On a completely related note to my last post, I went to B&N yesterday and bought the following book from the clearance table: Lily Dale: The True Story of the Town that Talks to the Dead by Christine Wicker. It is about spiritualists living in Lily Dale, New York, and the observations of a skeptical journalist who went there several times to figure out what was going on. I have not been able to put it down--it's fascinating. The best part about it is that I bought it half-price, which means I got it for a grand total of two dollars and fifty cents.

I also bought a Edward Gorey calender, since December is almost over, called Neglected Murderesses. Contained therein are Gorey's quirky, awesome sketches of murderesses throughout the years who did not get their fair share of infamy. Now begins what we will call Becky's "dark year."

Booga-booga.

You May Now Address Me as "Madame Bleu, the All-Seeing"

When I was visiting my grandparents a few days ago (my dad's parents), I noticed my grandma had set out a doll my dad had bought her in Russia for Christmas several years ago. "Wow," I said, patting the doll's brightly colored dress and running my fingers along her hand-painted cloth face, "I should dig out MyGirl's Russian doll--she is all dressed in red and green and would look very Christmas-y under the tree."

Mygirl screwed her eyebrows down. "I have a Russian doll?" she asked.

"Sure you do," I said. "I just boxed up all your dolls awhile back when we redecorated your room. I'll find them for you--" I paused, feeling that familiar sense of panic that begins to nibble on the corners of my sternum when I realize I have absolutely NO IDEA where something is. I am the world's worst at squirreling things away, confident at the time that I will remember where I have hidden them, and then promptly forgetting, usually forever. When I die, my kids will be continually finding treasures secreted in the oddest places--"Why is there a set of car keys in the freezer?" they will ask, and then they will answer themselves with a roll of the eyes and a "Oh, you know Mom." I do contend that I come by it honestly--my own mother has an infuriating habit of hiding all her most important papers in the thousands of Country Living magazines that she has collected since 1975.

I went home and forgot that I intended to look for MyGirl's dolls, because I truly had not a clue where to begin searching for her. (Can we say "avoidance tactics," children?) Completely scrubbed it out of my mind . . . until today.

When I put myself down for my three-thirty-on-the-dot nap (if I don't get a nap around that time, I am like the world's crankiest toddler), I actually dreamed that the doll was in a grey tub in the side attic. (We have two attics--one big one and one side one, under the eaves of the addition. I rarely put things in that attic because it is small and awkward to dig around in.) I saw my dream-self opening the door, reaching in, and pulling the tub out. The doll was sitting inside. I woke up and started downstairs. I passed the door to the side attic and remembered the dream. I thought, "What the heck" and opened the door. Inside, at an easy-to-reach distance was a grey tub. I pulled it out and lifted the lid. There was the Russian doll, pretty as you please, waiting for me. I imagine she was thinking something like "Vhat in the vhorld took you so long, voman? I've been languishing in zat attic for AGES. Get me some vodka, qvick."

I admit it--when I found her, I kind of freaked myself out a little. I mean, I watch Spiderman--I know that with great power comes great responsibility, and frankly, I'm just too lazy to be a superhero. If it can't be helped, I suppose the next step will be to get a crystal ball, a headkerchief, and some gaudy bangles--but for my particular brand of clairvoyance, I will need a comfy cot, too. I can be called "Nappy Knows-It" or something like that.

Let's see--where DID I put those car keys? And why do I suddenly feel so darn sleepy?

Yawn.

My Pa

He died today, one day after his eighty-fourth birthday. My mom phoned yesterday and reminded me that is was his birthday, and I called him up to wish him many happy returns. When he answered the phone, he was bright and cheery and kind, like always.

"Happy birthday, Pa," I screamed into the phone, "this is Becky."

"Pansy?" he asked.

"No, it's Becky," I screeched.

"Well, hi hon," he said, "how are you?"

It was a good last conversation. I asked him how his birthday went, and he said fine, he hadn't done much but "stay by the far to keep warm." I agreed that it was miserable cold that day and said the fire was a good place to be. After a few minutes, I told him I loved him, he said he loved me too, and I hung up.

That was a gift, that phone call, and I didn't even know it at the time.

A neighbor went to check on him today and when he didn't answer the door, the neighbor called for help. They found him dead in his chair, and notified the family. When we arrived, he was sitting in his old blue chair, his chin drooped ever-so-slightly down towards his chest, one leg crossed over the other, as usual. His face was so peaceful--he had apparently finished breakfast this morning (we found the skillet and a plate with some left-over eggs in the sink), turned on the lights on his Christmas tree, turned the TV on (and up LOUD) and then slipped into sleep--and out of this realm.

If you would be so kind as to indulge me, here are some things about him that I know:

He is in heaven. He was one 0f those Christians who loved Christ but didn't believe in the church. He was one of the kindest men I ever knew, so I don't think skipping church ever hurt him one bit.

He missed my grandma, who died on her birthday a couple of years ago. He will be buried with a quilt she made especially for him--a quilt with the pattern of donkeys on it. I can only imagine what their day today was like.

He was a simple man who favored overalls, rather than suits. That is the picture I get when I close my eyes and think of him--overalls and purple spider veins in his cheeks. He will be buried in overalls, and I like that.

He had a twinkle in his eye and a saucy sense of humor that often astonished me. He could tell stories that drew you in and held you there--a living historian of the Ozarks. He lived in this area his whole life; everyone around here knew him, and he knew everybody.

He made a wreath a few days ago. Last year he had been too sad to celebrate Christmas very much, but this year he was actually in the mood. He gathered up some grey-green pine branches, some sharply pointed holly leaves, and bright red holly berries, and bound them together with grey duct tape. He put this spray on his kitchen door and it made me laugh through my tears when I saw it today. It reminded me of the time he planted fake poinsettias from the graveyard in a planter by his doorway, because he thought it looked pretty. He was a gentle, sensitive soul, my Pa.

He was a good husband to my Nanny, and nursed her through her last struggle, staying patient and loving to her until the very end. He was a wonderful father to his five children, and they all are shell-shocked as they try to wrap their minds around the fact that they are now orphans. I don't care how old you are when this happens to you, it still hurts.

He was a kind, kind grandfather to his many grand kids and great-grand kids. I never once heard an unkind word from him--whatever we wanted, if it was in his power to give it us, he would, in a heartbeat--this was usually in the form of some kind of sweet treat--vanilla creme cookies were amongst his constant staples. I never bought those cookies for myself, but man, they sure tasted good in his kitchen.

Lord, he was special. And I sure will miss him.

Traditions

This time of the year lends itself to the keeping of (and sometimes reflections on) traditions. Everyone celebrates the holiday in different ways; some are the low-key Christmas types who put a small tree up and slap some sensible items under said tree ("Yes, there is a penny and an orange in your stocking, and the stocking is new too--now you've also got new socks!") and some are the holiday cheermeister types who begin planning for next Christmas on December 26. Most of us fall somewhere comfortably in between those two extremes. My mother is the original cheermeister, and as such, I have grown up believing that Christmas trees are for one purpose and one purpose only: to hold as many ornaments as they can without the branches snapping right off. Since I keep getting more ornaments, my trees also have gotten bigger over the years (we always buy a real one for the living room)--you should see the whopper Casey and Mygirl picked out for this year. Think Chevy Chase whomping off the top of his to make it fit in his living room and you'll be about right.

One of our Christmas traditions has always been to go to the annual Christmas parade in the town next to our own, and then everyone coming to my house for a post-parade party. We began this tradition with our friends, Lori and Chris, when their girls were tiny and Mygirl was barely walking. Those sweet girls of theirs are now in college/high school, as is my own little pumpkin . . . needless to say (Don't you hate that phrase? If it's needless to say, then why say it?) we've been doing this for a few years. I actually tried skipping last year's party and you would have thought I tried to cancel Christmas--everyone was aghast, including Casey. So I powered through and it was, as always, great fun. (I didn't even try to suggest skipping this year.) I made my famous peanut butter fudge, Shan brought her amazing shortbread (and her husband, Jamey, who endures our yearly shindig with amazing forbearance), Lori brought her delightful cheese ball. We ate lots and lots (Rotel dip and chips, sausage balls, little smokies, regular fudge, eggnog, cocoa--oh my groaning gut!) and then played a game. Usually we do Pictionary, but this year, I had a new one called "Would You Rather" (thank you, Glenn Beck, for promoting it on your radio program). It was fun, though we were a little unsure about the challenge portion of the game (right, Trish?) and decided that next time we play, we will just skip the challenge and do the questions. (For example: Would you rather be physically attractive but exude an offensive odor OR be unattractive but have an irresistible smell?) Yeah--those kind of questions.

After everyone left and Casey and I cleaned up (I have always said that you can judge the success of a party based on the mess left behind--and we had a SUC-CESSFUL party, friends) I basked in the warm glow I always feel after our annual post-Christmas parade party--that glow you get from spending time with old friends who love you, no matter what. And so I am taking a personal moment to speak to those friends. (Feel free to skip to the end if you are one of those who are bored during actor acknowledgments during the Oscars. You can start the oh-so subtle music to tell me it's time to shut up, but since it's my blog, I will probably ignore you.)

Shannon, you have been my best friend since college. The only people who know me as well as you do are Casey and my sister. You are the friend who, when we are both very, very old, will remember me not as I am, with my wrinkles and white hair, but as who I was--big-haired and skinny, roaming the campus of JBU in the middle of the night as we searched for Easter eggs and giggled hysterically over the bad pizza Kenny made us. I hope you will keep that me locked in your memory, and I promise, I will keep that you, the one with the wall o'hair, safe too.

Lori and Chris, you are both our friend-friends and our "couple" friends--a rare and precious commodity. I love that we enjoy being together, the four of us, and that in our separate ways, Casey and Chris have their friendship, and Lori and I have ours. I love that Lori and I always pair up when we play games, and we always beat our fellas at whatever we are playing. I also love that they are still willing to play with us anyway. You both have been the parents we have watched and taken cues from when it comes to our own parenting. Your girls are delights, and it has been a privilege to get to watch them grow with you. Your two were Mygirl's first friends, and though Myboy no longer wants to marry your eldest, they both still light up when they hear we are going to be around the K girls. You did a GOOD JOB with those two precious creatures. It delights me that they still want to come over and hang out with us sometimes--dolls, the pair of them.

Trish, you're my newest friend in this bunch, and I love that you are game for anything--even standing in an awkward pose with Mygirl in the game last night. We may be newish friends, but our MK personalities make us old familiars, I think. I look forward to sharing our tradition with you for many, many years to come. And I do believe that Mygirl has claimed you as a true kindred spirit, so there ya go.

Ah, tradition. Without it, the first Saturday in December would be just another day. But it's not. Thankfully, gleefully, hilariously, fully, it's not.