Grammy Orbs

Ah, the holidays!

Last night I made a Christmas CD that I've been using as background music for the past 24 hours of my life. Good times, good times. I'm quite proud of my compilation, although the four different versions of Carol of the Bells (Hark, Silver Bells) may be a bit much for some. What can I say, it's my favorite Christmas tune. Also on the mix is the Hallelujah Chorus, some Tchaikovsky, a bit of Trans-Siberian Orchestra, and a lot of Manheim Steamroller. Like I said, good times are being had.

In other holiday news, I brought the Grammy Orbs out of the basement today. We are shamefully behind on our decorating this year, but I made a big push today and now all that's left is to put ornaments on the tree (rigging up the lights - the second thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me - wore us out). There's a bow at the top of the tree with a God's eye I made when I was in grade school, and one or two other ornaments made it before we crashed.
No Grammy Orbs on the tree yet, but they'll get there tomorrow.
What? You say you've never heard of Grammy Orbs? Gasp!
My great-grandmother used to buy those cheap foam Christmas balls that are covered in colored thread. Then she'd decorate them with beads and ribbons using more pins than a voodoo priestess. Being an elderly retired woman living along with not so much as a house cat, she had a LOT of time to make orbs. Each year her four children would receive boxes full of Grammy Orbs (which would proceed to be passed on to their children). A few years into the hobby and we had orbs coming out our asses.

Since Grammy Evans visited our house every year for Christmas, we had to start getting creative with the orbs. There simply wasn't enough room on our 8ft Christmas tree for them all! (We should've just built a tree out of the orbs.) We hung pine rope from the doorways, decorated and strung it with lights on the outside windows and doors, dangled Grammy orbs from the inside doorways. Grammy Orbs hung from chandeliers, rolled across table tops, piled in baskets. If ever there was an orb not displayed, she'd know. She seemed to remember every one she ever made, and on a few occasions asked to see a certain orb (always a different one, always one not out) "Oh my gosh!" My grandmother would exclaim, "How could we miss this entire box of orbs? We'll have to put them out at once!"

For the record, I always loved the Grammy Orbs (except for one particularly gaudy pink one). The rest of the family, eh, not so much. Maybe it was the stress of having to be so creative decorating with them. It was more of a joke around the family, "Did you get your gift from Grandmother yet? *snicker*)
Still, there was a deep love, if not for the orbs, than for Grammy. She passed on some years ago, but her orbs still decorate the house at Christmas time. Not as many, but Gram has kept her favorites and dumps them out of a box into some baskets by the door each year exclaiming, "There mother, there are your orbs!" I love the orbs because they are a memory, they may not all be beautiful, but the thought is.
It is the thought that matters.

Holiday Traditions

As promised, the much anticipated Christmas Stories post I've been promising for a whole two posts...

The house I grew up in was huge, and not just to a grade-schooler, although that certainly added to it. There were six bedrooms, 2 full baths, 2 half baths, a huge kitchen, dining room, study, sun room, living room, day room (I think some of these names were engineered simply for distinction), hallways, stairwells, even a secret passageway here and there. So, living in this mammoth castle, it was only natural that everyone would convene at our house for Christmas. Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Grand-parents, Great-grand-parents, People I didn't even know the names of, or my relation to them. Holiday pictures showed four generations. Pull out beds, cots, and sleeping bags appeared from hiding places and cubby holes I never knew about. There were always people on couches and often people on the floors.
Christmas eve I was sent up to bed as early as the adults could manage (because Santa won't come if you're still awake), while downstairs the annual Egg Nog Party ramped up. Sometime around midnight stockings would be stuffed before heading off to bed.
I kept the radio on all night to listen for "Santa Sightings." One year, my uncles and cousins went running round the house in three feet of snow ringing sleigh bells for me. I never woke-up. Poor Matthew came down with pneumonia before New Year's thanks to the escapade.
Christmas morning started at about 3 a.m., after maybe four hours of sleep. I'd run into my great-grandmother's room and ask if it was time yet. She'd say, "No! Go back to bed!" A few minutes later I'd return. "Is it time now?" "Let people sleep!" "But what if Santa's come!" "I haven't heard him yet - go back to bed." A few more minutes later. "Have you heard Santa come yet?"
After a few years of this, my Mom finally wised up and started heading me off before I could get to Grammy's room. Around 6 or 6:30 it was finally time, I had bugged everyone enough that they'd given up hope of me (and consequently them) falling asleep again. Grammy and I each grabbed a strap of sleigh bells and went through the house ringing them in people's ears and shouting "Merry Christmas!" until they got up.
There were a few years, when I was old enough to understand and young enough to believe, the family cut out big Santa-prints and little elf-prints out of paper and laid them out like a Family Circus cartoon. They came from the chimney, of course, then Santa would go to the cookies and milk (and carrots for the reindeer), then the tree, then a hop on the logs and back up the chimney. The elves were a little less focused in their efforts. They chased each other around the dining room table, hopping on the chairs, and finally walking across the table itself. They often scaled the presents like little mountain climbers trying to reach the top of the tree. One year, they stopped at the fridge and left a partially eaten slice of cheese on the floor. My Gram was so angry about the food on the floor (it would attract mice!) that she didn't notice the dishwasher the elves had left her.
After chasing elf prints (you had to follow every trail to make sure one wasn't still in the house somewhere), gift unwrapping began with stockings. Everyone had their own seat they sat in every year for Christmas. Mine was the best, Mom and I sat on the cushions in front of the picture windows. There was a heater under the seat and I was right next to the tree. It's a wonder my wrapping paper massacre never caught fire being piled up right in front of the heater.

I'm a little old for the elf-prints (just a little), but we still ring bells every year. Two years ago, I was staying with my mom for the holiday and she and my little brother burst into my bedrooms bells ringing and camera recording while I was getting dressed. Apparently, mom hadn't told me to wait a minute over the sleigh bells.
I never did make sure she destroyed that tape - she distracted me with presents. Damn.

Happy Holidays to all! May you relive your childhood this magical season.

From a Videographer's Diary

Another day, another dollar; fifteen hours on showshoes and I wish I had pie.

- From a Maine Trapper's Diary

That was yesterday. Eleven hours spent standing at a camera filming the Cancer Research Classic basketball invitational for a live webcast.

I came to realize that standing still for hours on end hurts much more than walking for as many hours. Or maybe it's just that walking provides a distraction from the pain. My apologies to the players, but after half a season filming college games, high school level was not incredibly interesting to me. Less so because I had neither affiliations or interests in any of the schools participating. I will say that the last game, between two preparatory schools was interesting. Of course, that was partially do to the consternation of the color commentary over name pronunciations. (Our heartfelt apologies to Mathang, but we tried to go with phonetic pronunciations.)

The long day was made bearable by lots of caffeine and two six-foot party subs. The snow fell outside, but we were warm and protected, albeit weary. I didn't win the 50/50 raffle, but wasn't too upset since the money went towards cancer research. The letdown came at the end of the day. The volunteers had been told they would be walking home with a fresh new Benjamin for their willingness to stick it out a day after final exams ended. After the broadcast ended, we were informed they'd cut us a check sometime next week.
The pay that would make all the pain and endurance well worth it was being postponed. Although I was disgruntled, this is not a huge deal to me. I probably would have done it for free (but don't spread that along to my boss). I feel a little worse for my companions, one of whom was planning on Christmas shopping with that money, another who caught a flight back home to Philly today.

I made it home late, and disheartened. The cat needed fed, the dog needed out, and I needed chocolate. I went for the turtle sundae pie in the fridge, only to discover it was ice cream and should've been kept in the freezer. I would've gone at it anyway, but I was too exhausted to bother with a bowl and spoon. Instead I got a glass of cold milk and the cookie jar and made my way to the study to check e-mails while the puppy ran off his energy in the yard.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a package on the coffee table. I wasn't expecting anything, but Dorchester had send me an ARC (advanced reading copy) from one of my favorite authors! (I won't name names for fear of my life, but this book isn't for sale until February.)
It made up for my aching back and the legs that had lost feeling below the thighs. I sat at the desk with the opened cookie jar in my lap, happily munching on chocolate chip cookies dunked in the glass sitting between me and the keyboard, and e-mailed a quick thanks to the author.

It had still been a long day, and I still needed a soak in a hot tub, but all in all, the book was better than pie.


(P.S. Entertaining Christmas has been postponed due to residual exhaustion, check back later)

Where have I been? What have I been up to?

Unfortunately, the answers are right here, and not much. Still plugging away at school. I'm trying to devise an independent major so I'll have more room for electives because being a double major barely leaves me room for core. I've become very interested in philosophy this semester and may minor in it if I can be certified for the independent major.
I'm looking into careers to keep my fed and sheltered while I pursue my writing. If anyone either knows, or knows someone who knows what is entailed in editing or literary agency, drop me a line. I'd like to stay near the writing profession, since it's where my interest lies. Or better yet, how does one become a professional book reviewer? Anything that pays me to read is a good job.

In older news, I got a puppy. Thisbee, bless her soul, had to be put down last summer when she went into kidney failure at the amazing age of 21.

Boston, my remaining kitty, was raised by a dog and growls, chases her tail, guards against intruders, fetches, and all around acts way more like a canine than a feline, so I thought a dog would make a better companion for her than another cat.


Also, Gram was very picky about what kind of cat I was allowed to get. No white, not even if it also had black. She says white cats are crazy. No cats from my Mom. (Mom lives on a farm and has a new litter running around every month, it seems, but my mom has very bad luck with cats. All of hers get some disease, like FeLV, and need to be put down.) Gram decided she would accept a striped cat, but it had to be orange, or brown like Thisbee. Black and white stripes were a no.

Ironically, even though Gram didn't want me to get a dog, she had less rules about what I couldn't get for a dog. She didn't want a big dog. That was her only rule. I didn't want a hound dog (because of their baying howl).

After a month of touring the local pounds, I came home with this:



Yes, he's so cute and tiny. It didn't last (not the tiny part at any rate). His previous owner dropped him off in run sometime in the night with a female pup we assumed was his sister. No note, just a bad case of fleas and tics. Frontline cleaned up the pests and after a week of no one claiming him, I brought him home and named him Tarent. (At the pound, they called him Jack, which just made me think Captain Jack Sparrow because this was just after Pirates 3 hit theaters. Plus, I'm not a big fan of giving animals common people names.)


The pound guessed he was 4 months old and a Cocker Spaniel mix (even though his sister looked like a coon hound). The vet pegged him at 3 months (he's now 9 months old), and he's nearing the 50lb mark, not your typical cocker size. The vet thinks he's more setter. I think he looks more like an English Setter, but with shorter fur and snout. I no longer have to bend over to pet his head, and he's now strong enough to pull me off a curb when we go for walks. The cat, by the way, NOT happy about the dog. They're learning to get along, though. Tarent likes to play "poke the kitty" where he jumps back and forth jabbing paws at her. Boston, in return, likes to chew on Tarent's legs. I guess it works out evenly.

I'll try to be a more vigilant blogger. For the holiday season, my next blog will have an entertaining story about Christmas tradition in my family, but for now, I bid you adieu.


Later Days!