We are just really having a relaxed Christmas. I had decided that a while back, but now we are having a REALLY relaxed Christmas. Robert has cellulitis  in his leg and is on doctor’s orders to stay off of it except for bathroom trips. So . . . well, we’ll plop that old stuffed turkey in the roaster, heat up the ham, make some homemade mashed potatoes, devil some eggs and keep a fire going in the fireplace and tiny fires in the scented candle jars.

Maybe we will be so relaxed we will sprawl and watch It’s a Wonderful Life – Of course, I will then have to open the door and call out Merry Christmas, Bedford Falls. Merry Christmas, you old Bailey Savings & Loan.

So, it’s Tuesday . . . oh, gosh, it’s Wednesday. Well, Christmas time will do that to you. I do know it was Sunday when Shane, Sydney and I made our trip to four graves and two cemeteries. It was cold, but we managed. Actually, we managed for quite a long time in the White Pigeon Cemetery because I couldn’t find my grandmother’s grave. I know, it sounds really like I don’t care. But I do; it’s more a matter of Mother having been the one to take flowers to the grave because for a good many of these past 41 years Grandma’s been dead, I’ve lived far away.

I am ahead of myself; first we went to the Sturgis Cemetery, which is sort of one of the town’s showpieces with trees and lots of shade in summer and off one of the old brick streets, across from the park’s ice pond and summer concert area. Lots of people go out there to walk because it is peaceful and lovely . . . and I suppose maybe they are walking to help them stay on this side of the ground for a while longer. (That was not in good taste – but I couldn’t help myself; I mean, it sticks right out at you as far as logic is concerned.)

We put a wreath around Mother’s urn -not that she was cremated – the urn for Memorial Day flowers. I know some put greenery wreaths on tri-pod stands, but we decorated this one and and anchored it on the urn. Then it was time to tend my grandfather’s grave- her father’s. I may have confused you here, so let me clarify.

My mother’s parents each lost their spouses in the early part of the century. My grandfather was married to Edith Crane and she died after a miscarriage; he left the hospital in Kalamazoo as she settled into a state of recuperation and when he got home, there was a call that she had taken a turn for the worse, hemorrhaged and died . . . just, snap of your fingers, like that.

He buried her at Sturgis, with his name on the other half of the stone. He has a lot of relatives there, including a sister who went out to the plains with her husband, panicked when her boys disappeared on a jaunt and died of a heat stroke when she ran out the the fields for help. He and one of his brothers went out west to bring her home. I go past the Skirvin monument every time I go to Mother’s and Grandpa’s graves and remember that tragic story.

His mother’s grave is there, too; she lay dying as her youngest son was a on a train coming back from World War I. He didn’t make it in time to say goodbye, but he, with his five brothers was a pallbearer.

So I put greenery and holly on Grandpa’s grave and I actually said aloud to Edith that she didn’t know me, but I’m certain she must have been a fine woman and, well, here I was. I have the gold inscribed locket he gave her – and I hope that’s all right with her.

My grandmother’s husband died slowly of Bright’s Disease. Near the end, the nurses told her he was stable and to go get a bite to eat; when she returned, he had died. She buried him at White Pigeon along with other members of his family. The cemetery sections are named now and there is a Huff Addition; well, guess what, those were the older Huffs and she and her husband are buried across the lane in a division with another name.

BUT Sydney and Shane and I knew that; we passed that hurdle. We walked out to where we thought the grave was . . . in the snow . . . and we were slightly off. Because of the winter landscape and the emptying of the urn, we thought we were way off. For 45 minutes we walked back and forth, looking, looking, looking. But, finally, we found it and did our greenery thing.

Then we went to my aunt’s grave – my grandmother’s daughter and my mother’s half-sister, who had also been like a second mother to her. More greenery, more holly.

The three of us headed to Mother’s then and threw seasoned firewood into the trunk – no need to let it rot. We went inside finally and I discovered my pant legs were not just wet – they were frozen stiff. So we planted ourselves by the big gas heater and turned up the thermostat and warmed up. Of course, this was the one time I had not stuck extra pants in my bag. I did have another pair of socks and a pair of boots with sheepskin lining. It was the pants that were the problem. I sat there with no jeans and sincerely hoped no one would come knocking.

Of course, I’m home now – – because it is WEDNESDAY — and I’m wearing pants, which is probably the way to go.

Now that I have procrastinated, I will maybe do some Christmas cheery things.

Well, heck, it seems like people had plans to do Christmas lights outside, but they never came to fruition.

In 1969, my grandmother died very close to Christmas and on the evening after her funeral my mother handed my husband and me some lights and told us to go out and put them on the little cherry tree. It was cold . . .  do you know that? Cold! And I think there was some snow coming down. We got them up and they glistened in the holiday air.

So, today, I thought, “Oh, shoot, let’s get this done because well if you are healthy and can’t put some effort into even a small wreath or something, your soul must be just almost all dried up. It was cold and I fell down once, landing on my knee that has taken the burnt of it during the porch and vestibule adventure of “you’re up . . . oops, you’re down.” My feet got cold; I had a sweatshirt, coat and ear-hugging hat on, but my feet had to take one for the team.

They are up bridging the two tall bushes by the front door – multicolored and LED – in a new arrangement so I won’t have to cut them off. I will have to wait until dark to see how they look – like colors floating in air  . . . or a bad paintball result.

Still, I did it and I enjoyed it. It felt like a real Christmas activity. And it felt a little bit like I had kept the faith.

We received a box from LZP – which I guess I already told you. He warned not to open until Christmas and Der Bingle said not to worry, we were always careful of boxes from him. Careful to the point of considering evacuation the house and opening it with fire log tongs with really long extension handles.

Then today, he apparently told Der Bingle to go ahead because I came out to find him sitting with a box of Christmas Peeps in a box on his lap.

This is LZP, who has been shown before in a banana suit.

This picture was taken by Sam, his son, and when it came in the email, it was labeled “Dad said to hurry up and take the picture.”

Here is a picture of Sam, who seems to be focusing son something in a strange place.

I kid you not – – this picture failed to upload three times because of a “security” problem. I tweaked it somehow and got it to go. It has to be the eyes . . .

This is the card that was in the box:

And here is what is written inside:

And here is a picture of one of the mugs:

And here are Sam and Jody:

So thanks for the peeps and candy and mugs  . . . and the tug on the heartstrings.

Now that our Mystery Refugee Person has successfully completed her trip, we here at The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse are going to show her pre-launch photo. Of course, for the sake of security, we are not allowed to show special microwave, fridge and bunkbeds and the inside space expansion device. (The bunkbed was for the MRP and her polar bear friend.)

My middle grandchild, Colin, is in the autistic spectrum and not in the part where one sits in the corner and calculates with lightning speed what day of the week matches with a randomly given date in history. He spent over a year at a residential facility and yesterday he returned and it is stressful.

I mention this in this public place because it is stressful, because people are conflicted in their feelings and because it is fairly hard to write as freely as I do without making the background of my days clear. I don’t know if that is true or not – maybe I just want to be able to say “Oh, dear, this is difficult.” That is not the most noble of things, and in light of my just writing about Thomas Bickle and his family, a pathetically “pity me” remark.

But, that is me . . . and I know it.

So, anyway, we are moving on. Well, not literally, but a restful balcony in San Diego doesn’t sound bad. Literally, we are going on with our days and today, to lessen the confusion when people come in to make plans with Colin’s parents, Der Bingle and I are taking the dogs up to my mother’s to check on things and then we’ll go over to the cemetery – not because she will know I am there, but because I just have to.

The problem is that it is cold outside and Sydney is old and has liver problems; I am worried about this and am contemplating taking two cars. I can go ahead and get part of the house warmed up and, maybe I’ll get a little tree in a window.

I have a lot of these little trees – very compact and nicely decorated; I get them at GoodWill and I have come to the conclusion that a lot of them are from an older person’s home or a nursing home room table. I have this idea that when I buy them I am acknowledging the life of someone who has passed away. I can’t say that they all stay pristine – over the years, some of the elegant decorations have fallen off, to be replaced by ornaments from grandkids. Yes, Sponge Bob Square Pants wound up on one; I sigh and then think that is it the way it should be.

I’m a big believer in stress hormones scooting out of the brain via tears; of course, when you are incredibly sad, they seem to replenish as fast as they are shed. But, sometimes, on a regular day, when tidbits of memories of people gone and the twinges of regret for the things I would have done differently, something will trigger the tightening of the throat to the point of pain and the slow slide of tears down cheeks.

I don’t know if it stabilizes levels or cleanses, but it makes you feel, if not better, more at peace. Ah, thinking about it, maybe it is just better – not that you deserve it, but you’d be dang stupid to not accept it.

Out for Delivery, December 17, 2010, 10:33 am

I don’t know – I wrote several posts about Thomas Bickle when he was sick and when he died of a brain tumor. I guess if you type his name into the search function on this page, you will them. I have been thinking about him lately, maybe because it’s Christmas or perhaps because his light on my porch burned out and I’m in the process of getting a new bulb.

One of the topics his mother, Sarah Bickle, wrote about was a reference to Elizabeth McCracken’s memoir called This Does Not Have to be a Secret. It is about a stillbirth in a French hospital and a not quite right translation that ended up as the dwarves of grief. I thought I’d like to re-read it and looked for it among my posts but it wasn’t there. So I looked back at the blog Sarah had for Thomas and found it HERE.

Obviously, writing about Thomas now does not seem like a cheerful Christmas post, but thinking back about what I know of Thomas, I found myself warmed by the amount of love that surrounded that little carrot-top.

Christmas is one week from tomorrow. I am sitting here plotting my way through those days and think we’re going to have a fly by the seat of your pants Christmas. Probably a buffet Christmas dinner like we did last year; that’s not quite accurate. I plan to set the table with nice dishes and a special table cloth . . . and plenty of chairs, but, last year, with Mother recently gone, at the last moment we picked up our plates and milled around, not wanting to see that empty chair I suppose.

And, strangely and unexpectedly, the mood lightened and we were almost merry. I suppose we’ll just go where the moment takes us. And if that worked out so well for Christmas dinner, I’m going to take the same attitude toward this Christmas week; nothing has to be done. No fancy cooking . . . we all pretty much eat what we want all the time anyway, treating ourselves to cheery restaurant settings during the year. Hello Cheesecake Factory . . . Hello The Golden Lamb . . . See you, again, Logan’s Roadhouse.

No harried wrapping of all that stuff. Not that I’m giving that much this year, anyway. I’m probably going to do my patented AmeliaJake Christmas bag approach. Ah, you think that I will put stuff in bagS; no, I use one bag – but a really festive one – and go back and forth into my cache and come out with something for someone in the bag each time. Not that I won’t wrap some special present in my crazy AmeliaJake way – but that might wind up with a gift looking like a cow. Obviously, I’m tired of the old right size of paper, neat folds, matching tags and lovely bows. I’ve don’t that. Do you know for a few years I even cut out small sections of wrapping paper and made the tags and matched them to the pattern of the paper so they would blend in perfectly?

Then for a couple of years I numbered all of the packages with me having the master sheet. No one knew what was what until Grandma checked her key on the couple of sheets on legal paper stuffed in her pocket – which got mislaid a couple of times.

I’ll play Christmas music such as The Irish Tenors before Der Bingle gets home; he doesn’t like them. Maybe I’ll put together a playlist of Tennessee Ernie Ford singing Christmas songs for him. Then, of course, there is that Redneck Album I bought to send LZP but some young family members might take it over. So, we’ll probably open it and play it and I will groan and the kids will put certain songs on constant repeat. Sorry, LZP, you’ll get it in time for next Christmas.

More than likely it will be a Wubba Christmas with Quentin reuniting with Shane for some quality time together – petting, Wubba tug of war, petting, Wubba throwing, petting, Wubba, Wubba, Wubba.  Now that’s the present I have to really remember to get: more Wubbas. Is that screaming I hear from everyone but Shane?

Sydney’s liver enzymes are still up and so we will pamper him and let him have fat-free snacks and try to keep Shane from driving him crazy with . . . well, you know . . .  the WUBBAS.