Decorating the top one third of the tree (Melissa Robbins)

Unlike Rox, my two sisters and I were the only grandchildren on one side of the family, but that didn’t stop the fun.  Most of my favorite Christmas memories were at my grandparents’ house in the beautiful mountains of North Carolina.  We would pile into our family station wagon and drive down from D.C. to visit them. 

This is me at my grandparents' house.  At first, I wasn't sure which house this way until I noticed the carpet.  My grandmother, Mama Ruth would cook a feast.  Turkey AND ham.  The best green beans in the world and creamed corn from their own garden.  Melissa Pickles.  Coconut cake and her signature sugar cookies.  Pecan Pie.  They also had these awesome soft peppersticks.  Just this year, I found them at a store locally.  I could never find them!  My kids love the candy as much as I do.  Also Reese gave me a jar of her pickles which are the same kind my grandmother made (Melissa Pickles).  I just might be able to make Mama Ruth’s cheeseball that hasn’t been made in sixteen years.  Her pickles were the secret ingredient.   This year, my parents, one sister, and her boyfriend are coming here.  They'll be so surprised. 

On Christmas Eve, we piled back into the station wagon and drove around to look at the Christmas lights. 

This is me and my grandfather dressed as Santa.  

When we were older, we visited the Biltmore House looking gorgeous all decked out for Christmas and the Grove Park Inn and their amazing gingerbread houses.  

My other grandparents lived in Atlanta, GA.  This picture was taken there.  I recognize the curtains.  I loved that dress.  The city looked so pretty at Christmas.  There, we had one cousin, a boy.  We played with all his Legos.  Something we didn’t have at home.  My grandmother worked at Woolworth’s and one year she scored the toy of the year, Cabbage Patch Kids back in October.  I was convinced after seeing the craziness on the TV about the dolls, I wouldn’t get one.  Imagine my surprise.

Now that I’m grown and have four kids of my own, I want my kids to have fun Christmas memories.  We attend the Christmas Eve service at church, pile into the minivan to look at Christmas lights, sing Christmas songs, and make gingerbread cookies.  When my youngest was almost one, we were the Holy family and Gwinn starred as baby Jesus.  The future actress stole the show with her applauding loudly after the songs, waving and shouting, “Hello, how you?” when the shepherds, angels, and wise men showed up.   She had the crowd rolling with laughter. 

My three oldest kids helped me decorate our tree this year and we continued the tradition of putting most of the ornaments on the top one third of the tree so Gwinn wouldn’t break them.  She has since removed all the ones from the bottom.  My tree hasn’t had ornaments on the bottom of the Christmas tree since my first kid could crawl. 

Merry Christmas to you all!  Now go make memories of your own. 

Christmas Memories

Although I'm adopted, I've always been fascinated by my mother's family, because they were the center of my winter holidays when I was growing up.

My great-great-grandparents came to America from Bavaria, Germany, in 1886 and settled near a small town southwest of Wichita with their three children.  They were farmers who spoke no English but soon learned the ways of their new home.  A fourth child was born seven years later.  Two generations later, my grandmother was the second of seven children.  It was that generation that I remember, although my grandmother died when I was six months old, as did my great-grandfather, two of her sisters married and lived near the small town.  It was to their houses and those of their children that we spent our Thanksgiving and Christmases.

My great-grandparents and their seven children

An average winter holiday included 20 of us, and my fondest memories were at my Great-aunt Dorothy's house, the youngest of the seven children.  She and her husband lived on a farm southwest of town in a house that was built in the 1890's.  Uncle Milt (her husband) was born in that house in 1900, and they raised their two daughters there.  When everyone got together, whether there or at Great-aunt Lucy's house or cousins Kenneth & June, NOISE was the word of the day, quickly followed by FOOD.  My mother was always in charge of the turkey, and I remember waking up on Thanksgiving to watch the parades and on Christmas to see what Santa brought with the smell of roasting turkey throughout the house.  After packing up the presents for the family, we'd head out for the long trip to the country.  You see, it was twenty-five miles at the most, and the drive took just over half an hour, but to a small child, it was a long journey to sleep through.

We averaged twenty family members who gathered each holiday, with sometimes more when cousins would come from far away or someone would bring a boyfriend.  After dinner the grown-ups would gather around the big table and play Pitch, a card game, for hours, while those of us in the younger set would play outside or with new Christmas toys.  (One year Santa brought me a microscope, so we pricked our fingers and watched the squiggles in our blood.) I don't remember ever watching television or it ever being on.  The grown-ups' card games generated the most noise, with good-natured arguing and laughing.  When my cousins and I were older, Aunt Dorothy would let us use an extra wooden-legged card table, and we'd make it talk.

You've never heard of a table talking?  It's based on the idea of a Ouija board.  Four of us girls would sit at the table and place our hands flat on top of it.  Then we'd start chanting, "Up table, up!" while (great) Uncle Sterl would make fun of us--and the table would rise a few inches off the floor.  We'd ask a question of the table, giving instructions on how to answer (1 knock for yes, 2 for no or knocks for numbers or letters), and the table would tip on two legs, then drop down to knock and tell us what we wanted to know.  (Just so you know it wasn't only my crazy family who did this, a good friend in Texas has done the same.)

Evening would come, and the card games would stop, while the men (all farmers except my dad) drove home to do chores.  Dessert was enjoyed (again), then the games would continue.  Small children would fall asleep in the laps of mothers and fathers or curl up in a chair in the long, quiet living room.  It was always dark when we packed up to go home, tired from the excitement but filled with the happy feeling that only good company and family can provide.

 My great-aunts and uncles, my aunt and uncle, and my parents are gone.  The big family Christmases dwindled and came to a close when my generation came of age and started their own families and began sharing holidays with their in-laws.  Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Milt's two-story white Victorian still stands at the curve of the county road, but belongs to someone else now.  But it will always be a place of happy memories, so much so that I used it as the backdrop for my upcoming June 2013 book, DESIGNS ON THE COWBOY.

Christmas has changed many times since those days spent in the country with relatives of all ages.  Sometimes we're lucky and traditions continue.  When they don't, we find ways of making new ones while putting the old ones aside.  But even when they're changed or gone, we still keep the memories of them in our hearts.

Wishing you all a wonderful holiday season, full of love, joy, laughter, and the very best in life.   

My Top Five Writing Influences (Melissa Robbins)

5.  Men in Uniform – Stop giggling.  It’s not what you think.  Okay, maybe a little, but I get so inspired when I read stories of the brave men and women who fought during WW2.  My Wren story came about when I read about wireless WAAFs in Scotland.  This dashing fellow is Sid, an amazing Royal Canadian Air Force pilot, who was an ace and awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and Bar.  His ‘wolves’ were some of the best pilots in the war.  He crashed into the sea in 1943 soon after achieving the rank of Wing Commander.  Sid wasn’t married that I found, but I wonder if he had a girlfriend.  Was he ever in love with a pretty nurse or WAAF?  It’s those ‘what ifs’ that writers love so much. 

  4.  Bookstores – When I was a kid, my parents, avid readers, always took me to this amazing used bookstore called The Book Alcove.  The shelves were so chaotic, it was like a maze.  I LOVED it!  If you Google “Book Alcove” and Maryland, you’ll find a youtube video of the store and you will see what I mean.  Just imagine what it would be like as a child in that store.  Walking through a bookstore inspires me.  It's a shame so many stores are closing.  I see all those books and wonder if my book will ever grace those shelves.  I immediately want to rush home and work on my story. 

3.  Books – Reading as always inspired me to write.  After reading Treasure Island, I became obsessed with pirates.  In junior high school, I started, but never finished, a time travel pirate YA.  A critique partner thinks I should go back to it.  Who can resist a handsome young blond pirate?  What is it with me and blond heroes?!  I also wanted to write a sequel to Treasure Island where Long John Silver returns and drags Jim, a 20 something guy, back to the island for more treasure and adventure.  Of course, I’m  Annie, the granddaughter/niece/daughter of Captain Flint is Jim’s love interest, not that he could handle the fine American lady who hides pistols under her petticoats when she isn’t sneaking around in breeches and carrying a sabre.

In high school, I started reading Agatha Christie and my love for mysteries was born.  I created a Scottish whodunit with ghosts and a family curse.  Didn’t finish that one either.  :0( 

2.  My grandfather – Comer aka Papa Steve was an awesome man and I adored having him as my grandfather.  The grandkids enjoyed his silliness and loved it when his mischievousness got him ‘in trouble’ with my grandmother.  I imagine my love and obsession with WW2 and the 30’s and 40’s is from listening to his stories.  Papa Steve didn’t have to fight in the war.  He was so good at his job in a furniture factory that the government wanted him to stay, but Comer enlisted in the Army infantry anyway.  He fought in Italy for over a year before getting injured by shrapnel in the neck and sent home.  It’s funny to me how much Papa Steve, a blue-eyed, naughty, motorcycle riding, southern blond with a preference for brunettes is like my character, Jack.  (Not that my grandmother would have EVER rode his motorcycle.)  My grandfather even sent my grandmother coded messages using bible references.  My Jack would be impressed.

1.  My critique partners – As previously mentioned above, I wrote stories since childhood, but I never told anyone I was writing.  It was a secret passion of mine I kept hidden from the rest of the world.  I don’t think my parents even knew.  I became a MUCH better writer when I started showing my work to fellow writers who encouraged and helped me perfect the craft.

A Quick Note (Rox Delaney)

Reese is busy with family visiting for a couple of weeks, so she's been excused from blogging this month. I'm going to miss her usual humor, but family is much more important.

Our blog turned two years old on Friday!  For all the WARA members who have participated during that time, pat yourselves on the back and have some chocolate!  And thanks to all of our visitors for stopping in over the past two years, too. You've made our blog even more special. ☺

Not only is this month the blog birthday, but it's also WARA's anniversary.  We'll be celebrating it at our next meeting on April 10, so there's a lot for us to be thankful for this month.  Here's hoping April is a great month for everyone! 

Traditions (Rox Delaney)

This has been the month when traditions seem to really begin to settle in.  For some, Halloween kicks off the season that quickly slides into Thanksgiving, and then rushes off to into Christmas and end of the year celebrations.  Is it any wonder we find ourselves exhausted?

My memories of some things reach back to when I was three years old.  (Funny how I can't remember what happened two days ago!)  It's been almost six decades since I was that age, so I've seen traditions shift and change, many times.  I expect to continue to watch them for a few more years.

My earlier blog post this month was about Thanksgivings (and Christmases) when I was a child and visiting my great-aunts' homes for the holidays.  Those traditions lasted through my high school years, although we did move closer and didn't have to drive what I'd thought as a child was hours and hours.  But as the elders of the family began to pass away, and those my age began to grow into adults, new traditions were made.  I married, and my husband's family attended Thanksgiving at his aunt and uncle's house.  Each year we went there, along with my parents, who had been invited, since I was their only child.  I still missed my cousins, but I was a grown-up and fell into those grown-up ways, taking my own prepared dishes to share with husband's family.

Trouble brewed in the family, and we stopped going to his aunt and uncle's, and we no longer spent the holidays with his family.  My mother brought the turkey to our house in the big electric roaster, and I fixed the rest of Thanksgiving dinner.  By that time we had three small daughters, so the table was full.  Even after my dad's death, we continued with this "new" tradition.

Along came a divorce, meaning more major changes. My mother still fixed the turkey, but holiday meals were with my grown and nearly grown children and often included their friends, female and male.  Add one granddaughter to the mix, and the family grew.  Add two more, and two husbands, and we expanded even larger.  I started making the main dishes, and daughters filled in with others.  My mother has been gone for a couple of Thanksgivings, and we've again shifted traditions to suit our growing family.  There's now me, four daughters, two sons-in-law, one SO/fiance, five grandkids and one step-granddaughter.  Sometimes we get together for our dinner late on Thanksgiving evening.  Some years we've enjoyed our dinner on Saturday.  This year we happened to do it on Thanksgiving afternoon.  What a novel idea!  And this year, one son-in-law offered to fry a turkey.  It was so good, I think I'll pass the turkey job to him from now on! 

The one thing I learned along the way, and I'm sure others here have to, was to not make my daughters feel they must spend their holidays with me.  We always manage to find a time when we can all be together, even if one or two can only make late dessert.  Our guessing game of where and when we'll have dinner has actually become a new tradition!  And I'm sure there'll be more. 

Blessings to everyone during this holiday season, and I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving!!

My Most Memorable Thanksgiving (Penny Rader)

My most memorable Thanksgiving was the morning my lovely, vivacious daughter, Emily, came into the world. Because we had a little bit of advance warning, my mom moved Thanksgiving dinner to the following Sunday, so I could be there.

On the way from the hospital to our delayed T-day dinner (yes...back then they didn't kick you out of the hospital within 24-48 hours), a severe migraine hit me fast and hard. Mom already had my other children at her house. Unable to function, I had to leave my newborn daughter with her. I knew Emily and the kids were in excellent hands and that my entire family was there to help, but I still felt like the worst mommy in the world.

My husband drove me home, which at that time was only a few short miles from my parents' house, helped me with my prescription, tucked me into bed...and went after some propane. Yep. The propane tank had emptied and the house was freezing. I buried my head under the covers and let the medication do its thing. Many hours later we went back for the kids. I snuggled up with my new baby and hoped she would forgive me for abandoning her on her first day out of the hospital.

This year Emily's birthday is three days before Thanksgiving, but the day after my family is having our Thanksgiving dinner. Happy birthday, baby girl! I love you more than I can say.

Gingerbread Houses and Family Memories

One of my favorite memories at Thanksgiving time involves a tradition my sister started when her kids were toddlers. On the day after Thanksgiving we make gingerbread houses. Usually the participants include my sister (Tami), her two kids (Ashley and Chris), me (biggest kid of all), my daughter (Angie), and sometimes our youngest brother (Pat). Angie flies back for Thanksgiving, and again for Christmas. I think sometimes she would be okay without this traditional time of making a HUGE mess, but she tolerates it because the rest of us love it.

Personally, I'm glad this tradition is also traditionally done at my sister's house. When we started this amazingly messy annual project, Tami used to make all of the gingerbread and Pat, Angie and I would cut the pieces. Then, if we were really lucky, the pieces would bake without burning and we would get them to the table without breaking them...at least too many of them. The last few years we've moved on to buying the kits. Although we only use pieces of the kits. We add a ton of candy and other stuff not included. Basically, we still make a huge mess.

But, mess or not, we have a great time doing this. There are smiles all around, good-natured teasing, and just a lot of love shared. We've thought about stopping now that Tami's "kids" are 13 and 15...but they keep wanting to do it. And I certainly don't want to grow up and stop having all this fun.

The photo included is from 9 years ago. Ashley is the round-faced redhead. The blonde is my pride and joy, Angie. Oh, I forget...now that she is grown up and a professional career person, she goes by Angela. Except to her mother, who refuses to adapt.

Over the Hills and Through the Woods J Vincent

Okay, it was really over and through the snow drifts to Aunt’s house we go. Let me explain. In the 1950’s we had true blizzards and more than one a winter. I remember many times when we took in complete strangers stranded in the snow along 21st Street near our farm. When one hit you couldn’t see but a few feet, if that, in front of you. As the Kansas wind whipped the snow into drifts from five to over ten feet tall, everything stopped moving.

1953 was the year a blizzard hit right before Thanksgiving. I was eight at the time. Let’s go back to the evening of November 24th.

It started snowing while I was feeding the calves. Our farm was a dairy/wheat operation and everyone in the family except for the toddlers had jobs. While Mom and my older brothers milked I took care of the calves by giving them grain and making sure they had enough hay. Then I tended to the “bedding.” “Bedding” is done with straw—wheat straw bailed after harvest. After getting bales of straw one had to take off the twine and then break apart the compact slabs created when the straw was baled. Shaking the slabs into fluffy piles of loose straw was a lot more fun when my brothers helped because we had straw wars. Mom was sometimes unhappy about this because bits of straw went down our clothes and boots and ended up all over the house. But I'm wandering off topic.

The snowfall steadily thickened. By the time I was finished and headed up to the house it had coated everything. It continued throughout the entire night and into the next day. Towards morning the wind picked up. It rattled the windows while snow sifted into mounds on the inside window ledges. The shushing sound wind driven makes is something like very fine sand being blown about. It made me burrow deeper beneath the heavy covers of multiple quilts. When Dad opened my door I waited for his hand to shake me but instead he told me I didn’t have to get up because there was a blizzard. I was also told to take care of my baby brothers if they woke up before he and Mom got back to the house after milking and feeding all the animals.

When my youngest brother demanded attention I reluctantly uncovered my head and crawled out of bed. It still seemed dark and with a thick frost on my bedroom window I couldn’t see out as I hurriedly dressed. It was no better in the boys’ room where I found my year-old brother jumping up and down in his crib. The two-year-old crawled out of bed and ran after me as I carried Eric down the stairs to the warmth of the kitchen—the only heated room. After getting them dressed I pulled open the back “view. When my parents and older brothers came into the house they were entirely coated with a thick layer of snow—even their faces with heavy ridges across eyebrows, nose and cheeks.

The snow continued until late that afternoon. We were kept busy with everyday inside chores as well as peeling apples and helping make three apple and three pumpkin pies to take to my aunt and uncle’s for Thanksgiving on the morrow. When we noticed that the howling of the wind had lessened we begged to go outside. Once we were swathed in layers of shirts and coats, gloves, scarves, and hats, Dad pulled open the front door and we stood, gape mouthed, at the wall of white three-fourths of the way up the screen door. The back door had a much better windbreak and we tumbled out of it only to be caught up short by the undulating snowscape. Everything was white; the garden and lawn had turned into an ocean of white waves, some of which towered over our heads.

Dad let us scamper over drifts as well as sink into them too for a time and then set us to shoveling a path to the barns. We were all exhausted that night as we crowded around the floor furnace in our pajamas to get as warm as possible before dashing up the stairs and diving into our beds.

Our chatter died away when Mom ask Dad, “What about Thanksgiving at Roman and Rosella’s tomorrow?”

“We only have pie,” my oldest brother whispered with a grimace. Visions of turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed peas, and homemade ice cream danced out of sight in our heads. Worse was the thought of not getting to play with all our cousins—all four of my dad’s sisters’ families were to be there with their thirteen children. Our collective groan rose.

“We’ll see,” Dad assured everyone. “The wind hasn’t come up again. There’s a slim chance we can still go.”

Thanksgiving morning dawned cold and clear. My older brothers came into my room and scratched frost off the windows facing 21st. “Nothing moving,” Bill said dejectedly.

“Boys, get down here,” Dad yelled up the stairs. “Come on, get a move on if you want to go to Thanksgiving at Uncle Romans.”

I scrambled out of bed as the boys tumbled down the stairs. Nose to the window I confirmed there was no traffic on the road to the north. Looking straight down I saw the huge drift that still blocked the garage door and those that rose and fell across the drive way. After playing on them yesterday afternoon I knew some where five feet tall. “The car isn’t doing anywhere and we aren’t either,” I muttered.

Dad and the boys returned to the house for a late breakfast mid morning.

“Wait until--” my brothers began as one as they began working out of their mummy-like layers.

“It’s a surprise,” Dad scolded, but I saw him wink at Mom. “Wait until we’re done.”

They ate, bundled back up, and hurried out. It was just after noon when I heard the M&M (Mineapolis Moline)—our big tractor then but a baby when compared to today’s monsters.

“Help bundle the boys up,” Mom said, “and then get yourself ready to go out.” When we finished she said, “Watch your borthers while I take the boxes with the pies out.”

Dad came in a few minutes later and picked up the baby and grabbed the quilts mom had set out. “Take Stan’s hand and help him. Mom will be back for him but let’s make a start. “
“Where are we going?”

“To Thanksgiving dinner,” he laughed. “Come on.”

It wasn’t until Mom took Stan and I climbed over the biggest drift through the yard that I saw the M&M was hitched to a hay trailer sitting where the wind had left the ground coated with only a thin layer of snow. Dad had outlined the outside of the trailer with straw bales and put a thick pile of “bedding’ in the center.

A hank of hay sailed over the side. My oldest brother popped up. “Come on, we’ll be late to dinner, slow poke.”

“Dinner?” I looked at the huge pile of snow made when they dug a path clear for the tractor and then at the drifts in the road and shook my head.

Dad picked me up and tossed me into the pile of straw. Then he helped Mom up and over. While she settled us in the straw with the quilts to her satisfaction Dad climbed into the tractor’s seat. Revving up the engine he put the tractor in gear and we were off—straight off through the field!

All dad’s sisters lived on nearby farms. We stopped at two and picked up those families. We kids had a blast with straw fights going. I’m not sure the adults thought it quite as much fun as they shoveled through the worst of the drifts at times. The food was terrific and the company even better. After dinner everyone, adults, except for Granny, and kids, joined in the snow fort building and snowball fights. A very memorable Thanksgiving over and through the snow drifts to Aunt’s house!

SLICE OF LIFE by Reese

Don’t you love this time of year? The colors of the leaves. The crispness in the air. The football blaring from the television and the start of Kansas University basketball. This year Thanksgiving dinner will be at my home. That means I will shop, clean, chop, bake, peel, sauté, roast, baste and mash for nine of us. A relativity small group, but still a special one. I have a table that easily seats twelve and a dining room that will be bursting at the seams but that’s okay. Everyone is welcome in our home.

I’ll be up at the crack of dawn, tying on my apron, baking pecan and pumpkin pies, preparing the turkey and rolling out homemade noodles for the noon meal. My family will each bring their speciality dish to make the meal complete and then everyone divides up the leftovers for a repeat dinner the next day. Does it seem fair that we’ll work for hours in the kitchen to sit down and stuff ourselves in a matter of minutes? Probably not, but sooooo worth it. The men will then move to the living room to watch the Cowboys play and catch a few zzzzzs. The women will do the dishes and then, if it’s not too cool, we’ll head outside to sit around the fire pit on the patio. Archaic traditions I know, but it is what it is and I wouldn't change a thing about it.

Late afternoon, dessert will be served and then everyone will leave. I’ll finally take time to read the paper and scour the ads for the Black Friday bargains I plan to get up early for. I look forward to this all year. (Those of you that know me will not be the least bit surprised by this admission.) With list in hand and game plan in mind, my mom and I sneak out before 5:00 am to join the masses of other idiots, in the dark, in search of deals too good to pass up.

Simple traditions but still very near and dear to my heart. So, from my home to yours may your blessings be many and your troubles be few.
Happy Thanksgiving.

Hugs, Reese

Pat Davids and Thanksgiving Memories

November is here and this month we'll be blogging about our special Thanksgiving memories. Feel free to share your happiest, saddest, funniest or most maddening holiday memories.

After more than fifty years it's hard to pick out Thanksgiving memory out of so many wonderful ones, but I got a chuckle thinking about this one and thought I'd share it with you.

My brothers, all four of them, were hunters. Pheasant, duck, quail, goose. You name it. If it had a season they shot it. One day, just before Thanksgiving, my brother Mark came in with two big geese. Now geese in the wild aren't like the ones that live here in the city and beg for bread crumbs in the park. Bagging a goose takes skill and luck and Mark had TWO.

Thanksgiving was at our house that year and Mom decided to cook the geese instead of the usual turkey. I admit they smelled good as they roasted throughout the morning. When everyone was assembled at the table, my mother brought them in. My brother Mark watched with pride as his trophies came to the table. After cautioning everyone to watch out for buckshot, mom carved them up.

My grandpa, as the oldest, got the first piece. He took a bite and nearly pulled his dentures out. After mulling his mouthful for a while, he gulped and looked at Mark. "You didn't shoot these."
"But I did," Mark insisted.
By this time we were all trying to eat the tougher-than-boot-leather birds and not having much success.
"Nope," said Grandpa, pushing his meat to the side of the plate. "This one died of old age when your gunshot scared him to death."

We all laughed but I did feel bad for Mark and my mom. Thank goodness there was plenty of side dishes to go around and plenty of pumpkin pie to fill us up. No one when away hungry, but goose was never on the menu at our house again.