‘Five Women Mayhem’ bloggers share tales of best gifts ever given

All of the Five Women Mayhem bloggers have been contemplating an interesting question during this holiday season: What is one of the best gifts you have ever given?

Thus, with inspiration from those three groovy wise men and their most perfect gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh – we each offer a short tale of our own special giving, in all seasons, for intrinsically the same reason - Love. 

 

THE BEST GIFT by Marilyn Moore

My dad was a farmer.  His work clothes were a long-sleeved blue shirt, overalls with about a gazillion pockets, and heavy boots.  In the winter, add insulated coveralls and warm gloves.  And something on his head.  Usually, a cap.  It kept the sun from burning his bald spot, and the brim provided some protection for his face.  In the winter, he swapped it out for an insulated cap, with ear flaps. 

Occasionally, he would wear a hat instead of a cap.  Sometimes a straw hat for field work in the summer, because it had a wider brim for more protection from the sun, while still being light-weight.  Mostly, though, I remember hats as being for special occasions, defined as “not working in the fields.”  He wore a hat to cattle sales, to church, to ice cream socials and rodeos, and to family gatherings.

One year Dave and I learned that he had wanted a Stetson hat for a long time, but thought it was a luxury he just could not justify.  We could justify it easily; he was my dad, and it would make him happy.  There’s a Stetson store on Interstate 29 just south of Saint Joseph, MO, which we would pass every time we went to Kansas City.  We stopped that fall, and with hat size provided by Mom, we picked out the classic Stetson and wrapped it for Christmas.

I remember well the moment he opened this gift.  He unwrapped the hat from its tissue paper carefully, and just looked at it.  His words, “I always wanted a Stetson, but I didn’t think I would ever have one. Thank you.”  He was a man of very few words, and that’s all he said, although it was reported that he remarked on occasion that he was wearing his Stetson.

Those were the days before cell phone cameras that caught every gift opening, so I have no photo to share.  I don’t need one, as I shall always remember the look on his face when he realized he was holding a Stetson hat.   

 

A Gift for Beginnings By JoAnne Young

I have no idea how I dreamed it up. Was I visited in the night by a muse? Was it voodoo or
just an idea swirling around in the Texas sky, waiting for a target? 

It was decades ago, after a “Wanna get married?” telephone call. I had gone home to my parents’ home in Dallas, leaving Lincoln after the man had left me for his own future, and ready to make decisions for mine. Then his call came on a May afternoon. And before the idea could settle in and nest, I was shopping for a wedding dress. 

That’s when the muse touched down, crawled into my head and made herself at home. Dotted swiss. It had to be dotted swiss. With an empire waist. And so we went from store, to store, to store, my mother and I, finding nothing that resembled dotted swiss with an empire waist.

I decided, I’ll just have to make it myself. This muse would not leave my head, filling it with notions that I could do this, even though I was not a seamstress, and had only 10 weeks to get it done. 

Honestly, I couldn’t do it today. But with the exuberance of youth, I designed and sewed a dress with a floor length dotted swiss skirt over taffeta and a simple ruffle 12 inches from the hem. It fell from a high waist made of pleated lace, and a poof of dotted swiss at the top of the sleeve. Underscoring the waist, and at the cuffs and high collar, was a red silk ribbon under a band of floral lace. 

The image of my dream guided and pushed me on when I faltered. 

Best gift I ever gave was to myself: A dress to begin my forever marriage. And the notion that sometimes persistence and vision pays, even when you aren’t quite sure how to carry it off. 

“You can believe that you are neither a slave to inspiration nor its master, but something far more interesting … its partner.” – Elizabeth Gilbert

 

The Journal by Mary Reiman

For Christmas in 1983 I gave my mom a blank journal with quotes at the top of each page, such as this from Willa Cather, “There is something frank and joyous and young in the open face of the country. It gives itself ungrudgingly to the moods of the season, holding nothing back.”

I asked mom to write her story. She wrote to me almost every week, so I knew there was writing in her soul, there were memories to be shared.

For Christmas in 1994 she gave the book back to me. It was filled with her stories, our stories, in no particular order. Her first sentence “All the wonders of nature, change of seasons and new creations of our Lord and Father makes us thankful we have always been plain country folks.”

When she thought of something, she wrote about it. Births and deaths, her years growing up, life during World War II, marriage, retirement and all the years between. Everyday adventures, laughter and sorrow, life on the farm and holiday memories.

“My best memory of Christmas at home was the year of the great depression. Grandma Chaffin took a favorite old doll of mine... made it new clothes including a red wool coat and cap and made a quilt for the doll. I thought it the greatest gift I ever received.”

I now have this journal in her handwriting, hearing her voice as I read it over and over. And even now, as I turn each page, I laugh, I cry and I know how lucky I am that the best Christmas present I ever gave has been returned to me.

 

A Gift of Release By Penny Costello

My partner, Kate, and I and I have lived together for 25 years. One of our earliest lessons in successful cohabitation, and one of the best gifts I have given was grocery shopping.

I like grocery shopping. I can be particular about the brands and varieties of food I select. I enjoy the hunt and the chance to discover bargains and new delights along the way. And I love the feeling of a well-stocked kitchen.

As a single mother of two sons who put herself through law school when the boys were in grade school, for Kate, grocery shopping was just something that needed to get done. Often it meant corralling those boys and their growing appetites simultaneously while filling her cart.

I liked the size and variety offered at Super Saver, not to mention the lower prices. She hates big box stores and Muzac. Plus, too many choices is tough on a Libra.

We both like pushing the cart. Kate had perfected what I call a classic “Mom” move. When I was pushing the cart and stopped to look at something, she would very gently put her right hand on the cart next to my left hand, and then in one smooth motion led by her right hip, she would deftly slide me to the right and place herself in the driver’s seat behind the cart without a word. It was mastery developed, I was sure, over years of shopping with young boys. And it was maddening. Invariably, our trips to the store ended in us feeling inexplicably crabby.

One year, as our anniversary approached, money was tight for me and I was grappling to come up with the perfect anniversary gift. And then it hit me.

I proclaimed to Kate that she would never have to go to the grocery store again unless she wanted to. She was thrilled. It’s a gift that has kept on giving to us both for over two decades. If we stop at the store while out running errands, once in awhile, she comes in, but generally she happily waits in the car. And still to this day she lets me know how much she loves having that choice. I love the ease that has given her, and it was so easy to give.

A gift of release that both eases and strengthens. Can’t do much better than that.

 

The Gifts of the Bells  By Mary Kay Roth

When I first volunteered to ring Salvation Army bells, one Christmas Eve morning long ago, I was a young, single mom who wanted to teach her two young children about compassion and generosity.  

But down through the years the story has become the stuff of legend in our family. Personally, I believe we worked a brisk, two-hour stint.  However, my daughter, Anna, and my son Josh, claim they endured at least four hours of ringing, maybe six, on the coldest wintry day in the history of all wintry days in Nebraska.

Truthfully, the precise details of how our ritual began are likely lost forever.  But the important part of our story is this: When I realized we were never going to make it through the entire two hours of bell ringing (or four or six), spontaneously, we started singing Christmas carols. 

And it was magic.

Suddenly people stopped, smiled, laughed.  My kids giggled and danced.  Many coins were tossed into the bucket. Time slipped away.

So, for the past 25 years or so, each December we sign up to ring bells and sing carols on Christmas Eve Day.

At some point we started bringing candy canes for tots, added Santa hats and reindeer antlers.  And over the years – whether the day’s weather required T-shirts or long johns – family members joined us and friends stopped by.

Yesterday, Christmas Eve Day, we gathered once again for Salvation Army bells. 

As always, we cried when we sang “Silent Night,” because that one’s for my dad.  We winced as Anna belted out her god-awful version of “The Christmas Shoes.” We laughed insanely, performing our signature song, “Santa Baby” – valiantly attempted to remember those elusive Twelve Days of Christmas. And inevitably a few older folks paused when they heard us, asked to hear a favorite carol, then sang along as a tear rolled down their cheek.

 Of course, every year, right in the middle of the crazy chaos, at some point I always stop singing to quietly ponder this precious moment in time … and those once young children who have miraculously grown into kind, charitable and giving adults. 

That’s the moment I realize – that of all the countless presents nestled under our Christmas tree over the years, perhaps the most important gifts I have ever shared with my children are the gifts of the bells: generosity, tradition and perchance just a whisper of magic.    

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All I want for Christmas is … a lot

By JoAnne Young

These wishes are on my list for Christmas … if only someone was in a position to grant them, or if the stars and moon could align … or whatever it would take. 

 

* I met a hen this month, living in a backyard coop in the middle of the city with seven other hens. Her name is Brienne, named after Brienne of Tarth from Game of Thrones. And she apparently takes seriously being the namesake of the first woman of the Seven Kingdoms to become a knight. Three times Brienne the hen has faced down a fox in her chicken yard, putting herself firmly and bravely between the fox and her seven peers. Three times the buff Orpington has ended up in the mouth of the invading fox, and so far her watchful owners have been able to save her. As a gift to me, and to her in this season of giving, I’d like knighthood to be bestowed on this chick and for the barnyard gods to keep her safe. 

 

* More women in elected positions in national, state and local government, please. And when they are elected, they need to be treated with the respect they earn. Research and studies find that women must work harder to get elected and stay in office, and so they pay more attention to detail, are more willing to listen to and aid constituents, do more preparation for daily tasks, are more likely to cosponsor bills that help their voters, and bring more federal money to their districts. When the Nevada Legislature became the first in which women outnumbered men, they passed policies to expand protections for pregnant workers, bills for paid sick leave and legislation that helped victims of domestic violence and sexual assault. Not all women are like-minded, of course, but we can hope for independent thinkers to be elected and respected.

 

* We need a really talented Santa for this one: To restore the ability of Americans to reason and to investigate, beyond social media, before they determine what is truth. 

 

* A man, if he and the women were so inclined, could potentially impregnate two to three women a day. In January through September, nine months, that would be between 546 and 819 babies from the seed of one man. One woman can get pregnant only once in nine months. … So clearly, society is placing the birth control responsibilities on the wrong gender. It has been said that the real culprit is known and on the loose. Santa, can you get the government, if they insist on the need to control reproduction, to shift its focus?  

 

* This gift would take some work by all of mankind and womankind. The world needs to be rid of the greed – that intense desire for wealth and power and possessions that permeates businesses and governments and dwells in people. One high profile example is Purdue Pharma and its greed in manufacturing and distributing the highly addictive opioid oxycontin that led to so many deaths. Greed maims and kills and leaves families to grieve for a lifetime. 

 

* More handwriting, please. It unleashes creativity, sharpens the brain, and forces us to slow down and appreciate what we are writing about and who will read it. Please, Santa, help me to deliver on the handwritten notes I have promised. 

 

* My husband, since we have no chickens, would like to see more of the beautiful fox that has trotted across our back yard a couple of times in the past year. And add a wish for the wellbeing of all wildlife.  

* And finally, this gift would be one that keeps on giving: To keep a fresh memory of the good parts of being a child. Spending about six hours of every weekday learning and studying and gaining critical thinking skills, sometimes alone and sometimes surrounded by friends and mentors. Then playing and creating before story time, which can take many forms today, from books to podcasts to movies, and then a refreshing sleep. And then, for the weekend, good meals and family and friend time. 

 

I told you it was a lot. Many good elves are needed. And I wish you all the granting of your lists, too. 

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Lament

by Marilyn Moore 

I had so wanted to grace these pages this month with something other than mayhem…some joy, some light, some hope, some anticipation of the new year, some stories of friends and family and faith, the Mystery of the approaching winter solstice…but I’m not quite there.  While I’m fully grateful for all of the above, which are present in my life to a degree far greater than I have in any way earned, I find myself often landing on unsettling disappointment.  I believe the word that fits best is “lament,” defined as an expression of grief, often born of regret or mourning.  

First used as “lament” in the sixteenth century, it’s a concept that is evident for thousands of years of human history.  I suspect it’s one of the universal emotions, expressed in every culture and in every language.  According to Wikipedia, laments constitute some of the oldest forms of writing, and many of the most memorable poems are laments.  In many oral traditions, both ancient and modern, the lament has been a genre usually performed (said, sung, exclaimed) by women. Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.

This time of year, at least in this culture, is a time that seems to heighten all emotions, and to do so in the context of nearly impossible expectations that we set for ourselves.  Joyful times are more so, as are sad times.  It is in recognition of those sad times, when it’s hard to be sad in the face of seeming overwhelming jolliness all about, that gives rise to such events as Blue Christmas services, especially designed to acknowledge and affirm sadness and loss. This year seems…even more so.  Regret, and mourning….

I have found myself thinking many times in the past few weeks, “I wish it could be different.”  I regret that as a society, as a people, we have not taken the steps we could have taken to bring this pandemic to a manageable level, to something that doesn’t drive so much of our daily lives.  I mourn for the nearly 3000 Nebraskans who have died from this disease, and for their families and friends and colleagues.  And I especially mourn that their deaths in so many cases could not be marked with the gatherings and rituals and community that gives some sense of comfort to those who loved them.  I mourn for those vulnerable elderly persons who went for months without seeing family members, who communicated through windows and on electronic tablet screens…. better than nothing, but no human touch, no hugs.  I mourn that loss of connectedness.  I mourn for Cherrie’s sister, who died without Cherrie’s touch, and for a colleague’s husband, whose death could not be marked with his full professional and church community gathering to celebrate his life and to literally put their arms around her.  I mourn that that same story played out over and over again…. that more than 770,000 persons in the US have died from this disease…and we don’t seem to be able to behave our way into an end.  And I regret that this whole saga has become a divisive political issue, when it could be a time of commitment and care for one another.

And speaking of divisive political issues, I regret that civil rights and voting rights have become litmus test issues for so many.  These are bedrock constitutional rights, and yet we seem to be taking steps backward, rather than forward, in assuring access and opportunity for all.  “States’ rights” was code word for discriminatory laws passed in the one hundred years following the Civil War…and those laws are being proposed and adopted again.  But it’s not the policy differences that are at the heart of this lament, it’s the way people are treated, the language that is used about “the other.”  The harshness of comments, the name-calling…I mourn the message that sends to children who watch us.  

In a traditional lament, a call is made for divine intervention in a time of crisis.   I would say that is not inappropriate at this time.  I would also say that I think divine intervention frequently comes in the intentional and thoughtful acts of good will by people of good will.  No letting myself off the hook here.  Whether words of comfort to those who are mourning, or political actions that support decisions that advance the cause of human health and human equity, I recognize they must become a part of my own life.  But I also honor the lament…mine, and yours, and that of the earth itself.  There is deep grief, and we affirm the lives of all by acknowledging it.

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Season of Bare Branches … honoring the wonder of the ordinary

By Mary Kay Roth

Every morning when I take a loop around Holmes Lake, I always pause in the same familiar spot where I have the perfect view of my four favorite trees. They change clothes each season, of course, snow-capped in winter, leafed out in summer greenery and gilded in the fall.

This week, however, they are naked – stark silhouettes of scaffolding branches, dark tree skeletons with each limb reaching out in strength and grace. 

This has become my favorite time of year, a time I call the “Season of Bare Branches” – the season of long, languorous shadows and enormous, unending skies – the season of slow, sensuous sunsets lingering into the golden of twilight – of crystal-clear nights opening up to shimmering stars. 

There is a simplicity to these weeks on the calendar as they create the perfect occasion to honor the wonder of the ordinary. There is no judgment or busyness in this moment, no raking or shoveling or seeding.  

Right now our only task is to take respite in the awe of the exquisite bone structure of our land. To breathe in the bleak beauty of every hollow, hill, marsh, farm field, creek run, prairie. 

Summer’s showy blossoms have faded and vivid autumn foliage has fallen. Switchgrasses and bluestem prairie have dried, cattails exploded, coneflowers and Black-eyed Susans grown brittle.

Flowerbeds have been thinned, leaves mulched into the ground.  Rakes are put away, snow shovels still stowed away.  It’s chilly, but not cold to the bone. And the chaotic holiday frenzy has not yet worn us weary.

You can’t hide behind the Season of Bare Branches – the outlines of interior and exterior landscapes lie open and exposed. You can spot every bird on the limb, hawks and cardinals and sparrows, perched with their feathers puffed up against the coming cold.  The State Capitol is now visible from my Woods Park neighborhood in light of uncluttered vistas and open horizons.

And trees are completely undressed, stripped and raw against startling blue skies – their web of black, bony limbs still cradling the leftover nests of squirrels and birds. You can almost feel their texture, grow curious about the patterns of their bark.  And though you can so clearly see the shape of each tree, suddenly you also recognize the space between them, creating jigsaw puzzle pieces of open air. 

When I was younger, I much preferred the spring, giddy with joy at the annual jolt of purple crocus and bright-yellow daffodils.  In early adulthood I moved South for a job and the promise of warmth – never anticipating that I would hate the long, boring months, one running into another, with a continued monotony of moderate temperatures and stale, always-lime landscapes.

Ever since I came back home, I’ve basked in all four, glorious seasons. But through the years, I am increasingly drawn to this Season of Bare Branches, an unprepossessing time painted in the colors of earth and rest.

Make no mistake, I will dance deliriously when the first snowflakes tumble this winter. And I’ll plant my pansies far too early in anticipation of spring.

But for now, let me hit the pause button and bask in the Season of Bare Branches.  Let me hunker down, take a deep cleansing breath and stay here, please, for just awhile longer.

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