Father Christmas ghosts.

The holiday season and the end of the year is typically a time of reflection.  I've been thinking of all the good Christmas's and family get togethers I've attended over the years.  And there's been lots.  For example, there were Christmas mornings when Santa was still real.  The biggest kid my house that morning turned out to be my dad.  He would wake us up and tell us that Santa had arrived, and would sit and watch with a smile as we opened presents.  He was a man of very few words, but his actions would often speak volumes.  He was a hard working, blue collar guy.  He didn't have a profession or career, but a calling.  He was the provider, as my mother was the homemaker.  Different times and different roles, but still important.

As I said, he didn't talk much.  He was often tired, sometimes grouchy, but he did work a zillion hours a week.  Once he retired, though, he opened up a little.  He was more relaxed, I was older and had learned men's small talk (did you see yesterday's game?) and he would sometimes share stories.

He told me one story of when he was a teenager in Saugus, and had a job pumping gas on Route One.  This was before the days of the major interstates, so anyone traveling from New York to Maine had to use "the pike" as all highways were called then.

He had a pair of famous customers who had a summer home in Maine  stop at the gas station one day, Bette Davis and her husband Gary Merrill.  It must have even more impressive back in the 1940's to see a movie star.  Without a 24 hour news cycle, instant tweets, and not even television, stars lived in a different universe than they do today.

He had a more homespun story that makes me smile even now.  Here he was, first generation American, born of Lebanese Catholic parents.  He had been set up on a blind date by his brother and his girl, who had a friend.  The friend was first generation American, the child of Sicilian immigrants.  Things were going well.  And of course, he was invited home for dinner to meet the parents. 

My poor mother was mortified by what her mother served.  Lentils, of all the greenhorn things to serve to someone my mom was getting serious about.  What would he think?  Immigrants back in the early twentieth century did their best to Americanize themselves.  Sofia became Sophie, Caterina became Kitty, and Rosa became Dolly.  The sisters had pride in their American style.  Oh, but the horror of serving lentils was not to be imagined.

My father laughed when he told the story.  He had been brought up on lentils and other similar Mediterrean food.  The subtext he didn't mention was his probable nervousness at meeting the family.  Whether intentional or not, my grandmother Lena put him at ease by serving a dish my grandmother Nady had served him his whole childhood. 

And then Sophie and George in turn served those dishes to their children, my brother John and I.  And keeping the tradition going, John has requested that I bring something Lebanese to dinner Christmas day.  So in a little bit I'll be cooking up some kibbee, and his children and grandchildren will have a little.  Sophie and George's legacy, and their parents' as well, are the dishes we still eat, and the memories we make around them.

Merry Christmas, dad.

French Fairytales

A Librarian's Pilgrims Progress

I've been around libraries all my life, starting with my mother bringing me to the bookmobile in Lynn when I was very small.  Our whole neighborhood would walk together, mothers and children, and it would be an outing for the ladies as well.  They would have a chance to catch up and speak with other adults, and the kids could skip along around the edges.  These households would have had just the one car for the father to take to work, so it was a special occasion for all involved to go out to the bookmobile.

When we moved to Salem, my mother brought both my brother and I to the library on Essex Street as soon as we could sign our names to get a library card.  I spent many hours there, so much so that when I entered high school, Mrs. Tomlinson in the Children's Room asked if I wanted to work there. That's where I started my profession, 14 years old, a page in the Children's Room.

After college I tried a variety of jobs, and none really seemed to fit.  Ten years after graduating from UMass/Amherst, I saw a posting for a Children's Librarian I at the Lynn Public Library.  I filled in the application, went for the interviews, and started shortly after.  Finally, I had found something that fit.

In the years between being a page at 14 and now, I had the chance to work in all departments at the public library, and now at an academic one.  I made my way to the big office with the ornate, antique furniture as library director, and then stepped back into the role that I have enjoyed most through my career, reference librarian.

But this time of year brings back a memory of my first days, and when I worked primarily with children.  I was at the Houghton Branch in West Lynn, and we had 16mm films we would show once a week in addition to craft making and story times.  There was a very popular book that had been made into a short film in the 1980's.  The hero was a girl whose parents had immigrated from Russia for religious reasons.  She had a Thanksgiving homework assignment, to dress a doll as a Pilgrim, with a capital P.  One of those people with the black clothes, and silver buckles on their hats.  She was having a terrible time of it, and went in tears to her mother.  The mother sent her to bed, and made a pilgrim, small p.

The costume she crafted was of a Russian peasant.  The teacher was upset, and told the girl she had missed the point of the assignment.  When the girl told her mother, they talked about the reasons the Pilgrims had come to Plymouth, and the reasons her own family had come.  The little girl then realized she also was a pilgrim, even without the silver buckle.

The Houghton Branch Library was situated in an incredibly diverse neighborhood.  We had families from all over Europe, Asia and the West Indies coming in every day.  What I remember most about my stay there is that after showing this movie, a Cambodian girl came up to me in tears.  She said, "Nadine, does this mean I'm a pilgrim too?"  Yes, I answered, you are.  She was a struggling student, both academically and socially.  That day, at least, she felt she belonged somewhere.  She fit in.

To all my fellow pilgrims, small p, Happy Thanksgiving, and may you find your special fit also.

Falling out of Fall

Well, I'm still trying.  Trying and trying to maintain that good attitude towards fall
that so many people have.  The pumpkin's on the balcony, the autumnal centerpiece is on the dining room table, the cheery sign is on my door.

Today is everything I would want fall to be:  sunny and warm.  Today I can putter and clean and read and enjoy my home.  I even had a nice walk along the beach before the wind blew me back into my car.  But we've had too many days this October with clouds and rain.  And darn it, I had to put the heat on. 

With the days growing shorter, I begrudge any bit of sunlight I'm deprived of.  I don't walk in the rain.  Naturally curly hair makes that a disaster.  I believe exercise is better out of doors in the fresh air and sunshine.  There's that vitamin D, and balancing all those serotonins and melatonins makes for a better night's sleep.

As we're sitting here smack in the middle of October, I have to take stock.  Yes, the foliage is great this year.  But the flowers are dying.  Mums just don't do it for me.  While they are colorful, those colors aren't in my preferred palette.  Like Sweet Baby James, deep greens and blues are the colors I choose.

So I've rejoined the Y, will continue to order the pumpkin spice latte, maybe bake some pumpkin bread.  Just let it stay sunny, not gray.  I'll keep savoring the sights and smells of autumn.  And I'll try not to think of the white and gray season that follows.

Falling into Fall

I have to admit that Fall is not my favorite season.  As the days shorten, all I can think of is the Winter that is coming.  The thoughts of those dark evenings, that cold, and gosh, snow! all bring my mood down.

All of which means I'm living in future, not the present.  There's no telling what kind of winter we'll have on the North Shore.  It could be mild and snow free, like last winter.

No, this year I'll live in the Autumn.  I'll focus on the good points of the season.  The cool nights are better for sleeping.  The warm, sunny afternoons perfect for being outdoors.  The season shines in New England, with trees sporting a vibrant palette.

Baked goods smell of cinnamin and clove, and hot drinks are appreciated in the nippy air of morning.  The farmers markets are full with local harvests, and there's lots of good cooking to be done with fresh fruits and vegetables still.

It's time to change wardrobes, and time to put on shoes.  Time to check out last year's sweaters, and corduroy pants.  Time for a pumpkin on the balcony, and a new welcome plaque on the door. 

It's a good day so long as there is a chance to get outside.  I'm going to stop thinking of Fall as an ending, but as a continuance of good things to be enjoyed.  Sometimes the snow and ice is more attitude than weather.

Beach times

The beach has been the setting for this summer.  Whether I'm walking along, sitting by or on, or driving by, I've spent a lot of time on the beach and by the ocean.  And since I've spent the summer home and not vacationing, the beaches I've been visiting this summer are the ones I've been going to all my life.

I remember traveling by bus or taxi, or by an auntie's ride, to Revere or Lynn or Salem Willows when I was small.  At the Willows we would vary sitting on the beach and sitting on the grass.

Later, as a teenager, there were bike rides to Devereaux beach with other Salem Library pages, and long, lazy afternoons.

My husband and I would go to the Willows early in our years together.  We'd play skeeball and pacman, have ice creams and chop suey sandwiches, and walk the park.  Later we mainly walked  along Lynn Shore Drive.  And lastly we would go and sit, watching the Boston skyline and Nahant.

What I've noticed especially this summer is how quiet beaches have become.  In the 1960's and 1970's, each blanket would host a transister radio.  As we would walk along looking for a "spot" we'd hear WMEX playing music, or WHDH's Ned Martin and Curt Gowdy giving play by play reports for Red Sox games.

The 1980's and early 1990's featured boomboxes playing loudly, with FM stations ruling the air.  They'd be carried on the shoulders of skate boarders speeding past.  The beach still had a soundtrack, and a boisterous feel.

Then Sony developed the Walkman and Apple the iPod, and pesonal listening devices became the norm.  The beach has gone back to natural sounds; waves break, gulls cry, and children laugh and play.  Everwhere else technology dominates our lives, but not at the beach.  Having a soundtrack is now a personal choice. 

Walking along the beach has become one of my favorite ways to excercise.  I'm hoping for another mild winter so that I can continue to do so.  The beach is a place I go to to find a sense of quiet, of timelessness, and renewal.  If I want music, I put the ear plugs in.  This year, though, I've gone without, and listened to the beach sounds, and felt like they're one of the constants in my life.

Oh, la.la, Paris.

This is a summer of day trips and short getaways.  I've been exploring Essex county with my camera in hand, or have hopped on the train to New York City for a couple of nights.

But last year I was packing for Paris right about this time.  I had seen the Woody Allen movie with Owen Wilson and Gene Kelly's American in Paris, and read The Paris Wife.

Then I got there.  There's a line in Midnight in Paris where the vapid fiancee complains about it raining again.  She was right.  It rains.  And while that misty, moisty mysteriousness adds oh so much atmosphere to a plot line, it wreaked havoc on my wardrobe and mood.  Thank goodness for hotel laundry services. 

I also found that the guide provided by the tour company had rather elastic ideas about distances.  I became suspicious when everything was just half an hour away.  I was encouraged to take Le Metro, but didn't feel comfortable doing so.

A group of us went and the subway was clean, clearly marked and inexpensive.  But I had only one good arm last year, so hanging onto a pole and my belongings was a problem.  That not so minor fact made it walking or taxis for me.

I realize my trip experience was probably colored by having had surgery just three weeks before.  But still, it rained.

I had loved the south of France the year before.  The bright light dazzled the colors, the sun was warm, the small towns were friendly, and it didn't rain.

I've offered the advice that every experience is a learning experience.  And in retrospect, what made all those books and movies interesting were the people in them.  The Paris Wife talked mostly about the cast of characters that made the city interesting in the Twenties.  Owen Wilson's character raved about meeting Hemingway and Fitzgerald. 

Perhaps if my hotel had been in a different area I would have been more charmed.  I loved Isle St. Louis and the Left Bank.  The Place my hotel was located on also had a MacDonald's, KFC and a pizza place.  It could have been Kenmore Square without the jet lag.

I had been warned about traveling in August that it would be crowded, and it was.  And being urban, the people weren't as warm as in the south.  But I have been in other cities, and live in a small one, so those factors shouldn't have been as overwhelming as they were.  I was jet lagged and in minor pain, niether of which are mood enhancers.

So maybe, just maybe, I'll try Paris again another time.   I'll just be more careful of the hotel location and the time of year.  And, of course, try to go when it doesn't rain.