A Glorious Excess

 

I don’t know what it is about the holiday season that seems to bring on a catastrophe with my teeth.  It seems like every year, around Thanksgiving or Christmas, some very painful and very expensive event takes place in my mouth.  This year it was another abscessed tooth, which of course flared up on the night before Thanksgiving, meaning it would be at least five days before I would be able to see my dentist.  Luckily I had some leftover pain pills and antibiotics and was able to get it calmed down enough to not go completely crazy. Two more weeks of antibiotics and I had a root canal right when I needed to be decorating for Christmas. 

For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to drag out every single box of Christmas decorations this year.  I’ve been accumulating decorations for over 50 years, apparently without ever discarding anything.  Add to that my mom’s stuff, which I have not had much success whittling down since moving into this house and the boxes have filled almost two large closets.  I used to put up two trees, and I actually have enough to do three or four trees if I had the energy to do that.  Did I mention that I still have most of my mom’s stuff?  And stuff from my grandmother and even my great grandmother? No one needs this much stuff.  It's a glorious excess.  But isn't that what Christmas is anyway - starting right out with that manger that held more love than any human being had ever imagined? 

My plan was to go through everything and weed out some things this year.  No one needs this many Christmas decorations.  I came home from work last week to find that my next-door helpers had taken me at my word and boxes and tubs were stacked all over the house.  They even took out all my Christmas village houses, which I didn’t even put out for the last two years.  And they cleared off an entire bookcase to put them in.  So I was committed, in spite of my tooth.  Eames had already arranged some things around the house that can stay right where they are.

Like most of my plans, things didn’t really work out exactly like I thought they would.  I set out a box to put discarded items and a trash can to hold stuff that was past redemption.  By the first afternoon, I had two things in the giveaway box and all that was in the trash was a string of lights that didn’t work and a few pieces of bedraggled artificial greenery.  I also had a heart full of memories.

There was the Christmas afghan that I had battled one of my co-workers for in our annual dirty Christmas exchange.  (Does anyone know why these crocheted blankets are called afghans?) There was a set of special ceramic Christmas houses that I had collected over a few years at a craft fair in Alabama, and a wooden sleigh that came from my childhood, with a Skipper doll driving the horse.  I think it was the only use I ever found for that particular doll – I wasn’t much of a doll girl when I was growing up on the farm.  But she's been driving that sleigh for about 20 years now.

There were handmade fabric Christmas trees that my mom made years ago and a little musical tree that I bought when I was newly married and tiny accessories that I have collected a few at a time.  I think back with amazement at all the things my mom and I made years ago.  I have a wonderful patchwork Christmas Tree skirt and a fabric wreath and several other matching pieces that we sewed.  I would no more think of sewing those things now than I would think I could fly to the moon.  We even made Raggedy Ann dolls to sell a couple of Christmases.  If someone told me I had to do that again, I would have to just leave town.

There were my favorite Santas, bought from a favorite store on the Centerville square and carefully packed away each year to preserve their velvet coats and fuzzy beards.  There was another set of ceramic Santas made and gifted from one of my good friends, one each Christmas for almost ten years. 

There was my collection of little Christmas dog figurines – I still remember where and when I got the first in the collection and I was so excited when I finally had a mantle in my bedroom to display them.

Every box I opened held memories of family and friends and trips and discoveries.  I had forgotten how much fun it is to build my Christmas town and farm.  I always think it would be nice to live there, where it’s always Christmas and the people look so happy.

I haven’t even tackled the tree yet.  In my world, there are rules about Christmas, and one is that the tree doesn’t go up until mid-December and stays up until mid-January.  Nothing goes up until after Thanksgiving and nothing comes down until at least Epiphany.   And as usual, I found things I had totally forgotten about and can’t find several things that I know are around somewhere.  I complained about that to Clay when he came over and he looked around in amazement.  “How can you tell?” he asked.   

I still have to relocate my desk and computer to make space for the tree.    I considered briefly putting the tree in a different spot, but it always sits in the little alcove between two windows, right beside the fireplace and I can’t picture it anywhere else.  Sometimes change is good, but when it comes to Christmas trees, tradition always wins.

 

Closing the Doors

 

I had already heard the news that the Mt. Zion AME Church in our town was closing.  Over the past few years, the numbers in those historic pews had been dwindling and just the stubborn fortitude of a few faithful people kept the bills paid.  Last week, there it was, on the front page of the local newspaper, the official word.

I only attended the AME Church occasionally, but every time I went, it was a blessing.  My first memory of the church was when I was about 12 years old.  They were having some sort of special afternoon, maybe Friend’s Day or something like that.  My daddy had been invited to sing and I was roped in to playing the piano for him.  Not that I was a great pianist, or even an adequate one, but I was all he had that day, and I had become fairly competent at “How Great Thou Art,” which was what he usually chose to sing.  So away we went. 

It was the first time in my memory I had been to an African American Church, and it was the first time I ever remember hearing a member of a congregation say “Amen” during the message.  It startled me enough that I looked around at the gentlemen just behind us and was amazed that a grownup was talking out loud during church.  I soon found out that it was accepted and expected in that place!  I don’t remember anything about the sermon, and I really don’t remember anything notable about my playing.  I suppose I must have managed without too big a mess or I would have remembered that.  I was too taken aback with the idea of speaking out loud in church.  I do remember that we had some of the best food in the world afterwards, the first instance of several fine meals in the side room of the old building.

Years later, I remember hearing some inspiring music in that church, and I remember some wonderful programs for Black History Month and Martin Luther King, Jr’s birthday.  I learned a little about the history of the church and got to know the people who went there.  I learned that the people of that congregation never missed an opportunity to celebrate something – whether a holiday or just a day they felt like celebrating.  I even learned to join the rest of the congregation in an “amen” or two.

  They always had a meal afterwards, and as time passed, they began occasionally serving lunch there on Fridays, raising money to help keep the church going.  Fried chicken, macaroni (and not the kind out of a box), green beans, fried fish and hush puppies, slaw, corn, potato salad, turnip greens, cornbread and the most amazing cakes and pies I ever tasted – these dishes were served up by the smiling ladies of the church and we ate on long tables covered with checked table cloths, drinking tea sweet enough to make you teeth hurt and agonizing over which dessert to choose.

When I started working at the historical society office, I delved into the history of the Mt. Zion AME Church.  I found a treasure trove of old newspaper articles from a Nashville newspaper run by the black community.  Those articles featured a lot of news about the happenings in the black churches of our town, and told the stories of a devastating tornado that destroyed all three of the black churches on the street, along with the black schools.  I read about the efforts to raise money to rebuild those churches and how the black and white community came together to restore their places of worship and their schools, which at that time were closely connected to the churches.  I found out that the original church that stood on that lot went back to at least the 1880’s and that the “new” church was built in 1910, less than a year after the tornado.  I also discovered that the church held the first black schools in town and a Knights of Pythias Lodge.  The church has a bell tower and a huge bell.  I don't remember ever hearing the bell, but I'm told it used to be ring out through the town every Sunday morning, calling the people to sing and praise God.  And they knew how to sing and praise God!

I always hate it when history is not respected – when historic buildings disappear.  But even more, I hate it when institutions like that beautiful church on Columbia Avenue close their doors for the last time. I hate it for the few remaining members of the church, I hate it for all the people in town who never had the opportunity to attend a service there, and I hate it for those of us who were always made to feel loved and welcomed there.

Late to the Party

 

After a few dreary rainy November days, the sun came out this morning.  As I looked out my front window, I noticed that the big maple had finally decided to join the autumn party.  It was about time – most of the other trees had already shed their gowns of gold and red and yellow, and the oaks had put on cloaks of russet and brown.  This particular tree, which I planted almost 50 years ago in what was then my front yard, had stubbornly remained green.  Maybe it didn’t want to compete with the other trees, maybe it was confused by the weird warm weather lingering way past its time.  When have we ever reached the week before Thanksgiving with roses blooming?  Or without a real killing frost?

I noticed with dismay last week that my spring flowers, those that come back from seed every year, are already up.  My poor, confused bee balm and larkspur are growing thick in the flower beds.  Does this mean they won’t come up and bloom in the spring?  I can’t find any answer to that question.  I don’t even want to think about what might be going on down in my wildflower garden.  Between the drought this summer and the weird warm fall, there is no telling.  But I remind myself that those flowers have survived and thrived for longer than I have been looking at them, and they will be okay.

I’m sure science has an answer to why leaves change color in the fall, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen any theory about why the colors are so varied, or why certain trees put on the same color every year.  The dogwoods and the sumac and the sweet gum trees catch fire with deep red.  The maples are either yellow, gold or pinkish gold.  The oaks are dark russet or brown.  And there is usually a progression, with the sumacs leading the dance and the oaks bringing up the rear.  With the changes we are seeing in the climate, who knows how long these rules will  hold true?  Just look at my roses, merrily blooming away on the day before Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving used to be hog-killing weather, when meat could be safely hung in the smokehouse.

What doesn’t change, I trust, is the march of the seasons here in Tennessee.  Even now, as the huge maples have lost most of their leaves, next years bud are there, dormant and waiting for spring.  The caterpillars are sleeping, protected from the cold to come, waiting for their wings next summer.  And hidden in the grass are the acorns and seeds that have the potential to be the next generation of trees to continue the cycle.

The busy harvest season is winding down, most of the crops are in the silos and barns, or on their way to market.  It’s time to pause and be thankful, then time for a rest and waiting time, until the wheels of the season turn again the spring and we begin again.  Happy Thanksgiving!