The Christmas Letter

As long as I have a hand to write with and a tongue to moisten the seal, I will try my darndest to send out real Christmas cards — the old-fashioned, tree-killing, carbon-producing kind.  I just like the feel of a card in your hands: it’s a physical connection between you and someone you haven’t seen in a long time.  I’d much rather meet you for lunch, of course, but we can’t always do that.  Hence the cards.  This year’s came from England. See how much I love you?

On to the wrap-up.  2011 began with snow on snow on snow: quite a lot, though not nearly as much as last year.  Snow is usually accompanied by snow days.  Cinnamon rolls optional. 

When things had thawed out a bit, we headed north for a brewery pilgrimage with some friends and family.  Here’s us with my parents on the beautiful, chilly Delaware beach:

However, I happen to prefer this photo as representative of my nearest and dearest:

Spring brought a new friend and beautiful colors to compliment the Little Red House:

We enjoyed a brief jaunt to Boston, where our dear friend Stephen was elevated to the priesthood and Rob made a new friend (no, I don’t mean the duck!)

And scarcely had we returned than we flew south for a whirlwind week in New Orleans, where we were treated to uncharacteristically fine weather and characteristically fine food and drink.  Matthew was definitely the star of this trip — he wheeled and dealed at the antiques market, doubled back in an ingenious move for a second batch of beignets at Cafe du Monde, and almost left his wife for a 50-year-old bartender.  

But in the end he stayed.  Why wouldn’t he?!

We enjoyed a quick weekend in the Carolinas, where Rob’s beautiful cousin was married: 

What’s that?  You don’t believe I was really in the American South?

Ham, peanuts and BB guns.  Yes, sir.  And the views across the fields were spectacular. 

As the summer began in earnest, I enjoyed writing weekly about the food from our CSA.  You can read these columns, as well as quite a few others, at Catonsville Patch.  

We also welcomed our brother Zach for an extended visit.  Zach presided over a series of dinners that started big (The Goat Meal) and ended bigger (a Georgian-style supra for 13 guests that lasted about six hours, with almost that many courses.)  In between, we steamed live crabs for the first time: 

Six hours is also the amount of time we waited in line for front-row spots when U2 played in Baltimore.  Totally worth it.

Once I had recovered from my swoon, we had a long visit with the West Coast, seeing the sights, visiting family and playing with friends.

And by “playing with friends” I mean we sat in our hotel room in beautiful Sonoma for embarrassingly long lengths of time, playing simultaneous games of “Words with Friends” on our iPhones.  Hey, it’s Apple Country. 

Somehow, we managed to harvest a few things from our sadly-neglected garden: I blame the beautiful raised beds my dad built for us, without which I think we would have only had weeds. 

More guests — human and feline — followed by a quick trip to Atlanta to claim our inheritance and gallavant with cousins. Cat games, long dinners and the best Elton John impersonator I’ve ever seen. 

Labor Day brought one last chance to enjoy the sun — this time at beautiful Lake Eufala in Oklahoma.  Our BFF’s hosted, assisted by a pack of semi-wild dogs that often outnumbered us. 

School began again, and we buckled down: business as usual for Rob, who’s working on some landscape projects as well as teaching architectural design, and one last semester of grad school plus high school for Emily, who is almost finished with her MAT and continues to teach English at a private Catholic school. We took a break in October to accompany the same wonderful family (and the same semi-wild dogs)  to Lewes in celebration of Jamie’s 30th birthday.  Long walks on the beach, light sightseeing and an incredible late-night bonfire: 

The fall wound down with a few great concerts and a day trip to Bear Run, Pennsylvania, where Rob took his students to see some architecture and Emily tagged along for the scenery.

And we saved the last month of the year to tackle two daunting projects: a new kitchen and a new member of the family.  This is Mishka, the stray who whined and chewed her way into our hearts.

 

Kitchen photos will have to follow in a week or so.  And now, back to Christmas preparations: wrapping, decorating and practicing music.  For the first time I can remember, we’re celebrating Christmas on Christmas this year: church in the morning before returning home for breakfast, presents and a day of family traditions.

How we wish you could be here with us — and you are, in our thoughts and prayers.

Love, Rob and Emily

Keep on the Sunny Side

Cats just know where they belong.

I Spy With My Little Eye

A very dedicated mommy!



Rob gets credit for spotting the nest and anchoring the branches to the porch with twine so it wouldn't blow out during the high winds of our recent storms.  She's been there for a week straight now, so I have to assume something's going on under there.  Hoping for sweet peeping noises very soon.



In the meantime, she's very calmly waiting it out.

Cinnamon Rolls

Snow days call for two different types.

A Sense of Place

To speak of domesticity is to describe a set of felt emotions, not a single attribute.  Domesticity has to do with family, intimacy, and a devotion to the home, as well as with a sense of the house as embodying -- not only harboring -- these sentiments.

Witold Rybczynski, Home

As he so often does, my husband said it best.  We were wearily riding the escalator to the departure gate at the Las Vegas airport, not looking forward to the redeye flight (complete with 4 AM layover) that would bring us home.  Too tired for conversation, we just stared at each other. Then he spoke:

“I’m glad this is our last trip for awhile.”

I nodded.  This was the summer we never saw coming.  We sure should have: when I started tallying up days, it turned out that the two months from the last day of school to yesterday, when we changed clothes in the airport bathroom and went straight to a badly-needed Liturgy, were two-thirds travel.  And even that ratio doesn't reveal all: between eight trips, some piggybacked but all in different places, we were home for only a couple of days at a time: just long enough to unpack and repack before setting out again.  It got progressively harder to leave the garden, now in a sad state of neglect; the cat, who misses us enough to lose a few ounces each time we leave; and the house, that bottomless pit of projects and responsibilities and failures and hopes.

The afternoon before our last trip, not quite a week ago, I was trying to finish up one more project, rolling the last coat of paint on the upstairs hallway.  I don't know if I was more shocked when I suddenly burst into tears or when I couldn't stop for several hours, during which time I stubbornly refused to curtail the task and stood painting and sobbing while the cat yowled at me in alarm.  (We must have made a pretty pathetic tableau, and if any of her Prozac had been left in the bottle I think I would have given us both a dose.)

This physical reaction to mental stress can be partly explained by my personality -- a strong introvert, I love social time but it takes a lot out of me, and all of these trips involved near-constant time with family and friends -- but I also think there is something in each of us that craves the comfort of routine and a sense of place.  At home the Tupperware cupboard may be disorganized, but you know where it is, and given a minute or two and maybe one cathartic swear word, you can find the lid to the container that's just the right size to hold the soup that will be tomorrow's lunch.  In another place, you don't much care what happens to the leftovers because you didn't give up your afternoon to prepare dinner; and even if you are in favor of saving them, there's no fridge in the hotel room -- or you don't want to trouble your host by using hers.

That may be it, in fact -- the responsibilities about which we complain endlessly are dear to us because they symbolize our investment of time, energy and love.  It's freeing to throw a towel on the floor and say, "I don't care!" and know that someone else will pick it up and wash it; but after a few weeks it's simply an empty gesture, and all those "I don't care!"s add up to a person that really doesn't.  I don't want to be her.  I don't even like her.  Finally home, now, I am grateful for these tiny domestic tasks; with each one, I return a little more to the center of who I am.