Tis No Longer the Season!

Our last Christmas together–2008

Dear Momma,
Christmas seems to be never more.  This year possibly was the worst I have ever experienced.  Even my one Christmas in Vietnam was so much better.  This Christmas, I realized, just how wonderful all the Christmas’ you had prepared made that day even more special.  Each year, without question there were cookies, candy, fruitcake and more.  Each of the last years held sweet memories of you and I mixing the batter for your fruitcake.  Then, the last couple of years I smile as Sherry stood in the kitchen groaning as she mixed the batter, rather than laughing and chuckling as you and I did.

Sherry made cookies this year.   She said you must have been there to have guided her to even begin rolling out a cookie.  She questioned why she was making Christmas goodies she never did in the past, nor didn’t need since now, there isn’t anyone to make them for.  Ah, Momma, I think for once Sherry missed the Christmas past with you the last years and then before the Christmas in the little yellow house with Daddy, or on the farm with all of us including Aunty and Mike.  Oh Momma, those were the days.  Christmas Eve, after the packages were open we got to eat your cookies, candies and fruitcakes and sip on Iya Coffee.  MMMMnnn how sweet and delicious each morsel was and then to sip on the coffee nectar made the evening even more memorable.  But it was more it was the lights twinkling and the traditions that you formed for us to carry within us the remainder of our lives.

Yes Momma, the traditions are in me and I desperately missed them this year.  Last year you had just left and I was too upset to even know Christmas was happening, but this year it annoyed me that this one very special day passed without fanfare.  Next year, Momma, I will go to Sherry’s and bring fudge and especially one of your dark fruit cakes, soaked in brandy and honey as you always did.

Ah yes, Momma, you are missed more than you can even know.  But next year Christmas, you will be with me at Sherry’s and we can share the fudge and fruitcake and remember the golden years you formed for us and then one day Momma, you will make the most wonderful Christmas again in the place called Al Di La.

My love to you always, Momma


of Christmases Past

Please click audio Button for Leotynne Price:  Ave Maria


Of Christmases Past

holly-and-bowChristmases past greeted me with twinkling lights upon the tree,

carols sung and chestnuts roasting in an old, dark skillet.

Christmases past were filled with love and joyful wonderment,

whether in your beliefs or about the glistening packages under the tree.

Christmases past with sleigh rides, giggling children with noses in the egg nog,

school plays and concerts and Nativity showing up and the down the streets.

Fires crackled while egg nog was served from the huge crystal bowl,

or for a change the bowl was silver and the drink was wassail.

Christmases past meant Turkey’s carved accompanied by ruby red cranberry sauce,

with fruitcakes doused in brandy and tiny cakes all wrapped in marzipan.

There were cookies, boldly decorated to fill the platters to the brim,

then somehow at day’s end it didn’t seem so much at all.

Christmases past, ah not to forget the fudge, divinity, walnuts and pecans,

with bowls of giant oranges, pears, apples and grapefruit, just for a taste.

And lest someone be alone on this day a quick call brought them to your table,

as their praises to you only made the day even brighter.

Christmases past now comes  to the end I think for now,

the splendor and gold, the myrrh and the emeralds will stay packed for some other year.

The joy, the laughter, the food and the fun will live in my mind and my heart,

and when I think of those golden times I know they are of  a place and a time that has passed.


The Importance of Tradition

lights07vietThe time had come to rest.  As I sat down on the crest of the hill and looked  out over the lower rolling hills and valleys,  it look as if everything had been wrapped in plush, thick green velvet that was punctuated by the juxtaposition of azure blue sky and grayer shadows cast upon lower hills by the golden sun.  You could look for miles, the atmosphere void of any haze, while a gentle breeze crossed my cheek as though a lover had gently brushed my face.  I thought about this incredible scene and wondered if I was looking out over Paradise because it was so perfect, except that Paradise surely would have trees on the top of this lush hill that I had sat on.  Yet, he actual hilltop was surreal with its clean cut, green velvet cover with pale gray stones placed without pattern.  The stones protruded through the green velvet and each looked as polished as a cherished gem.

To add to the surreality, I could hear nothing, not a bird, not a blade of grass touching the next or not a sound from the soft breeze.  I began to feel slightly uncomfortable.  This was Christmas Day and I felt I came to a place, possibly not in the  traditional sense of what we call reality.  I was here and there wasn’t much I could do about it.

A polished rock protruded through the velvet just behind me and so I reclined against it.  In a very short time I had dozed off, one of those tiny naps that carry a dream that plays jaggedly because your conscious wakes you every few seconds, thus you adjust, fall deeply asleep and suddenly you awaken.  My dreams brought me back home and reminded me that it was Christmas Eve for my family.

Momma would be in the big, old farm house kitchen scurrying around and putting slices of Grandma’s White Fruit Cake on the crystal platter alongside slices of my her own brandy-laden Dark Fruit Cake.  She would also have plates of hand painted Christmas Cookies, Fudge, Peanut Brittle, chocolate-dipped miniature S’mores for me and squares of creamy, white Divinity with kernels of walnuts for herself.  Probably she had already sliced the country, Ham and arranged a board with the sliced and chunked cheeses she and my Father chose from the gift catalogue.

Soon, Momma would fire up the old, tin Coffeepot, passed down from generation to generation in the family since the time they crossed the plains of Ohio and traveled westard to a new home.  My Aunt showed Momma how to make the coffee years before and each holiday sh prepared the Ei Kaffee just as if my Grandmother were there.  First Momma needed to mix an egg with the coffee grounds and then add a pinch of salt.  Next she opened the old, cloth sack and poured in the mixed grounds, tied the bag tightly with a string and then dropped the bag into the pot just as the water came to a boil.  Within a matter of minutes the house smelled of coffee brewing, but this cup of coffee would be as clear as the atmosphere around me.

As I continued to lean on the stone, my remembrances of our traditional, family Christmas brought the sounds of my sister playing the old, upright grand piano that was in the parlor along with the Christmas tree.  The twinkling glow of the lights on the tree radiated across the room and glowed through the glass, french doors.  My Aunt sat next to my sister and listened, the two occasionally breaking out to sing the lyrics of a favorite Christmas song.   My Father sat quietly, with his head bowed in the living room.  It was nothing reverent, he simply was trying to ignore the loud piano and voices.  Usually, when they were in the parlor playing,  my Father headed to the basement with a Zane Grey book tucked in his rear pocket.

Tonight, since it was Christmas Eve, as with all Christmas Eve’s he will sit with his head bowed and teeth gritted making it appear as though he enjoyed their antics.  Anticipating what was to come next he rose and decided to join my Mother in the kitchen and snatch a cookie or two, just as my sister would stop and make my Aunt play the piano.  It was always the same, first my sister played, then we would cajole my Aunt into playing.  She didn’t have to ask what we wanted her to play first,  after  seating shebegan playing the Blackhawk Waltz, very perfectly with long fingers stretched beyond the octaves as they were to be played piannisimo forte.   My sister and I would sit in awe watching her hands race up and down keyboard, never missing the span of keys to touch the two or four keys on each hand that went beyond the normal octave.

When Momma was done in the kitchen she lowered all the lights in the house so twinkling from all the Christmas lights were prominent.  As she and my Father entered the the room my Aunt and sister knew it was time to open the presents and my Aunt rose to call my Uncle who was napping through all the playing.

As the gifts were opened piles piles of bright, colored paper and ribbon would make small hills in the parlor.  The luminous colored areas on the paper picked up reflections from the Christmas making a kaleidscope of color that soon would disappear because my Father would hastely pick up the paper to crumple and force into his black garbage bag.  My sister, Aunt and Mother always needed to quickly grab the papers and ribbons they hoped to keep.  Then once again the room was calm and my sister would arrange all the gifts back under the tree, each in their opened box.

By the time they would be finished eating and the kitchen cleaned it was the time for good byes to  be said till they see each of the next day.  Kisses on Cheeks and thank you would be given as my Aunt and Uncle leave.  As the door shut and the last good bye was sounded, my Mother would begin turning out the lights…….tomorrow would be even a better day than this one.  It was the day to enjoy my Mother’s Christmas feast.

Laying there, on the crest of the hill, looking out over the green velvet valleys and rolling hills, a tear trickled out of my eye for the thought of being away for this Christmas.  And, it was Christmas Day where I was, thousands and thousands of miles away from anything I knew and understood.  The expanse of untamed jungle seemed foreign to me, yet,  I thought I should be thankful for the pristine day and eery quiet that accompanied it.  Now, it  was later afternoon and we had been able to be peaceful on a day that we all cherished.

It was Christmas 1968 and I sat on the crest of a hill in Vietnam miles and miles from anything I understood.  Surprisingly we were handed gifts from people we had never met, from families like mine back home.  My package came from a family in Alaska.  I was particulary curious what I might have from Alaska.  Inside the tattered, brown paper wrapper, on through the mashed corners on the corrugated box was a plastic container sealed with yards of masking tape.  Inside the container was thick strips of unusually tender, Elk jerky.  Later that day, as I opened my can of Turkey for my Christmas feast and I thanked the family once more for the jerky.  It was far tastier than the Army’s canned Turkey.

Not everyone was as lucky as I was, some got socks that were too small.  Since today was the day my family held dear to their hearts, then it was the day that I needed to share my gift of jerky with everyone in my platoon.  It was an act of generousity and caring about others that prompted me to do this, a lesson I had been taught as a child.  If Momma were there she would have passed out the jerky and as I walked around I felt her at my side.