Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

Holiday ABC’s  

By Mary O’Brien

When home alone in December, your options are:

a) make ornaments

b) bake goodies

c) work on art project

d) write Christmas poem

f) practice using new corkscrew, make sure it works on reds, whites, as well as blushes

g) clean out dryer lint filter, put lint in all of hubby’s jacket pockets

h) phone long lost friend, sing carols to them

i) see if cinnamon bears float in bathtub

j) tape mini lights in spiral on carpet, making a yellow brick road

k) try moonshine pickles, eat with chopsticks

l) make pickle ornaments

m) write ugly letter to Santa

n) set fire to letter using fumes from pickles

o) play Here Comes Santa Claus on keyboard using meow meow sounds

p) write Christmas cards on pieces of burned toast

q) use blow dryer to clean burned crumbs off kitchen counters

r) apply spray glue to dog ears; glitter

s) wear headlamp over Santa hat to set trash out for the night

t) write country song about being left alone on a December night with dogs, moonshine and a Jeep

u) make wreath of pickles, dry with blow dryer, add glitter AFTER blow drying

v) make YouTube video on perils of laying electric lights on carpeting

w) decide broken glass ornaments can be finely crushed to make glitter — roll out with rolling pin

x) bandage hands when bleeding stops

y) eye moonshine cherries . . .

z) go to bed early with a book

Mary O’Brien is a Retired Trophy Wife (RTW) from the Pacific Northwest. She has volunteered for the Court Appointed Special Advocate program, founded local therapeutic hospital humor programs, and supported various other non-profits and do-goodery. 

Enjoying the artistry of music, the music of words, the words of healing, and the healing of art, Mary is spending her pandemic hibernation immersing herself in art journaling, watercolor and writing. 

She lives in Idaho with her tolerant husband near her comedic grandchildren, and is managed by an elderly, sugared golden retriever (send treats). 

Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

Make Light in the Dark

A Letter of Forgiveness to Myself

by Caryl Sherman

Dearest

pale, broken, and lonely

sit up

stretch out your arms

take a deep cleansing breath

 

You don’t have to hold

yourself apart

from others anymore

 

Cradle your intention

slowly rock away the fears

long to see the light

listen to the raindrops

splash away the tears

 

Forgive yourself

be a better purveyor

of your own destiny

 

Ever changing and growing with age

intentionally litter your psyche

with sprinkles and

multi-colored streamers

Dance

 

Make light in the dark

hold yourself

in the palm of love

 

Your humbled heart

is right here…

in the best place

at the right time

in our mutual care

 

Live joy no matter what

reminisce in laughter

forgive again

 

You are renewed, refreshed, and emboldened

have trust and solace in your self pride 

rest easily

cast away all doubt

throw kisses to the wind…

Caryl Sherman: In the words of the very famous, and beloved cartoon character, Popeye the Sailor Man, “I y’am who I y’am and that’s who I y’am”.

I am the artist, and musician, formerly known as Leigh Anne Caryl. I thought using a pen name would give me the veil of protection and credibility I needed to write authentically; but that turned out NOT to be true. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

My authenticity is in who I REALLY am, just as honestly flawed and mismanaged as I was meant to be all along.

So, I start anew, shape shifting my writings, in all its tempestuous glory; by my given name, in the hope that you accept me for who I really y’am!

Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

In Praise of Christmas Tree Farms

By Sus Pareto

Yesterday I drove to Larsen’s Christmas Tree Farm, about two miles from my house. It was a balmy fall afternoon, and the road to the farm was lined with poplars and willows dappled in gold.

          Up ahead, I saw the red and green sign pointing to a narrow driveway which led to a dell where a yellow clapboard house and outbuildings gathered. Just a normal, traditional Petaluma farm — except when Christmas tree season opens. Like an explosion, the quiet dell surrounded by acres of orderly pine trees becomes a bustling hub of people and cars. As if by magic, gossiping groups of pre-cut trees have popped up while a tree-bagging station, ticketing station, and cookies-and-hot chocolate stand wait nearby. The barn has become a Christmas wonderland of sparkling trees and lights and ornaments. In the background, Christmas music weaves through the fragrant scent of pine trees.

          It’s the scent that gets me. So fresh and pure. Timeless. Like being in the middle of a mountain forest on a sunny day.

           I stroll along soft dirt through the aisles of trees. Voices float and mingle with the sunlight in the needles. Kids play hide-and-seek, parents discuss the merits of one tree over the next. Dads stand by with measuring poles and saws. Couples with their first babies. Grandparents and dogs. It feels all so safe and glad, and serene. The excitement of Christmas — the feelings that start to swirl and take on energy during the holiday season — is still on the horizon. This day is simply about strolling on a sunny fall afternoon through pine trees destined for felling with people you love, or like.

          I was not sorry to be alone. I enjoyed it. I paid my $95 (including shaking, bagging, trimming, and sales tax) and then watched my tree go through its handling: A quick shake on an old metal compressor to remove dry needles, then onto a rectangular table and into a funnel where it gets bagged in netting. A fresh cut to the trunk with a chain saw, and it’s ready for my car.

          I can hardly wait to get it home.

          No matter what I say about not caring about Christmas “this” year, about not wanting to make a big deal out of it, don’t believe me: I’m a liar. I can’t help myself. No matter how cranky I can be, every Christmas I temporarily forget any resentments I have, about how I don’t want to spend money, or don’t want to bother with decorations because nobody helps me put them away. When I hear the first Christmas songs, when I see the first decorations, when leaves start to fall and days get short and nights beckon for a fire, my resolve weakens.

           And when the Christmas tree lots appear, it fails. Every time.

          Trees beckon from parking lots, stores, and farms, and I’m powerless. ‘Oh screw it,’ I say to myself, ‘This year I want a really big, beautiful tree!’ And off I go to the Christmas tree farm. The floodgates open, my heart expands with warmth and joy in anticipation of another Christmas.

          Forget the thoughts of putting everything away in January, ignore thoughts of paying my credit card in February, now is the season to draw together, to love our lives, our homes, our friends, and even the worst family member. Let the house fill with the scent of pine and fake pine cones, cookies baking, hot roasted vegetables and meat. Let the pitter-patter of lights everywhere gladden our hearts. It’s Christmas.

Sus Pareto writes and lives in western Petaluma, California with her dogs, cat and husband.