A-Poem-a-Day Until Christmas
Today is "Double Feature Day."
I've posted two Christmas poems,
"Cookies & Poems" and "Great Tree."
COOKIES & POEMS
So many Christmas
traditions abound—
Old ones get lost and
then new ones are found.
Some get omitted, but
there are a few
things we love doing
and simply must do.
For instance, I write a
poem every year—
a real Christmas poem that
draws Jesus near;
a poem that lauds Him, Star
of the Season,
for He’s this holiday’s
only true reason.
The poem’s perfect
paper, I search far to find,
arrange words
artistically as I’ve in mind,
select address labels
with the same theme,
choose envelopes,
stamps that go with the scheme.
The pen and the ink are
chosen with care.
To use best penmanship, I
have a flair!
I write out hundreds with
joy and much zest
and sometimes include a few
words to bless.
Bob applies the stamps
and labels and seals;
a trip to the post
office completes the deal.
When they’re mailed, I
start thinking cookies—
Trust me, with baking,
I am no rookie!
We select recipes; gather
the tins,
make sure there’s flour and
sugar in bins,
stock up on butter and
chocolate and nuts,
molasses and spices and
trims lots and lots!
I block off a few days
in my datebook,
roll up my sleeves;
open up the cookbook.
Chocolate chippers, and
shortbread soooo buttery,
sweet sugar cookies,
anise biscotti,
spicy pfeffernusse and wee
pecan jewels,
drop cookies, rolled
cookies, some cut with tools.
Bob stirs the batters;
they’re thick as can be
and he’s the chief taster,
take it from me!
Each cookie and poem is
fashioned with love—
LOVE is what
Christmastime is made up of.
God’s gift of LOVE came
with the Savior’s birth
and there’s no other
gift of greater worth!
These simple gifts…some
cookies, a poem,
for Christmas, to you, from our
humble home.
Maude Carolan Pych
GREAT TREE
Mid-seventies
through mid-eighties
we
caravanned each December
with
the Mingerams, Leys and Shaws
to
a tree farm in North Jersey
Our
quest, the perfect tree
Bundled
against cold
we
trudged through snow
with
rope and hand saws
in
pursuit of a white or Scotch pine
or
stately blue spruce
till
we agreed and tagged our selection
Then,
usually Dad, but sometimes Mom
and
occasionally one of the children
shimmied
beneath low laden boughs
belly
in the snow
to
saw the trunk and bring it down
We
dragged the fragrant conifer down the slope
hoisted
it onto the car roof
where
it suddenly appeared
taller
than we'd realized
Stopping
for hot dogs on the way home
once
someone asked
if
the forest tied to our Volvo
were
the municipal tree
We
proudly set our trophy in a bucket of water
until
the week before Christmas
then
struggled
to
force it through the doorway
(one
time breaking the jamb)
dragged
it through the dining room
into
the sunken living room
and
lifted its grandeur into a heavy duty stand
sometimes
scratching the white cathedral ceiling
Friends
often came to help
Mom
brought out platters of pigs in blankets,
cheeses
and dips, her very special homemade cookies
and
a punch bowl of frothy nog
Out
came boxes, boxes, boxes
of
lights and tinsel and antique balls
hundreds
of ornaments
made
in Mom's ceramic classes
as
well as Patti Ley's exquisite handpainted balls
carefully
wrapped in wads of tissue
There
were gift ornaments, travel momentos
miniature
nativities, a Star of David
fashioned
out of painted Popsicle sticks
and
popcorn and cranberry chains
strung
by the children
Some
brave soul would climb a ladder
and
lean way, way over
to
place the Lenox angel on tippy top
We'd
flick a switch and oooooh at its magnificence
Throughout
the holidays, as the great tree settled
we'd
keep clippers nearby
so
we could snip our way into the living room
Late
at night after the children were in bed
Mom
would sit in the dark
except
for the twinkling tree lights
and
gaze peacefully at the glitz and glitter
After
New Year's
came
the tedious task of taking the tree down
wrapping,
boxing and putting away
There
was always an amusing moment
in
the midst of drudgery
when
somewhere deep inside the branches
we'd
come upon an empty Coors can
(Bob
Ley's annual prank)
We'd
wrap the tree in an old bed sheet
lug
it to the curb
and
spend the next eleven months
vacuuming
brittle needles
out
of the shag
Maude
Carolan
