Welcome To Perry, Illinois… Population: 12

By Darren Marlar

I was on my way home from a comedy gig in southern Illinois when my GPS suddenly lost power. I had no idea how much I relied on “Imogene” until she abruptly decided to give me the silent treatment. (I named my GPS Imogene because that’s my mother-in-law’s name and she also likes to tell me where to go.)

I was stuck with a farmer’s soybean field on one side of me, and on the other side… uh… oh, look at that… more soybeans! I looked for a map, or an atlas. Nothing. I pulled out my laptop computer to log on to MapQuest… still nothing. Apparently soybean farmers don’t have much of a need to set up Wi-Fi for their tractors and silos. Sure, the horses, cows, and chickens would probably love visiting websites about animals, but without opposable thumbs, it’d be difficult to type “w-w-w-dot-my-animal-genealogy-dot-com.”

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Tis The Season

By Gina Stinson

It’s the season of giving thanks, celebrating the birth of the Savior and making goals for living a better life. Oh…the holidays! As I sit and write this I am recovering from an obnoxious cold that has just about gotten the best of me. I’ve been in the recliner for four days and I am pretty sure my poor family is tired of hearing me bark…I mean, cough.

I’ve had a lot of time on my hands. Something I don’t have much of during the holidays. I’ve blogged, read a book, written some, and watched too much television. I’m ready to get back to my real life.

After four days my body and mind start crying out for activity. I’m craving some cuddle time with my kids, I want to cook, laundry is even looking—well, ok…maybe not. But, you know what I mean. When you’ve been down, there comes a time when you are about to go crazy for some activity. I’m there.

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Memory Makers

By Lisa Bell

I drove through our quaint town square today. Green wreaths hung from light posts and in the park, the lighted decorations stood in anticipation of thrilling young, and old. My mind wandered back to my childhood.

In a different time and place, the downtown streets held such festive decorations long before December, and the display windows of a local department store featured animated characters. Children stood, mouths opened with amazement, as the figures moved in rhythm to soft Christmas music, which magically appeared from out of nowhere and flooded the sidewalk. The best part, though, came with the annual visit to Mrs. Baird’s bakery. We stood in long lines and finally climbed into Santa’s lap where we detailed every gift we desired. Then joyous wonder, we toured the bakery. The smell of fresh baked bread overwhelmed every sense and at the end of the short journey, the host gave us a thick slice of fresh, buttered Texas toast.

A year never passed without piles of homemade goodies. My mother knew the best recipes for fudge, divinity, and pecan pralines, not to mention cakes, pies, and cookies. We saw little of these treats the rest of the year, but when the holidays came, so did the warmth of the kitchen. Music from Christmas records (yes, the vinyl scratchable kind) filled the room as we hung ornaments on the tree. At least one night during the season, we piled into the car and drove through many neighborhoods with one purpose. The lights and decorations elicited exclamations as we peered out at them – noses pressed against the car windows. So long ago – yet, the sights, sounds and smells remained vivid in my thoughts through the years.

As a young mother, I became a memory maker for my children. I took credit for the good ones and blame for the bad. Some traditions came from my childhood. My daughters helped with homemade goodies, although rather than eat them all we gave many away as gifts. The annual drive through neighborhoods included pajamas and a covered mug of hot cocoa and for many years, the confines of car seats prevented nose prints on the rear windows. CD’s replaced the vinyl version of music, and the tree always appeared within a day or two after Thanksgiving. A small plastic nativity set gave the girls a baby Jesus to hold and thus avoided the temptation to cuddle the breakable version I made and loved. Several years, an insistence of baking a birthday cake for Jesus became rather vocal from the four shrill voices, and Christmas Eve meant a candlelight service without exception.

In a quest for some food the girls might actually stop and eat on Christmas morning, I learned the art of sausage ball creation. Little girls with gooey hands joined in the Christmas Eve tradition of making the balls, and insisted that Santa much preferred them to cookies. After all, everyone left cookies for him. I agreed. He needed something without sugar for a change.

One year I added an advent wreath and a new tradition began. Each Sunday one of the girls lit a candle and read the meanings from a book. As the years passed and my daughters left home one by one, the wreath stood unlit through the month of December. Then, one of my daughters lamented over the lack of occasions for formal wear. A new thing began that Christmas Eve. Donned in formal gowns, I served my daughters a five-course meal accompanied by lighting of the advent wreath with each stage of dinner. An intense photo shoot followed dessert. The next year, they informed me we had to do it again…it was tradition. I anticipated a long run for that particular ritual.

Past, present and future memories mingled together in my head as I watched the sparkle in the eyes of three little boys, mesmerized by lights, sounds, and smells in their world. Different from my own childhood or that of my daughters, my grandsons have already learned their own brand of traditions.

I embraced the role of memory maker with high hopes that the good ones outweighed the bad. Although I retained some of that role when my name changed to Nana, I graciously passed the torch to my daughters for the next generation. They learned the importance of tradition and precious memories, and I watched with pride, as they became memory makers too.

Fake Fingernail Fiasco

By Virginia Smith

I recently did something I never thought I’d never do – I got acrylic fingernails. They looked lovely, but I quickly realized I’d made a mistake. For one thing, my typing skills suffered; for a writer, that’s a disaster. I also had a tendency to drum those lovely nails on any available surface just for the joy of hearing the charming tap, tap, tap. My husband wasn’t amused. He threatened to get his wire cutters and put them out of his misery if I didn’t stop. No problem, I said, because all that tapping made my fingertips sore anyway.

Then my nails started to grow, pushing those hard-as-titanium tips out with them and leaving an ugly gap at the base. Ugh. I decided I didn’t like the Edward Scissorhands look anymore. The fake nails had to go. But it seemed a tremendous waste of money to pay someone else to remove them when I could do it myself.

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Sleeping Through The Night

By Cynthia Ruchti

How old was Jesus when He first slept through the night?

A friend of mine has a newborn who can’t go more than a couple of hours without reminding the household she exists and has needs.

I wonder how old Jesus was. Two months? Four?

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