GREETINGS FROM GUATEMALA
Am settled in for the next 8 weeks. Trying not to fall down in the cobblestone streets and uneven sidewalks. It's been colder here than usual, but there are more hours of daylight and plenty of sunshine each day. The nylon windbreaker I brought for wearing to and from the airport in Seattle is now a 24/7 garment. I even wear it to bed over my nitegown! Guatemala not only has no central heating, it has no heating at all (except in the fancier hotels).
Fortunately I packed a small space heater down here some years ago and my friend Sarah stores it for me when I'm gone. It's been chugging its little heart out every night. My days are busy with important things like Scrabble with John, and lunch out with other friends.
Hope you all are warm and happy for the new year Love Jean
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
THE DICTIONARY CHRISTMAS
In September 1944 a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman had stopped by to show our family his treasures none of which we could afford. But there had been this library-sized dictionary weighing at least ten pounds that I coveted in a silent and intense way. Even though we were poor, I may have mentioned something about how useful it would be for the whole family.
That family consisted of my mother, my younger brother and me. We lived at 355 Hillside Avenue in Santa Fe, New Mexico just beyond where the pavement ended. We were poorer than most of the kids in the private religious school I attended, but not poorer than many others in the area. I had just turned nine and Christmas was mostly the lackluster school pageant and gift exchange.
At home a pinyon tree sat in a corner of the living room flanked by two small painted wooded Mexican chairs with rattan seats. The previous Christmas the chairs had held a doll for me that I neglected and may have lost, and a bear for my brother that he still slept with. We had decorated the tree one evening, stringing white popcorn together with a large needle and thread to drape back and forth across the branches; we also pasted construction paper strips in bargain-table colors (no red and odd shades of green) into loops to make chains. As the twenty-fifth approached a few tiny packages and Christmas cards clustered around the white sheet at the base of the tree.
Then one day I saw that my little chair held a huge rectangular gift, wrapped in shiny pink paper. My mother loved anything pink. I knew the gift was for me and I hoped I knew what it was. Maybe, just maybe…
So, for the first time I could remember, I eagerly anticipated Christmas morning.
Two days before Christmas, my mother of gypsy habits and rampant impulsivity had heard that the geometry teacher from school was driving to Los Angeles for Christmas. Suddenly she decided we just had to visit her sister Ruth who lived there with her family. Mr.Chidester was a hapless soul who never had a chance once my charming mother set her sights on his transporting us to California.
In a scant hour we were packed up and picked up and off on another of her last-minute adventures. Neither my brother nor I had even met Auntie Ruth; we didn’t know our cousins or uncle; we did not want to leave home. “It’ll be such fun,” my mother kept saying.
I remember us driving straight through, stopping only once for several tedious hours for Mr. Chidester to take a nap. .
On Christmas Eve day we arrived on my aunt’s big fancy house doorstep. Of course Mother had not bothered to inform Auntie Ruth that we were coming. I felt the terrible awkwardness of it all as Auntie Ruth said and did all the right things, but her lack of sincerity was palpable to my sensitivities.
At least my cousin Joanie, six months older than me, was honest in her impatience with her mother’s “poor relations.” I suffered through the fuss to get us settled for the two nights we would be there and the patronizing small talk of the dinner table. The following morning as they opened their lavish display of presents, my mother, my brother and I received hastily wrapped gifts. We had brought nothing for them, of course. All I could think about was my big shiny pink package waiting at home.
My present from Joanie was a copy of Heidi. Although a book was normally the best sort of present for me, as I opened it up I saw a bookplate on the inside front cover declaring, “This book belongs to Joanie Stanton.” My humiliation was complete when I saw her smirking face. I said the obligatory thank-you, but couldn’t wait to leave the next morning.
Mr.Chidester’s car finally liberated me from the horror of family obligations. The drive home was still tedious but made bearable by putting distance between Joanie and I. It seemed as if we had been gone weeks instead of just four days
Home at last, the first thing I did was to tear into the shiny pink paper despite my mother’s entreaty to be more careful and save the paper for next year Of course I got my much beloved Webster’s Unabridged dictionary. Pure joy! And I’ve been wallowing in words ever since.
At the time I couldn’t understand how come my worst Christmas ever had produced the best gift of my whole life. Later I realized that it was a perfect real life mixed bag-- bittersweet and satisfying all glopped together.
In September 1944 a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman had stopped by to show our family his treasures none of which we could afford. But there had been this library-sized dictionary weighing at least ten pounds that I coveted in a silent and intense way. Even though we were poor, I may have mentioned something about how useful it would be for the whole family.
That family consisted of my mother, my younger brother and me. We lived at 355 Hillside Avenue in Santa Fe, New Mexico just beyond where the pavement ended. We were poorer than most of the kids in the private religious school I attended, but not poorer than many others in the area. I had just turned nine and Christmas was mostly the lackluster school pageant and gift exchange.
At home a pinyon tree sat in a corner of the living room flanked by two small painted wooded Mexican chairs with rattan seats. The previous Christmas the chairs had held a doll for me that I neglected and may have lost, and a bear for my brother that he still slept with. We had decorated the tree one evening, stringing white popcorn together with a large needle and thread to drape back and forth across the branches; we also pasted construction paper strips in bargain-table colors (no red and odd shades of green) into loops to make chains. As the twenty-fifth approached a few tiny packages and Christmas cards clustered around the white sheet at the base of the tree.
Then one day I saw that my little chair held a huge rectangular gift, wrapped in shiny pink paper. My mother loved anything pink. I knew the gift was for me and I hoped I knew what it was. Maybe, just maybe…
So, for the first time I could remember, I eagerly anticipated Christmas morning.
Two days before Christmas, my mother of gypsy habits and rampant impulsivity had heard that the geometry teacher from school was driving to Los Angeles for Christmas. Suddenly she decided we just had to visit her sister Ruth who lived there with her family. Mr.Chidester was a hapless soul who never had a chance once my charming mother set her sights on his transporting us to California.
In a scant hour we were packed up and picked up and off on another of her last-minute adventures. Neither my brother nor I had even met Auntie Ruth; we didn’t know our cousins or uncle; we did not want to leave home. “It’ll be such fun,” my mother kept saying.
I remember us driving straight through, stopping only once for several tedious hours for Mr. Chidester to take a nap. .
On Christmas Eve day we arrived on my aunt’s big fancy house doorstep. Of course Mother had not bothered to inform Auntie Ruth that we were coming. I felt the terrible awkwardness of it all as Auntie Ruth said and did all the right things, but her lack of sincerity was palpable to my sensitivities.
At least my cousin Joanie, six months older than me, was honest in her impatience with her mother’s “poor relations.” I suffered through the fuss to get us settled for the two nights we would be there and the patronizing small talk of the dinner table. The following morning as they opened their lavish display of presents, my mother, my brother and I received hastily wrapped gifts. We had brought nothing for them, of course. All I could think about was my big shiny pink package waiting at home.
My present from Joanie was a copy of Heidi. Although a book was normally the best sort of present for me, as I opened it up I saw a bookplate on the inside front cover declaring, “This book belongs to Joanie Stanton.” My humiliation was complete when I saw her smirking face. I said the obligatory thank-you, but couldn’t wait to leave the next morning.
Mr.Chidester’s car finally liberated me from the horror of family obligations. The drive home was still tedious but made bearable by putting distance between Joanie and I. It seemed as if we had been gone weeks instead of just four days
Home at last, the first thing I did was to tear into the shiny pink paper despite my mother’s entreaty to be more careful and save the paper for next year Of course I got my much beloved Webster’s Unabridged dictionary. Pure joy! And I’ve been wallowing in words ever since.
At the time I couldn’t understand how come my worst Christmas ever had produced the best gift of my whole life. Later I realized that it was a perfect real life mixed bag-- bittersweet and satisfying all glopped together.
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