Front Row Seat

     It was a normal, boring Saturday of laundry, mopping, and vacuuming.  Buttercup, in her autistic world, was entertaining herself with all manner of toys, dishes, and odds and ends.  As I began folding yet another load of clothes, she came to find me.  “Mama, come.”  She pulls my hand and beckons me to follow her.  Truth be told, I really wanted to finish the laundry, but she seemed so insistent that I obliged. 

      The living room was set up with a pretend microphone by the couch and an audience of dolls and toys lined up in the middle of the floor.  She pointed to a spot in the “audience” and pulled me to a seat.  With a huge smile on her tiny face, she made her way to the microphone and faced her crowd.  “Welcome to the singing church.  You need sing music.”  I noticed a slip of paper on the carpet next to me and picked it up.  I laughed softly at the squeezable cuteness of scrap paper, lovingly adorned with musical notes in bright crayon.  Evidently, this was the music du jour for services at “the singing church”.  She stared at me with a slight smile on her face, which I understood as non-verbal communication that now would be the time to start singing.

     Evidently, “Jimmy Crack Corn and I Don’t Care” wasn’t exactly what she had in mind.

     Before I could get halfway through my song, she put her hand up with a stern, yet polite, “OK, that’s ‘nuff.”  I bit my lip to keep from laughing.  This was, after all, a church service.  After putting a stop to “Jimmy Crack Corn”, she made an announcement.  “Now is time for get married.”  I couldn’t wait to see this.

      She quickly chose two audience members.  “Outdoorsman” became the groom and “Princess Purple Dress”, now adorned with a tissue for a veil, became the blushing bride.  I was enjoying the preparation process immensely, so I was surprised when she handed me a flashlight.  “What should I do with this?” I asked.  She took my hand and showed me how to use the flashlight as a spotlight on the happy couple.  This was just too funny.  She solemnly made her way to her pretend microphone.  “OK, time for get married,” she said slowly, deliberately, with due reverence for matrimonial pomp and circumstance. 

      She picked up an old novel she had discovered on the bottom of a book shelf and slowly opened its pages, spine creaking in protest.  “Ow-side man,” she began, “You takin’ kissin’ Pwincess Purple Dwess?”  She hastily squatted to make Outdoorsman nod his head.  “Pwincess Purple Dwess,  you takin’ kissin’ Ow-side man?”  Back down she squats to make Princess Purple Dress nod her veiled head.  The two lucky audience members shared their nuptial kiss in a shaky spotlight held by the officiant’s mother, barely containing her composure.  As the kiss ends, Buttercup throws the happy couple in the toy box, says, “Show’s over”, and leaves the room. 

      There I sat, “spotlight” in hand, laughing like a loon. 

      It was singlehandedly the best show I had seen in years.  Not only did I have a front row seat, I was invited to be a small part of the production crew.  Suddenly, folding The Yankee’s underwear seemed like the most trivial, unimportant task on earth.  I had attended a church service, witnessed a wedding, and helped out with a first-rate dramatic production, all in one sitting. 

      This little girl, this adorable, affectionate, artsy little miracle of mysteries had come bouncing into my life at just the right time.  She pays little attention to the societal parameters around her.  She plays without reservation, she improvises without irritation, and she loves without hesitation.  She had reminded me once again why she is the best sidekick a mother could ever ask for … and I nearly missed it for a load of laundry. 

      It was the best church service in history. 

© Bertha Grizzly 2012.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

The Perfect Tree

     When I was growing up, I always thought our Christmas tree was beautiful.  Twinkling colored lights, red velvet bows, a serene, holy angel gracing the highest peak - it was the epitome of Christmas wonder.  There was just one problem.

     Our ornaments were dumb.

     I dreaded having people admire our tree because I knew they would inevitably move in for a closer look.  Mom would proudly answer questions and show off her most special mementos.  As I cringed in the corner, Mom would exclaim, “Now this one is so sweet.  Bertha cut a lopsided little circle out of a cereal box and then wrapped some yarn scraps around it to make a wreath.  Isn’t it adorable?  She used one of her hair ribbons as the bow!  I just love it.”  I grimaced with every re-telling. 

      This went on for years.  Slowly, Moose, Wolverine, and I all moved away but the Christmas tree has remained unchanged, frozen in time.  I never understood how on earth Mom could become so attached to my efforts with cardboard and aluminum foil, which ended up looking more like the ruins of Sputnik than the Star of Bethlehem.  It, and countless other atrocities of elementary art class, seemed to be the highlight of her Christmas decoration bin.  Could she not see how horrible they looked?  How their garish colors and sloppy splotches of streaky glitter paint clashed with, well, everything?  It was just pitiful. 

      As I started my own household, I made a point to collect the most beautiful, the most heartwarming ornaments the store or my craft stock could produce.  Mine would be a tree of unparalleled perfection.  My friends, my family members, my children would marvel at this gleaming, sparkling tribute to the glory of Christmas, and no “ruins of Sputnik” would ever spoil the view. 

      Until Buttercup started preschool. 

      She has always been very small for her age, thanks to her birth status as a micro-preemie, so my heart is very protective of my precious, petite, steel magnolia.  As she bounced in from preschool at four years old, her eyes shining and her size 24-months dress emphasizing her tiny frame, she proudly handed me a wreath she had made. It was a paper plate (yes, the cheap picnic variety) that had been relieved of its middle, sponge painted a streaky green, and decorated with construction paper “holly” leaves and berries.  A bit of yarn at the top served as a hanger and a dash of glitter haphazardly sprinkled in two small spots served as a decorator’s flourish.  It was gaudy.  It was streaky.  It was just the kind of thing I had criticized my mother for loving. 

     It was the most beautiful wreath I had ever seen.

     Over the years, my tree has slowly given way to the crafty creations of a petite steel magnolia with a flair for all things artsy.  I no longer scour stores for the most beautiful, the most heartwarming ornaments, and I suddenly understand my mother’s tree and the dumb ornaments she treasures.  Where I see the ruins of Sputnik, she sees a 5 year old mini-Bertha hiding behind her bed in secret, working at a furious pace with blunt-tip scissors and library paste to finish a gift for her mother.  Where I see a crooked, butchered cereal box covered in stupid yarn scraps, she sees a treasured hair ribbon, sacrificed for a wreath no catalog could ever match.  She sees living memories of her children, now grown with homes of their own.  She still feels the love, the pride, the immense effort of unskilled, clumsy hands trying so hard to create beauty.  I think of Buttercup and how she’ll react to the paper plate wreath when she gets older.  “Oh, Mom,” she’ll sigh, rolling her eyes, “That stupid wreath is so tacky.  Let me buy you a real one.”  I gasp at the horror of my own daydream.

      If she so much as touches my paper plate wreath …

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Simple Pleasures

     Anyone who knows me is aware of the fact that I start Christmas shopping in April.  I’m not sure why everyone grumbles and rolls their eyes when they discover this particular tidbit, but it happens all the time.  Someone actually asked me how I could think of Christmas when it was 95 degrees outside.  I said, “Easy.  I don’t think of Christmas.  I think of the person and what would make him happy.”  That answer is usually met with either disbelief or a nodding head.  This seems to be happening more and more often and I think I know why.

      People have lost the art of simple pleasures. 

     When I am out at a store, whether it’s the middle of April or the day before Christmas Eve, if I see something that a dear friend or loved one might need or enjoy, I get it.  By the time Christmas arrives, I have everything I need for gift giving, all thoughtfully purchased, all just waiting for a festive wrapping.  I have no debt to worry about in January and everyone always says, “How did you guess I wanted/needed this?!”  It’s the process that I enjoy: thinking about the person I love, imagining how much they’ll love what I’ve chosen, wrapping it with a loving flourish, and then drinking in the joyous look on their face when my idea proves successful.  It’s a small thing, but I like simple.   

      I’ve been teased for my simple pleasures.  The smell of Buttercup’s hair when she was a baby was about the most heavenly thing I could think of, but whenever I would kiss her little head and inhale her sweet scent, there was always someone there to say, “Did you just smell her hair?”  Why, yes I did, thank you.  I also said a prayer of thanks that the sun was turning the mountains purple as it set in the sky, because purple is one of my favorite colors.  I paused to marvel at the tiny blade of grass that had somehow summoned the courage to peek through a crack in the concrete even though that guy with the cigar laughed at me.  And I even ignored The Yankee when he said I was weird for reading the dictionary and being excited over some new word I discovered. 

    I like fine quality, beautiful things, and entertainment as much as anyone else, I suppose, but not to the point of panic at the thought of being left to my own devices.  I will agree that a power outage is a miserably inconvenient occurrence, but I am not crippled by it.  It is difficult being a writer when a computer is not functioning, but this gives me a reason to pull out my oil lantern, paper, and pen.  The writing flows differently when the hand pens more slowly than the fingers can type, but I welcome the break, even if it is forced by a tree falling over onto the power lines down the road from my house.  Perhaps it is nature’s way of forcing us to slow down, take a look, and delight in the simple — something I do on a regular basis anyway.  Is it possible to be built that way, or is there some sort of training involved?  Are some people naturally drawn to the simply exquisite while others require flashy entertainment at all times?  After the ridicule I’ve encountered over the years, I’ve often pondered this thought. 

      I think Mom is the main person responsible for cultivating this love of finding happiness is small things.  She is the first one who pointed out the beauty of a sunny yellow buttercup growing in a field of emerald green grass.  She showed me that writing a thank you note by hand was one way to bring pleasure to others.  She taught me that the scent of clean sheets could rival any perfume.  In the same way that she showed me how to relish the joy of the oft-overlooked, I am teaching my Buttercup.  Honestly though, Buttercup is an easy child to teach about simple pleasures.  She is the one who notices a stray fleck of glitter on her clothes and marvels at how beautiful it is in the light.  She holds up a loaf of freshly baked bread and beckons me to “smell the delicious pretty” with her.  She thanks me when I wear makeup and tells me that my eyes are “beautiful with color on them”.  She inspires me. 

      Yep, I Christmas shop in April.  I guess I’m just built that way. 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.