It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year



This is not our house, but our fireplace mantel looks as busy as this.


I've decided there are two types of people in this world: the ones who get excited on the day after Thanksgiving and pull out all the Christmas decorations, flip to the all-Christmas song radio station and start trimming the tree, and those who look forward to December 31st when the Christmas season (in our house, anyway) is officially over and all the Christmas decorations and disorder can be put back away. I think you can tell which group I fall into.

My husband loves Christmas. He loves everything about it. I almost have to police him so that we don't start Christmas before November. He loves the carols, the decorations, shopping, baking, and everything that goes with Christmas. My mother feeds into this mania and gives him all her old Christmas decorations. He puts EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM OUT. It looks like a yard sale exploded in our house.

I, on the other hand, start clenching my teeth and grumbling the minute I see the boxes of decorations come down from the attic. It's not that I don't like Christmas. I do. It's just that all the frenzy and chaos of it wears me out before the season has even begun. All of a sudden, every surface in our house is covered with as many decorations as will fit. Everyone I meet starts asking me whether I've gotten my shopping done, baked cookies, wrapped presents, sent out Christmas cards, etc., etc. Joyousness is forced down my throat and presents are piled so high that half of our family room is suddenly inaccessible. I look at it all and want to swipe my arm and knock everything into a gigantic garbage bag and call up the Grinch to take it away.

Whew! Got that off my chest.

Luckily, we are a superstitious lot in my house and believe that everything has to be put away by January 1st because it's bad luck to bring the old year in with the new. So on December 31st, I eagerly pack up all the red and green goodies, take down the tree, put away all the gifts, unclench my teeth and breathe because my house is finally back to normal for the next eleven months.

Gardens of Water



Reflecting pool and gardens at Golden Gate Park, San Francisco


My friend Kristan's blog asked readers to name their favorite books of 2010. That was hard. I read a lot of good books over the past year. I don't think I could name my favorite; choosing books isn't an apples to apples comparison. But if I had to pick the most impactful book that I read in 2010, it would be Gardens of Water by Alan Drew. I was so taken by the book that I was compelled to write to the author afterward and was thrilled when he wrote me back.

The story is about two families in the aftermath of the Marmara earthquake in Turkey. (Which he really experienced.) One family are Muslim Kurds, the other American missionaries. The father of the Turkish family, Sinan, wants nothing to do with the Americans. But the American wife saves his son in the earthquake and his daughter is smitten with the American son, and their lives can no longer remain separate.

I was appalled as I read about the overzealousness of the missionaries. It reminded me of things I experienced in Haiti and I told that to Alan. I wrote:

I was shocked by Marcus Bey's actions. And by his son's. But it immediately reminded me of when I was in Haiti. Some of the church members on my trip lured children to the church with the promise of new shoes. Now, we had tons of shoes, clothes, toys, etc. that we'd brought to give out to the children in the orphanages we were visiting, and the need all over Haiti was great. But these church ladies would only give the shoes to a certain little boy if he came to church. His mother was against it and didn't come, but they took him anyway and gave him new shoes -- once he nodded that he wanted to be saved and accepted Jesus Christ as his saviour. He didn't even understand what they were saying, but they moved forward with saving him anyway.

Alan responded that my experiences were unbelievable and yet, believable. He'd heard from many missionaries after his book came out. Some of their messages surprised him. Apparently his words touched the nerves of many readers.

So, I can't say that Gardens of Water was my favorite read of 2010, but it definitely stirred something in me. I'm still waiting for Alan Drew to write another book.

Waiting for Take-Off

Weather conditions caused a lot of flight delays this week. Snowstorms, security threats, flooding... I was glad I wasn't flying.

I thought I'd include a picture of a flight delay I experienced in Haiti. We sat in a tiny Tortuga Air plane on a gravel runway in northwest Haiti, waiting for people, donkeys, dogs and goats to move so that we could take-off.

The Hot Sauce Waiver



A hot sauce store in Tarpon Springs, Florida


"Can I help you, Sir?"

"Yes. I'm trying to find the hottest hot sauce you have."

"The hottest? Are you sure? We have a selection of hot ones over here, but we keep the hottest ones under lock and key. If you want to taste one of those, you'll have to sign a waiver."

"I want the hottest. We're going to my aunt Trudy's for dinner and she's about the worst cook in the world."

The storekeeper laughs.

"No, seriously. The worst. Her food tastes so bad that it brings tears to your eyes. Anyone with any kind of gag reflex has trouble swallowing her food. And this time, she's prepared an entire feast to celebrate her 50th anniversary with my uncle Don."

The storekeeper looks puzzled. "So why do you want hot sauce?"

"Not just any hot sauce. The hottest you have. I want to burn my tongue so bad that my taste buds are singed. I don't want to be able to taste Aunt Trudy's food at all. Not at ALL. I don't even want to know it's on my tongue. Got it?"

The shopkeeper nods. "Got it. You need the Devil's Apocalypse. I'll get the waiver."

The Smell of Saturday Mornings

Olfactory memories are some of our most emotionally-powered memories, perhaps because the sense of smell is connected to the part of the brain associated with emotion. As I was walking through my neighborhood recently, I was suddenly besieged by a whiff of smell and a sound that immediately transported me back to childhood. Suddenly I was reliving Saturday mornings watching cartoons as my dad remodeled our house. What triggered the memory? The sound of an electric saw coupled with the smell of sawdust.

My dad spent years remodeling first one house and then another. He worked full-time as an engineer, but came home and built our houses during evenings and weekends. We lived in constant construction. The houses were beautiful, but it was a strange way to grow up. There were days when we only had sheets of plastic for walls, or had to climb a ladder to get to the second floor, or ate at a dining room table that had a thin layer of plaster dust no matter how many times my mother wiped it off.

Selfishly, my brother and I did little to help with the remodeling. I don't know that it occurred to us to help since we were always living amid construction. It was the backdrop of our lives. There were times when we'd be called to hold up a wall frame, or nail down floor boards, or help mix cement. But for the most part, we considered this our dad's hobby. He enjoyed designing and building his dream homes. And we were kids being kids -- living under construction.

Now, forevermore, when I smell sawdust or hear the sharp whining bite of an electrical saw, I feel like it's Saturday morning all over again. My dad is in the basement, or in the newly built family room or bedroom, cutting wood for that day's project and creating fresh sawdust. It's a heady scent; comforting. It is the smell of my childhood.

Travel Brochure

You have a messy house, a few dollars left in your pocket, and desperately need some rest and relaxation. It doesn't matter where these beach chairs are, does it?

Drive directly to the airport. Pack a light suitcase full of swimsuits, sundresses and shorts, and a strong pair of sunglasses. Get on a plane. A fruity cocktail with an umbrella will be waiting under the palm umbrella when you arrive. Dolphins are already playfully leaping in the turquoise water, just waiting for you. The shining sun will kiss every inch of your skin.

Paradise is just a plane ride away.

Evergreen Trees

This is a fir tree.



Is your Christmas tree a pine, spruce, or fir, and how can you tell?

Pine trees are distinctive because they have many needles coming from the same follicle.   Firs and spruce have individual needles growing off the branch.  So if the needles are separately growing from the branch, your tree is NOT a pine. 

Now, take a needle and roll it between your fingertips.  If it is round and rolls easily, your tree is a spruce.  But if the needle is slightly flat, the tree is a fir tree.  Fir tree needles often have two bands of color on the underside as well.  

Merry Christmas!