Somathose Majacks

When I was about four years old, my family lived in Plains, Montana, where I remember it being awfully cold in the winter.  It might have been the deep deep snow.  Or it might have been the fact that we had just moved into an unfinished house and were a bit short on firewood.  We really had to stretch my father’s new teaching salary a long ways, and $1200 a month doesn’t go far…not even in 1984.  It was a cold winter.

My mother drove a school bus to help pay the bills.  I remember being wrapped in a warm blanket in the early morning while the stars were still out and the sky was ink black.  The cold air burned my bare nose and cheeks as she carried me to the car for the short ride to the bus where I would snuggle onto the seat behind hers as she made her morning rounds picking up one student after another.  

After all the kids were safely dropped off at school, Mom and I would return to our chilly little house where the warmest place to be was in front of a wood burning stove in the basement.  Strangely, the house had come furnished with the perfect little seat for two chilly bottoms: a giant slice of log that, as far as we knew, had always lived in that basement.  So, warming ourselves by the little flames, we would sit on our log and eat powdered sugar donuts together. 

We were poor, but I had a great Mommy and a giant log to sit on and a warm fire and delicious donuts for breakfast!  A happy four-year-old does not know that being poor is supposed to be bad.

Two years ago, Paul and I took a vacation during which we visited all the places I lived growing up.  It was a strange walk down memory lane for me as I compared the old images in my mind with the realities before my adult eyes.  The most surreal and exciting moment for me, though, was when we visited that same house where my mother and I had shared so many fireside breakfasts.  The folks who’d purchased the house from us still live there and were working out in the fields.  They are incredibly generous people who actually allowed us to come into their home that day!

Though so much of the house had changed, walking down the stairs into the basement was like walking into that cold winter.  Everything was the same.  The same wood burning stove stood ready to warm chilly fingers and the same thick slice of log sat in front of it, as though it had been waiting for me to come home for breakfast all these years.  I got to sit on my log again.  The end.

But that wasn’t the end!  Two days after Christmas this year, our family was at my parents’ cabin 15 miles outside of Plains.  We were doing some work getting ready to install flooring and my father and Paul had gone out to visit a local craftsman about some light fixtures.  We didn’t expect them to purchase anything that day, but when Paul peeked his head through the door and said, “Do you want to see what we got?”  I was excited to see what they’d picked out.

Two steps out the door I was stopped in my tracks by the most unexpected sight. 

“IS THAT MY LOG?!?!”

They hadn’t gone to pick out light fixtures at all.  Paul had, with the help of my Dad, been preparing for nearly a year for this day to present me with MY LOG!!!  The owners of the house had agreed to let Paul move the log to the cabin where I can sit on it to my heart’s content and eat powdered donuts on it with my own daughter. 

A lot of presents were shared this Christmas, but I’ll bet I’m the only woman who got her very own log.  And I’ll bet I’m the only woman who was given a piece of her history, a chance to whisper hello to her four-year-old self and the opportunity to visit her again whenever I choose. 

She was just like I remember her: warm cheeks and powdered sugar all over her lips.

Grace probably won’t remember this, her second Christmas on the planet.  She’ll only be 14 months old when Christmas day arrives.  And she probably won’t cherish the gifts she receives, although I’m sure the tissue paper surrounding the treasures will be a big hit. 

Nevertheless, preparing for this Christmas has been exciting for me.  It is my first attempt at hand crafting gifts for my daughter and I’ve really enjoyed every minute of it. 

The fruit of my labor, as seen here, are a little doll and doll blanket (complete with knick-knack pocket for whatever Grace thinks is important to stow away). 

Part of the joy in these projects is that it’s just plain fun.  Creating is fun.  God must have had a blast when he made our universe! 

The other part is the joy of remembering my Grandma Erma as I work.  I have her sewing box filled with all sorts of things I don’t have a clue how to use.  I’m figuring it out as I go.  The strawberry patch fabric was in there when I inherited the box and I remember the pillow cases the fabric came from.  The plaid fabric used to be one of her summer shirts.  When she lived near us, she was always working on a project for one of us, usually patching a pair of pants. 

I sew and think about my Grandmother.  And I look forward to watching Grace tentatively open her lovingly made gifts and her face as she blissfully crunches and crackles her beloved new tissue paper.  It’s going to be a great Christmas.