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

WHERE have you BEEN?!

Oh, floating around … 

Visiting family with friends in the Bay area, then again at the beach.  Generally enjoying the weather and the freedom that comes with it.

This week: catching up with the garden, finishing up my grad school course and trying to get my cat to love me again.  In the meantime, enjoy the photos.

A Tale of Two Portraits: Part I

It was the year we had nothing to worry about.  The Year of the Millenium: the year we spent in triumph, between our fear of an electronic meltdown and our fear of a new, unknown threat that would dominate our collective consciousness for at least the next decade.

It was also my last year as a teenager, so of course there were things that could have worried me.  Myself, as per the teenage psyche, and the particulars of my situation. I had left a soft-of boyfriend behind and had plenty of offers in this romantic new kingdom by the sea.  Eventually, of course, the summer would end, and I would have more worries: a semester at a new and different school, hundreds of miles from the tentative friendships I’d formed in my first disastrous turn as a college student.

I didn’t worry, though.  I ate a lot that summer, my first departure from my thin days in Manhattan. Everything was delicious: fresh tomatoes and cucumbers dripping with olive oil, creamy yogurt with sun-ripened fruit or garlicky dill, and the fish — especially the fish, who came to the table dressed in grill marks and lemon or fried crisply, their tiny bodies cracking easily open to reveal a delicate backbone, salty from their morning in the ocean and warm from their recent trip to the deep-fryer.

I drank, too, though never to excess, still tentatively enjoying this freedom.  White table wine, mostly, from the northwest corner of the country and over the border.  The only bar drink I knew how to order: Johnnie Walker Red, on the rocks.  Orange Fanta, lighter and less sweet than I had tasted at home, and rich, dark coffee, stopping just before the sludge at the bottom.

I got a lot of what the natives called “sun therapy,” a translation I loved for its simple logic. When the thermometer climbed above 100, I tried to remember all those nights I had trudged home from the studio in freezing despair, and I stepped out of the shade and spread my arms wide to receive as much heat and light as the therapist would give, hoping it would undo all the rest, too.  I wore tops and dresses without sleeves, and I grew dark enough to pass for a native until I opened my mouth and spilled out broken phrases.  So I favored mysterious silence, unless pressed for an answer.  I smiled a lot.

I spent a lot of time thinking: about what I would do for the day, the summer, the rest of my life.  I rode a lot of buses, but I didn’t read: I watched the people on the buses and outside on the street.  I read at home, works from a strange bookshelf.  I spent several weeks sick in bed with a mysterious fever that hung on tenaciously, and just when (maybe because) I finally decided I was going out anyway, it disappeared.

I saw everything that summer.  In the epicenter of ancient civilization, even the subway tunnels held artifacts, and museums were choked with unorganized displays, piles upon piles of treasures made cheap by their sheer volume.  The churches on every corner were like museums themselves, but with a much more familiar feel: the faces on the walls and the melodies floating through the air felt like old friends, and I often went inside just to light a candle and be still, as much as my mind would allow.

So it was that I found myself, later that summer, on a cruise of the islands with two women I hardly knew at all. They were friends of my host; we decided to travel together out of convenience, but we connected instantly in the world of beaches and crumbling cities, gaudy evening entertainment and nights when the ocean rocked us gently to sleep.

One island visit found us at a church on Sunday morning.  Not just any church: a cave with a three-fold crack in the ceiling where the voice of God had entered and delivered the wildest and most fantastic of dreams.  We sat on tiny, hard benches and listened to part of Matins, but our time was short and we had to steal away after the Evlogetaria and before we wanted to.

On our way out, I spied a doorway and asked Marianne to take my picture there. It was easily a hundred degrees, but I still wore my sweater and long skirt from my trip to the church.  I took off my sunglasses for a moment, so they wouldn’t mar the photo, but the strong morning sun reflected off the dazzling whiteness of the walls around us and nearly blinded me.  I looked down, my eyes almost closed.  My skirt ruffled in the sea breeze.

Marianne snapped the photo, gave the camera back to me, and we hurried on. That was all, but when we returned to the mainland and I saw the picture, I was transfixed by her composition, by the light and holiness of that place.  I posted it on what I suppose was my first blog, a free site where I had written a few journal entries about my travels for family and friends to read.  Everyone loved it, and when Marianne left for home a few days later I sent her the address so we could keep in touch.

There were several more months of those days, months filled with the same thoughts and scenes and dinners and Liturgies and late-night conversations with the dear friends who were so kind to host me for so long.  I had lived alone in a strange city before, but this was the summer I really grew up, and I was especially sorry to see it end.

At home, I struggled to re-adjust to modern American life, with its twin gods of individualism and instant gratification.  I went back to school, and back to work, where I met a man I liked.  Six months later, I thought, “This might be it.”  Six months after that, it was.

Marianne and I did write each other sporadically, and a few months after my wedding I sent word that I was coming to Queens for a day to see the temporary MoMA.  I wanted to have lunch with her; I requested a Greek restaurant for old times’ sake, and when I arrived with my mom she was already there, in a chair against the wall.  We ate and drank and laughed as before, the conversation plunging instantly below the surface and into the depths.

As we picked at our yogurt and honey, she slid an envelope across the table, and a small package.  I opened both: a sweetly heartfelt expression of congratulations and a CD of her musician husband’s latest work.  “Thank you,” I said, touched at her thoughtfulness.  “There’s one more thing,” she said.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be at your wedding, but there was something I thought you might like to have.”

She moved aside, and I saw for the first time the bulky package, wrapped in a black trash bag.  With some difficulty, she passed it to me, and I pulled the top down a couple of inches.  A few vertical lines; shades of white, gray and brown.  I knew instantly.  Still, I gasped when I saw the whole image.  We both did.  The waiter rushed over, alarmed, and stood as stunned as we were.

I don’t remember how I thanked her.  How could I have thanked her?  It was more than just the most valuable piece of art I’d ever owned, or the most personal gift I’d ever received.  It was the eternal gift of a moment that had meant so much more to me than I could ever have expressed in words.  With characteristic calmness, she explained simply that she’d liked the photo, and from my credit on the website remembered it was her composition, so she felt free to paint it.  And once it was finished, she’d thought it really belonged to me.

If you’ve been to my house, you know the portrait hangs next to my piano.  I’ve never framed it; I’ve hardly dared to touch it for fear it might disappear back into a dream again.  Even now, there is hardly a guest who doesn’t ask about it with awe, and every now and then it catches me off guard, my own face in the midst of an image that can bring that whole summer rushing back in a moment.

Road Trips

This month began with a road trip north, to see our dear friend ordained to the Holy Priesthood:

Boston was beautiful, and it was a special treat for me to relive tulip season.  The company, of course, was the best.

Now, at the end of the month (how is it over already?!) we are heading south for a family wedding.  I anticipate pimento cheese, pine trees and lots of sweating.  You’ll hear about it when we return, I’m sure!

I can’t go on a road trip without remembering the many, many times my saintly parents made long trips with three of us cavorting in the back seat.  They had many weapons against the twin enemies of fighting and carsickness.  Here are some of my favorites:

• Prizes: this was an all-purpose term for something unexpected and cool, anything from M&Ms to a vending-machine rubber ball.  Sometimes they staggered them, so we got something small for every 100 miles without a fight.  Sometimes we had to be good for the WHOLE trip in return for a bigger reward.  I most vividly recall the time they gave us each a pile of dimes; when we started to complain or snipe at each other, without a word they simply removed one from the pile.  That might have been the most effective of all!
• Songs: although we used to lament loudly about the bluegrass or sea chanties or Celtic folk music, the truth is that these experiences helped us all to be more well-rounded appreciators of music.  When I started to listen to my own music, my parents let me control the soundtrack; one year I made a mix tape of 70’s rock and my parents competed to see who could name the song first.  (Little did they know that their future son-in-law could blow the whole family out of the water in that department!)  We also enjoyed making up our own songs.  My sister was the undisputed champion of this activity, coining both a Maryland state song and innumerable verses to the Arabic Trisagion.
• Spankings: Sometimes the threat was enough.  Other times, they had to pull over and follow through on it.  Either way, it worked, though the atmosphere in the car was decidedly subdued and sniffly for the next hour or so.
• Games: Because we sometimes got carsick, we rarely read or played inside games, but we loved looking for license plates and playing the alphabet game (pick a category and try to come up with a word beginning with each letter.)  We also had familiar landmarks on the most common journey, to Atlanta to visit the cousins: the building in Richmond that you think you’ll be able to reach out and touch from the overpass, the signs to South of the Border, and of course the Gaffney Peach.
• Dramamine: One year they tried this as an anti-nausea medication.  They discovered it had the wonderful side effect of putting us to sleep.  After that, we were often given a dose “just in case.” Hey, you do what you have to!
• Snacks: These might actually be tied with prizes for everyone’s favorite thing about road trips.  My mom always packed the best lunches, and for car trips she’d go all out, with carefully-wrapped, customized sandwiches, crunchy snacks, fruit, drinks and always, always, something sweet at the very end.  My dad doesn’t have quite her foresight and planning instincts, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm: last year when we drove to JFK to pick up my sister from Korea, he brought a haul that included economy-size tubs of nuts, cheese crackers and lunch meat.  And SEVEN yogurts.  That last item has become one of our favorite jokes since then.

Time to go pack my own bag: trail mix, beef jerky and an iPod.  Some things do get simpler over time!

New Orleans in Photos

Returned Monday from a lovely long weekend in Nawlins, during which the city kindly suspended its normal humidity for sunny skies and cool breezes.  The nightlife, however, was as it always is: fun and a little crazy.

More here, along with brief explanations.