Christmas Child

Not having children of my own, I had to borrow some for previous Christmases, notably my Fairy Godchildren, Mark and Louis. Their mother was always generous with sharing them as they grew up, but this year they were both in Michigan with her, a sweet surprise for their parents as they are both adult and independent now.

This year, we've had the joy of sharing Christmas with a nearly-two-year old, our granddaughter, Mia. This picture tells it all - she's into the rip-and-tear school of present opening, enthusiastically shredding her way through Christmas wrap and tissue paper. My Dad would have approved, being a kid at heart and a devotee of that school himself; he could unwrap a small mountain of gifts in short order. And being nearly two, she is far more interested in the wrappings than she is in what's inside; I trust that will change with age.

She has been the bright spot this Christmas. She came over for dinner the day after Christmas and kept us lively, every five minutes or so, trying to anticipate which new way she'd find to kill herself. If she wasn't headed for the top of the stairs at a dead run, she was marching into the kitchen to seek out the hot things, or searching the house for all the lethal edges we keep unknowingly within her reach. And, she giggles as she goes!

I made an ultra-simple dinner, shrimp cocktail for starters and chicken with fingerling potatoes roasted in the same pan for dinner. The only difference was that I substituted a mandarin orange for my usual lemon squeezed over the top and tucked inside, and sprinkled it with Hawaiian Red Salt (a gift from Mia's parents and aunt) as well as Herbes de Provence before roasting. When little kids are at the table trying out their first real silverware, it's not really about the food, is it?

Wanna know the best part? Mia loves me. She mimics my greeting of "Hi, Sweetie Pie" with her own version, "Hi, PeaPie!" and runs to give me hugs and kisses. She melts my crusty old heart.

On Top of Old Smokey

When I was a very little girl, we visited our dear family friends, the Davenports, at their house on Maywood in Detroit. One of my very earliest memories is of Butch Davenport, the father of the family, sitting down on the side of the double bed, into which four or five of us little kids were tucked, and singing us a lullaby in the dark. I have a vivid memory of the mattress sagging sideways under his weight, of him holding his pipe in his hand on his knee, clearing his throat a little and starting to sing in a velvety voice.

"On top of Old Smokey, all covered with snow...

He always sang "On Top of Old Smokey." I don't know why - perhaps it was the only ballad whose words he knew or maybe it was just popular at the time - but we loved to drift off to the sweet sound of his voice singing that song.

I hadn't thought about that in many years, until I was up in the chilly Boston night this week soothing our granddaughter back to sleep in the rocking chair outside her bedroom. Never having had children of my own, this was a nearly novel experience for me but while I sat with her cuddled in my arms under her soft blanket, here came the right tune to mind and the perfect words for sleepy little kids...

"On top of Old Smokey, all covered with snow,
I lost my true lover, for courtin' too slow..."

Thanks, Butchie, for this and all your many other blessings.