Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

I decided to swing by Toys R Us on my way home from the gym yesterday morning (and we won’t even talk about how many hours I need to spend there after two weeks of deadline-induced stress-snacking, followed by Thanksgiving). While it’s convenient to have, at your fingertips, everything a child could possibly want, the big mega-stores make me nostalgic for two things: the old “dime stores” of my childhood and the Sears Wishbook.

Dime stores had a little bit of everything but not a whole lot of anything. You could buy inexpensive cologne and makeup, artificial flowers and note cards, magazines and toys. Mother used to take me to two of them—one in Childersburg and one in Sylacauga, each with its own special charms.

The one in Childersburg had an excellent selection of reasonably priced toy rings—the kind that had real-looking stones (at least to my six-year-old eyes) and a band you could squeeze together to fit your finger. The one in Sylacauga had a great old hardwood floor that gave a little under your feet, and it smelled just like the Woolworth’s described by the brilliant Nanci Griffith. In her live version of “Love at the Five and Dime,” she says all Woolworth stores smell “like popcorn and chewing gum rubbed around on the bottom of a leather-soled shoe.” That’s exactly how I remember the dime store in Sylacauga. But its real draw? A small electric organ with a short keyboard and a little panel of buttons you could push to make chords. Way before I could actually play or read music, I would make a beeline for that organ (which the proprietors graciously allowed kids like me to play).

The Sears Wishbook was in a class by itself. I can’t remember when it came in the mail—probably October or early November—but I couldn’t wait to get my hands on it. Within a few weeks, the pages would be frayed with perusal, many of them dog-eared to mark my Christmas wishes. There was so much to choose from! Matching nightgown-and-robe sets worthy of Marcia Brady, every Barbie and baby doll Mattel could dream up, toy kitchens, backyard tents, board games like Mystery Date and Sorry and Life—it was all there for the wishing, thanks to the good folks at Sears.

What the dime stores and the Wishbook had in common was anticipation. Today, you can walk into a Walmart or Toys R Us knowing that just about anything you can think of will be there, and you can take it home with you that very day. But in a dime store, you just never knew. Maybe somebody had bought the magic organ since your last visit. Maybe the ring selection would have changed entirely. Who knew?! And as for the Wishbook, those dog-eared pages were merely pleas to Santa. There was no guarantee of delivery. To find out which of my choices he approved, I had to wait until Christmas morning.

We’re now in a season of anticipation—and reflection. Just as children eagerly anticipate that morning when they will bolt out of bed to see if their "I'll-just-die-if-I-don't-get-it" present is under the tree, we have the month of December to remember the very first Christmas and its long-awaited gift. Yes, there are covered dishes to prepare and gatherings to attend and presents to buy. But for at least a few minutes each day, I want to pause, breathe, and take it all in—the promise of hope and love and grace, at long last brought to earth.

“Here is my servant, whom I uphold,
my chosen one in whom I delight;
I will put my Spirit on him
and he will bring justice to the nations."
Isaiah 42:1

[Image by Raina Granger @ Freerangestock.com] 

Sunday Morning Serenity

This time of year makes you think. And remember. And think about what you remember. What does it all mean? Sometimes, as my friend Gary puts it, “It’s just too 'circle of life.’”

As I’ve gotten older, my circle of life has gotten smaller, which makes me sad in some ways but grateful in others.

Christmas will never be the same without Granny, who loved presents more than any child I know. I used to love shopping for her as I traveled for Southern Living, and I miss watching her rip into those packages, asking the same question again and again: “Is there another one under the tree for me?”

It’s sad that our Thanksgiving table won’t be shared by the huge clan of family we had when I was a child. I’ll bet we used to have 40 or so people at Grandme’s house for turkey and dressing. There wasn’t another room in the house big enough to hold the enormous “deep-freeze,” so it was parked in a corner of the dining room next to the pie safe. Mama used it as a dessert buffet at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

As much as I miss those who have gone on, thinking of them reminds me of an old gospel song: I’m gonna sit at the welcome table; I’m gonna sit at the welcome table one of these days—Hallelujah! I know they’re all there at that welcome table together.

While it’s sad to see your family circle grow smaller, there’s a peace that comes from reigning in the circle of your life. You find, over time, that you want to bring it closer to you—to the heart of you—and once you do that, there’s just no room for excess. You start weeding out what you don’t need—what you probably never needed.

In my own circle, there’s no longer any room for a career ladder to climb because it just doesn’t mean anything to me any more (plus I’ve got a trick knee and feel safer here on the ground). I only care about the actual work I get to do—the stories I get to tell and the talented people I get to collaborate with.

There’s no room for fair weather friends. I only want the all-weather variety—and I want very much to BE the all-weather variety. I am guilty of losing touch with a few dear friends because I was oh-so-busy with things I thought were oh-so-important. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

There’s no room for meanness or spite because it poisons the air in any circle, and a small one only has room for clean breezes.

A few things that will always fit into my circle: My family and precious friends. My church. Road trips with Dave. Stories. Music. Hank and Cheeto the Cats. My Yule Log DVD from Aunt Grace (which is popping and crackling on the flat screen as we speak). Mama’s potato salad. Daddy’s running commentary on life as we know it . . .

These are, as the song says,  "a few of my favorite things”—for which I’m very thankful. 

[Image by James R. Gray @ Freerangestock.com]