FoxCraft

Baby of the Woods

When he grows up, he's probably going to be the kind of Christmas shopper who buys all his gifts just as the stores are closing on Christmas Eve.

Sylvan Lawrence, due a few days before Christmas, didn't make his appearance until December 28.

To be fair, his late arrival wasn't for lack of trying on his part. He spent more than two weeks working at being born, giving his parents a series of "this has to be the real thing" false alarms. But since he was facing forward instead of backward, he wasn't in the best position to complete the journey. It finally took induced labor, a very hard night's work by his mom with serious help from his dad, and the assistance of an intimidating but effective vacuum pump to get him here.

But he made it. He's healthy and eating and growing, and he's still looking face forward at the world. We're not sure whether he approves of it, though. He resembles Winston Churchill even more than most newborns do—mostly because of the "don't bother me, I'm thinking" scowl that he shares with the great man. Fortunately, so far, no one has given him a cigar.

He's grandchild number 13, but the first one to live within spoiling distance. Not, as any of the older grandkids would probably tell you, that I am a spoiling kind of grandma. I plan to take Sylvan hiking up Harney Peak as soon as he's sufficiently ambulatory, but he's going to have to carry his own lunch.

His name, chosen by his parents because of their love of the Black Hills, means "someone who lives in the woods." As the child of actors, he'll probably be on stage at the Black Hills Playhouse before he hits his first birthday. Given those two factors, it's a good bet that the kid will spend his teenage years in a windowless basement playing video games and will grow up to be an engineer.

But given his forward-looking perspective, he may well invent or create or discover wonderful things that no one has even considered yet. Of course, in common with many other visionaries, he'll probably continue to need a little help with the practical details. Like having someone around to take care of the vacuuming.

The True Christmas Spirit

We moved the Christmas party this year. Having outgrown the hunting lodge where we've been meeting, we held our annual family Christmas weekend in a new location. It gave us a chance to explore a different environment and enjoy some new activities.

On Saturday morning, we woke up to the sound of rain on the roof. Later in the day, after the sun came out, several of us went for a long walk on the beach. We skipped stones across the water, followed animal tracks, and browsed the shingle for flotsam and fossils.

Meanwhile, another group went off in a different direction to explore the local landscape and do some serious bird-watching.

A few serious partiers were up late on Saturday night, listening to the singing of a local band and making some noise themselves.

Wait a minute. This doesn't sound like a typical white Christmas in South Dakota. Did we blow years of family tradition, not to mention all our family budgets, by taking ourselves off to the Caribbean or the Gulf of Mexico?

Not exactly. We were in the Buryanek Bay Bunkhouse, close to the Missouri River just off Highway 44. But everything I've stated so far is absolutely true. I just forgot to mention a few details.

The gentle rain left sidewalks, parking lots, our cars, and even the gravelly beach glazed with ice. The walk on the beach, in the face of a sharp north wind, featured mittens, winter coats, and long johns rather than swimsuits. The tracks we followed were in snow, and the stones skipped across the water so well because they were bouncing off thin sheets of ice near the shore.

The birders, of course, were out with shotguns rather than binoculars, hunting wild turkeys.

The late-night partying featured the music of a local band of coyotes. From the volume of their singing, they were only a few yards down the hill from our lodge, and they sang rather more encores than anyone requested.

Most of the partiers singing along to the coyotes didn't have the full appreciation of their audiences, either, since it was long past their bedtimes. These revelers were some of the five great-grandkids that were aged three and younger. It's too bad we couldn't have given them their own room and let them party.

As the family members who are attorneys, engineers, or parents of young children can appreciate, it's the details that make the difference between the truth and the whole truth.

But details aside, we enjoyed spending time with the people we love. And that, truly, is what Christmas is about.

Feminist, Pregnant, and In the Kitchen

Forty years of feminism, and it all comes down to this?

My daughter, eight-plus months pregnant. In her kitchen, cooking Thanksgiving dinner. Barefoot, yet. At least until her feet got tired and cold. In South Dakota in November, one can only carry a cliché so far.

Is this what all those women back in the 60's and 70's protested for? Insisted on being called Ms. for? Pushed their way into law schools and med schools and men-only organizations for?

Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Because feminism is about being respected and having choices. On this particular Thanksgiving Day, cooking the holiday meal was what my daughter wanted to do. Being a loving mother, I graciously allowed her to. Anything for her. Especially anything that would keep me out of the kitchen.

Cooking has always been something I do for love. Not love of the culinary process, though—love of the family needing to be fed. My aim is to put a reasonably healthy meal on the table as quickly as possible, get out of the kitchen, and move on to more interesting things. That attitude is most likely the reason for what I've always seen as one of my parenting failures: not teaching the kids to cook.

In my defense, I did give each of them some sort of basic cookbook when they were brand-new adults. Despite my bad example, most of them have actually used those cookbooks. (Betty Crocker's classic was open on my daughter's counter yesterday.) They also use the Internet, of course. They've even, in occasional scraping-the-bottom-of-the-barrel moments, called me for advice. None of them, or their kids, have starved to death yet.

Thanksgiving Dinner was scrumptious. Somewhere around the third bite of my daughter's delicious made-from-scratch key lime pie, I decided to stop feeling guilty about letting the kids figure out cooking on their own. They seem to have managed it perfectly well.

Even more important, they've all married spouses who share the household responsibilities. My daughter's husband, who does most of the everyday cooking at their house, pointed out quite truthfully, "Without me, she would eat like a bachelor."

If that isn't feminism at its finest, I'll eat another piece of key lime pie.

A Dozen and Counting

It's incredible that a perfect human being can come in such a miniature package. But there she is, complete in every detail right down to fingernails, toenails, and eyelashes. Kendall Kathryn, grandchild number twelve.

I was fortunate enough to get to meet her when she was only eight days old, and it occurred to me as I was watching her sleep on my lap that she may be the tiniest baby I've ever had the privilege of holding. Her six pounds and five ounces, while certainly a normal and healthy weight, was downright petite compared to her cousins. Most of the rest of the dozen tipped the scales at eight or nine or even ten pounds.

Kendall is a dainty little person, with long slender fingers and narrow feet. Her head, with its delicate tracery of brownish hair, is too small for even her newborn sized hats. She seems much too tiny to hold her own in a household that includes a lively big brother and two opinionated beagles.

So far, her brother, just past babyhood himself, seems to find her mildly intriguing but not all that significant. No doubt he'll show a lot more interest when she gets old enough to pull his hair and grab his toys.

The dogs tend to regard her with a similar mild curiosity. One of them, the nervous type, has already conceded her superior position after she scared him into submission by getting the hiccups. The other one, whose heart is reachable via a direct line through her stomach, will become a devoted follower as soon as the baby is old enough to drop edible bits onto the floor.

She may be tiny, but my guess is that Kendall will more than hold her own. Her dark blue eyes are direct and clear, and there's a firm chin beneath her dainty mouth. Big brother Jack and the beagles had better make room for her. Kendall is clearly an alpha baby.

Keeping the Cows Moving

One day years ago, in the middle of a busy day of working cattle, my father had to make a quick trip to town for more vaccine. He had been roping calves, so in addition to his usual boots and his battered cowboy hat, he was wearing his leather chaps and his spurs.

He parked the pickup on Main Street near the veterinarian’s office, went in, and got the vaccine. While he was there, he also picked up a new rope. As he was headed back to the pickup, he met a young mom and her little boy, who was about three or four.

The little kid looked at my dad. His eyes got bigger and bigger as they went from the boots and the spurs, to the chaps, to the coiled lariat, and up to the cowboy hat. He said, "Wow! Are you a real cowboy?"

My dad chuckled. He said, "Well, not really. But I reckon I can keep the cows moving till one comes along."

Actually, he was a real cowboy. To this day, he has the scars and broken bones to prove it. He wasn't always lucky enough to have a crew of real cowhands, though. Sometimes he had to make do with the help at hand: his four daughters.

We didn’t always do things exactly in the proper cowboy way. It’s hard to wrestle a calf to the ground with flair and style when it weighs more than you do; we had to gang up on them. But we could help sort calves and keep the cows moving through the chute. My youngest sister could keep an accurate tally in a notebook when she was just barely old enough to read. And we were good at rounding up the cattle and bringing them in from the pasture. We knew that real cowboying was often done at a walk, not the dramatic galloping seen in the movies. We knew how to keep the cows moving in the direction they were supposed to go.

True, we were just kids. But we were willing, eager, and enthusiastic because we didn't see working cattle as a chore. We though it was fun. We did it strictly as an amateur production, with more enthusiasm than expertise and a lot of on-the-job training.

Which, if you think about it, is also true of a lot of the stuff we do in our lives. Like growing up. Getting jobs. Getting married. Having kids. We go through all sorts of unexpected trials and adventures, joys and losses.

We’re amateurs at all of it. Nobody is handing out instruction manuals. About the time we think we have life figured out, something new pops up, and we're back at the beginning again, without a clue.

I used to believe a time would come when I would become a real, certified grownup. After that, I imagined, I would have all the answers and know exactly what to do.

Fat chance. I'm still waiting. What I've finally figured out, though, is that being a real grownup doesn't mean having all the answers. It doesn't even mean knowing all the questions. It just means being willing to proceed with the task at hand anyway.

It means you don't wait around for the "real" cowboys” to show up. You just keep the cows moving. And if you're really lucky, you think it's fun.

Dance Lessons

One, two, three; one, two, three. With its irresistible, sweeping rhythm, the waltz feels like joy in motion. Nothing is more fun than swooping around the floor in grand circles and elegant turns.

My husband, Wayne, was six foot four. His long arms windmilled with such energy when he got into a passionate conversation that his elbows became a public menace. His long legs could cover a lot of ground in a hurry, across a construction site or across the dance floor. During a polka we would lap everyone else two or three times, with Wayne driving and me hanging on for dear life and trying not to lose my shoes.

Our favorite dance, though, was the waltz. Waltzing, Wayne was grace itself in size 15 cowboy boots.

We took dance classes. We went to dances. Once we crashed a wedding dance in Pukwana, South Dakota. For several years, we had great fun on various dance floors. Then, as so often happens, we got busy. His job required more and more travel. Almost without our noticing it, dancing became one of those things that we were always going to do more of—next week, or next winter, or when we had more time.

Then, on September 3, 2002, just before midnight at the end of an ordinary Tuesday, the doorbell rang. Standing on the step were Wayne's business partner, his office manager, a highway patrolman, and a priest. They were waking me up to tell me that Wayne's small plane had crashed a few hours earlier. He and his good friend and employee Chuck Pemble had died in a North Dakota pasture.

The waltz that we considered our special song was one made popular by Anne Murray: "Could I Have This Dance For the Rest of My Life?" We did have that dance. We just didn't realize that "the rest of his life" would be quite so short.

When someone you love dies, that huge loss is surrounded by a great many smaller ones. One of the things I lost along with Wayne was dancing. At first, just hearing a waltz was enough to bring me to tears.

Eventually, time and love and living did their work, and my broken heart began to heal. Even dancing made its way back into my life, with a new partner who also loves the elegant, swooping grace of the waltz.

Life is a dance, done to complex music. Sometimes the steps are difficult, and the rhythm can change when we least expect it. Each of us has our own music, and we never know how long the song will last.

But while the music is playing, we have choices. We can sit to one side and watch because we think dancing is only for the stars. We can become so busy and distracted that we don't even hear the music. Or we can get out there on the floor and dance—for the rest of our lives.

 

In loving memory of Wayne Christopherson. Unbelievably, it's been ten years. Whatever the occasion, wherever the dance floor, a part of you is always there for every waltz.

You Can Call Me Hank--Or Not

Maybe he didn't exactly come out swinging, but Henry showed up with a major-league attitude. Of course, when you're only a few minutes old, and people are scrubbing you and weighing you and measuring you and taking pictures before you've had a chance to put any clothes on, a guy can be excused for feeling a little annoyed.

Henry Orrin made his appearance on Monday, April 16. He weighed seven pounds ten ounces and was 20 ½ inches long. (Since the powers that be subjected him to all that weighing and measuring, we might as well report the findings.) The brand-new pictures of his brand-new self showed him to be a sturdy, healthy little person and much better looking than Winston Churchill.

One of his grandfathers has already been caught on camera calling him "Hammerin' Hank." Whether the nickname sticks, or whether he and his parents will prefer the more formal Henry, remains to be seen.

Given that his parents are golfers rather than baseball fans, Hank Aaron won't necessarily be one of Henry's idols. Nor, I'm guessing, will Hank Williams. Henry VIII? Please, let's not even mention him. Henry's mom and dad are both articulate attorneys. His role models will probably be Patrick Henry and Henry Clay.

And a good thing, too. Henry also just happens to have an articulate, very bright older sister. She's probably going to treat him with that loving bossiness only big sisters can achieve. The kid is going to need all the verbal skills he can muster.

Of course, a good strong swing might sometimes come in handy, too.

Hi, Henry. Welcome to the family.

Dreaming of a Redneck Christmas

The man next to me was snoring. Thank goodness it wasn't that awful kind of snore that builds to a crescendo, then pauses for a few moments to prolong the suspense until, about the time the weary listener has resolved that tomorrow—no, make that today, it's 2:37 a.m.—is definitely the day to call the sleep apnea clinic, the hapless sleeper gives a strangled snort, gasps for breath, and starts in on the next measure.

This was a regular, rhythmic snore that wasn't really very loud. It probably wouldn't have kept me awake had I been in my own bed.

Of course, in my own bed I could also have easily poked him in the ribs with a loving elbow and asked him sweetly to roll over. That wasn't an option here. For one thing, I wasn't quite sure who the guy was.

Besides, we weren't in the same room. My lower bunk with its hard mattress was on one side of a thin wall and his was on the other. So much for sleeping like a baby at the annual family Christmas gathering. (Actually, I was sleeping like a baby—the one next door was awake several times during the night, too.)

Sleeping arrangements aside, here is the important question for this year's party: Did this qualify as a redneck Christmas?

Possibly. Here are the contributing factors:

1. We were at a hunting lodge in the South (well, South Dakota). It was decorated in Modern Taxidermy with mounted deer heads (the one with only one antler looked embarrassed), elk heads, turkeys, bobcats, and pheasants. One of the gifts in the joke gift exchange was a set of mounted antlers—from a deer personally shot by the giver, Great-Grandma (who was merely Grandma back when she shot it).

2. Grandma wouldn't have been up for any deer hunting this year though. A fall on the slippery back step a couple days earlier had left her stiff, sore, and with stitches in her arm. She joked that she hadn't exactly been run over by a reindeer; she just felt like it.

3. The entertainment included the usual board games and even a little bit of televised football, but the featured activity on Saturday afternoon was target shooting, with coaching from Great-Grandpa. Shooters included most of the granddaughters as well as the grandsons and sons-in-law. The great-grandkids are still too small to manage a shotgun, but they helped by picking up empties and unbroken targets. Next year, maybe.

4. The feature story of the weekend was the encounter some of us had with a dead skunk when we went for a walk. Someone suggested taking our picture with it, like the picture taken with the dead porcupine a few years ago (don't ask—that's a different story). As we approached, however, the "dead" skunk lifted its head and looked at us. An unhealthy-looking skunk out in broad daylight is not a good sign. We scrambled to a safe distance, my sister used her cell phone to call her husband the veterinarian, and he came and shot the critter. He also saw that it was caught by one leg in a trap. That immediately changed our perception of the skunk. Shooting it, instead of a necessity to get rid of a potential threat, became a necessity to put the poor thing out of its misery. (We skipped the picture.)

Arguments against this qualifying as a Redneck Christmas:

1. None of the in-laws were related except by marriage.

2. Too many teeth.

3. Too many e-readers.

4. Too many college degrees.

But I'll let you decide. Redneck Christmas, or just another ordinary family get-together?

And while you're making up your mind, have a Merry Christmas!

Jumping for Joy over Jack

We talk about "family trees," but even a tree is far too simple a symbol to capture the real complexity of a family. Maybe a vine would be better. Or a network of circles that overlap and link together into complex patterns.

Or a weaving, with its beginning lost in the past, its end undetermined somewhere far into the future, and its present a complicated tangle of interconnected threads. It is created from ties of blood, ties of marriage, and, above all, ties of love. They connect, overlap, blend, and sometimes clash in a complex mixture of colors and textures that create an ever-changing pattern.

And that may be a nice little bit of analogy, but actually a family is more like a sweater knit by a committee. Each person uses a different pattern, a different type and color of yarn, and different size needles, and there's always someone who shows up with a crochet hook. The finished garment might end up with seven sleeves and no neck opening--but it will be one of a kind.

All this imagery is an attempt to put into words my feelings about the arrival on July 21, 2011, of grandchild number ten: Jack Allen.

Since his father is my stepson, Jack is "my" grandson. He's also "my" grandson to his mother's parents, his father's mother, and his father's stepdad. And his father's father, whose thread in the family weaving was abruptly broken off nearly nine years ago.

Wayne will never get to hold this newest grandchild in his big, competent hands and grin at him with the smile that started in his bright blue eyes. Jack won't get to know the grandfather whose middle name he shares.

But he's there, nevertheless, just as we other grandparents are. Along with the rest of the family, we're all part of the pattern that right now comes together in this new baby.

Maybe that's a little too much heavy thinking for one little guy who isn't even a full day old yet. So, while Jack is getting to know his mom and his dad, the rest of us in the complicated connections that make up his family can wait a while.

For now, let's just keep it simple: He's here. His name is Jack. As in "Jeepers, he's cute." As in "Jump up and down with excitement," the way his father did right after his birth. As in Joy.

Welcome, Jack Allen. Your families are Jubilant about you.

Pot Problems

It's almost time to commit cacticide again.

Among the plants on the old library table in my kitchen are a Christmas cactus and a Thanksgiving cactus. Well, supposedly it's a Thanksgiving cactus, but this past year it bloomed around Halloween and then again at Easter, so it appears to be a bit conflicted in its religious beliefs.

Both plants are thriving, to the point of getting too big for their pots. It's time to either repot them, trim them back severely, or consider even more drastic measures.

I've gone the repotting route before, and I know where it leads. First the plant outgrows a nice middle-sized pot, then a big one, and the next thing you know it's firmly established in a container the size of a coffee table that is too heavy to move. It's having illicit pot parties in the living room and you're too intimidated to say anything.

The last time that happened with the Christmas cactus, I finally took drastic action. I clipped off eight or ten substantial cuttings, started a new plant in a medium-sized pot, and after it was well established I lugged the old plant out onto the deck.

In January. A couple of days later we had a blizzard, and there the poor thing sat, the wind making its frozen fingers scratch against the glass door as if it were pleading to be taken back in. I felt like a murderer. It reminded me of the stories about Eskimos leaving old people out on the ice to die.

Especially because that plant was so old. It had been part of my life for nearly 40 years, and part of the family for much longer. My plant was a gift from my mother when I moved into my first house. It started from cuttings from my grandmother's Christmas cactus. Hers bloomed magnificently every year and had grown into a majestic presence, its gnarled thick stalks growing out of a square wooden pot custom-made for it by my uncle. Grandma's plant, in turn, had come from one belonging to her cousin Minnie, which might well have begun with a gift of cuttings to her mother as early as about 1900.

So cutting back my Christmas cactus or restarting it isn't something to be done lightly. It has a venerable and honorable heritage. Of course, it has a promising future as well. The one I started from it for my daughter is flourishing in her living room.

If I do start a new plant and discard the older part of mine, it really wouldn't be cacticide. It's more like reincarnation.

No wonder the Thanksgiving cactus is so confused.