Tradition- Change it or Lose It

            Moving my foot from the brake to the gas pedal, I nudged the car forward another foot and a half. The vehicles in front, behind and beside me did the same. The sandwich shop on our right was actually open. I tried to talk my husband into getting out and buying us all something. After all, when his purchase was complete, we would probably be no more than a couple of yards further down the road. Stuck on the freeway after a terrible car crash? Leaving a Razorback football game? Wrong and wrong. This was actually a historic occasion. It was the last time ever that we traveled to see the Osborne’s Lightmare on Cantrell Road in Little Rock.

          The first part of that particular Christmas had been very traditional. Presents opened, a light meal for lunch at home (our big feast was always on Thanksgiving), grandparents on their way back home. Then, we drove to the big city for one last look at Christmas lights, including a stop at the State Capitol, which was festooned in its usual tasteful style. Up to this day, I had always thought that the people who lived near Jennings and Mitzi were a bunch of Scrooges. What could be so bad about over-decorating your house? As I suffered through that line with  thousands of other fools, I loudly encouraged my loved ones to please enjoy this. I was far too concerned with staying the correct distance from the bumper in front of me to feel any holiday cheer.

          Two years ago, we visited that same light display, now relocated to a special area of the Disneyworld theme parks. The weather that day in Florida had been distinctly non-winterish, but after sundown, there was a cool breeze as we walked past movie-set storefronts, collecting soft soap flakes on our nose and eyelashes. The relocated Little Rock lights gleamed proudly, dancing to perfectly timed Christmas carols. Oohs and aahs in many different languages emanated from joyful people, all on foot instead of in cars. We were proud to be from Arkansas, but even prouder that the spectacular display was now settled in its perfect home.

          I re-arranged the line of Christmas stockings on our mantle one more time. With the addition of our newest grandson, things were getting very crowded. I could hear the unasked question from my husband. “Why are you doing this when none of them will be here to see it anyway?”  This newest little one was too young for travelling, and I had been recovering from surgery when he was born. I couldn’t wait to hold him when we headed to his house for Christmas. But, we had had hung stockings for every member of our family since before we had a mantle. I was determined to continue the tradition.

          A few days before we loaded up the car to head down I-30, crafty Grandpa created two wooden ladders and painted them to match the trim in our living room. They provided the perfect spot for all of the glittery stockings, one on each side of the fireplace, with room to expand in the future.        

          Christmas Eve has been the time for holiday gatherings for my husband’s family as long as he can remember, so his sister and her fiancé still come over each year for dinner and relaxing. Last year, the plan was that the nearby kids and grands would come from Conway County to our house after they opened their presents at home on Christmas morning. If you remember, Bing Crosby’s favorite song became a harsh reality last year. As we watched the weather reports on the twenty-fourth, it became apparent that our White Christmas would be striking with a vengeance. There would most likely be very little traveling going on anywhere in the state. My smile was sagging more and more as the evening wore on. Finally, my very astute husband asked, “We’re going to have to go to Morrilton tonight, aren’t we?”

          Trying to be polite to our guests, I removed the appropriate Christmas stockings from their spots on the ladder, and began loading a box with the presents that remained under the tree. Somewhere around 8:00 ish, we headed north, and spent the last few hours before Santa’s  annual visit in front of our grandkids’ Christmas tree, soaking up their smiles before rushing them off to bed and beginning our trek back home.

           Over the years, my Mom went along with our crazy schedule as much as she could. But, on Christmas Day for the last few years, she insisted on taking us out to dinner. “I don’t want you cooking,” she would say. “We’ll go out, just the three of us.”  There are very few places open on that special day. Her choice was a restaurant that is more famous for breakfasts, and in particular pancakes. Their Holiday dinner fare, to be honest, left something to be desired. But, oh what fellowship, what joy filled that unlikely celebration. That is the new tradition I will miss the most this year.

          Treasure each moment, and adapt as needed. God has a perfect plan for this, and every day in our lives.

Atta-boys Appreciated

There it was, matted on a poster-board, taped up on the gleaming tile wall of my elementary school, adorned with a blue ribbon. I think the title was something like Around the World in a Few Minutes. I don’t recall any lines from this poem which had been awarded first place for the fifth grade at Westside Elementary School that year, but I can still feel my heart swelling with pride as I stood there, enjoying the recognition for something I loved to do. Over the years, I didn’t collect a lot of “hardware”. Trophies were usually reserved for the kids with athletic prowess.  But being recognized for my God given ability to place the right words in the right places has always given me satisfaction.

I remember the first time my husband bought into my dedication to writing. We were attending an awards banquet in Eureka Springs. I received four second place prizes that night. He didn’t even mind the hugs I got from the handsome cowboy at the podium, because they were each accompanied by fifteen dollars.  Up to that point, my life partner had merely tolerated my penchant for prose. After all, Contemporary Inspirational Women’s Fiction is not his preferred genre. But that night, he was fully on board as my biggest cheerleader and business manager. (He kept up with the tidy little pile of certificates and checks.)

The Cub Scout Pinewood Derby has provided a venue for competition for two generations of our family. Creating a small race car out of a block of wood is satisfying in itself. Boys and their dads working together, designing and handcrafting, with moms and sisters advising about decoration provide lasting memories. But, for the boy, it’s all about race day. Never handled as a single elimination, the family’s proud creation gets many chances to prove its worth before awards are handed out at the end of the day.

Our oldest grandson learned some hard lessons when he designed a Pinewood Derby vehicle that resembled a boat, then one that looked like a school bus. When he finally got the race car idea conquered, he fared much better on race day. Though the trophy for best design may be just as large, it’s usually small consolation, and youngsters leave that day vowing to learn more about aerodynamics and equal distribution of weight. There is only one trophy they covet. The one for the fastest, unbeatable car.  Our middle son and his dad have an unbeatable car in their past. After all these years, it still makes them beam to talk about it.

While many high school football fans were stretching their legs, refreshing their popcorn and soft drinks at halftime, my hubby and I were watching the culmination of hours  of intense practice as the band performed each week. Like-minded parents squirmed on the hard bleachers in anticipation, and we cheered with every bit as much fervor as those whose main focus was the game.

Along with providing support for the teams, the bands have their own competitions, and we accompanied our musicians to many over the years. We learned that the hardest thing to do was to remain respectful as the second place band was announced. You see, if you knew your band was in the finals, and the fifth, fourth and third places had been awarded, that left only two possibilities. If you weren’t awarded the runner-up prize, then Wooo-Hooooo!!! Our esteemed band directors had cautioned the students to remain seated, keep your hoops and hollers quiet while the also-rans accepted their slightly smaller trophy. The band parents, however, were not as easy to control.

The “hardware” that came along with first place usually took two students to hoist in the air. Some of the best memories, though, occurred on the way home, as we rode those luxurious school buses (ahem) back to our hometown. The kids were very good at celebrating, and you would be amazed at how well they could sing together. They are musicians after all.

 One year in particular, the football team had been doing pretty well, and the local custom was for the police department to escort the team home with lights and sirens as they came home from each victory on the road. When the band buses had kept up, we sometimes got in on the tail end of this welcome. As we arrived in Saline County  that night after cheering through the announcement of both second and first place at the band competition, we were all a little surprised to see a policeman sitting at the city limits of our favorite town, waiting for us.  Heads popped out of bus windows as we realized that with no football team around for miles, our kids were being given the hero’s welcome.  Initial bedlam gave way to a hush as they absorbed the honor. Cars full of people along the streets waved and honked. All of the hard work and dedication suddenly became worth it.

Too much praise might lead to becoming full of yourself. But, just the right amount bolsters you for the job ahead. Let the atta-boys continue!!