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Hearing Private Universe -- Crowded House
Weekend Assignment #90: Holiday Memories
In all the hustle and bustle of the holidays, it's good to take a moment to remember that this time of year is full of wonderful memories. And that brings us to this week's Weekened Assignment:
Weekend Assignment #90: Share a treasured holiday memory. If it happened during the holiday season (which means, basically, from the the day after Thanksgiving to the end of the Bowl Games), it's eligible.
Extra credit: Fruitcake: Ever, you know, had any?
As you know, the idea is to write up the Weekend Assignment in your own blog or journal, and then come back here to leave a link in the comments so everyone can click through to visit your site and read your story. It's all about the links, baby!
I'll do my extra credit first: As far as I know, I've never actually eaten fruitcake. I received one. I honesty can't say what happened to it. It may still be in my possession, somewhere in storage. It's hard to say.
Now, as far as my favorite holiday memory, there's no contest: It's the birth of my daughter, just before Christmas. As it would happen, the day after Athena was born, I wrote her a letter. I'll share it with you now. Warning: You'll want to get the tissues in advance.
Got those tissues? Okay. Here it is:
Christmas Eve, 1998 --
Dear Athena:
When you were born, God decided that it should snow. Not much, just enough to cover the ground with a powdery white crust that terrified drivers. Snow! They said. I better drive five miles an hour! And they did, somehow still managing to tip their minivans and sport utility vehicles into light poles, highway medians, mail boxes, and each other. It took me the better part of an hour to drive the five miles home from the hospital in which you were born, watching grown men and women slip and slide in their vehicles in front of me. I of course, drove perfectly. As you grow, Athena, you will discover that I do everything perfectly. Do not listen to those who would tell you your dad is a raging doofus. They are sad, sad people, even though most of them are among my best of friends.
You can't blame most ofthose people for being upset with the snow on the ground, Athena. They didn't know what it meant. You see, when you were born, the world was changed, permanently, forever. One minute you were not in this world, the next you were. This was a momentus occassion, one that should have been marked. God, being God, decided to note it in the appropriate way: Changing the world. One minute there was no snow on the ground, the next there was (well, technically, it accumulated. But it did so while your mother was laboring to bring you into this world. By the time you arrived, it covered as far as the eye could see).
I think God's choice was an appropriate one. Sure, he could have gone and done something flashy. Like a star in the sky. But he's already done that. And by all reports you have to actually be a blood relation for Him to make that sort of effort. But the snow was right: It was the first snow of the season, so it was new. It doesn't snow here often, so it was unusual, remarkable. There was just a little, so it was fragile. And as it blanketed the ground to the edges of the horizon, it was beautiful. It made everything else beautiful. It was, in short, like you.
You were not pleased to be brought into this world, Athena. From the moment you hit the air, you loudly complained to everyone in earshot. Hey, you said. I was comfortable in there! No one told me about this. I was not consulted. I was pleased to hear it. Both sides of your family tree have a strong sense of self, Athena, that is frequently confused with stubbornness. Your displeasure about being out of the loop on this whole birth thing is a good indication that the family traits are well in evidence. It won't make raising you easy, I'm sure. But it will make it interesting, which, in the end, is a better state of affairs.
Besides, Athena, take it from me: It's really not such a bad place. Yes, yes, it has wars, and hunger, and pain, and bad TV. But that's why you have parents. We're going to do what we can to protect you from those things (ironically, it'll be the bad TV that's going to be the hardest to save you from. If I'm lucky, the first you'll hear of the Teletubbies, Barney and Rugrats will be when you're a teenager). But it's also aplace where wonderful things can and do happen, best evidenced by your own birth. I think you'll be happy here. We're going to try to make you happy.
Athena, I'm just rambling. It's been less than a full day since your birth, and still my emotions are so jumbled I hardly know what to do with myself. Writing is how I try to sort them out, but they're resisting. All I feel, all I have felt since you've been born, is an enduring sense of joy. After you were born, the nurses wisked you to your birthing station, where they did the things they had to do: Put air in your face so you would pink up (you were born a rather striking shade of magenta), put the band on you so you wouldn't be confused with one of the five other babies who shared your birthday, inked your feet for footprints, and so on. After they were done with that, they wrapped you tight in three blankets (which prompted me to turn to your mother and say, Congratulations, you've given birth to a burrito). And then you were handed to me.
Oh, Athena. Words don't come for what I felt then. Here you were. Here you are -- my daughter, the work of mine and your mother's conjoined souls. All I could do was cry, cry and hold my head against your mother's hand. It was overwhelming. It still is. I try to find the words that express everything I felt -- that I am feeling, even as I write this -- and I fail. I fail spectacularly. It doesn't translate in the world of words. None fit. Except for these: Athena Marie. Your name. And the word: Welcome.
Welcome, Athena. Welcome to this world, to our home, to our love. Welcome to everything. Your mother and I are so happy to see you. We're so happy. I thank God and your mother for you. The snow on the ground only told us what we already knew: Everything is changed. Welcome Athena. Welcome.
Welcome.
Your turn to share -- get those memories up on your blog or journal, and then come back here to leave a link.Written by johnmscalzi Blog about this entry |
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Another late entry, concerning mysteriously disappearing outdoor lights.
http://silkendrum.blogspot.com/2005/12/469-lights-action-sq uirrels.html
~~Silk -
Fashionably late...but at least I have arrived...LOL
I didn't answer the extra credit in my entry but its a simple one for me....no....never had fruitcake....not likely to either....LOL
http://journals.aol.com/trinityodematrix/SillyMe/entries/33 1 -
Ok..here it is....a Christmas memory or two...:)
Maria
http://journals.aol.com/gotomaria/TheLittleThings/entries/1 048
http://journals.aol.com/gotomaria/TheLittleThings/ for some Jingle Bell Rock! -
as promised, today, Monday, Decemebr 19 I post my answer to your assignment, John along with happy birthday greetings to my daughter, Holly Austa!
http://adventuresinjuggling.blogspot.com/2005/12/another-de layed-weekend-meme.html
you'll be amazed how time flies by 18 years worth in one post!
Laura
12/20/05 7:42 AM
Here is another that might have some interest. The party was fun and it sure brightened up the Holidays! Two days in a row.
http://journals.aol.com/symph
The Journal is in the editorial style and covers everything from life on the farm to my symphony compositions and politics too. My web site for symphony is:
http://www.symphonybyenglefie
Dick Englefield