Adventures in Advent

"Did we have Advent Calendars when we were little?" my brother asked me the other day.

"No," I answered. "We had the Advent Wreath, and Mom lit a candle every Sunday until Christmas. Remember?"

He nodded.

"I don't think it was thing," I continued. "I never even saw one until I was in school in Switzerland."

By the time my nephews were kids I the 90s, Advent Calendars were easy to find at specialty stores like World Market. Their Grandma Judy used to get both of them their own with a chocolate for every day each year, and those simple cardboard jobs with a holiday scene printed on them were the same ones I remember seeing in Europe.

For a few years in the early oughts, I read one chapter a night in December from Jostein Gaarder's book, The Christmas Mystery, which is essentially a literary Advent Calendar. The book is written in daily chapters and tells the story of Joachim, a boy who finds an old Advent calendar that uncovers the story of a girl named Elisabet, who disappeared from her home fifty years earlier. Elisabet has been taken back through time and space, across Europe to Palestine, to see the Holy Family in Bethlehem. Two thousand years of history flash by, and angels, shepherds, and wise men join her on her joyful pilgrimage. Joachim makes it possible for her to come home. It was a nice way to mark the season.

I'm not sure when it happened, but sometime since then, Advent countdowns have exploded. Even the NY Times Wirecutter has reviews and recommendations of products that will help you count down the days until Christmas. Even so, it wasn't until I received an email in October of this year from a specialty coffee retailer offering 24 days of exquisite beans that I finally joined the fun. The coffee calendar was expensive but so appealing: maybe it was the retiree in me, but I could totally imagine Heidi and me sampling fine coffees from around the world each morning in December. "This is the Framily from Yirgachaffee," I might say. "Can you taste the notes of citrus and blueberry?"

And that is exactly how it has been, two days in. The calendar provides enough beans to brew a single pot of coffee we enjoyed together. But I was so excited about the prospect of the coffee that I also ordered an Advent jigsaw puzzle: it's 1,000 pieces parceled out into 24 little boxes so that each day, Heidi and I work together to assemble 40 or so pieces to add to a fun holiday scene. 

And as if that wasn't enough, my sister got Heidi a gnome-themed Advent Calendar for her birthday in November. Even though it hasn't been exactly as advertised, we have had fun the last couple of mornings opening the little windows to discover what non-gnome thing is in there. Then we put an ornament hanger on it, and hang it on the tiny pine tree in the pot out in front of our house. It looks adorable.

So, yeah, I get it. I see you, Advent, and I'm all in.

Too Kind

It's been a warm fall, but the absence of our regular wood peddlers has been notable. The last time we saw Lisa, she was rolling an oxygen tank behind her. As always, I'm sure she rang the doorbell and stepped respectfully back from the stoop. "I see y'all need a fill-up," she might have said, gesturing to our wood rack. 

I probably agreed, or more likely, Heidi did because she's usually the one to answer the door, but I'm sure I paid Lisa when she and her cousin were finished stacking the firewood they had hauled from their truck. 

"That should take you through to next year," I'm pretty sure she promised.

And I know I nodded agreeably. "Thank you," I answered. "Take care," I hope I added as I handed over the cash we always kept on hand for these transactions. "See you in the fall."

When the doorbell rang this morning, I knew it had to be her. It was December 1, 38 degrees, and our wood rack was getting low. From the kitchen, I could hear more conversation than usual when Heidi answered the door, and through the window, I saw Lisa's cousin. I went around to the front door.

"How much do we usually pay to fill the rack?" Heidi asked me. In a quieter voice, she added, "Lisa died this summer, and she wants to make sure she charges us the right amount."

"I'm so sorry," I said to the woman at the door. "We have always really appreciated the excellent service you have given us."

"Thank you," she nodded. "Lisa always wanted to make sure we took care of you. She always said, 'We gotta stop by the girls' house to see if they need anything.' I don't know what you paid, but I want to keep it the same out of respect to her."

Wild Child

Heidi and I were walking on the beach the other day (oh, how lovely it is to toss that into conversation so casually as if a walk on the beach was nothing special!) when we passed a little family enjoying the beach, too. The mom was in a chair a ways up from the incoming tide, and the dad dug in the sand with the younger of their two children; he and the toddler were busy building a castle with a moat. 

Their older child, a girl of about three with wild blond hair, was some yards up the beach, chasing plovers and pipers and splashing in the gentle surf. We were walking in her direction, and she was far enough away from her parents that I was intrigued. I saw her mother wave to her, but not with outward concern, as the child ran farther and farther away, a wee picture of joy and abandon, a tiny person all alone on the beach. 

I wondered how far they would let her go. She was never in danger, but she was at least 200 yards from her parents and moving away with every step. Even so, her joy was evident: I could feel it from where I was. "Get a load of feral Carol," I said to Heidi, and then we were both mesmerized by the wild child ahead of us.

Soon enough, we caught up to her, and I waved as she caught my eye. Her mom was not far behind us; she had risen from her chair the moment her child was out of earshot, but her pace was unhurried because clearly? That kid was fine.

Razzle

We have dogs named Tazzy and Jazzy staying with us at the beach, so naturally, the rhyming concepts of razzle and dazzle would find their way into our conversation.

"Dazzle is such an awesome word," I said to the group, "but when was the last time you were truly dazzled?"

"Snorkeling in Belize," Bill answered immediately. "The colors of all the fish were dazzling."

"I was dazzled today," Treat told us, "by the 300-year-old live oaks with all the lights on them at Brookgreen Garden. It was spectacular."

"I honestly can't think of the last time I was dazzled," I confessed. "But I am going to pay attention and use the word in my blog tomorrow," I vowed.

The next day was Thanksgiving, and as is our tradition, we watched the Macy's Parade. There was a number from the new Broadway show Death Becomes Her. All the performers were clad in deep purple sparkles. "Does that dazzle you?" my brother asked.

"No," I answered, and neither did The Outsiders, Jennifer Hudson, or any of the dogs in the dog show. Our turkey was magnificent and delicious, the desserts were wonderful, the stars from the beach were beautiful, and the lightning illuminating the clouds on the horizon was really cool, but I was not dazzled.

This morning we took our customary walk on the beach, despite the drop in temperature from 60s to 40s. I, committed to walking in bare feet, sloshed through the gentle incoming tide, because the water was warmer than the blustery air. The sun, muted by the clouds on the horizon, cast a bronze glow on the sea. 

"Maybe I'm just too jaded to be dazzled," I said to my brother.

"Too jaded and cynical to appreciate anything?" he replied. 

"Impress me, Lord!" I laughed, raising my arms to the ocean.

The sun rose above a cloud, flooding the beach in light.

"What about that?" he asked.

"That was pretty good!" I said.

"But was it dazzling?"

Yes.

Baked for Thanksgiving

Courtney, Heidi, and I took a bike ride through the beach neighborhoods around our rental this afternoon. Thanksgiving is so quirky-- some families eat at noon while others, like ours, maintain a more traditional meal time. At any rate, there were people about, walking off or walking in anticipation of their meal, and there were the sounds and smells of people within the homes, too, and their celebrations. In addition to hearing soft jazz, laughter, cheering, and Christmas music as we pedaled by, we also caught the smells of wood smoke, steak (or perhaps fried turkey?), spaghetti sauce, and tons of weed. 

"That's a choice," my sister shrugged.

"A common one, it seems," I agreed.

Low Country Thanksgiving Eve

As the sun set this evening, I drove to the southernmost end of the peninsula where we are staying. Holiday lights sparkled from many of the homes on the narrow spit, and plenty were occupied, despite the fact that this is a beach town in the off-season. The smell of wood smoke was on the breeze, and I stopped to let a couple of women cross the street carrying huge kettles. In house after house, I spotted folks setting up folding tables or picnic tables in the breezeway created by the pylons lifting the structure above the floodplain. Still other people stood on the decks of their houses watching the sun sink, turning the pale orange and the clouds pink. I rounded the point and headed back north into the gathering darkness and the lights and warmth of our own holiday home.

Ahhh

Wake up.
Drink freshly brewed coffee.
Go to the beach.
Eat a hearty breakfast.
Take a bike ride across the causeway and back along the beach.
Go to the state park to see alligators, egrets, and storks, oh my!
Run a couple of quick errands.
Play mini golf (Do badly! Deal with it!)
Cook dinner with your brother and sister.
Know that tomorrow will be just as good or better.