The Cheddar Bunny Girl

Under Bea's arm, you see a small stuffed bunny. This is Paco. Although Paco has been through the wash any number of times, he retains his status of favorite toy. I don't know why Bea named him Paco. It sounds Spanish, but I can't find a translation for it. She named one of her dolls Loco. I think that means "crazy" in Spanish. Maybe there are things about that doll she knows that we don't. Paco and Loco have very special places in Bea's heart and therefore in ours.

Bea named her stuffed doggie puppet "Yuppio." Remember when "yuppie" meant "young upwardly mobile professionals"? But Yuppio doesn't seem to have a great deal of ambition, and seldom speaks unless spoken through, so I am guessing his name means something like "delicious sherbert" in Transylvanian.

Like most 3-year-olds, Bea is fond of asking questions. Yet, to my knowledge, she has never asked her mother, where did I come from? Rather, Bea accepts her place in the world as a beloved person as an established fact, too familiar to be questioned.

Perhaps she will be like me, and won't even begin to wonder where she came from until she gets to be about 40. Then her existence will be an intriguing mystery that will keep her tossing and turning at night. Like me, she'll say, "I know where my body came from, but where did my spirit come from? And who am I, anyway?"

And even more intriguing, "Where was I before I was here? Or how did I just get here from nowhere?"

Once I asked my first husband, "Would you still love me if I lost an arm?"

"Yes," he replied.

"And would you still love me if I lost both my arms."

"Of course," he said.

"And would you still love me if I lost both arms and one leg?"

At this point, he began to waver. "Yes," he sighed, "but I probably wouldn't marry you."

But what I was trying to get at was, what exactly did he love? Was it the me that he could see and touch or the me that was invisible? Is it only God that loves the invisible me?

Nowadays, I am getting old and all my potential mates are also getting old, and they do not love the invisible me, because they only see the visible me, who is getting shorter, fatter and wrinklier by the moment. (And have you seen the photos of Hillary Clinton in this week's Newsweek? Oy vey! And she's younger than me!)

Too bad, you guys. But like the Cheddar Bunny Girl, there is more to me than meets the eye, and always has been, and that soul-mama is not going away any time soon. Me and Hillary are just getting started. Our spirits are not afraid of wrinkles!

So Merry Christmas to everyone, and thanks, Beasie, for sharing your own beautiful, accepting, cheddar-cheese-bunny eating spirit with all of us. Like your name, "Beatrice," you are blessed, and always will be, even when you are 110!

It's nice to be nice!

Here is another photo of Bea on the New Hill Railroad's Santa Train.As you can see by the look on Bea's face, she is blissed out. My daughter Amy, Bea's mother, also went on a Santa train up in Connecticut when she was about the same age. (She's probably remembering that as this photo is being taken, because she looks blissed out, as well.) I will always remember that when the bell-ringing Santa on the Connecticut train asked my little Amy what she wanted for Christmas, Amy replied shyly, "I want to ring your bell." And so he let her ring the bell and she was very happy.

The Santa in the current photo is a very good representative of the Santa clan. He has the requisite twinkly blue eyes and a lush beard and mustache. It's hard to know whether Bea is into believing that he's the real Santa. We haven't emphasized Santa and getting presents. When I asked Bea a few weeks ago what she was going to do for Christmas, she exclaimed, "We're going to get a big Christmas tree that goes all the way up to the ceiling." Clearly, that was what Christmas meant to her--helping to decorate the tree. I'm glad she thinks that way. She'll never be disappointed if she doesn't get sucked into the commercial side of Christmas.

When I was a small child, I didn't see a lot of Santas. I think having Santas was not very popular in the society of the 40s. The Depression, with all its miseries and woes, was too recent. My father told stories of bleak Christmases past that would wring tears from a stone. He got one orange a year--always at Christmas--and he would eat the whole thing, rind and seed included. I always felt terrible about that, every time he told that story.

What I remember best about Santa from my own childhood was my grandfather, Papaw Williams, telling me to look out the window, quick! because he had just seen Santa peeking in to see if I was being good. I would race to the window and look all around, but I never caught a glimpse of Santa. However, I never doubted that he was out there, because I believed my Papaw's every word. And still, every December, I try to be nice -- just in case Santa's watching. I'm sure I passed that on to Amy, and she'll pass it to Bea. Be nice!

Dinner at Panciuto's

These are two of my best friends from long, long ago. I will not reveal their names for fear of starting a stampede, but let us just say, the three of us are not Peter, Paul and Mary.

We all grew up in what is now Knoxville, Tennessee, and after high school, went our separate ways. We had completely lost track of one another. But because of another friend in Knoxville, who planned some wonderful reunions for our class, we found each other and got together for a meal last Saturday night.

It's amazing, when your earliest memories of a person are of a little girl or boy, to meet with them in their seventh decade and start talking just as if all that time had never passed.

We toasted absent friends and one another's health, and we had a wonderful relaxing dinner. What could be a better gift for the holiday season than the opportunity of renewing friendships grown ever more golden with the years?

Taking the holidays easy

So far this Christmas season has been a mixed bag. There have been great days and not-so-great days. Sometimes I think it's all about expectations, and we should definitely lower our expectations if we don't want to get all frustrated.

What I wanted this year was some time to reflect, but I only got it after making a complete fool of myself at a conference on, of all things, lovingkindness and meditation. I had signed up for the conference months ago and paid my fee, which was a bit exorbitant, to start with, for a day-and-a-half with Sharon Salzburg. The event was a big disappointment. Like many New Age speakers, Sharon Salzburg spends a lot of the time when she's supposed to be teaching something just talking about herself. She does a lot of name-dropping: "The other day, I said to Ram Dass, I said... ." That sort of thing. I kept thinking, "For this, I paid $75?"

The worst thing about the conference was the venue, a local UU fellowship (I can't bring myself to call it a "church.") They set up the check-in tables and locked all the doors but one. Then after participants checked in at the check-in table, they had to be checked in again at the door of the meeting room. So I felt from the get-go that this event was all about money, and it really made me mad.

Anger is a natural part of Christmas. People make each other mad. If you don't believe me, try driving at the rush hour to any destination in the Triangle. People get mad in the stores. They get mad in the restaurants. There is no peace, because every one has so much to do, and everyone is rushing.

Everyone except the blessed Bea, who was photographed recently taking a break in a recliner from her work and play. She is such a great role model. I want to be just like her when I grow up. I want to put on my stripey socks and just chill out for a little while. Thank you, Bea, for shining the light of your three-year-old wisdom on your frazzled old Grammy. (And may all of us be free from suffering, just as soon as possible!)

A ride on the Santa train

Here is Bea taking a ride on the Santa train that runs from a station in New Hill, NC. A girl always wears her nicest hairbow on the Santa train and takes along a cookie or two to enjoy as she looks out the window. What an ideal way to spend a cold, frosty Sunday afternoon in December. She is living a very sensible and imaginative life. Santa is nice, but he's not the main event. Bea doesn't know yet about how Christmas has been commercialized beyond recognition, and therefore she is able to approach the season with great joy and enthusiasm. She inspires me to the core!

Breaking news: My clothes dryer went on the blink last night. I was upstairs watching disc 5 of the Civil War and seeing the paintings of Lee's surrender to Grant. I loved that Grant had on his old mudsplattered clothing because he had not wanted to keep Lee waiting while he changed out of his work clothes. That's so real!

When the film came to a stopping point, I went down the stairs to put the wet clothes into the dryer. I then pressed the start button. NNNNNNNN said the naughty dryer. Then I held the start button down for a very long time. NNNNNNNNNN said the naughty dryer, and this time white smoke began to waft from its innards. If I could have figured out how to open the thing up, I would have put out the fire. But I just had to stand there and hope it would go out on its own. (It did.)

So today I begin trying to either get it fixed or replace it. So much for living simply. I cannot see drying my clothes on a clothes rack and having to iron everything.

Years ago when we lived in Wendell, NC, I knew an elderly woman whom we called Miss Nellie. Miss Nellie showed me a pair of lacy fingerless gloves that her mother had knitted from tobacco twine. The gloves were to be worn by Miss Nellie's sister as she pinned clothing to the clothesline in the wintertime.When Miss Nellie showed me the little ivory-colored gloves, it made me think of back when I was a little girl, before my family had a clothes dryer, when I helped my mother bring in damp clothes at the end of a winter's day--armfuls of shirts and pants and towels, not quite dry and sparkling with ice crystals. We would hang the clothes to finish drying on a rack next to the Warm Morning heater in the middle of the living room. But now I have lost my innocence. I have to have a dryer. Woe is me! Santa, are you listening?

The Bliss of Being Centered

Yes, T-ball is a very good example of ultra-centeredness. He started as a kitty named Oliver, had his name changed to Baal (after the Old Testament idol) and then--when Bea was born and adopted him as her special companion, she renamed him T-ball, which suits him just fine.

Equanimity--that's the word I'm looking for. All the world is fine with T-ball. He has a full bowl of food, a warm couch to steal a nap on, and a loving compadre who keeps him alert and makes sure his face is looking into the camera when his photo is being taken. Would that all of us had such a friend!

I must mention Bea's pajamas, which are handmedowns from a boy friend. She loves the trucks! This is a girl who doesn't even know from Disney's "Princess" line and would run shrieking out of the house if we tried to dress her in that awful bright pink stuff. We don't "do" Disney at our house. We are raising Coco Chanel, not Brittany Spears.

We have high aspirations for this little girl. She will eat no foods that aren't organic. She will wear clothes appropriate for a little child, not a mini-hooker. She will grow up to be a balanced, well-rounded, richly intellectual being with a lovely heart and mind. She will have good taste! And she will drink no wine before its time, because she will be able to differentiate between good, better and best. And she will know--just as T-ball knows this very minute--that she is a beloved child of the Universe and all that happens will be for her highest good. Let it be so!