding widgets, tweaking our page designs, etc. in only a couple of hours. We had different computers, different skills, and different expectations, but somehow it all came together. Yes, my blog is basic and doesn't have complicated  extras, but I am "computer dangerous" rather than computer literate. With that in mind, it's thrilling to have learned the basics in such a stress-free setting. I look forward to exploring this new way of communicating with you. Be patient though, I may need remedial work!

What is SUUSI? That's too hard to explain in a short post, but it's the highlight of my year. On the campus of Radford College in Radford, Virginia, over 1000 UUs gather for a week of community, spiritual growth, inspiration, and fun. After an uplifting worship service this morning I spent a couple of hours designing and beginning the creation of a fabric wall hanging based on a quotation that is meaningful to me. After lunch I came to the class "Blogging for Beginners." This is the result!