That was all I needed. I was forever hooked. Writing would be my lifelong medium, my sanctuary, one of my major raisons d’être. I’ve always regarded this discovery as one of my life’s greatest epiphanies. Discovering what you passionately want to do with your years on this planet can be nothing less.
But then life got even better. When I was twelve one of my fondest dreams was realized. At Christmas, I got a puppy. No more seducing neighbors’ dogs into our backyard to play with me, no more stuffed imitations. I had an actual, living, breathing, chewing pet named Prince!
From the moment I first held his squirming little body in my arms, I knew one thing for certain. He and the chair had to meet.
Easier thought than done, I discovered that summer as I was heading across the dining room toward the parlor, my beloved puppy at my heels.
“You can’t take that dog in there!” my grandmother’s voice halted me. “He’ll track in mud, he’ll chew the furniture, he’ll SHED!”
Not easily deterred (a basic characteristic for anyone with aspirations toward the writing life), I obeyed…for the moment. Prince and I returned to the backyard. I knew our time would come.
I waited only until my grandmother became engrossed in her own passion, her rose garden. Then I gathered Prince into my arms and scuttled back inside the house, across the dining room, and into the quiet, late-afternoon hush of the parlor. Furtively so not to make a single squeak, we seated ourselves in the chair and settled back to enjoy my current choice of reading material, Jack London’s Call of the Wild.
A feeling of utter fulfillment and happiness engulfed me as Prince and I rocked in the chair. It was as if all my dreams had finally come true. I was so absorbed in Buck’s poignant plight I didn’t hear the back door open.
When Prince started in my lap, I glanced up to see Nanna standing in the parlor doorway, a bouquet of pink roses in her arms.
I froze, guilt rendering me immobile. Never had I been so blatantly disobedient, so outright defiant of any of the adults in my life.
For seconds that seemed like hours Nanna and I stared at each other. Then she looked down at the thorny beauties in her arms, drew a deep breath, and turned away. Prince and I were never again denied access to the chair.
My next poignant memory of the chair comes from when I was fourteen and the boy who I’d thought was the love of my life jilted me for my supposedly best friend. My adolescent heart breaking, I huddled between the chair’s cane arms with Prince and sobbed. The chair and Prince understood what parents and grandparents didn’t. At fourteen a broken romance is the end of the world.
Five years later I did meet the love of my life. The day before I eloped with him I went into the parlor and said a thick-throated farewell to the chair. It understood I had to follow my heart even though I might never see it again.
The years passed. My sin of running away with the man I loved forgiven, I returned to the old house and watched my own children climb into the chair. Although now visibly aging, it welcomed them without a single groan.
More years passed. My grandparents and parents passed away. I returned to the old family home on each of these sad occasions and drew strength from the fact that the chair was still there, still a reassuring constant in my changing world. Each time I sat in it, I could feel its old, familiar sense of security envelop me.
Eventually my aunt inherited the old house and, of course, the chair. On a visit home, I was dismayed to discover she’d replaced the cane parlor furniture with a spanking new overstuffed couch and chair. The old rocker and its mates had been banished to the back attic over the wood shed.
I hesitated, then carefully broached the subject. Could I have the chair? I’d be happy to pay for it.
She also hesitated.
“Not right now,” she said finally, carefully. “I want to keep it just a little longer.”
I realized she shared memories with it, too. I understood and said no more about the chair.
Then abruptly, my aunt died. The house was to be sold, its contents divided between my brother and me. Aching from the loss of my beloved aunt, I didn’t care about any of the modern new pieces with which she’d recently refurbished. I only wanted the chair with all its attached memories.
Then I discovered my brother had taken the chair to his house. Apparently my aunt had forgotten my asking for it and when she’d finally come to terms for parting with it, had given it to him.
Carefully I once more broached the subject of the chair with its owner.
“No problem,” he replied immediately. “Take it.”
Thirteen years my junior, he’d never lived in our grandparents’ house and had never formed an attachment to the chair. Proudly, reverently, triumphantly, I carried it and its cornucopia of memories back to my home. The following year, curled up in the chair, I wrote my first award-winning book. Not surprisingly, it was about a dog.
These days the chair sits proudly in my own living room. Genteel, gracious, and welcoming, the chair is still my favorite place to write, my favorite place to dream, the very best place in this world for me to find myself.
And often late at night when I’m alone and sleepless and worried, I curl up in the chair, between its kindly old cane arms, and rock the pain and troubles into manageable heaps. It’s my shelter in a storm, my comfort place, my reassurance that everything will turn out for the best.
I hope my children and grandchildren will find it in their hearts to keep the chair and cherish it for many years to come. I hope they will discover that the venerable old piece of furniture is much more than woven canes and faded brocade pillows. And I hope that on future Christmas eves, they’ll find all the security, serenity, and inspiration between its ancient arms that I have. It will be a cherished part of my legacy to them.
The Missing Windowsills
Windowsills, like the Yuletide season, have always sparked warm memories and held a magically special appeal. Decked out for the festive season, they brightened homes in the dark days of the winter solstice and provided a venue for the creative members of a family to display their talents. Sadly, as the years passed, broad window ledges that begged to be decorated in celebration of the season disappeared from architectural plans.
As a child living in my grandparents’ Victorian home, I’d loved its venerable, cracked windowsills. Those dear old ledges had heralded the changing seasons as much as the first colored leaf of autumn or the premier robin of spring.
Late fall saw condensation gather along their inner ledge; in winter, it turned to ice; in spring, a puddle my grandmother mopped up with rags. In summer the cracked and peeling paint these changes had facilitated necessitated scraping and applying a refreshing coat that gleamed in the sunlight.
The windowsills’ functions varied from season to season as well. In winter they became mini-greenhouses with pots of parsley, chives, and the like that provided fresh seasonings. In spring they held multiple small containers replete with earth and seeds in preparation for the growing season ahead.
Most memorably, each Christmas, before the commercial onslaught of outdoor lights and plastic decorations, my grandmother would decorate the wide sills of her bay window with Christmas cards from family and friends. These would be nestled among pine boughs trimmed with red ribbon salvaged from the previous year’s gift-wrappings. Always the first part of the house to experience her talent for festive trimming, her decorated windowsills marked the advent of the Yuletide season for our family.
In other months my grandmother used her window ledges to display prized collections. Miniature porcelain cats, elephants, horses and even frogs were proudly placed where they could be enjoyed from both inside and outside her home.
Other windowsills throughout the house became places of safekeeping. Important objects were often deposited there.
“The keys are on the windowsill above the sink.”
“I put the letter on the parlor windowsill.”
“I left my wedding ring on the bathroom w
indow ledge.”
Beyond their uses in my grandparents’ house, windowsills have proven inspirational to artists and photographers. I wonder how many pictures exist of cats hunched on these ledges, staring wide-eyed at birds beyond the glass or out into the rain or snow. And what about all those Victorian images of children and lovely young ladies leaning or seated on them, gazing wistfully outward as they waited for some person or event to put in an appearance.
This artistic fascination with windowsills carried over into fiction. Heroines leaned upon them as they waited for their lovers; villains pushed bricks, flowerpots, and other heavy, blunt objects off of them onto the heads of unsuspecting victims, and romantic heroes hoisted themselves over them in anticipation of eloping with their ladies fair. In musical ballads, bluebirds reputedly lit upon them as symbols of hope and joy.
On a personal level, who hasn’t rested their elbows on a windowsill as they waited for someone or something to arrive? Who hasn’t leaned over one to wave a fond farewell, perhaps even shedding a tear or two in the process? Windowsills have been involved in many emotional moments in our lives.
But, then, for a while, modern architecture all but eliminated these wonderful, multi-purpose catch-alls. In my first new home, it would have been difficult to place anything of interest or value on the minuscule edges provided in houses built in the latter part of the 20th century. Attempting to lean on one was out of the question.
But last summer, at our cottage, I experienced my own small architectural romantic revival. Our carpenter, installing a new double-casement window over our sink, created a windowsill! An actual six-inch-wide, flowerpot bearing, key-catching, knick-knack holding windowsill! Granted, I’d have to climb up into my sink to lean or sit on it but it’s beautiful and nostalgic and inspiring just the same.
The varnish had barely dried when I placed a potted African violet on it and stood back to admire the effect. And although we don’t usually spend Christmas at the cottage, I’m thinking I might just make a pilgrimage up there this December to trim that wonderful windowsill with pine boughs, red ribbons, and recycled Christmas cards.
The Case of the Telltale Sunbeam
The Christmas season in most households marks a time of vigorous tidying and cleaning, days and weeks when previously ignored nooks and crannies are ferreted out and denuded of accumulated dust and clutter. But try as any conscientious house keeper will, the first ray of sunlight to pierce the supposedly immaculate room will reveal dust motes dancing happily and unscathed in the supposedly pristine atmosphere. I’m sure such has been the case from time immemorial. Even the Holy Family, I can hazard a guess, was not spared these wily critters.
Images of Mary, Joseph, the Wise Men, shepherds, and animals gathered around the Christ child in the stable have always been among my cherished images of the Advent. The ray of light most depicters of the blessed event use to highlight the Holy Family is perhaps the most famous sunbeam (well, star beam but since stars are suns, let’s not quibble) of all time. But even that divine ray must have revealed the dust particles and other floating allergens that hovered around the manger that blessed night. It had a lot in common with today’s tattletales.
After the storm the week before Christmas, one of them had the audacity to slash into my den, a merciless home invader disguised as a golden beam. At first, slender as a sword’s blade, it mushroomed until it encompassed a goodly portion of the room, careless of the havoc it was creating.
Dog hair appeared in profusion on the hardwood floor, nose and fingerprints became highlighted on the window, and a dried-up puddle (possibly piddle…I have three dogs) was revealed at the end of the couch.
I’ve never considered myself a super housekeeper but until that marauding sunbeam broke into my home I’d dared to consider myself a respectable one. Now, in a split second, I’d lost that distinction and a good deal of my homemaking confidence to boot.
Appalled, I rushed to clean in its wake. No amount of polishing or wiping or vacuuming seemed capable of eradicating the ray’s carnage or the psychological damage it had done. I would never again feel safe from these heartless little luminaries.
All this may seem contradictory. I know most people regard sunbeams as positives…harbingers of the end of a storm, the dawning of a new day, etc. Who hasn’t delighted in the delicate beauty of a sunbeam glinting through fresh greenery after a spring shower, highlighting the golden cornucopia of autumn, or bejeweling winter’s snow-coated evergreens with an array of December diamonds. And how much nicer it is to awaken to a sunbeam tickling my eyes open than to be aroused by the harsh ringing of an alarm clock on an overcast morning.
Those bright little fellows have the power to lure me from my bed on even the most bitter winter morning. There’s a special delight in discovering that warm place they’ve made on an otherwise cold floor and enjoying the magic they can perform by turning a frosty windowpane into a crystal kaleidoscope.
But the next morning when I got up and shuffled into the bathroom to gaze into the mirror above the sink, a cruel companion to yesterday’s thief lay in wait. Before I could turn a tap, this brutal beam splashed harsh reality over my face. I gasped. When did those laugh lines become so pronounced and the dark circles under my eyes become bags? Most alarming, when had my adorable dimples become the centre of a rippling lake of wrinkles?
The kitchen offered no relief. More of the bright miscreants lay in wait there, ready to showcase the crumbs on the counter, the fingerprints on the fridge and microwave. Another boldly allowed dust motes to dance along its length in a bright diagonal that stretched across the entire room. Suddenly I knew exactly how Pig Pen of Charlie Brown fame feels.
An hour later I climbed into my car and heaved a sigh of relief, confident I’d left the sunbeam carnage behind. Until I reached up to adjust the rear view mirror.
The sound that emanated from my throat found a definitive description in the word “squawk.”
There, invading what I’d believed to be the sanctity of my car, was another one. Hitting me squarely in the face, boldly assaulting me with my reflection, the pillager shredded the last of my self-confidence as he flashed across my mouth to reveal plum lipstick bleeding down previously invisible pucker lines.
Infamous little beggar!
As I backed out of the drive and headed off up the street, I struggled to regain my equilibrium. I would not be undone by anything as insubstantial as a few small light rays I told myself and began to formulate a defense. Perhaps I could find some excuse to confine my chauffeuring duties to overcast days. That way, I’d be alone when those brazen hooligans invaded and no one would witness the cruel truths they delighted in hurling across my physiognomy.
And since I couldn’t stop their coming, I could at least sunbeam-proof my home. The next time the doorbell rings, I’ll scuttle across my living room and close the drapes, then rush into the kitchen and bathroom to pull the blinds. Guests may think I’m living in Dracula’s closet but I’ll have foiled those marauding little devils and limited their quest for uncompromising reality.
I wonder how Mary felt about that beam of long ago. Glaring down onto her precious babe, did it wake the Holy Child? Did it make her aware of the dust-filled conditions into which he’d been borne?
Ah, sunbeams. Trouble makers in a guise of gold but still evokers of Christmas memories.
Santa’s Revised Schedule
Of course, no memories of the Yuletide would be complete without recalling the traditions of the Jolly Old Elf. Santa Claus arrives on Christmas Eve sometime after all good children are fast asleep in their beds. While visions of remote control toys and digital doodads dance through their heads, Santa slides down the chimney or, in lieu of such an opening, through a convenient door or window. He sorts through his sack, finds the appropriate gifts, and deposits them under the tree. He pauses only long enough to eat the snack left for him, lay a thoughtful finger aside his nose, give a nod, and then it’s off to the next house.
But
did you know Santa can and will adjust his schedule to fit special situations? He will. I know. Over the years I’ve had two experiences with his flexibility.
The first, of course, was the famous verandah roof landing. For years, that lovely little story remained in the realm of my memory. Then, one Christmas after Ron and I had become the parents of three preschoolers, I told him about Granddad’s intervention with Santa. The story inspired him.
What if we asked Santa to come early on Christmas Eve? That way Joan, Carol, and Steve could get the much-anticipated gifts before going to bed, thus ensuring all of us a decent night’s sleep. We wouldn’t be roused at 5:30 a.m. to see what Santa had brought.
Of course, there was still the matter of giving Santa privacy to do his good deeds. Ron again had a solution. The whole family would go for a drive to enjoy the neighbors’ lights and decorations after supper on Christmas Eve. We’d let Santa know the house would be uninhabited and that he was welcome to drop in during that time slot.
Santa co-operated. Over the years he penciled the MacMillan house into his schedule between 8:00 and 9:00 p.m. each Christmas Eve. He even paused long enough to drink the milk and eat the cookies Steve never failed to leave for him. Ron said he sometimes added a piece of fruitcake and a napkin when he had to go back into the house while we waited in the car. It seemed every year he forgot to check the woodstove or turn out some of the lights or lock the back door.
Santa’s revised schedule became a welcome tradition in our family, something our children would remember vividly and with as much fondness as I remember those alleged hoof prints on my Granddad’s roof.
Gifts Awry
“Mom, there I was, stark naked except for a towel! And all because of your Christmas gift!”
How My Heart Finds Christmas Page 9
