Granny Jane Junction: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Hi, everyone! As you can see by the latest pictures, Nathan is still the cutest baby on the planet! He took Christmas Day in "stride" going from bean bag chair to lap to another lap and set of arms - no lack when the room is full of relatives waiting in line to have a turn at him!

We all gathered Christmas Eve at Julie, Erin and Scott's church (Riverlakes Community Church) for a 4:30 p.m. Christmas Eve service, and then drove to our home for a lovely ham dinner and relaxation, before everyone (including Julie, who was dog/house-sitting) left for their beds. Everyone gathered again here for a reasonably late (Em, Jeff and Nathan arrived earliest, since Nathan gets up early) Christmas morning with coffee cake, ham and eggs, scripture reading and opening presents. We only turn our gas fireplace on a few times a year, and the days around Christmas are the primary times. Takes me back to Valeria Street and the awesome atmosphere Dad and Mom created on Christmas morning - more than the gifts, that is what I remember about Christmas in my youth (thanks Dad and Mom!). We also had Em and Jeff bring their dog Maggie over so they wouldn't have to make trips back to the house to let her in and out (she is an indoor dog for many reasons). Since Maggie would make Abby a chew toy, we rotated them in and out throughout the day so each could have some indoor and outdoor time.
For the first time I fixed a prime rib roast for our Christmas dinner, and it turned out pretty well. For the rest of the holiday we watched movies and played games that people got for Christmas and in general had a great family time.

Now we've entered 2009 after a small family gathering at the Winther's last night to eat another lovely Costco ham, play Ultimate Yahtzee and Set, watch The Dark Knight, and love on little Nathan. Erin and Scott came in briefly from a long round trip to Huntington Beach New Years Eve to deliver a basket of goodies to someone, then they were spending the evening at home to care for Scott's parent's dogs to get them through the fireworks of the New Year's celebrations. Today the McArdles are driving to San Diego to spend the next few days with Scott's family, while Em and Jeff and Nathan are driving north to Coarsegold to spend time with Jeff's family.

It is a very cold and dreary-looking first day of the year here, weatherwise, but that just gave me an excuse to update this blog! May 2009 be a grand year of wonderful events for all of us!

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Spheres of Glass, by Erin McArdle

We are spheres of glass, these souls, blown from the very breath of heaven. Each one of us is dipped, shoved into the painful heat of the glory hole, shaped on a hardened plate of steel, rounded out with just the right amount of pressure, and then, while we are still pliable, the air is pushed through us, filling us with volume, with shape, and if the artisan desires, a crackled color is then applied. I...I am a bright turquoise with red and orange piping. There's a bit of sunset yellow that glows somewhere inside, along with a bit of that color that pauses on the horizon somewhere between twilight and the final whisper of the last ray of sunlight.
Once we are set in the hay to slow dry, we either crack slightly or come out crystal and shining. I used to think I wanted to be crystal clear. Now I think I prefer a little bit of character, and some very serious color.
God sets us on the earth, hands us our precious ball of delicately blown glass (just one to start with), and asks us to walk along side him. He points out the visions of life, whether we are listening or not, presenting us with opportunity beyond our imagination. We are watching the starlight sparkle within, the sun and moon glitter across, all the while taking each step with care as we hold our gift. Many times the ball drops. Many times the sphere we spend so much effort protecting breaks, and Oh Lord, how unthinkable that must be...
I stand somewhere in the middle of a New York style street, staring at the shattered pieces of glass, the noise - a blur fading into the background, trying to pick them up, hands bleeding with every shard scraped off the horrid, burning pavement. Heart beat desperate to turn back time, to fix my mistakes, to move a little quicker, to hold onto my precious sphere. some of it has ground itself in and the powder is blown away under the hell of the wretched summer heat. I gather what I can and leave the rest. I empty it into a small bag. There are so many pieces as my feet crunch across the ground, and I wonder whose soul they belonged to, and if they really wanted them back and just couldn't get them or if they lost the ability to care after trying for so long to preserve it.
Somewhere along the way I find a side street and a bottle of superglue, revlon nail formula. Laughing out loud, I seriously thought it would work...for about 30 seconds. The ultra bonding substance could hold limbs together, but not the shattered pieces of me. As I stood there, almost hopeless, two thoughts came to mind: 1st-a clear bag. Definitely zip-lock, definitely tear proof. But then, as I grow older, I realize that nothing can tear proof the soul, or the heart that feeds upon it. 2nd-I have to find the glass blower. The artisan. He will be saddened to see such a mess, but there is a small twinkle in his eye, much like Ollivanders, that keeps the desperate hope I cling to from fading.
His shop is filled with gadgets...time collectors, tear drop measurers, colorful bits and baubles unrecognizable to me. Beautiful and aged. The room has that yellow glow to it, like the end of a sepia toned summer day on its last spark. He takes my bag, pours the remains into the glory hole and we watch it melt. I have done this many times before. And I am lost for words every time. But he knows. I can see it in the lines on his perfectly wrinkled face. He always knows. Slowly, he takes the rod and swirls it into the liquid glass, creating a new sphere - knowing in time I will break this one too, but making it just as pristine as the very first. He looks at me for just a moment before gazing at the colors he might add to it. This time, the piping is jet black, and the glass is of a sparkling mist. Somewhere I see the old hint of turquoise, and a hidden stripe of autumn. He finishes my ball and sets it to cool...Carefully he puts his tools back in their place, and then turns to me. He has not said a word, nor have I. We use the small sink to rinse my hands, the aloe plant sacrifices a limb for me.
And here I sit, like the fainting phoenix, waiting to rise from the ashes, as the glass cools and takes on its new shape and plethora of colors. Eventually the time will come, and he will hand it back to me-this new and old gift.
And somewhere down the road, it will come to pass that I will need to come back here again, perhaps slightly less battered. But I should make my way back here again. And maybe next time, it will only be to add on a bit of color - something more golden and starlit - or maybe, just maybe, he'll hand me another to carry.