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Welcome to a special holiday episode of Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which merry much happens.
You feel good and then you fall asleep.
I'm Katherine Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
Before we snuggle in for a long winter's nap, let me remind you that you can always get ad-free versions of this show for the low, low price of just a dime a day.
Learn more at nothingmuchhappens.com.
Last holiday season we started a new tradition on the pod to have a special extra-long episode of favorite holiday stories picked out by our staff.
The, um, nothing much staffins, if you will.
And as a way to share a little about their excellent behind-the-scenes work, I'd like to take a moment to introduce them and thank them as I fill you in on what they selected for tonight's listening.
So let's start with the OAE, that's Original Audio Engineer, as in been by my side since day one and still working hard on every episode, nearly eight years later.
Of course, I'm talking about Bob Wittersheim.
A while back, Bob was wearing his NMH hoodie at the grocery store and the fella at the checkout chuckled at it and said Oh, I love that show.
I listen all the time.
And Bob leaned in and said, I'm Bob.
Sweet dreams.
So far, this has not happened to me while wearing some NMH gear in public, so I am a teensy bit jealous of that peak experience.
But if anyone deserved to see the look on that guy's face in the 12 items or less line, it's Bob.
He's bringing the level-headed, compassionate, protective dad energy we all need these days.
Thank you for another year of helping me make folks feel safe and fall asleep, Bob.
I think your pick of winter market is a solid one. one of my favorites.
Next up is Nate.
He is my manager and business partner.
The brains that balance my wild creative zoomies and help shape them into actual, tangible projects that can live in the world.
Nate and his partner Aaron are both brilliant in helping us to steer the NMH ship into exciting new waters to bring more nothing into your day.
They picked a classic episode, City Sidewalks.
Megan is next with her pick of paper stars, one of my favorites as well.
Megan and I have worked together for much longer than the show has even existed.
She was actually one of the first people I talked to about the concept.
And she was so excited about it and supportive of it, even when it was just a vague concept we talked about in my yoga studio.
Megan is head of community care on our team, so if you send us an email, leave a comment on a post or DM through social media, you will land in her caring hands, and lucky you for that.
She is a magical, fae-type person, pretending to be a human and sprinkling calm and kindness wherever she goes.
Thanks for being you and doing it in proximity to us, Megan.
Also, I want to say hello to Megan's mom, Beth and her niece Alice, well-established residents of the village.
A new member of the team this year is our art director, Jeannie.
Jeannie and I were born one day apart, the same year, but on different continents.
We are already Sagittarius sisters though, and she is working on our new merch lines, our social media content and a very big expansion to the world of Nothing Much that I'll tell you about in the new year.
While going down the rabbit hole of our hundreds of stories, she has fallen in particular love with the village animals.
So her pick this holiday is Crumb meets Santa.
An excellent choice.
We are so glad you're on our team, Jeannie.
Welcome.
And that doesn't complete the roster of lovely folks who work to make.
Nothing Much Happens, all that it can be.
I'd like to thank Lindsay for her web design work, Drake and the team at Wellness Loud for their support, Leah for her art, as well as my friends at PAVE and my agents at WME.
And of course, my wife Jackie for being my cheerleader along the way.
Thanks for believing in this idea that we could make a soft, cozy corner of the Internet and that it would make a difference in the world.
We'll end with my picks.
I selected two because who was going to stop me?
First, I chose comfort and joy, since those two concepts sort of sum up what I try to bring you each week, and a story called Little Rituals, as it was the favorite story of my dear friend Sarah, who we lost this year.
And I think of them whenever I hear it, so I wanted to hear it now.
Marshalls buyers are hustling hard to get amazing new gifts into stores right up to the last minute.
Like a designer perfume for that friend who never RSVP'd.
Wishlist topping toys for her kids who came too.
Belgian chocolates for the neighbor.
A cozy scarf for your boss.
And a wool jacket for your husband that you definitely did not almost forget.
Marshalls.
We get the deals.
You get the good stuff.
Even at the last minute.
Find a Marshalls near you.
If you've made it this far, you probably don't need to hear me say that I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
But it just wouldn't feel right if I didn't.
So fluff your pillows and get as comfortable as you can.
The day is done.
The year nearly so.
And you are right now even if it doesn't feel like it, connected to so many friends.
Those of us working to help you rest comfortably, and the millions of people who listen to these small stories of ordinary magic each night, who feel like you do, who value gentleness and a world where neighbors look out for each other.
Let's let these breaths we take together be a communal experience.
The molecules in each lungful of air have traveled through time.
They've shared themselves with dinosaurs, with oceans, with people whose names we'll never know, and with all of your fellow villagers tonight.
Draw it deep in through your nose.
And sigh it out.
One more time.
In.
Fully out.
Good.
Winter Market.
The booths were set up around the edge of the square, with more here and there along Main Street, clustered on the corners, and a few even spilling into the park.
We'd put them up the day before and, as I only use mine a few times a year, When I unpacked the parts and pieces, I stared at them for a few minutes, trying to remember how they went together.
Luckily, my market neighbor, whose canopy was already in place, lent a hand.
The village had dropped off buckets full of sand to hold the poles in place and he hauled a few over and helped me to click the supports together and tie the canvas to the frame.
Mine had side flaps to help keep the heat in, or rather the cold out, as it was December and the chill was part of the experience.
This morning I'd woken up with excitement to show and sell my wares, to talk with customers and meet other vendors and just be in the bustle of the market.
My first job, when I was a teenager and in need of some pocket money over the summer had been at the farmer's market.
And while the mornings had come early, I'd quickly fallen in love with the fresh air.
The people who chatted over the ears of corn and bouquets of wildflowers in a way that I just knew they didn't at the grocery store, and the people who proudly grew the food that fed so many.
Maybe that was why, even though I only did a few markets a year, They always felt like going home.
I doubled up my socks as I got dressed, put on a few layers under my coat and made sure I had a hat that went over my ears and gloves to keep my fingers warm.
I usually filled my plaid thermos with tea or hot cider.
But last year I hadn't drunk any of it because there had been so many good things to try from the street carts that I'd completely forgotten it in my bag.
So this year instead, I put some extra dollars in my pocket and backed the car full of my crafts out onto the street and drove to downtown.
I was a potter.
I made vases, pitchers, mugs, and bowls.
I used clay from a quarry a few towns over, spun my pieces on my wheel in the spare room behind my kitchen and fired them off in my very own kiln in the basement when I'd signed up for art class.
Drawing and painting had never felt natural to me.
Not saying I couldn't have learned, but there was something about the tactile experience smoothing and shaping the clay that was a hundred times more accessible to me.
And I looked forward to third period every day.
I made the basic first projects that many students start with.
Pinch pots and hand-coiled mugs.
Small and sometimes unrecognizable molded animals and birds and reliefs carved with tiny loop and ribbon tools.
My friend and table mate had made a sculpture, but comedy and tragedy masks stuck back to back with a hollow space between them.
She filled the space with scrunched-up newspaper, which would burn to nothing in the kiln, and cleverly stuck a few balls of clay in the paper.
When the piece came out, she shook it, and it rang like a bell as the balls bounced around inside.
I was still inspired by that kind of creative thinking and looking for my own ways to do more than what was expected with my pieces.
When I found a spot downtown not too far from my booth, I carefully loaded a few boxes onto my dolly a small purchase I'd made a few years ago and found was more than worth its price.
I eased the dolly up over the curb and made my way past many other artists and makers to my spot.
I took a few trips, but soon I was unloading my plates and bowls, putting them out on the tables and shelves I'd set up the night before.
My helpful neighbor came over to see my wares and I went to his tent to look at the jewelry he made with reclaimed metals he bought at tag sales and swap meets.
There was so much creativity and talent right here in our little town.
I was proud of all of us as I went to find something to drink.
The village put out braziers on the street corners, and they were beginning to be stoked up.
I watched a woman with a wheelbarrow full of logs and kindling go from one to the next building fires.
The public hadn't arrived yet, but most of the tents were up and ready and I strolled through a few.
There were lots of handicrafts, especially for the holidays.
Tree skirts and hand-painted bulbs. mobiles of stars and angels, and embroidered stockings.
There was a whole street full of greenery, fresh cut from the Christmas tree farm.
I could smell the fresh pine boughs bound together into garlands that could be bought by the foot or made into arrangements with pine cones and red ribbons for front porch pots.
I definitely wanted a few of those.
I laughed thinking that, as per usual, however much I might make selling my own pieces, I'd probably only break even today.
Oh well, there were no people.
I'd rather spend my money with than my fellow makers in my own little town.
I smelled hot chai and stepped up to a cart where a big copper pot full of it was steaming.
I watched as the tea maker lifted ladlefuls of it a foot into the air and let it pour back into the pot, frothing it with the movement.
I could smell cardamom and cinnamon and strong black tea.
I ordered two cups, thinking I might take one to my market neighbor.
The cups warmed my hands as I walked back.
The sun was rising higher, and its bright light shone through the cold mornings.
I closed my eyes for a moment and felt it shining on my face.
I noticed more people arriving, and I thought I better get back to my tent to greet my customers.
There was a man with a grill-topped cart embers, glowing and hot and I watched him score shiny black chestnuts with a small knife and pop them onto the grill.
Oh, I'd have to come back for some of those later.
When I rounded the corner at my tent, I found my neighbor coming toward me.
He had two cups in his hands as well, and we laughed as our eyes met.
Obviously, we'd both had the same idea.
Well, it was likely to be a very good day at the market.
I'd seen it up on the theater marquee the week before.
I'd been coming out of the candy shop across the street. with a bag full of peppermint starlights.
And as I stopped to wrap my scarf twice around my neck, I saw on the sidewalk opposite a bundled-up person with a telescoping pole carefully placing letters up onto the wraparound marquee, letters that spelled out the name of an old, favorite Christmas movie.
It was in black and white with a cast of elegant Hollywood stars, and I remembered watching it as a child every year with my family, like clockwork.
Back then we rarely had a cabinet full of movies to watch and I would scour the paper to see when it would air and mark it down on the calendar pinned to the back of the basement door.
Specials then were truly special, and now I could watch it up on the big screen.
I stood, smiling up at the letters as they were slid into place.
I took a peppermint from the bag and unwrapped it from the cellophane.
I placed the red and white swirl of candy on my tongue and pulled my hat a little lower over my ears.
I loved the feel of the cold air around me, the clean smell of the snow piled around tree trunks and letterboxes, and the sweet, minty taste of the treat.
That day, I made a plan to pull together a few friends and make a date for a night at the movies.
Now, tonight was that night.
We'd met up by the city tree in the park.
It must have been thirty feet tall and was strung with big old-fashioned bulbs in red green, blue and orange.
We had an hour till the movie started and we decided to take a slow walk through the park and down the few streets of our little city.
The trees around the pond were all strung with lights and the street lamps were tied with huge red bows.
We saw a line of kids and parents, their mittened hands clasped and swinging between them, waiting to step into a tiny house on the edge of the park.
It had a banner strung between the street lamps above declaring that Santa was in residence this evening.
We stopped at a street cart and bought cups of cocoa and coffee.
The storefronts were lit up and decorated for the season, and we took our time going from one to the next to catch every detail.
At the bookshop.
They'd built a Christmas tree by stacking books flat on top of one another in a slow spiral as they rose.
Their spines turned out to entice you, with all the stories yet to be read, unwrapped in white lights.
They'd also cut snowflakes from pages of old books.
The paper an antique yellow, covered with sentences disappearing into the symmetrical designs.
The record shop window had a display of players starting with an old gramophone with a beautiful brass horn.
That was so shiny it might have been brand new.
Laid out beside.
It was the timeline of the evolution of this machine from phonograph to record player, to the most modern turntable.
In fact, the newest ones seemed to tip their hats to the older ones with small details in their designs.
And around all of them, records were carefully scattered or strung from wire hanging from the ceiling, calling back to moments and memories along the way.
We spotted a record we'd all owned in high school And I was sure one of the players, one that closed up and could be carried like a suitcase, was the same one my mother had when she was young.
She'd passed it to me and from time to time I opened it up and played the 45s tucked into the case's pocket.
She'd written her initials on the labels as a young person to keep her siblings from swiping her favorites.
And the pencil marks were still there.
We sipped our drinks and walked on.
The cafe on the corner was doing steady business.
The booths all full as people raised glasses to toast and pointed out favorites on the menu.
I watched a group at a table as a cake covered in lit candles was set in front of a blushing but smiling teenager.
Their windows were ringed in twinkle lights and each held a shining menorah with six candles burning.
The toy shop had gone all out, building a display with a fireplace set in a fictional living room.
There were a dozen little ones crowded around it to look at its tall Christmas tree with piles of wrapped presents all around.
There was even a plate of cookie crumbs and a glass of mostly drunk milk and the heel of a shiny boot just visible inside the fireplace.
As St
Nick slipped up the chimney.
As we stood behind them, I found myself looking not at the display but at their faces reflected in the shop windows.
Some were pointing, pressing fingers to the glass to call out some hoped-for item.
And some were silent, their eyes wide and moving slowly over the scene.
I remembered a moment like this from my own childhood.
It hadn't been the idea of so many gifts that had left me in awe.
It had been seeing a world built into a window, a daydream made real that made me stop in my snow boots and stare.
If we can make dreams real, Why don't we?
Why save it for a window or a week?
I must have gotten lost in my memories there for a while and found an arm threading itself through my elbow and a friend pulling me on down the street.
At the bakery, the front window was filled with gingerbread houses.
And as I looked at them, I realized they were, in fact, a replica of the street we were standing on.
There was the bookshop, with its tree made of tiny biscuit books.
There was the window of the record shop and an intricately iced row of minuscule record players.
The cafe held tables full of gingerbread, customers and a matching menorah carefully showing six candles.
The toy shop replica must have taken ages and a team of people to pull off with so many details to pipe into place.
Snowy white icing pooled on the gingerbread sidewalk and my eyes followed it down to the last stop in the row of confections.
The movie theater.
We all spotted it at the same time and I looked at my watch to see we had just a few minutes till the movie started.
Run, run, Rudolph, I called out to my friends, as we linked arms and hurried down to the theater.
Minutes later, we were settling into our seats, sharing popcorn and peppermints back and forth and waiting for the lights to go down.
In the crowd around us I spotted a few people with Santa hats and had a feeling most of us could recite this movie line by line, as we watched, our faces shining just like those of the kids looking into the toy shop window.
I realized I was, in that moment, doing something I truly loved.
And I'd built a habit over the years, but when I caught myself in an instance of pure happiness...
I take a slow, deliberate breath and be sure to be in my body, feeling the tingle of my own merriment, to plug into my senses and soak up every drop of the experience.
When good things happen, it's important, even in small, simple ways, to notice them with our whole hearts.
As the theater lights dimmed, my friend leaned across to me, stealing a piece of popcorn and whispering in my ear Is this the one where Cary Grant ice skates, or the one with Zuzu's petals?
Zuzu's petals, I whispered back.
And we smiled up at the screen.
Paper stars.
You know when you haven't put together a puzzle in ages and then on some rainy day you pull one out And suddenly you are puzzle obsessed.
That's all you want to do to be allowed to keep picking up the pieces, turning them this way and that looking at the picture on the box until, with a satisfied sigh, you can pop a piece right into place or knitting.
You have an unfinished blanket from last year, one you ran out of steam on two-thirds of the way through.
But you get a new skein of yarn or a new pattern to follow, and suddenly you are trying to knit between bites of dinner.
A couple of Christmases ago I was gifted a book of crossword puzzles and I went crossword mad till each one was filled in.
I don't know why those little bursts of enthusiasm come and go, but I am determined to enjoy them while they are here.
And right now, I am happily consumed with making tiny paper stars.
I'd bought a little pack of strips of pretty paper and with it a booklet from the bookshop downtown.
On the front of the pack it said, Make a thousand stars.
And at this point, I thought I might be about halfway there.
I'd always loved watching people fold origami shapes.
It seemed quite meditative and restful, as well as beautiful, but I'd never been able to get my hands to follow along with the instructions.
The stars promised to be good for beginners, so I'd taken them home and sat at my kitchen table, following along with the picture guide in the booklet.
The first dozen or so had been pretty rough.
The finished stars were meant to be rounded, almost as if they were puffed full of air, but mine were decidedly flat.
With each one I attempted, I learned a tiny bit more.
Don't crease the paper, just wrap it, I realized.
Then the shape will be rounder.
Take time with the first steps, and the end product will be more polished.
Soon I was producing recognizable stars. and my fingers were more familiar with the movements.
And that puzzle effect, the knitting effect, or whatever we should call it, kicked in.
I'd made a couple dozen stars, but now all I wanted to do was make more.
There was something both satisfying and comforting in the process.
The steps became like a ritual, and when I finished each one and saw that it had come out well, it was like the fulfilling end of a chapter, the resolving notes of a chorus.
My pile of stars grew until I had to sweep them into a mixing bowl to keep them from falling on the floor.
I made them in different shades and in slightly different sizes, though none was bigger around than a quarter.
The paper had a lovely feel in my hands, smooth and sturdy in a couple dozen colors and designs.
There were solid primary colors, a range of pastels and glimmering metallic shades, then a dozen or so with tiny gentle designs on them.
One of my favorites was of the night sky.
At the bottom of the paper strip were people standing on a patch of grass, gazing up.
Above them, the sky started in bright hues of orange and pink, then faded to pale purple and at the far end of the strip, bright stars shone in midnight blue.
This little piece of paper felt like a story and when I folded it I thought of sunsets I'd seen in other seasons of my life.
Tonight was a particularly good evening for making stars.
It was bitterly cold outside, and my fireplace was roaring away.
I was in my softest pajamas and my slippers and there was an honest-to-goodness Christmas special on TV.
It was one I'd been watching since I was little, when you'd have to mark it down on your calendar or you'd miss it.
And though now I could watch it anytime I wanted to, the TV special experience was nostalgic and sweet for me, so I'd popped a big bowl of popcorn and cut up a honeycrisp apple and poured myself a tall glass of mineral water.
My Christmas tree was lit up in the corner, and from my window I could see the glow of downtown.
I settled myself on the sofa with my snack and my drink, a big warm blanket and a fresh stack of star paper.
I didn't need a flat surface to make them on.
It had become a nearly automatic movement by now.
Each one taking less than a minute and coming out nigh on identically to the one before.
I had a big gift bag beside me that I dropped each finished star into, now that I had outgrown my mixing bowl.
As I was on my third or fourth star, the special presentation music started to play on the TV.
A spinning, flashing logo swirled on in bright technicolor, just like it had when I was little.
I watched with a smile on my face as I made stars.
I could have said each word along with the characters on the screen.
I knew every beat of the music that went along with the scenes.
The skittering piano in the ice skating scene that sounded like snowflakes falling.
The searchlights and the sad tree that needed someone to care.
The happy ending and the upturned faces as they sang the closing carol.
To my great delight, it was a double feature.
And as I came back from refilling my glass, I realized we were in the North Pole with a snowman to tell us a story.
I may have sniffed at the screen a bit.
If those other reindeer didn't appreciate him as he was, they didn't deserve him.
And there's nothing wrong with being a misfit.
Beside me, my gift bag was nearly full of stars.
I hadn't had any plans for all of these little creations.
It was enough for me that I enjoyed the process of making them.
But as I looked at them I wondered if I could string them up with thread a bit like I used to do with popcorn and cranberries.
I could make garlands for my tree and many others.
What pretty ornaments they would make.
And with the sturdy paper, they should last for a few years at least.
I had a feeling a fresh wave of project fever was about to wash over me.
I would have all my gift-giving sorted out as well.
I reached for another slip of paper.
A few more stars first.
Crumb meets Santa.
A few weeks ago, when we'd been putting up the tree, we'd noticed our little brown dog Crumb, staring at one of the ornaments.
It was a Santa Claus, wooden and painted red, the kind with the string at the bottom that you pull to make his arms and legs jump.
His beard was made of white, woolly cotton, and his boots were shiny and black.
I don't know which of those elements attracted Crumb, the moving limbs, the shiny paint, but something about St
Nick just enthralled him.
He sat, his little round rump on the tree skirt, and stared.
I pulled the string now and then, and he barked, jumped up, turned a tight circle, and sat again.
The next day, afraid that his new fondness for Santa would turn into a disastrous attempt to pull him from the branch.
I stopped at the pet shop downtown to look for a soft, cringle-ish type toy.
They had a whole selection of holiday-themed items, and I strolled around admiring them for a bit.
There were stockings stuffed full of treats, squeaky elves and dreidels, reindeer sweaters and Kwanzaa bandanas.
There were bags of gingerbread, dog cookies, bins full of small stitched Christmas trees stuffed with catnip and a rack of those dangle wands kitties like to swat at.
But the feathers had been replaced with felted mistletoe and berries.
I left with a bag full of things.
I couldn't help it.
And when I got home, I immediately called out that it was Christmas right now.
I've always been the type that wants to give you your present the moment I've wrapped it.
I set the bag of goodies on the kitchen counter and started unwinding my scarf from my neck.
The house smelled of the fresh pine of the tree and coffee.
As I shrugged out of my coat, the dogs came scampering into the kitchen.
There was Crumb, small brown kind of crunchy-looking like he'd just been shaken out of the toaster.
But so happy to see me.
And then there was Birdie, a regal greyhound, long-legged and smooth-coated, calmer and quieter than his brother.
Behind him came their dad, who swapped me a kiss for my coat.
Last to arrive, loping disinterestedly in from the living room, was our ginger kitty, Marmalade.
I loved this moment and felt so lucky to experience it daily, to return home and be greeted lovingly by my whole family.
I didn't take it for granted.
I squatted down to pet Crumb as he zoomed around my ankles.
Birdie leaned his long body against me and Marmee slinked past, letting her fluffy tail slide along my back.
These were like our secret handshakes, the shorthand we shared with each other that said I missed you.
I'm glad you're back.
Bertie's dad was pouring me a cup of coffee, stirring in the cinnamon creamer he knew I liked and smiling over at us.
As he dropped the spoon in the sink and passed me my cup, he said Did I hear you say it is Christmas?
Because he squinted at the calendar stuck on the front of the fridge and lifted an eyebrow.
Oh, that's a misprint, I said, looking at the calendar myself and blowing across the top of my cup.
Yes, it turns out that it's Christmas right now.
At least, um, animal Christmas.
I see, he said.
Is this sort of like birthday month?
I nodded as I sipped.
Very similar.
We chuckled, and I began to pull items from the bag and hand them out.
There was a new sweater for Birdie, whose lean body was nearly always cold.
His dad pulled it over his head and helped feed his paws through the arms.
It was a handsome red plaid, very grandpa energy which he had in spades and he immediately trotted off to break it in with a nap.
Next, I took the Santa Claus squeaky toy from the sack.
It had a big head with a squeaker in it and a ropey bit that attached a bobble to his hat.
I squeaked it a few times and Crumb danced around me.
I tossed it down the hall and he went racing after it.
While I waited for him to bring it back to repeat the process, I watched Marmalade stare at the dangle toy in her dad's hands.
Her big green eyes were wide as she stared.
It was like a dance between them.
And I took my coffee and backed up a bit to watch.
He flicked the wand and she shuffled, not quite ready to jump for it, but unable to keep her excitement under wraps.
They waited each other out.
He let the mistletoe hang in the air.
Then he twitched it again, and she reached for it.
Her paw spread out but whiffed through the air, and she lifted onto her hind legs to reach again.
This time she caught it up and clapped both paws around it.
He tugged a bit, but she held fast.
I knew from experience that she could actually be dragged along the floor at this point.
She seemed to enjoy it, in fact, and wouldn't let go.
But instead, he did, and she bolted under the sofa with her new prize.
Now, a couple weeks later, Marmalade had grown bored with her mistletoe wand.
Birdie's sweater had a hole near the collar where Crumb had chewed it while Bird was asleep.
But the Santa toy?
That was still a favorite.
Crumb carried it everywhere.
Out for walks.
Into his bed at night.
It lay beside him while he munched dinner from his bowl.
And that had given us an idea.
Each year for the week or so before the holiday, at the community center in the town square, Santa and his elves visited with the locals.
I'd called and checked to see that four-legged littles were as welcome as the two-legged variety, and been told that many furry friends came to see Santa.
So today, we were taking Crum to meet his hero.
I'd even tried to brush his wild fur, which he allowed for about two minutes.
He had jingle bells on his collar and we'd tried to convince him to leave his Santa toy at home, but he'd insisted.
We considered bringing Birdie along, But he was happy in his bed and we thought it would be special for Crumb to do something without his siblings.
Marmalade had meowed at us from her perch by the window as we trooped out to the car in our coats.
Town was busy, and it had taken us a few minutes to find a parking spot.
But when Crumb jumped down from the seat with his toy in his mouth to see kids and dogs and twinkle light-filled shop windows, he'd been so excited.
We wove through the bustle and stepped into the community center, which was decorated with hundreds of drawings the local school kids had made, as well as a backdrop from the village theater of a fireplace and windows full of snowflakes.
The warmth of the indoors after our brief walk made my nose tingle and I found myself trying to make a memory of this moment, to emboss the details of right now onto my mind and heart.
Hand in hand with my love.
Silly, happy crumb at the end of the leash, the smell of snow in the air and, at the end of the line, Santa in his chair.
After a few minutes it was our turn, and as we led Crumb up to the jolly man in red, he came to a sudden halt.
His mouth opened wide, and his toy fell out.
I could see the mental gymnastics his little brain was striving for.
How was this possible?
Then he rushed into action, leaping onto Santa's lap and licking his face while yipping happily.
The pictures from this moment would go into our album of holiday memories.
We would tell the story every year of Crum meeting Santa, But right now I let myself just be fully here while it happened.
To witness his joy and let it overflow into my own heart.
Comfort and joy.
I'd made a paper chain right after Thanksgiving, just like the kind we'd made in elementary school, to help us count down to the first day of vacation.
Thick strips of red and green construction paper, curled over and daubed with a bit of Elmer's glue.
It was actually quite a nice calm project, as there was no way to do it quickly.
I'd thread a new piece through the previous ring, making sure to alternate the colors, and then glue and hold it pressed between my fingers for a few moments till it's stuck, and then start again.
I strung it above my kitchen sink up and around the picture window that looks out through my side yard and down the sloping street into town.
Each night before bed, after I'd wiped down the counters and set up my coffee pot for the next morning, I'd turn off the lights and look out through the window.
My neighbor's house was strung with colored twinkle lights and across the street I could see trees glowing in windows.
Streetlights reflected off of wet pavement and snow.
And in town, cafes and shops were lit up as well.
I read once that it does something to us to watch moving water.
There is something primordial about it.
And when we witness the tide come in, or a river rushing through the towers of a bridge, or even just a tiny stream rolling over rocks, we soften.
We relax and focus.
And I have always thought that it must be the same ancient parts of our brains and hearts that tell us to look for light in the winter.
Twinkle lights fireplaces, the candles on the menorah, the atmospheric glow of a bustling city street.
It isn't the same effect as tides and lakes.
This fills a different need.
And each evening, as I looked out my window and drank up the light around me, I'd feel warmed inspired, comforted.
Then I'd reach up and tear away one link in my paper chain.
I liked anticipation.
Sometimes it was even better than whatever I was waiting for.
And now my chain was just a few links long.
They wouldn't stretch across the window anymore.
I'd had to take them down and set them out along the sill beside the potted sprig of jade that, just like me, had been reaching for the light lately.
Looking at the last few remaining links, feeling that building anticipation, I felt the urge to do something with these last precious days of the year.
It was something a friend had said to me a long time ago.
A simple fact that had left a deep impression.
That time passes either way.
It passes whether you use it or not.
Time doesn't wait for you.
And when I was younger, I'd sometimes interpreted that incorrectly.
In a way that had something to do with how much I could get done in a day.
How productive I was.
I'd moved on from that.
Now I realized it had to do with how many days of my life I enjoyed, how many friends I made, the quality of the time I spent, even when, or especially when, I was alone doing simple things.
So I thought about how I might spend this time, about warmth and light.
I laughed to myself, thinking of the old carol.
What I wanted was to bring tidings of comfort and joy.
I stepped out into my garage in my slippers and began shifting boxes and looking through shelves and cubbies.
Right away, I found a few boxes of twinkle lights.
And without hesitation, I got dressed in my boots and coat and started wrapping them around the tree in the center of my front yard.
It was a rowan tree, fully mature, but naturally a bit smaller than the oaks and maples in the neighborhood.
I wrapped the lights and tight coils up the trunk and stretch them patiently out and around a few branches.
Rowan trees are sometimes called traveler's trees and are meant to help prevent those on a journey from getting lost.
Well, I thought, we can all use that, can't we?
Once the lights were plugged in and the tree was glowing in the yard, I went back to the garage to see what else I could find.
Years ago there had been a tradition in our neighborhood to light luminaries in long rows on the sidewalks on Christmas Eve.
And for whatever reason, it had been forgotten for a while now.
I remembered my first holiday here, stepping out that night and seeing hundreds of white paper bags lit from within.
It had felt like a miracle in a dusty box between my bike pump and a stack of seasoned logs for the fireplace.
I found what I'd been looking for.
There'd been a fundraiser at the library over the summer.
They sold luminary kits with the paper bags sand to keep them in place and small candles set down deep in tall holders.
I'd forgotten about them, and I was so happy to find them now.
I looked through the supplies, counting what was there, and had an idea.
I waited till sunset, then loaded my kit into the back of my car and started to drive slowly through the neighborhood.
I didn't have enough luminaries to line all the sidewalks, but why should not being able to do everything stop me from doing something?
I parked my car at the corner and opened the hatch.
I put a scoop of sand in each bag and took as many candles as I could carry and started to walk from house to house.
Where the front walk met the sidewalk, I'd settled the luminary shaking the sand into an even layer across the bottom of the bag.
Nestle the candle down into it, and with a long lighter, light the wick.
Just like Santa, I went from house to house and also like Santa, I was a bit stealthy and managed not to be seen.
I left one also beside a vacant lot in front of the corner store and at the little library where I often hunted for a new book.
The candles didn't have much wax in them.
They were meant to be burned for an evening only and I'd have to go back around tomorrow to pick them all up.
But driving along the streets and seeing everyone represented in a glowing, flickering light made it all feel well worth it.
People would look out, as I did so often in the winter, and see light, And at least for a moment I helped.
Feel comfort and joy.
Little Rituals.
When my mother came home at the end of the day she'd stand at a little cabinet tucked into a niche in the entryway and slowly slide the rings from her fingers.
She'd unclasp her watch and place all the finery into a small ceramic bowl set there just for the purpose.
She worked with her hands all day and they must have been sore.
She'd massage her finger joints one by one and press the pad of her thumb into her palm, rubbing out the ache.
Then she'd slide her wedding band back on, leaving the rest in the bowl to wait for her till tomorrow.
She was quiet while she did this, slowly attending to her hands.
And when she finished, she'd let out a small sigh and step into the heart of the house and join us in the listening to and telling of the stories of the day.
Someone had explained to me years ago that when rituals were blindly followed, they weren't of much use.
But when they had a bit of meaning tied into them, and especially when you thought about that meaning while you performed them, well then they became tools.
Tools that could help you turn the page on a moment, or celebrate or treasure or any number of useful human actions.
When I'd learned that, I'd thought of my mother and her evening habit in the bowl on the cabinet.
It had been a ritual of her own, devising a way to care for herself at the end of the workday and to shift from the world of traffic and deadlines to a world of her own, with her family and home.
Since then, I'd created a few rites of my own.
And this afternoon, I felt the need for one in particular.
It was a ritual for slowing down when my brain was buzzing.
When I found myself forgetting things, hustling to catch up and feeling like I couldn't put my thoughts in order.
I'd pull my tiny espresso pot down from the shelf, and push my sleeves up, and begin.
You see, this couldn't be done in a hurry and it took a bit of focus to be done right.
So I knew it would sort out my mixed-up mind.
These tiny pots come in a few different styles and designs.
Some screw together but mine worked with a clamp so I unclamped the top bit from the bottom and took the small filter basket from the bottom piece.
I turned on the tap and adjusted the flow quite low.
It was a delicate business to get just the right amount of water into the bottom chamber so that when I set the filter into it it just grazed its bottom.
I took a canister of ground beans from the cupboard and twisted off its top.
I left a tiny spoon stuck upright in the grounds and I drew it out and started to spoon out the coffee into the filter.
I did this little by little, filling the filter slowly and using the side of the spoon to tap the grounds in.
They would expand as the water boiled, and the steam forced its way through them.
So I didn't want the basket overfull, just full enough.
Then I hooked the lip of the top piece over the tiny metal knob in the bottom and turned the handle to clamp the pot back together.
At the stove, I lit the smallest burner to low and set the pot on it.
Now there was a bit of time to wait, and my still somewhat busy mind tried to push me back into the habit of filling every single second with tasks.
But I was prepared for this.
First I stood for a moment at the stove and just rooted down into my feet and felt the way my weight was balanced over them.
Then I took a slow breath in through my nose and out through my mouth.
I turned to look out the window and watched a truck at the stop sign on the corner take a slow turn onto the side street.
I had a small round table under a window tucked into the corner of the kitchen.
A good spot for breakfast or for opening mail in the afternoon, or for a cup of espresso right about now.
I went to it and made a comfortable place for myself, setting a few books in a neat stack on the windowsill and putting a bud vase with a single blooming lily at the table center.
All of this was part of the ritual.
I was taking time to do something small with great care, and it signaled to me that I, as much as any other soul in the universe, deserved care.
It reminded me that I wasn't a machine made to do chores, but a whole person, and that while being a whole person sometimes felt complicated and layered with many emotions, it also came with a lot of enjoyment.
For moments like these,
I took my favorite cup from the counter and set it in its saucer.
I didn't need one really, but I liked the way it looked and felt in my hand, and that was enough of a reason to use it.
The pot was bubbling and hissing and it reminded me of the sound of an old radiator in a tiny apartment I'd lived in during college.
I turned off the burner and smiled at the memory.
I'd had this same little coffee pot back then in that apartment, which had been in an old house downtown with noisy neighbors and creaking wood floors.
But it had been all mine, and I'd loved it.
Sometimes I'd wake in the night and listen to those old radiators hissing and gurgling, and it would put me right back to sleep.
I took a small spoon from the drawer and the sugar bowl down from the shelf and carefully tipped back the lid of the coffee pot.
The surface of the coffee had a small bit of bubbly foam on top and I breathed in the rich roasted smell.
I tipped in a few small spoonfuls of sugar and slowly stirred it in.
It was another moment to slow down.
If I went too fast, the sugar wouldn't dissolve. and the cup would taste bitter.
I might even knock the pot over and spill the precious coffee.
I'd done it before, but I'd learned.
Go slow.
Do the thing properly.
A few crystals of sugar clung to the percolating spindle in the pot and I spooned hot coffee over them to wash them back in with the rest.
Then I tipped the lid back down and slowly poured a cup for myself.
I carried it over to the table and sat down.
The ritual had worked its magic. my thoughts were smooth and sorted again.
Like a needle on a record player that had been set down exactly into a groove.
My mind was set back into the present and I was listening to the music of it, moment to moment.
I lifted the cup to my lips and drank.
Winter Market.
The booths were set up around the edge of the square, with more here and there along Main Street, clustered on the corners, and a few even spilling into the park.
We'd put them up the day before And, as I only use mine a few times a year, when I unpacked the parts and pieces, I stared at them for a few minutes, trying to remember how they went together.
Luckily, my market neighbor, whose canopy was already in place, lent a hand.
The village had dropped off buckets full of sand to hold the poles in place and he hauled a few over and helped me to click the supports together and tie the canvas to the frame.
Mine had side flaps to help keep the heat in, or rather the cold out, as it was December and the chill was part of the experience.
This morning I had woken up with excitement to show and sell my wares, to talk with customers and meet other vendors and just be in the bustle of the market.
My first job, when I was a teenager and in need of some pocket money over the summer had been at the farmer's market.
And while the mornings had come early, I'd quickly fallen in love with the fresh air.
The people who chatted over the ears of corn and bouquets of wildflowers in a way that I just knew they didn't at the grocery store.
And the people who proudly grew the food that fed so many.
Maybe that was why, even though I only did a few markets a year, they always felt like going home.
I doubled up my socks as I got dressed, put on a few layers under my coat and made sure I had a hat that went over my ears and gloves to keep my fingers warm.
I usually filled my plaid thermos with tea or hot cider, but last year I hadn't drunk any of it because there had been so many good things to try from the street carts that I'd completely forgotten it in my bag.
So this year instead, I put some extra dollars in my pocket and backed the car full of my crafts out onto the street and drove to downtown.
I was a potter.
I made vases, pitchers, mugs and bowls.
I used clay from a quarry a few towns over, spun my pieces on my wheel in the spare room behind my kitchen and fired them off in my very own kiln in the basement.
I'd been making pottery since my freshman year of high school, when I'd signed up for an art class.
Drawing and painting had never felt natural to me.
Not saying I couldn't have learned, but there was something about the tactile experience smoothing and shaping the clay.
That was a hundred times more accessible to me.
And I looked forward to third period every day.
I made the basic first projects that many students start with.
Pinch pots and hand-coiled mugs.
Small and sometimes unrecognizable molded animals and birds and reliefs carved with tiny loop and ribbon tools.
My friend and table mate had made a sculpture.
The comedy and tragedy masks stuck back to back with a hollow space between them.
She filled the space with scrunched-up newspaper, which would burn away to nothing in the kiln, and cleverly stuck a few balls of clay in the paper.
When the piece came out, she shook it, and it rang like a bell as the balls bounced around inside.
I was still inspired by that kind of creative thinking and looked for my own ways to do more than what was expected with my pieces.
When I found a spot downtown not too far from my booth, I carefully loaded a few boxes onto my dolly a small purchase I'd made a few years ago and found was more than worth its price.
I eased the dolly up over the curb and made my way past many other artists and makers to my own spot.
It took a few trips, but soon I was unloading my plates and bowls and putting them out on the tables and shelves I'd set up the night before.
My helpful neighbor came over to see my wares and I went to his tent to look at the jewelry he made with reclaimed metals.
He bought at tag sales and swap meets.
There was so much creativity and talent right here in our little town.
I was proud of all of us as I went to find something to drink.
The village put out braziers on the street corners, and they were beginning to be stoked up.
I watched a woman with a wheelbarrow full of logs and kindling go from one to the next building fires.
The public hadn't arrived yet, but most of the tents were up and ready and I strolled through a few.
There were lots of handicrafts, especially for the holidays tree skirts and hand-painted bulbs, mobiles of stars and angels and embroidered stockings.
Then there was a whole street full of greenery, fresh cut from the Christmas tree farm.
I could smell the fresh pine boughs bound together into garlands that could be bought by the foot or made into arrangements with pine cones and red ribbons for front porch pots.
I definitely wanted a few of those.
I laughed thinking that, as per usual, however much I might make selling my own pieces, I'd probably only break even today.
Oh well.
There were no people I'd rather spend my money with than fellow makers in my own little town.
I smelled hot chai and stepped up to a cart where a big copper pot full of it was steaming.
I watched as the tea maker lifted ladlefuls of it a foot in the air and let it pour back into the pot, frothing it with the movement.
I could smell cardamom and cinnamon and strong black tea.
I ordered two cups, thinking I might take one to my market neighbor.
The cups warmed my hands as I worked my way back.
The sun was rising higher, and its bright light shone through the cold morning.
I closed my eyes for a moment and felt it shining on my face.
I noticed more people arriving and thought I better get back to my tent to greet my customers.
There was a man with a grill-topped cart embers, glowing and hot and I watched him score shiny black chestnuts with a small knife and pop them onto the grill.
Oh, I'd have to come back for some of those later.
When I rounded the corner at my tent, I found my neighbor coming toward me.
He had two cups in his hands as well.
We laughed as our eyes met.
Obviously, we'd both had the same idea.
Well, it was likely to be a very good day at the market.
City sidewalks.
I'd seen it up on the theater marquee the week before.
I'd been coming out of the candy shop across the street with a bag full of peppermint starlights.
And as I stopped to wrap my scarf twice around my neck, I saw on the sidewalk opposite a bundled-up person with a telescoping pole carefully placing letters up onto the wraparound marquee.
Letters that spelled out the name of an old favorite Christmas movie.
It was in black and white with a cast of elegant Hollywood stars.
And I remembered watching it as a child, every year with my family, like clockwork.
Back then, we rarely had a cabinet full of movies to watch.
And I would scour the paper to see when it would air and mark it down on the calendar pinned to the back of the basement door.
Specials then were truly special.
But now I could watch it up on the big screen.
I stood smiling at the letters as they were slid into place and took a peppermint from the bag and unwrapped it from the cellophane.
I placed the red and white swirl of candy on my tongue and pulled my hat a little lower over my ears.
I loved the feel of the cold air around me, clean smell of the snow piled around tree trunks and letter boxes, and the sweet, minty taste of the treat.
That day, I made a plan to pull together a few friends and make a date for a night at the movies.
Now, tonight was that night.
We'd met up by the city tree in the park.
It must have been thirty feet tall and was strung with big old-fashioned bulbs in red green, blue and orange.
We had an hour till the movie started and we decided to take a slow walk through the park and down the few streets of our little city.
The trees around the pond were all strung with lights and the street lamps were tied with huge red bows.
We saw a line of kids and parents, their mittened hands clasped and swinging between them, waiting to step into a tiny house on the edge of the park.
It had a banner strung between the street lamps above it declaring that Santa was in residence this evening.
We stopped at a street cart and bought cups of cocoa and coffee.
The storefronts were lit up and decorated for the season, and we took our time going from one to the next to catch every detail.
At the bookshop.
They'd built a Christmas tree by stacking books flat on top of one another in a slow spiral as they rose.
Their spines turned out to entice you, with all the stories yet to be read and wrapped in white lights.
They'd also cut snowflakes from pages of old books.
The paper an antique yellow, covered with sentences disappearing into the symmetrical designs.
The record shop window had a display of players starting with an old gramophone with a beautiful brass horn.
That was so shiny it might have been brand new.
Laid out beside.
It was a timeline of the evolution of this machine from phonograph to record player, to the most modern turntable.
In fact, the newest ones seemed to tip their hats to the older ones with small details in their designs.
And around all of them, records were carefully scattered or strung from wire hanging from the ceiling, calling back to moments and memories along the way.
We spotted a record we'd all owned in high school and I was sure one of the players, one that closed up and could be carried like a suitcase, was the same one my mother had when she was young.
She'd passed it to me And from time to time I opened it up and played the 45s tucked into the case's pocket.
She'd written her initials onto the labels as a young person to keep her siblings from swiping her favorites.
And the pencil marks were still there We sipped our drinks and walked on.
The cafe on the corner was doing steady business.
The booths all full as people raised glasses to toast and pointed out favorites on the menu.
I watched a group at a table as a cake covered in lit candles was set in front of a blushing but smiling teenager.
Their windows were ringed in twinkle lights and each held a shining menorah with six candles burning.
The toy shop had gone all out building a display with a fireplace set in a fictional living room.
There were a dozen little ones crowded around it to look at its tall Christmas tree with piles of wrapped presents all around.
There was even a plate of cookie crumbs and a glass of mostly drunk milk and the heel of a shiny boot just visible inside the fireplace.
As St
Nick slipped up the chimney.
As we stood behind them, I found myself looking not at the display but at their faces reflected in the shop windows.
Some were pointing, pressing fingers to the glass to call out some hoped-for item.
And some were silent, their eyes wide and moving slowly over the scene.
I remembered a moment like this from my own childhood.
It hadn't been the idea of so many gifts that had left me in awe.
It had been seeing a world built into a window.
A daydream made real. that had made me stop in my snow boots and stare.
If we can make dreams real, why don't we?
Why save it for a window or a week?
I must have gotten lost in my memories there for a while and found an arm threading itself through my elbow and a friend pulling me on down the street.
At the bakery, the front window was filled with gingerbread houses, and as I looked at them I realized they were in fact a replica of the street we were standing on.
There was the bookshop, with its tree made of tiny biscuit books.
And there was the window of the record shop and an intricately iced row of minuscule record players.
The cafe held tables full of gingerbread, customers and a matching menorah carefully showing six candles.
The toy shop replica must have taken ages and a team of people to pull off with so many details to pipe into place.
Snowy white royal icing pooled on the gingerbread sidewalk, and my eyes followed it down to the last stop in the row of confections, the movie theater.
We all spotted it at the same time and I looked at my watch to see we just had a few minutes till the movie started.
Run, run, Rudolph, I called out to my friends as we linked arms and hurried down to the theater.
Minutes later, we were settling into our seats, sharing popcorn and peppermints back and forth and waiting for the lights to go down.
In the crowd around us I spotted a few people with Santa hats and had a feeling most of us could recite this movie line by line, as we watched, our faces shining just like those of the kids looking into the toy shop window.
I realized I was, in that moment, doing something I truly loved.
And I'd built a habit over the years that when I caught myself in an instance of pure happiness, I'd take a slow, deliberate breath and be sure to be in my body, feeling the tingle of my own merriment.
I'd plug into my senses and soak up every drop of the experience.
When good things happen, it's important, even in small, simple ways, to notice them with our whole hearts.
As the theater lights dimmed, my friend leaned across to me, stealing a piece of popcorn and whispering into my ear Is this the one where Cary Grant ice skates?
Or the one with Zuzu's petals?
Zuzu's petals, I whispered back. and we smiled up at the screen.
Paper Stars.
You know when you haven't put together a puzzle in ages and then on some rainy day you pull one out and suddenly You are puzzle-obsessed.
It's all you want to do, to be allowed to keep picking up the pieces, turning them this way and that, looking at the picture on the box until, with a satisfied sigh, you can pop a piece right into place.
Or knitting.
You have an unfinished blanket from last year.
One.
You just ran out of steam on two-thirds of the way through, but you get a new skein of yarn or a new pattern to follow.
And suddenly you're trying to knit between bites of dinner.
A couple of Christmases ago I was gifted a book of crossword puzzles and I went crossword mad until each one was filled in.
I don't know why these little bursts of enthusiasm come and go, but I am determined to enjoy them while they are here.
And right now, I am happily consumed with making tiny paper stars.
I'd bought a little pack of strips of pretty paper and with it a booklet from the bookshop downtown.
On the front of the pack, it said, Make a thousand stars.
And at this point, I thought I might be about halfway there.
I'd always loved watching people fold origami shapes.
It seemed quite meditative and restful, as well as beautiful.
But I'd never been able to get my hands to follow along with the instructions.
Stars promised to be good for beginners, so I'd taken them home and sat at my kitchen table, following along with the picture guide in the booklet.
The first dozen or so had been pretty rough.
The finished stars were meant to be rounded, almost as if they were puffed full of air, but mine were decidedly flat.
With each one I attempted, I learned a tiny bit more.
Don't crease the paper, just wrap it, I realized.
Then the shape will be rounder.
Take time with the first steps, and the end product will be more polished.
Soon I was producing recognizable stars, and my fingers grew more familiar with the movements.
And that puzzle effect, the knitting effect, or whatever we should call it, kicked in.
I'd made a couple dozen stars, but now all I wanted to do was make more.
There was something both satisfying and comforting in the process.
The steps became like a ritual, and when I finished each one, and saw that it had come out well.
It was like the fulfilling end of a chapter, the resolving notes of a chorus.
My pile of stars grew until I had to sweep them into a mixing bowl to keep them from falling on the floor.
I made them in different shades and in slightly different sizes, though none was bigger around than a quarter.
The paper had a lovely feel in my hands, smooth and sturdy in a couple dozen colors and designs.
There were solid primary colors, a range of pastels and glimmering metallic shades, then a dozen or so with tiny gentle designs on them.
One of my favorites was of the night sky.
At the bottom of the paper strip were people standing on a patch of grass, gazing up.
Above them, the sky started in bright hues of orange and pink, then faded to pale purple.
And at the far end of the strip, bright stars shown in midnight blue.
This little piece of paper felt like a story.
And when I folded it, I thought of sunsets I'd seen in other seasons of my life.
Tonight was a particularly good evening for making stars.
It was bitterly cold outside, and my fireplace was roaring away.
I was in my softest pajamas and my slippers.
And there was an honest-to-goodness Christmas special on TV.
It was one I'd been watching since I was little, when you'd have to mark it down on your calendar or you'd miss it.
And though now I could watch it any time I wanted to, the TV special experience was nostalgic and sweet for me.
So I popped a big bowl of popcorn and cut up a honey crisp apple and poured myself a tall glass of mineral water.
My Christmas tree was lit up in the corner, and from my window, I could see the glow of downtown.
I settled myself on the sofa with my snack and my drink, a big warm blanket and a fresh stack of star paper.
I didn't need a flat surface to make them.
It had become a nearly automatic movement by now, each one taking less than a minute and coming out nigh on identically to the one before.
I had a gift bag beside me that I dropped each finished star into, now that I had outgrown my mixing bowl.
As I was on my third or my fourth, the special presentation music started to play on the TV.
A spinning, flashing logo swirled on in bright technicolor, just like it had when I was little.
I watched with a smile on my face as I made stars.
I could have said each word along with the characters on the screen.
I knew every beat of the music that went along with the scenes.
The skittering piano and the ice skating scene that sounded like snowflakes falling, the searchlights and the sad tree that needed someone to care.
The happy ending and the upturned faces as they sang the closing carol.
To my great delight, it was a double feature and as I came back from refilling my glass, I realized we were in the North Pole with a snowman to tell us a story.
I may have sniffed at the screen a bit.
If those other reindeer didn't appreciate him as he was, they didn't deserve him, and there's nothing wrong with being a misfit.
Beside me, my gift bag was nearly full of stars.
I hadn't had any plans for all of those little creations.
It was enough for me that I enjoyed the process of making them.
But as I looked at them I wondered if I could string them up with thread a bit like I used to do with popcorn and cranberries.
I could make garlands for my tree and many others.
What pretty ornaments they would make.
And with the sturdy paper, they should last for a few years at least.
I had a feeling a fresh wave of project fever was about to wash over me and would have all my gift-giving sorted out as well.
I reached for another slip of paper.
A few more stars first.
Crumb meets Santa.
A few weeks ago, when we'd been putting up the tree, we'd noticed our little brown dog Crumb, staring at one of the ornaments.
It was a Santa Claus, wooden and painted red, the kind with the string at the bottom that you pull to make his arms and legs jump.
His beard was made of white woolly cotton and his boots were shiny and black.
I don't know which of those elements attracted Crumb.
The moving limbs?
The shiny paint?
But something about St.
Nick. had just enthralled him.
He sat, his little round rump on the tree skirt, and stared.
I pulled the string now and then, and he barked, jumped up, turned a tight circle, and sat again.
The next day, afraid that his new fondness for Santa would turn into a disastrous attempt to pull him from the branch, I stopped at the pet shop downtown to look for a soft Kringle-ish type toy.
They had a whole section of holiday-themed items, and I strolled around admiring them for a bit.
There were stockings stuffed full of treats, squeaky elves and dreidels, reindeer sweaters and Kwanzaa bandanas.
There were bags of gingerbread, dog cookies, bins full of small stitched Christmas trees stuffed with catnip and a rack of those dangle wands kitties like to swat at.
But the feathers had been replaced with felted mistletoe and berries.
I left with a bag full of things.
I couldn't help it.
And when I got home, I immediately called out that it was Christmas right now.
I've always been the type that wants to give you your present the moment I've wrapped it.
I set the bag of goodies, on the kitchen counter and started unwinding my scarf from my neck.
The house smelled of the fresh pine of the tree and coffee.
As I shrugged out of my coat, the dogs came scampering into the kitchen.
There was Crumb, small brown kind of crunchy-looking like he'd just been shaken out of the toaster.
But so happy to see me.
And there was Birdie, a regal greyhound, long-legged and smooth-coated, calmer and quieter than his brother.
Behind him came their dad, who swapped me a kiss for my coat.
Last to arrive, loping disinterestedly in from the living room was our ginger kitty, Marmalade.
I loved this moment and felt so lucky to experience it daily, to return home and be greeted lovingly by my whole family.
I didn't take it for granted.
I squatted down to pet Crumb as he zoomed around my ankles.
Birdie leaned his long body against me and Marmee slinked past, letting her fluffy tail slide along my back.
These were like our secret handshakes, the shorthand we shared with each other that said I missed you.
I'm glad you're back.
Bertie's dad was pouring me a cup of coffee, stirring in the cinnamon creamer he knew I liked and smiling over at us.
As he dropped the spoon in the sink and passed me my cup, he said Did I hear you say it is Christmas?
Because he squinted at the calendar stuck on the front of the fridge and lifted an eyebrow.
Oh, that's a misprint, I said. looking at the calendar myself and blowing across the top of my cup.
Yes, it turns out that it's Christmas right now.
At least, um, animal Christmas.
I see, he said.
Is this sort of like birthday month?
I nodded as I sipped, very similar.
We chuckled, and I began to pull items from the bag and hand them out.
There was a new sweater for Birdie, whose lean body was nearly always cold.
His dad pulled it over his head and helped feed his paws through the arms.
It was a handsome red plaid, very grandpa energy which he had in spades and he immediately trotted off to break it in with a nap.
Next, I took the Santa Claus squeaky toy from the sack.
It had a big head with a squeaker in it and a ropey bit that attached a bauble to his hat.
I squeaked it a few times, and Crumb danced around me.
I tossed it down the hall, and he went racing after it.
While I waited for him to bring it back to repeat the process, I watched Marmalade stare at the dangle toy in her dad's hands.
Her big green eyes were wide as she stared.
It was like a dance between them.
And I took my coffee and backed up a bit to watch.
He flicked the wand and she shuffled, not quite ready to jump for it, but unable to keep her excitement under wraps.
They waited each other out.
He let the mistletoe hang in the air.
Then he twitched it again, and she reached for it.
Her paw spread out but whiffed through the air, and she lifted onto her hind legs to reach again.
This time, she caught it up and clapped both paws around it.
He tugged a bit, but she held fast.
I knew from experience that she could actually be dragged along the wood floor at this point.
She seemed to enjoy it, in fact, and wouldn't let go.
But instead, he did. and she bolted under the sofa with her new prize.
Now, a couple weeks later, Marmalade had grown bored with her mistletoe wand.
Birdie's sweater had a hole near the collar where Crum had chewed it while Bird was asleep.
But the Santa toy?
That was still a favorite.
Crum carried it everywhere out for walks.
Into his bed at night It lay beside him while he munched dinner from his bowl.
And that had given us an idea.
Every year for the week or so before the holiday, at the community center in the town square, Santa and his elves visited with the locals.
I called and checked to see that four-legged littles were as welcome as the two-legged variety.
I'd been told that many furry friends came to see Santa, So today we were taking Crumb to meet his hero.
I'd even tried to brush his wild fur, which he allowed for about two minutes.
He had a jingle bell on his collar and we'd tried to convince him to leave his Santa toy at home, but he'd insisted.
We considered bringing Birdie along, but he was happy in his bed.
And we thought it would be special for Crumb to do something without his siblings.
Marmalade had meowed at us from her perch by the window as we trooped out to the car in our coats.
Town was busy. and it had taken us a few minutes to find a parking spot.
But when Crumb jumped down from the seat with his toy in his mouth to see kids and dogs and twinkle light-filled shop windows, He'd been so excited.
We wove through the bustle and stepped into the community center, which was decorated with hundreds of drawings the local school kids had made, as well as a backdrop from the village theater of a fireplace and windows full of snowflakes.
The warmth of the indoors after our brief walk made my nose tingle and I found myself trying to make a memory of this moment, to emboss the details of right now onto my mind and heart.
Hand in hand with my love.
Silly, happy crumb at the end of the leash, the smell of snow in the air And, at the end of the line, Santa in his chair.
After a few minutes, it was our turn.
And as we led Crumb up to the jolly man in red, he came to a sudden halt.
His mouth opened wide and his toy fell out.
I could see the mental gymnastics his little brain was striving for.
How was this possible?
Then he rushed into action, leaping onto Santa's lap. and licking his face while yipping happily.
The pictures from this moment would go into our album of holiday memories.
We would tell the story every year of Crum meeting Santa.
But right now I let myself just be fully here while it happened, to witness his joy and let it overflow into my own heart.
Comfort and joy.
I'd made a paper chain right after Thanksgiving, just like the kind we'd made in elementary school, to help us count down to the first day of vacation.
Thick strips of red and green construction paper curled over and daubed with a bit of Elmer's glue.
It was actually quite a nice, calm project, as there was no way to do it quickly.
I'd thread a new piece through the previous ring, making sure to alternate the colors, and then glue and hold it pressed between my fingers for a few moments till it's stuck and start again.
I strung it above my kitchen sink up and around the picture window that looks out through my side yard and down the sloping street into town.
Each night before bed, after I'd wiped down the counters and set up my coffee pot for the next morning, I'd turn off the lights and look out through the window.
My neighbor's house was strung with colored twinkle lights.
And across the street, I could see trees glowing in windows.
Streetlights reflected off of wet pavement and snow.
And in town, cafes and shops were lit up as well.
I read once that it does something to us to watch moving water.
There is something primordial about it.
And when we witness the tide come in, or a river rushing through the towers of a bridge, or even just a tiny stream rolling over rocks, we soften, we relax and focus.
And I have always thought that it must be the same ancient parts of our brains and hearts that tell us to look for light in the winter.
Twinkle lights fireplaces, the candles on the menorah, the atmospheric glow of a bustling city street.
It isn't the same effect as tides and lakes.
This fills a different need.
And each evening, as I looked out my window and drank up the light around me, I'd feel warmed inspired, comforted.
Then I'd reach up and tear away a link in my paper chain.
I liked anticipation.
Sometimes it was even better than whatever I was waiting for.
And now my chain was just a few links long. they wouldn't stretch across the window anymore.
I'd had to take them down and set them out along the sill beside the potted sprig of jade that, just like me, had been reaching for the light lately.
Looking at the last few remaining links, feeling the building anticipation.
I felt the urge to do something with these last precious days of the year.
It was something a friend had said to me a long time ago, a simple fact that had left a deep impression that time passes either way.
It passes whether you use it or not.
Time doesn't wait for you.
And when I was younger I'd sometimes interpreted that incorrectly in a way that had everything to do with how much I could get done in a day, how productive I was.
I'd moved on from that now.
Now I realized it had to do with how many days of my life I enjoyed, how many friends I made and the quality of the time I spent, even when, or especially when, I was alone and doing simple things.
So I thought about how I might spend this time, about warmth and light, and I laughed to myself, thinking of the old carol.
What I wanted was to bring tidings of comfort and joy.
I stepped out into my garage in my slippers and began shifting boxes and looking through shelves and cubbies.
Right away, I found a few boxes of twinkle lights.
And without hesitation, I got dressed in my boots and coat and started wrapping them around the tree in the center of my front yard.
It was a rowan tree, fully mature, but naturally a bit smaller than the oaks and maples in the neighborhood.
I wrapped the lights in tight coils up the trunk and stretched them patiently out and around a few branches.
Rowan trees are sometimes called traveler's trees and are meant to help prevent those on a journey from getting lost.
Well, I thought, we can all use that, can't we?
Once the lights were plugged in and the tree was glowing in the yard, I went back to the garage to see what else I could find.
Years ago there had been a tradition in our neighborhood to light luminaries in long rows on the sidewalks on Christmas Eve.
And for whatever reason, it had been forgotten for a while now.
I remembered my first holiday here, stepping out that night and seeing hundreds of white paper bags lit from within.
It had felt like a miracle.
In a dusty box between my bike pump and a stack of seasoned logs for the fireplace, I found what I'd been looking for.
There'd been a fundraiser at the library over the summer.
They sold luminary kits with the paper bags, sand to keep them in place and tiny candles set down deep in tall holders.
I'd forgotten... all about them and was so happy to find them now.
I looked through the supplies, counting what was there, and had an idea.
I waited till the sun set, then loaded my kit into the back of my car and started to drive slowly through the neighborhood.
I didn't have enough luminaries to line all the sidewalks.
But why should not being able to do everything stop me from doing something?
I parked my car at a corner and opened the hatch.
I put a scoop of sand in each bag and took as many candles as I could carry and started to walk from house to house.
Where each front walk met the sidewalk, I'd settle a luminary, shaking the sand into an even layer across the bottom of the bag, nestle the candle down into it and, with a long lighter light the wick.
Just like Santa, I went from one house to the next, And also like Santa, I was a bit stealthy and managed not to be seen.
I left one beside a vacant lot in front of the corner store and at the little library where I often hunted for a new book.
The candles didn't have much wax in them.
They were meant to be burned for an evening only.
And I'd have to go back around tomorrow to pick them all up.
But driving along the streets and seeing everyone represented in a glowing, flickering light made it all feel well worth it.
People would look out, as I did so often in the winter, and see light and, at least for a moment, I hoped, feel comfort and joy.
Little rituals
When my mother came home at the end of the day she'd stand at a little cabinet tucked into a niche in the entryway and slowly slide the rings from her fingers.
She'd unclasp her watch and place all the finery into a small ceramic bowl set there just for the purpose.
She worked with her hands all day, and they must have been sore.
She'd massage her finger joints one by one and press the pad of her thumb into her palm, rubbing out the ache.
Then she'd slide her wedding band back on, leaving the rest in the bowl to wait for her till tomorrow.
She was quiet while she did this, slowly attending to her hands.
And when she had finished, she'd let out a small sigh and step into the heart of the house and join us in the listening to and telling of the stories of the day.
Someone had explained to me years ago that when rituals were blindly followed, they weren't of much use.
But when they had a bit of meaning tied into them, and especially when you thought about that meaning while you performed them, Well then they became tools.
Tools that could help you turn the page on a moment, or celebrate or treasure or any number of useful human actions.
When I'd learned that, I thought of my mother and her evening habit, and the bowl on the cabinet.
It had been a ritual of her own, devising a way to care for herself at the end of the workday and to shift from the world of traffic and deadlines to a world of her own, with her family and home.
Since then, I'd created a few rights of my own.
And this afternoon, I felt the need for one in particular.
It was a ritual for slowing down when my brain was buzzing.
When I found myself forgetting things, hustling to catch up and feeling like I couldn't put my thoughts in order.
I'd pull my tiny espresso pot down from the shelf and push my sleeves up, and begin.
You see, this couldn't be done in a hurry and it took a bit of focus to be done right.
So I knew it would sort out my mixed-up mind.
These tiny pots come in a few different styles and designs.
Some screw together, but mine worked with a clamp.
So I unclamped the top bit from the bottom and took the small filter basket from the bottom piece.
I turned on the tap and adjusted the flow quite low.
It was a delicate business to get just the right amount of water into the bottom chamber so that when I set the filter into it it just grazed its bottom.
I took a canister of ground beans from the cupboard and twisted off its top.
I left a tiny spoon stuck upright in the grounds and I drew it out and started to spoon out the coffee into the filter.
I did this little by little, filling the filter slowly and using the side of the spoon to tap the grounds in.
They would expand as the water boiled and the steam forced its way through them.
So I didn't want the basket over full, just full enough.
Then I hooked the lip of the top piece over the tiny metal knob in the bottom and turned the handle to clamp the pot back together.
At the stove, I lit the smallest burner to low and set the pot on it.
Now, there was a bit of time to wait, and my still somewhat busy mind tried to push me back into the habit of filling every single second with tasks, but I was prepared for this.
First I stood for a moment at the stove and just rooted down into my feet and felt the way my weight was balanced over them.
Then I took a slow breath in through my nose and out through my mouth.
I turned to look out the window and watched a truck at the stop sign on the corner take a slow turn onto the side street.
I had a small round table under a window tucked into the corner of the kitchen.
A good spot for breakfast or for opening mail in the afternoon, or for a cup of espresso right about now.
I went to it and made a comfortable place for myself, setting a few books in a neat stack on the windowsill and putting a bud vase with a single blooming lily at the table center.
All of this was part of the ritual.
I was taking time to do something small with great care.
And it signaled to me that I, as much as any other soul in the universe, deserved care.
It reminded me that I wasn't a machine made to do chores, but a whole person, and that while being a whole person, sometimes feels complicated and layered with many emotions.
It also came with a lot of enjoyment for moments like these.
I took my favorite cup from the counter and set it in its saucer.
It didn't really need one.
But I liked the way it looked and felt in my hand.
And that was enough of a reason to use it.
The pot was bubbling and hissing.
And it reminded me of the sound of an old radiator. in a tiny apartment I'd lived in during college.
I turned off the burner and smiled at the memory.
I'd had this same little coffee pot back in that apartment, which had been in an old house downtown with noisy neighbors and creaking wood floors.
But it had been all mine.
And I'd loved it.
Sometimes I'd wake in the night and I'd listen to those old radiators hissing and gurgling and it would put me right back to sleep.
I took a small spoon from the drawer and the sugar bowl down from the shelf and carefully tipped back the lid of the coffee pot.
The surface of the coffee had a small bit of bubbly foam on top and I breathed in the rich roasted smell.
I tipped in a few small spoonfuls of sugar and slowly stirred it in.
It was another moment to slow down.
If I went too fast, the sugar wouldn't dissolve and the cup would taste bitter.
I might even knock the pot over and spill the precious coffee.
I'd done it before, but I'd learned.
Go slow.
Do the thing properly.
A few crystals of sugar clung to the percolating spindle in the pot and I spooned hot coffee over them to wash them back in with the rest.
Then I tipped the lid back down and slowly poured a cup for myself.
I carried it over to the table and sat down.
The ritual had worked its magic.
My thoughts were smooth and sorted again.
Like a needle on a record player that had been set down exactly into a groove.
My mind was set back in the present and I was listening to the music of it, moment to moment.
I lifted the cup to my lips and drank.
Sweet dreams.
