(on our backdoor steps when Pretty and I got home yesterday)
One of my most faithful followers is local artist Donna Magrath who left this for me in a Food Lion shopping bag on our backdoor steps. She read my post about my Aunt Armeda’s custard recipe yesterday, recognized how I felt about the little scribbles, and preserved this treasure for me in her typical creative work.
Honestly, I am continually amazed by the goodness of people who care about others. I called Donna to let her know how moved I was by this piece and assured her it would have a place of prominence in my office. Today it sits on an antique writing desk next to my work area. I think my Aunt Armeda would have been pleased for her custard recipe to be displayed. My mother would have said well, I was in a hurry. I know I can write better than that. Did somebody spill egg on it?
Thank you, Donna, for “getting” me and my writing. I am inspired by you.
Thank you, also, to all my faithful followers around the world who allow me to invade your personal space with my words, thoughts, beliefs and hopes. While we breathe, we hope.
Several weeks ago this tiny scrap of paper arrived with a note from a University of Texas friend who now lives in Cody, Wyoming. The note simply said this is Armeda’s custard recipe, but it’s in your mother’s handwriting. No explanation necessary – I would recognize my mother’s scratchy writing anywhere. Her DNA flows through my penmanship as surely as it does through my love of dogs.
When I worked for a year in Houston following my graduation from UT in Austin, the good news was I had relatives from both sides of my family who lived in the metropolitan area; the bad news was I had relatives from both sides of my family who lived within spitting distance of my one bedroom furnished apartment on Shadyvilla Lane. Houston in 1967 was a big city, but not nearly as crowded as it became in the years that followed, so I easily navigated the paths from learning to play bridge at my Aunt Mavis and Uncle Ray’s house on Jalna Street in the northwest section of the city to playing poker or dominoes at my Aunt Dessie and Uncle Floyd’s house on Rodrigo Street in the Heights. Talk about home cooked food. Every home I visited made sure I had plenty of it.
I had a favorite place to visit on Sunday afternoons in the cooler months (yes, there were several cooler ones even in hot humid Houston): my Aunt Armeda and Uncle Vernon’s house which was less than 15 minutes from my apartment. I confess I tried to time my social call around the middle of the afternoon to see if by chance Aunt Armeda was making custard. If she was, I stayed longer. Shameless.
Armeda was my Aunt Mavis’s half-sister who had married my paternal grandmother’s youngest brother. Remember my Aunt Mavis was married to my daddy’s brother Ray. No computerized social networking or dating apps in those days which meant somebody introduced somebody to someone else. Often that someone else was somehow related to the first somebody.
My friend who now lives in Wyoming was still at UT when I worked in Houston, and she often came to see me on weekends – she loved our “custard calls” at Armeda and Vernon’s house as much as I did. I’m sure we raved about the drink to my mother who was aghast at the thought anyone could prefer Armeda’s custard over hers, but could we get that recipe anyway?
I was amazed to see this little scrap of paper with such evidence of use in the past fifty-five years had traveled from Texas to Wyoming to South Carolina and was transported to the sights, sounds, smells of the custard being poured into delicate china coffee cups by a tall regal woman with soft speech and a warm heart. I’ve made the recipe three times recently and still think it’s delicious – if you can read the scribbling, I suggest you give it a try during the holiday season.
As reliable as our big shaking dog Spike is to predict inclement weather, often with more accuracy than the professional weather people in the media, last night’s storms were much less than he dreaded. We still hunkered down with our battery powered lights as the winds howled, the rain pounded the leaves off the trees – but today brought sunlight to mitigate the old blue norther that dropped the temperatures to levels in line with December in South Carolina.
Carl assesses the leaf situation in our back yard this morning
Carl wondered if the new dog would be friendlier than Spike
Charly thought this dog looked familiar from holidays long ago and far away
sniff, sniff – nope, no problemo
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Look at what came to us yesterday afternoon when our little granddaughters went with their cousin to talk to Santa – thanks so much to the mothers of these children for sharing the joy (?)!!
Daughter-in-law Caroline (l.) holds our two year old granddaughter skeptic Molly for her first chat with Santa while Caroline’s twin sister Chloe (r.) holds our four year old granddaughter Ella who appears to be planning something to stir the pot while Santa holds one year old cousin Caleb who is chill, going with the flow.
Molly unconvinced, Ella ready to jump ship, and Caleb still chill
let’s get down to the business of what I want for Christmas, Santa
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So many storms around the world this year during a season celebrated for peace, love and hope; I wanted to share these pictures as a reminder that the sun also rises in time to bring us another day to be thankful for all creatures great and small – the most magical gifts we’ll celebrate in any season.
I’m a basic Bah, Humbug Christmas person and have been for years. I’m not clinically depressed during the holiday season, but neither am I joyful. I resist the pressure to shop ‘til I drop, but that isn’t limited to a particular time of the year, either. I’m considering the possibility I may suffer from borderline Scrooge disorder or at a minimum, Holiday Harrumphs.
I miss my family at Christmas, the family that defined Christmas for me as a child. That family is gone as that time and place are gone, but the child inside me mourns their loss every time I hear “Silent Night” and other carols sung during this time of the year. We were musical people and much of our holiday revolved around music in our Southern Baptist churches where my mother was always responsible for the Christmas Cantata. Sometimes she played the piano for it so my dad could lead the church choir and sometimes she drafted another pianist so she could lead the choir herself. Regardless, music was the reason for the season for us and we celebrated the season in church.
Coming home to Texas to live in 2010 has connected me once again with my DNA family, and that’s been an incredible experience that became part of the magic of Christmas for me the last two years. First cousins, second cousins, third cousins once removed and the people they’ve married and their children are good, and a few questionable, surprises for me. Gathering for a cousins’ Christmas potluck luncheon, going with cousins to the Montgomery Annual Cookie Walk, having cousins come to our home or visiting in their homes rekindled good memories of the times when our hair wasn’t white, our figures were slimmer and the great-grandparents at the table weren’t us. I see these relatives and I am a part of them; I feel good to belong to them at Christmas. Our conversations honor and celebrate our heritage and the ones who are no longer with us. We laughed and cried together because we were moved by our memories. This family was a Christmas gift.
But just as the traditional story goes of the Wise Men who followed a bright light to Bethlehem bringing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to the baby boy in the manger, Wise Women in my life brought gifts that rocked my Christmas complacency. My wife surprised me with an early gift at Thanksgiving when I went home to her in South Carolina. It was worth its weight in gold to me: a western saddle made of leather that now rides a wooden quilt holder a Worsham Street neighbor gave me when she saw the saddle. Whenever I look at the saddle, I think of two of my favorite things, my wife who knew me well enough to buy this treasure for me and my days of riding horses as a child. I feel the love of the giver of this perfect gift.
Frankincense was used in ancient times for medicinal and calming purposes including treatment for depression. Burning frankincense was also thought to carry prayers to heaven by people in those days. One of the Wise Women in my life gave me my own version of frankincense last week when she bought a plane ticket to South Carolina for me to be with my wife for Christmas. I marvel at this generosity from a friend who surely loved me, a friend who chased away the potential Christmas blues. This gift came from prayers to heaven that were unasked but answered on the wings of a snow white dove called US Airways and the spirit that is the magic of Christmas in the heart of my friend.
Myrrh is an Arabic word for bitter and it is the resin that comes from a tree that grows in the semi-desert regions of Africa and the Red Sea. The Chinese used it for centuries to treat wounds and bruises and bleeding. The Egyptians used myrrh as an embalming oil for their mummies. Yesterday I received another gift that reminded me of myrrh – not the bitterness nor the embalming properties – but the unexpected present was a live blooming cactus plant that arrived at my house via a congenial UPS driver who I believe thought he was Santa Claus. When I opened the box and removed the moss packing per the enclosed instructions, I was stunned by the beauty of the pink blooms and the deep rich green of the plant. The gift came from another Wise Woman who is married to my cousin in Rosenberg, Texas and was an additional reminder of the magic that lives in Christmas. Every day I’ll see these blooms and think of my cousins who sent them with the healing power beauty affords us when we take a moment to consider it. I’ve always loved a Christmas cactus.
Gold, frankincense and myrrh with a 21st century twist. The Christmas story of Mary and Joseph’s plight in the manger in Bethlehem has been told and re-told for thousands of years. Regardless of your belief, it is a tender tale of a family who welcomed a baby boy into a world of conflict and hardship but hoped he would somehow change it for the better. The same conflicts continue two thousand years later with hardships of every shape and description that continue to plague our families today, but we move on. Sometimes forward, sometimes backward. But onward we go. And in this spirit of hope for a better world where peace becomes the norm and hardships are made more bearable, I abandon my Bah, Humbug for a trip to the Cookie Walk.
picking just the right cookies at the Christmas Cookie Walk
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I published this piece for the first time in December, 2011. Today is December 07th which became a significant one in American history with the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941 that prompted America’s participation in WWII. My dad and his brother believed their bombs would fulfill the promise of a world where peace became the norm, but 78 years later the bombscontinue. Hanukkah – Chanukah begins tonight at a particularly significant time during the Israel-Hamas War, a 21st. century tragedy of our inhumanity to each other as we still look for Wise Men and Women to lead us to peace.
these little Texas boys served in Europe during WWII –
thanks to Gamecock Jennifer for great seats behind our bench at Duke game
Duke took early lead, but Gamecock women finished with 77-61 win
Pretty and I have made the 3 1/2 hour road trip from Columbia, South Carolina to Durham, North Carolina three times in the past eight years to watch our Gamecock women’s basketball team play the Duke University Blue Devils. The trip this year was unique with a new traveler on board: 23 month old granddaughter Molly. While older sister Ella performed in The Nutcracker ballet in Columbia this weekend, Molly had a number of firsts with us starting with our first road trip together.
Molly’s mom Caroline always has her hair and clothes fixed so cute
another first for Molly was staying in a motel room with her Nana and Naynay
(she found Naynay’s Crocs next to bed and took off like a herd of turtles)
Pretty and Molly outside Cameron Indoor Stadium at Duke University on Game Day, Molly’s first basketball game
Molly happiest when looking at pictures of Ella
Our personal record with the Gamecock women is now 2-1 at Duke (yes, we were there for the loss in 2016), but while the first two games we saw at Cameron were exciting, this third game in Durham was a winner not only because we won a basketball game but also because we shared a memory maker experience with two North Carolina friends who are ardent Gamecock fans as well as our first attempt to indoctrinate a new little Gamecock fan who now shouts “Cocks” whenever the people around her shout “Game.” Sigh. If only we could have had a different mascot.
Gamecock women’s basketball won at Duke – and so did we. Go Cocks!
I'll Call It Like I See It 
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