The Alien Child

It occurs to me that I should probably explain why I call my son the Alien Child. It's a term of affection that he is aware of and doesn't mind at all (I asked).

This is why:

1. At the age of 1 1/2 months, the hubby caught the baby concentrating mightily on a rattle that hung at the side of his crib. The baby extended his closed fist slowly and carefully until he reached the rattle, then gave it a good push. This excited him, and he did this over and over again--for a good half hour. I'd worked with babies before, and I've never seen this level of concentration and focus.

2. At the age of two, the toddler--now in Montessori pre-school--sat in his high chair munching his lunch contemplatively one weekend, then suddenly announced, "Mommy, I chew good with my mandible."

I said, "What?"

He pointed to his jaw. "I chew good with my mandible."

Okay, I thought. This must be a fluke. So I smiled and replied, "and you also have a good grip on your spoon with your fingers."

He looked at me gravely and then looked at his fingers. "Mommy, you are not very smart. Those are my phalanges." He then proceeded to point to where his clavicle, radius, ulna, femur, tibia, and fibia were.

That was how I discovered he had somehow memorized all the medical names for the major bones of the human body. Apparently for Halloween, the teachers had put a skeleton up on the wall, and when he asked what the different bones were, they told him the proper names. He proceeded to form a passion for human anatomy, and when he found I had a Gray's Dissection Guide on my bookshelf, he begged me to read it to him and show him all the pictures for a bed-time story, instead of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. I did, since the troll in the Billy Goats story frightened him, but Gray's Dissection Guide did not. Go figure.

He was still in diapers. Not interested in potty training, even though I told him he would be a "big boy" and could wear "big boy underwear" if he was trained. However, when my dad heard that Derek had this interest, he got him one of those Visible Human Body models. Well, the model was much too old for a two-year-old, and I said it was only for big boys. The Alien Child got a speculative look on his face as I put the model out of reach, and said, "Mommy, if I go potty by myself, does that mean I'll be a big boy?"

Swiftly and unapologetically taking advantage of this piece of logic, I said "Yes! Absolutely! "

Within a week, the Alien Child was potty trained, and as promised, I got down the model for him to play with. He is the only child I know of who was bribed into potty training with a human anatomy model. I once asked him why he was so interested in human anatomy, and he told me that he used to be a doctor when he was an old man, a long time ago when the man Cadillac was alive. I was puzzled by this, as I thought Cadillac was a car. I later found out he was a French explorer of the 17th and 18th century. Hmm.

He went on to draw pictures of skeletons, skulls, and internal organs, copied from the dissection guide, then his interest turned to paleoanthropology.

3. By the time he was seven, he had memorized all the different species of early hominids, and had drawn a time line and examples of each hominid species along that line, including skeletal and skull examples. The hubby and I decided he should probably go into the gifted program, and so sent him off to be tested. I was worried, because he'd never been tested before, and he was herded into a huge auditorium and then into separate classrooms. I didn't think he'd do well at it. I was a bit late picking him up, and so found him discussing early human evolution with the counselor, and telling her the difference between the theories of the Leakeys and Johanson, and drawing anatomically accurate pictures of the skulls of Neanderthal, australopithecus, and homo habilis. The counselor looked at me and said, "I don't care what the test scores say, this child needs to be in the program."

4. Concurrent with his interest in paleoanthropology was an interest in art, particularly Renaissance art. As with the other interests, he drew pictures of these, too. The hubby and I enrolled him in art classes when we discovered him drawing a copy of a Leonardo sketch. He continued with the art classes until high school, and his interest expanded beyond the Renaissance. We now have a collection of Michaelangelo, Vermeer, Leonardo, and Toulouse Lautrec forgeries, in addition to some originals he created. He gave a replica of Michaelangelo's Libyan Sybil of the Sistine Chapel ceiling to our pastor at the time. Here's one that he painted in an Impressionist style for me when I was ill with pneumonia once, just to cheer me up.


Here is another picture he painted, for which he won a prize in elementary school. It went on tour nationally, but I still have not got the picture back, and it's literally been about a decade. Pisses me off, because I've called and called the PTA for years, and nobody knows what happened to it, and I really liked it. It would have looked good on our wall. It's sort of a post-apocalyptic picture, where nature takes over the ruins of our civilization. If anyone has seen this picture anywhere, let me know, because I want it back.


5. He went through a number of other obsessions, including skateboarding. That last occupation gave him a broken ankle at the age of 16, and while recuperating, he took up an old Yamaha acoustic guitar and a book of blues chords that my brother Dave gave him. Within a year and a half, he was playing in the church band, after having bought himself an electric guitar. Now that he's in college, he's in a band.

6. He also has a talent for finding expensive clothes that fit him perfectly at thrift stores. Example: he once found an almost-new Armani jacket at the American Cancer Society's thrift store. Cost only $20. Fit perfectly, and needed no alteration. He paired it with a bizarrely printed silk shirt and a tie, but it all worked. That's another thing. He'll take items of clothes that separately look like they don't belong, but when when worn, look like a million bucks. I could not get away with this kind of thing, ever. I try to pick out nice clothes for myself, but I am ever in danger of looking like a bag lady if I tried to be artistic about it.

You see how it is. Neither my husband or I have this level of artistic or intellectual skill or focus. I don't know where it came from. Although I know his taste for fine clothes at bargain-basement prices came from my mother and myself. My mother positively beamed with pride when she saw that Armani. I was also impressed, and we both gave the purchase the Ritual Moment of Respectful Silence before exclaiming over the amazing bargain. I mean, Armani. Twenty bucks. Perfect fit. Like new. What's not to like?

So this is why I call him the Alien Child. I sometimes wondered if he'd been dropped into my womb by an alien entity, but there are too many other things about him that he definitely took after my husband or me, and so I have to conclude he's definitely ours. Besides, we're too attached to him now to return him.

And now you have been exposed to a blatant form of cornering you with family pictures when you are sitting on the window seat of an airplane, but this is my blog and I'm posting it. :-D

--Karen H.

I astonish even myself sometimes

Every once in a while, I'll go through and delete my "sent" message files--I subscribe to a LOT of online writing groups, so much that I rarely have time to keep up--and I'll find that I have actually posted something useful vis a vis writing.

About the craft of writing:

That said...there is a mind-set that is behind Zen archery that I try to
remember. You learn technique until it doesn't matter any more. It becomes
one with who you are and the movement of you, the bow, the arrow, the
target. It is all one...but that only after you learn technique.

There is a pattern to learning the technique. You at first learn it, you
become bound by it, then you break free, and you are beyond it. But it
doesn't happen until you walk the path, learn the art.

Or, as my mother used to say, "so what if you don't have talent? You will
learn talent."

I have often thought my mother is actually Yoda in disguise.

Which is actually useful advice, because it means you need to have patience with yourself as you learn, get stuck, are released, and then understand and attain mastery.

The market (advice to a newbie):

Times change, trends change, and what didn’t work in the past will work now. Running after the latest trend will make for failure. The truth is, if you write what you love, the trend will move to what you are writing sooner or later. Running after the latest trend is like running after the bus that just left the station: you’ll always be running after it and exhausting yourself, instead of catching the next bus when it comes by if you stand where you are. That next bus may well have been the one that would have taken you where you wanted to go. Anyone who writes to the trend MIGHT get lucky and have one, maybe two books published. But you’ll see them burn out pretty quick, because they're always running after that bus instead of focusing on the art. Burn-out can mean the end of their career.

Homily for the day: THERE IS ALWAYS ANOTHER BUS.

Of course, this piece of advice could be pandering to those who think they are somehow "above" the market, which is not what I subscribe to, for that way lies madness, or at least bitterness. You really do have to think of your audience (not what publishers want--that's a different thing). IMHO, it's best to have an attitude of generosity about your writing, a wish to share the pleasure you have in the writing, as if you've created the most delicious meal you can imagine, and have invited your readers in for the feast. The most popular authors I know of have this attitude, an attitude of invitation, so that you are welcomed in to party along with him or her.

Did I ever say how much I love writing? I do, I purely do.

Happy New Year!

I spent a quiet New Year, which was fine with me, especially after the mad rush that was Christmas. The Alien Child was off with friends, and the poor hubby was so tired and a bit headachy that I sent him off to bed by 10:30 pm.

So I sat in the TV/studio room (the dh has a mixing and mastering studio), sipping some port and slowly savoring some dark chocolate, while I watched an at-last aging Dick Clark call in the New Year. I can't believe the man is about as old as my father-in-law, and I am no spring chicken. Clark must have made a Faustian deal somewhere in his career, either that or massive face-lifts. Must have been really good face lifts, because his appearance hasn't looked...well, stretched.

Okay, not going down that line of thought, because it immediately makes me think of the Doctor Who episode featuring Lady Cassandra, that last, stretched-out remnant of homo sapiens at the end of the world ("Moisturize me! Moisturize me!").

Ahem.

Well. Anyway, I toasted the TV screen with my port and chocolate, and so I toast you all, the world, for a much better, Pollyanna New Year.

Think of things to be glad about, folks. Lots of things. And hold them close to your heart. It's how you get through the hard stuff to the good. And may it all be good.

The Sack of the Church Yard

A college education is a marvelous thing.

The Alien Child has been volunteering this holiday vacation--going to Operation Nightwatch in Seattle as well as working around the grounds of our church. He mentioned to me that he is to get rid of the ivy that is encroaching on the church building, as ivy is known to be quite destructive.

"I think I'll use salt," he said.

"Salt?" I asked. "Did you get that idea from a gardening magazine?"

"No," he said. "I got it from the Romans."

"What?"

"The Romans," he said. "The story of the sack of Carthage. Salting the earth so that no crops will grow--a popular "scorched earth" policy method through the ages. I figure it if it worked then, it should work now." He paused, looking thoughtful. "The Sack of the Ivy. I will wreak utter destruction on it. I will raze its vines into rubble. Its roots will die. Its offshoots will weep and be enslaved."

"I don't think ivy weeps," I said

"Maybe it does," he said. "Maybe it weeps in its own ivy way."

"Also, I'm not so sure it's a good idea just to strew salt around without knowing what kind of effect it might have."

"I'm sure it's okay," he said. "Salt is biodegradable. But I'll ask Nancy just in case." He did, and said that Nancy (who is the groundskeeper) said she couldn't see why it wouldn't work. But I did wonder if he tried to persuade her into it. I understand he is going to use rock salt, as this is probably the closest form we have to what the Romans used.

That's my son: doing his best for historical verisimilitude.

Spinning fiber and yarn - clearing out stash

The last day of work for me at the contract job (web editing) was yesterday. I liked working at the place, the people I worked with and for were fun (all younger than I am, I bet!), and the work pretty steady and satisfying. I'd work there in a minute again if I had the chance. However, I do want a permanent job (tech writing and/or editing), and so I'm looking around again.

Meanwhile, I need to clean house, and need to destash my fiber and yarn hoard. I have my handspun yarn at my Etsy shop for sale, but I really do need to get rid of my store-bought yarn, too, not to mention my bags and bags of roving and fleece, both wool and alpaca. Ditto some of my store-bought yarn.

I'm keeping the finest stuff for myself (merino, camel, alpaca, silk), but will let go of even some of that. I was thinking of selling the fleece and roving, but what I'll do is give it away for donations to UMCOR (United Methodist Committee on Relief), since 100% of donations to this organization goes directly to those in need, as the denomination members pay for administrative costs themselves.

I have a lot of fleece and fiber. I didn't think I did, but when I gathered it together from the various places I had stashed it...well, it's a lot. A whole lot. The floor of the unfinished guest room downstairs is covered in fleece and roving, that's how bad it is. I've begun organizing it into types of fiber (Merino, alpaca, Shetland wool, mixed type, etc.), so that whoever comes over to take some will be able to see what's there.

I also think I'll go to the local Arachne Guild meeting on January 3 from 10 am to 2 pm, in Edgewood, WA. I understand I can possibly unload a lot of fiber there. I hope. If I don't get rid of most of it there, then I'll also go to the MoonSpinner's Guild in Sumner, WA on January 8 at 7 pm.

Truth is, I can't possibly spin all of this stuff, since I now have tennis elbow and some carpal tunnel of my right arm and hand, and tenosynovitis of my left hand (thumb). I got it from--believe it or not--knitting too much and too fast. I had some pneumonia this fall, complicated by asthma, and so had to take some prednisone. I decided to knit an ambitious amount while I recovered, and I can knit at a very fast pace. What I didn't know was that the prednisone I was taking suppressed any symptoms of inflammation or fatigue I normally would have experienced when knitting this much. I had no idea I was injuring my hands....

Until I was finished with my prednisone. Dear God. The pain was awful. My hands were hurting from elbow to fingertip.

I'm still recovering. I can knit and spin a bit, but I don't dare do it for more than a few minutes, though, and I'm wearing an arm brace and carpal tunnel brace on my right arm. I also have a thumb-and-wrist brace for my left hand, but only wear it at night, since, geez, how can anyone expect to do anything, much less knit or spin, with a thick brace like that on one's hand? Plus, the yarn and fleece stick to the stupid Velcro, and my arms end up looking oddly hirsute with vari-colored fiber.

Ugh. This does not make me happy. Still, better those who will appreciate the fiber get it, rather than it just sitting around.

I can do some spinning and knitting, though, just as long as I don't overdo it. But I'll never get to dealing with all this yarn and fiber unless I let some of it go. (Sigh)

Christmas

Well, it's Christmas evening, presents have been distributed and opened, 15 dinner guests have come and gone, my son has decided to stay over at a childhood friend's house (one of the dinner guests), and it's just my dear hubby, myself, and the cat. He is doing something about the dishes, so I have decided to use the opportunity to sit and let my aching feet rest.

Menu? My husband grilled some sausages, ribs (always good to have some already prepared with a rub marinade, frozen, ready to be thawed and cooked when needed), and ham yesterday, and I cooked a stuffed turkey today. Last night, I made a pecan pie, pumpkin pie (from scratch, but I had already pureed and frozen Halloween pumpkins more than a month ago, premeasured in muffin tins), and four loaves of whole-wheat fruit-and-nut bread (German stollen, but with whole wheat and dried fruit instead of candied fruit). And then there were the traditional sides of mashed potatoes and gravy (made from the turkey broth).

Then the guests brought food. My mom always bring sushi, which everyone enjoys. Our friends the Thompsons (who we have known from college, and their children from birth) brought a lovely salad made of pear, salad greens, crumbled gorgonzola cheese, and raspberry vinaigrette, as well as one of my favorite comfort foods, strawberries and cream in strawberry jello, and two wines, a Pinot noir and a Cabernet Sauvignon. My brother Allen and my nieces brought home-made bread. My brother- and sister-in-law brought more wine, a home-made, high-octane plum kind, as well as an Australian Cabernet.

There are two good things about being the host for Christmas dinner: you don't have to travel, and you are so busy, you don't stuff yourself. I am willing to bet that tomorrow when I get on the scale, I will have lost pounds.

I noticed our cat, Newman, wisely sat most of the time under the coffee table, away from everyone's feet. I think all the activity bewildered him, perhaps even made him uncomfortable. Though he's a friendly cat, and came up to everyone who arrived, once everyone left, he meowed at the hubby and then jumped up on his lap, nudging his hand--obviously asking to be petted. He then curled up and hid his little kitty face in the crook of John's arm. This is unusual for Newman--he's not usually a lap-sitter, and he doesn't usually hide his face. But he lay like that for a good half hour, while John scratched his head and pet him. And then, he was back to his usual kitty self, except then he proceeded to sit on the couch next to me, wanting me to pet him as well, purring very loudly. Most unusual! Usually one person's petting him is enough.

Well, I hear the hubby has just finished up the dishes (not many, as we used paper plates--the guests don't mind, and it's just easier), it's very late, and I'm tired.

A very merry Christmas to you all...and goodnight!

Christmas Songs

Once again, I noticed an odd expression coming over my husband's face as we sat at the kitchen table, listening to Christmas songs. I've come to the conclusion that he has a different sort of perception of Christmas songs from most people. Not Christmas music overall, because he's perfectly okay with the instrumental versions, but he really thinks about the lyrics and what he sometimes perceives is...slightly off-kilter.

I raised my brows in question.

"Moe, Larry, and Curly," he said.

"I don't get it."

"Every time someone sings about the Three Wise Men, I keep hearing Three Wise Guys, and then--"

I tuned into the song on the radio, "We Three Kings." Hand plant to the forehead. "The Three Stooges."

"Yeah." He gave me an apologetic look. "It's not like the New Testament says what their names are."

"Traditionally, their names were Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar."

"They had a lot of names. Maybe Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar are the early versions of Moe, Larry, and Curly." He had the expression he gets when he suggests something thoroughly ridiculous, yet hopeful that somehow it might be remotely, very remotely convincing.

"Uh, no," I said, doubtless dashing any hope I might be that gullible. Which, come to think about it, should have been dashed decades ago. Hmmm.

He shrugged. "Oh, well. Just a thought." He continued eating his dinner as the radio played another song, thankfully not "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire," or anything else that might be construed as an invasion of blonde-haired alien tots.

I wonder if this Christmas song fixation might be inheritable. The Alien Child has long disliked most Christmas songs, unless it's of medieval, renaissance, or classical origin. Why, I don't know, but he thinks they're all cheesy except for the old ones...

Dang it. I just realized--he has inherited it. The only ones the hubby has odd ideas about are the modern ones. Does the "Coventry Carol" evoke science fiction horror images for him? No, it does not. Neither do the "Patapan" or the "Jeanette, Isabella" songs. All medieval or renaissance in origin.

The only exception either of them will make regarding modern Christmas songs is if they're played in a jazz version. And it is probably not a coincidence that both of them play a musical instrument, emphasis on jazz and blues. Like father, like son.

I will content myself with calling them Christmas song Scrooges if the flights of fancy or eye-rolling begin to saturate my enjoyment of even the cheesiest of songs. Because I admit it, I love Christmas carols. I don't care how cheesy the carol is, I'm going to hum along or even sing it aloud. Especially in their presence. So there!

Pizza restaurant advice

The Alien Child is home, arriving just ahead of the snowstorm and closing of the pass because of the avalanche danger. He seems to have matured more, and to my surprise, he has not only washed his clothes, but FOLDED them. So far, he hasn’t put them away, but I am counting my blessings.

He has been working pretty hard, 25 hours a week at a pizza place in Pullman, as well as pulling down a full course load at the university, and still getting good grades, thank goodness. It turns out he has just about mastered making pizza, and though he hasn’t quite got to the point of tossing the pizza dough in the air, he is almost there. After having worked there for a while, he has some words of advice regarding the ordering of pizza.

1. When you call in an order and are asked if you want to hear about the specials, say yes. The Alien Child has said there are more times than he can count when a customer has abruptly said no to hearing about the specials, then orders a custom pizza that can actually be modified to or actually is the special. Usually, if the order exactly fits the special, the Alien Child will tell the customer that it IS the special and about the discount. However, if he’s cut off in the middle informing the customer that the custom order is a special, he has no choice but to charge for a custom order, which is always more expensive.

2. Big tippers are remembered. There is a “tippers hall of fame” board in his particular shop, where the names of big tippers are listed. They also get free breadsticks if they are on the list, but the AC thinks this is sort of a lame incentive, in that breadsticks are less expensive than the big tips. Still, most customers are aware of this, but like to give big tips just to see their names on the list, which he thinks is cool. They will make a special effort for customers like this.

3. They get inebriated customers more than a few weekends, especially on game days. They don’t mind the pleasantly drunk customers, especially since they tend to tip generously. However, a large tip is not compensation for an obnoxious drunk. They would prefer sober customers. Most of all, take tip from the movie "Waiting": "Never f--- with the people that serve you food."

4. Custom orders will always take longer than specials, because specials are pre-made. If you want a pizza in a timely manner and it’s a Friday or Saturday night, order a special.

5. Do not try to fool the pizza order-taker with fake coupons. They have every coupon logged into their order system. However, customers will try to do this anyway:

Customer: Uh, hi, I’ve got a coupon that says I can get a large pizza for 99 cents?
AC: Sorry, sir, we don’t have a coupon for that amount.
Customer: Oh, wait, I read it wrong, I think it says 2.99.
AC: No, we don’t have that offer, sir.
Customer: 3.99?
AC: No.
Customer: 5.99?
AC: You sure it doesn’t say $7.99?
Customer: Uh, yeah, that’s what it is.
AC: We don’t have a coupon for that amount, either. Dude, you don’t have a coupon, do you?
Customer: Uh, no.
AC: We do have a special deal, extra large up to 5 toppings, for 13.99. You want that?
Customer: No coupon?
AC: No, but it’s the special.
Customer: Oh. Okay.

6. Do not enroll for a credit card that says you can get a pizza for 99 cents if you sign up. There is no guarantee that the local pizza place has any affiliation with that offer. Besides, why do that if you can get frequent flyer miles with other cards?

Preparing for Christmas - Be open to magic

I am a total Christmas enthusiast. Of course I am, because it is a celebration, and celebrations are Pollyannaish in the extreme. I love the decorations, the songs, the shopping--yes, even the shopping--even though I am a certified introvert.

Christmas is very magical for me. This is a time when anything can happen, and that anything is going to be good or have good results one way or another. I am not speaking as a child of privilege; my family went from working class poor to blue-collar middle class over many long years; my thrifty mother used to make do by cutting up her own clothes and my dad's to make clothes for my brothers and me. I remember times when I would wish so hard for a particular thing for Christmas and not get it. Not that year, or the next. Yet, I knew that if I wished hard, and just so, I would get my wish or at least something good would happen, maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow or the next day or even the next year, but some time when it was just right. And of course, something good would happen sooner or later, and that was magic.

I am not going to argue about what magic "supposed" to be, whether it's good, bad, or whatever. You will have literalists on both ends of the spectrum (and trust me, it's both, not one side) who will tell you it is bad for whatever un-fun, uncelebratory reason they have in their shriveled little hearts. There are enough Grinches these days who want to make everyone stop their celebrating, because it's not THEIR kind of celebrating. Pooh! That's what I say to them. Pooh!

For me, magic is in the idea that anything might happen at any time, and that anything can be good and helpful and joyous. I have had people tell me this is crap. My answer to that is, crap is great compost and I recommend the liberal use of it when growing an organic vegetable garden. That's right. Even something that comes out of a cow's behind can be useful and good if we would just use our brains and were resourceful and creative about it.

Magic happens when you're not looking for it, and sometimes when you are. It creeps up on you in secret into your heart like a dandelion pushing itself up through a crack in concrete, and sometimes it whaps you upside the head. Sometimes it does both. (Envisioning a dandelion with a two-by-four...hmm.....) Sometimes you can make magic, sometimes someone else does, and sometimes magic happens all on its own. Sometimes it happens fast, and sometimes it happens over many years. It is, very much, like love. In fact, love is the greatest magic there is.

Just in case you don't have any idea what magic is like, here are some examples, and this is no bull:

I went Christmas shopping with my mom on Saturday, directly after choir practice at church. (It was a welcome change: I don't really read music, so it's not at all easy for me to learn the music--I have to learn by ear. I sing, though, because I like to sing, especially Christmas songs and songs that lift the spirit.) My first stop was to the bank to deposit a royalty check (and that's another piece of magic, because it was for a book that was published years and years ago, and I got the check in the mail just as I was wishing I could have a little extra to splurge on Christmas presents. And there it was).

My mom has parking space magic. I don't care how crowded a parking lot is--and holidays are the worst--she will find a parking space close to the store entrance. This is no doubt one reason I like Christmas shopping, because I usually go with her. So we entered the Fred Meyer parking lot, and I said, "okay, Mom, work your parking magic."

She grinned and began wiggling her fingers and intoned "parking space...parking space..." in a mock-solemn way, and then she stopped. "Go down that lane," she said.

Nobody was at the door of any of the cars in that lane, but I knew better than to mention this after years of experience with my mother. She says she can do this by thinking of her parents, of how they loved her, and she is sure they continue to look out for her, even though she is a grandmother herself. Sure enough, just as I drove the car halfway down the aisle, a man ran out of the store and went to the last parking spot in the lane, the one just next to the store entrance, got in the car, and pulled out.

Score! Mom's parking spot magic strikes again. I look back at that now, and think it was probably a Sign of Things to Come.

I went into the store to the bank branch therein and stood in the very short line (one person in front of me), and was soon pushing my check toward the teller. As is my habit when waiting, I look around me at different people, smiling when our eyes meet, hoping to spread some mental holiday vibes, because Christmas is about spreading happy vibes, among other things. Happy vibes are good to spread around, even if you don't believe in vibes, because hey, it can't hurt. So, there I was, hopefully emitting happy vibes in the bank branch....

...and who should I spot at the teller next to me, but jolly old St. Nicholas--in disguise!

Anyone looking at him would think he was just a plump elderly gentleman with a longish white beard below cheeks red from the freezing outdoors; he was wearing an ordinary though dapper grey zip-up jacket and crisp black trousers. However, as a writer, I try to be observant, and I noticed a bit of red and green just behind the opening of that jacket. Aren't those Christmas colors? Wouldn't Santa--being what he is--find it irresistible to sneakily be where he is least expected? Isn't he about surprises and presents and knowing things we mere mortals don't? Who would expect Santa Claus in a bank? Not I! Therefore....

I nudged my mom who was standing next to me. "Look, it's Santa Claus," I whispered to her.

She looked, and chuckled. "It is!" she said. "Do you think he is going to give presents?"

"I don't know," I said. I was hard put not to stare, tell you the truth, because he really did look like the traditional picture we all have of Santa, except in every-day clothes. But a part of me was saying with all the wishes I had as a child, oh, yes he will absolutely give presents!

Both Santa and I finished our banking transactions at the same time, and as he turned, his jacket gapped open, and I almost chuckled in glee: beneath that jacket he wore a shirt with a very big picture of Santa Claus on it, in full Christmas regalia. Another bit of confirmation that this must really be Santa! My mother and I followed at a discreet distance as he gazed at various goods in the store as if in deep contemplation, picked up a few, and examined them.

As he went toward the store's exit, some children following in their mother's wake turned the corner of a Christmas display, and came into full view of this gentleman. Their eyes grew wide as they stared at him, so stunned, I imagine, that they said nothing. Their mother turned then as well, no doubt to see what kept her children lagging and suddenly silent. Her eyes also widened, and she began to smile.

I saw Santa smile in return, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He pushed his hand into his pocket, and without a word pulled out some thin strips of paper, gave them to the children, turned, and left. One little boy held his up for his mother to see--Christmas stickers, brightly colored green and red and gold.

"Santa Claus," said his sister, her voice awed. "In disguise!"

We looked at the gentleman who was heading out the automated sliding doors. His back turned, only the grey jacket showing between the incoming shoppers, he was indistinguishable from other elderly men who had come to buy presents for their grandchildren.

My mother and I looked at each other, and we grinned, thinking of the children and their mother who had seen Santa in disguise. We wouldn't point him out, oh, no. Santa does his best in disguise, I think, when we least expect it, when we allow ourselves to be open to the possibility of love and magic in this world, and in ourselves.

Note: The most popular story of St. Nicholas is the one where, as a wealthy young man, he discovered that the daughters of a poor man could not be married because they lacked a dowry, back in the days when such a thing would most definitely prohibit young women from marrying anyone, much less someone they loved. Feeling very sorry for them, yet not wishing to intrude on the honor and pride of this poor man, St. Nicholas took three bags of his money and secretly threw them through an open window of this man's house, or down the chimney. The young women were then well-off enough to marry good men, with the approval of their in-laws. No one knew until much later that it was St. Nicholas who had given these generous gifts.


--KEH

End of Summer

t’s been a nose-to-the-grindstone summer, so much so that I now look up and am startled to find that it’s near the end, or at least in the way I mark it, and that is of course when the Alien Child returns to college. That’s this weekend. And I haven’t even finished the Freddie Kruger sweater.

We’ll be driving across to the eastern edge of the state, in Pullman, WA, where Washington State University resides. I try to focus on the trip, on the landscape that varies greatly in that almost 300-mile distance. We’ll be going through the lush forests of western Washington and the Cascade mountains, and then down into Ellensburg and the central plains. There’s desert descending into the Columbia Gorge all the way almost to the town of Othello, and then it becomes thousands of acres of rolling wheatfields from there to Colfax, a veritable golden sea into the Palouse hills that surround the town of Pullman. It truly is beautiful, and helps distract me from that pang I still get when the Child leaves home once again.

I half wonder if I haven’t finished the sweater yet because it’s still something to hold onto that says I’m still his Mom, and that it’ll give me something to send him in the mail, a traditional “care package” that parents send their children when they’re away. Or, this line of thought could just be an excuse for not finishing that sweater in time for his departure.

Regardless, I need to make sure it’s the proper length before he goes. It’s done enough (I’ve knitted it top-down with circular needles, though I had to unstitch the top back and knit it back and forth to give more length in the back) so that I can fit it on him to see if the front and back is even. As for the sleeves, since he and his dad have about the same arm length, I can try it on the hubby to see if the sleeves will work.

I feel a little dissatisfied that I didn’t finish it before he left; it was a bit of Penelope-work, for sure. I would knit it, then unravel it, knit it again, then unravel to fix something that wasn’t right, and finally, it seems now to be on the right track, and all it needs is a tweak here and there, and a finishing of the sleeves to be complete.

It seems a signal of the changes that the Alien Child has been undergoing this year. He’ll be a junior this year, and has undergone a great number of changes, developed into something that’s better knit, better shaped, than when he first came home. He had a difficult sophomore year having experienced the death of a friend and the despair that accompanies the shock of a young life cut short; severe illness; and his first serious relationship where I know he’d given his heart, and I suspect is in the process of having it if not broken, then quite bruised.

He’d made some unwise choices while in that despairing sophomore year, but seems to have righted himself, making healthier ones, and becoming very physically fit. He’s dealt with the disappointment of an extremely difficult job search this summer (searched for a summer job since early May, didn’t get a job until late July, and trust me, he walked anywhere between five and ten miles each day from business to business, applying for jobs, from Tukwila, Kent, Auburn, and Federal Way). Good thing he worked out every day; the warehouse job he eventually got demanded moving 50 to 100 lb boxes 8 to 10 hours a day. He was glad to do it. I’ll say one thing for him: he’s not afraid of hard work, and actually sees it as an interesting challenge.

He’s taken another look at his direction—and has figured out a major he thinks he can put his considerable brain into. Looks like he’ll be majoring in political science and perhaps minoring in journalism or literary criticism. He actually mentioned getting a graduate degree some day. Which I think suits him, actually.

And yet, he’s unfinished, though he’s knit up well this summer. I won’t see if he’ll go through more unraveling, or whether he’s far enough along now that he can go on to finishing without much of a hitch. We’ll see, I guess. He’s not one to communicate through e-mail, so I won’t know. I have a feeling, though, that he won’t unravel much, and will knit up just fine.

I worry, because that’s what moms do, but I’ll focus on the sweater, and know that he's knit himself up so far into a fine young man, and all he needs is finishing.