Last night my family sat down to watch The Homecoming. Everyone was in town for Christmas Dinner a night early, and it was kind of cool to be watching the original Walton’s movie with my sisters and mom, since we actually lived right there in Walton Country back when the tv show was so popular. A lot of you know that SuziCate and I went to elementary school together up in Nelson County, but you may not be aware that our school was right across the street from the original Walton home written about by Earl Hamner.

SuziCate can tell you some great stories about the people behind the characters in the series, so I’ll leave that up to her. In my family we have our own reasons for wanting to watch the movie, namely, Maggie’s favorite scene when Mama Walton exclaims over her “Chris-mas Cac-tus.” I have to admit I get a little teary-eyed when Daddy Walton gives John Boy an Indian writing tablet because though John Boy wasn’t doing exactly what was expected of him, especially as the eldest son during the Depression, he was following his heart and they were supporting that.

Between watching the movie and all the talking and laughing we were doing, I got to thinking about homecomings. Over the past 18 months I’ve enjoyed a serendipitous string of reunions, reconnections and homecomings with people and places meaningful to my life. Some connections proved precious still, maybe even more so than before; others are what they maybe always have been ~ simply bittersweet place cards in time, with no obvious purpose and yet no definitive end.

Next I started thinking about Homecoming ~ as in, the high school dances ~ and it surprises me that I really don’t remember not only the dances but who I went with to the dances. I remember my sophomore year only because I went with the boy who always got away. Though he’d asked me to the dance three weeks earlier, by the time it came around, he’d already come . . . . and gone. He spent the evening singing Heartache Tonight and I spent it wishing we were as much in love as another couple there appeared to be. Quite frankly, it was not what I expected and I was majorly disappointed.

My junior year, I wasn’t even invited to the dance. Back then, girls didn’t much go alone or in groups and I’d broken up with my boyfriend at the end of the summer (yep, for the boy who always got away). We’d also moved 10 miles from town and outside the local calling area. Like Bad Luck Schleprock, I was wowzy-wowzy wo-wo-wo-ing my way through my days and my friends eventually became annoyed and distant. I was a pretty pathetic teenager.

Normally I’d spend my time sulking in my room, listening to the radio and crying myself to sleep and on the night of the dance I’m sure I was doing just that because of course, my life was over: no friends, no date, no dance. Loser! And this is the way I’d have remembered the night, if I had remembered it at all, if I hadn’t stumbled on my 1980 diary a few years back.

My mom and stepdad weren’t overly involved in my life ~ not counting the time my date and I went to the drive-in movie and looked over to see them waving at us two cars away. I could normally keep my drama to myself (or so I thought), but on this night my parents decided that I wasn’t going to be allowed to drown in my misery on their watch. They somehow planned an impromptu evening on the town and whisked my self-centered little butt up to Charlottesville’s UVA Corner.

While my classmates drank down on party road, stood around the high school cafeteria, or necked in the parking lot, I sat in the historic downtown Paramount Theatre and watched Woody Allen’s Stardust Memories, had drinks ~ at 16! ~ in the hot spot bar, The Mousetrap, and was treated to dinner at The Virginian, an iconic UVA Corner dining locale and, I was fascinated to learn at the time, a gay bar back when Hosa was in college. The evening ended, hours later, over Grillswiths at the legendary and long-gone University Diner.

Forgetting that night and recalling only my teenage dramatic angst says something about me that I’m not pleased to acknowledge but feel the obligation to admit. Too often I had expectations of the way I wanted things to go in my life and when they didn’t flow according to my wishes, I’d basically shut down and brood over what wasn’t going to be. I think a lot of girls, and women, do that by nature, and I personally believe that the depression I’d felt most of my life was essentially the result of choosing to stay in my box and then, when it proved to be empty, shut the lid and lie down in the dark.

Going out to Charlottesville took a little bit of creative initiative on my parent’s part, not to mention a whole lot of patience to deal with an ungrateful adolescent. I don’t recall much of our conversations or if we really even had any but I remember how I felt, being in the city at night, equal parts anonymous spectator and virgin participant, alone in my sadness but also so absolutely not. Though it took me years to appreciate exactly what they did, they should know they unknowingly poked a tiny hole in my box. That hole let through not only a little ray of sunshine but a view of what’s out there and who you can venture to be if you set your expectations aside and let yourself enjoy your life ~ simply, creatively, actively.

At the end of the movie, Daddy Walton, feared dead in a bus accident, walks miles through the snowy mountains to arrive home late on Christmas Eve. The family gathers around while he doles out the gifts he brags he wrangled from Santa. While my parents haven’t exactly stolen from the Fat Man for me, I’ve had my share of surprises. After a much needed but emotional visit to my childhood home this past October, I walked into my parent’s kitchen to find Hosa slaving over not only his special homemade spaghetti sauce recipe, but a separate vegetarian version just for me. And my mom, usually happier to let others do the public speaking, made a fantastic toast after Thanksgiving this year and publicly awarded me with The Pocketbook to take along on my upcoming travels. So sorry Mama Walton, but I’d say that pretty much tops even your beautiful Christmas Cactus.

The Virginian at the UVA Corner

Hey, what’s a Grillswith? A divine dessert of grilled Donuts, vanilla ice cream & chocolate sauce.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

The 2009 Christmas season has been an unusual one. Instead of the traditional parties, getting together with friends, and full-on house decorating, most of my time has been spent going through everything I own and weeding it down to the 4 or 5 plastic tubs that will fit in my car. You would think after having moved so many times this would not be an issue for me but somehow, like everyone else, I manage to clutter up my house and my life with more things and more clothes than I can ever use or even need.

This cleaning out of the house has lead to a little cleaning out of the head, too, and that’s a cool thing. Aside from my clothes, my camera, my journals, some music and my dogs, there isn’t much more I’m inclined to keep right now. It’s disturbing to notice how attached I’ve become to things, simply because they were given to me by or belonged to someone special, and I realize that I am a packrat of memories and a hoarder of my past. All that holding onto what’s over, what isn’t and what sometimes never was, has left me feeling weighted down and a little suffocated. Don’t get me wrong ~ I honestly envy those friends of mine who are settled in their homes, surrounded by stuff, and comfortable in their lives and content with their families, and I want that too. It’s just that instinct has been telling me for a long time now to let go and follow this direction, this move to LA, and I know in my heart that what I want within my life waits out there for me. I know that in a way I cannot explain. And I know these things can be replaced.

Yet even without the usual Christmas festivities, this holiday season has been more memorable than most. It snowed the first weekend of the month, and I’d driven up to Louisa to sell my photographs at the local Christmas festival and parade. Though the exhibit turned out to be a bust, the afternoon that I spent with the OBX gang over lunch and coffee was a blast. After driving to my parent’s house in the falling snow, I was greeted with a lighted Christmas tree waiting for decorations, and the evening was spent with wine, dinner, great music, a roaring fire, and my mom and dad. That felt like Christmas to me.

Back at the beach, I’ve had 3 or 4 small goodbye parties and our annual work Christmas dinner. In the past two days I’ve seen three dear friends I haven’t been able to connect with in over a year. And today, while mom and stepdad enjoy another snowstorm 150 miles to the west, it’s pouring rain here and I’m home filling boxes for donation to the women’s shelter and sorting out which framed photographs to give to which friends ~ because they aren’t going with me.

On the day after Christmas, after spending the holiday with my mom and Hosa and their two dogs, LolliPop and Daisy and I will have breakfast and head west. But before that, we’ll have Christmas dinner on the 23^rd, and our usual oyster breakfast at my sister Janet’s house Christmas morning. If I’m lucky all of my nieces and nephews will make it home and my grandmother, affectionately known as Big Mama, will be on the good side of her Alzheimer’s, meaning that even though she’ll forget six times that it’s Christmas, she’ll be happy and smiling instead of belligerent and nasty and enjoying every minute of that.

Janet and I can share a glass of her Evan Williams egg nog before bed and maybe visit our friends the Chaney’s. Suzanne and I practically grew up together, as her dad and mine, before he died, were state troopers together. Every Christmas Eve, Jerry would go running outside with his gun and pretend he was shooting Santa. Yes, it sounds horrible, but it was truly funny, once you were old enough to know he wasn’t really shooting poor Santa. And I’m from the country, so if the skies are clear, I’ll get to see a billion stars shining overhead before moving to a city that has it’s share of stars, but doesn’t quite enjoy the same view.

My neighbors are having another dinner party tonight, but right now, I have candles lit, a glass of mulled wine, and A Charlie Brown Christmas playing on the stereo, and I’m listening to the dogs snoring in their sleep. Last Saturday evening, after Lolli injured her back, I took all the covers off my bed and curled up on the floor in the living room next to her and fell asleep to the tune of Christmas Time is Here. I had the best nap of my life. It’s been a busy day, but I’m pretty content as I sit here for a few moments, doing absolutely nothing. Right now I’m between here and there ~ and that’s a peaceful place to be.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

Between now and then I have one full day left of work, 3 chiropractic appointments, one hair appointment and a date with the dentist to remove the only existing wisdom tooth in my head. I’d like to set aside some time to get together with friends but I just don’t know if that is going to happen. The last few months seemed like they would last forever and I figured I had all the time in the world but now I have a house full of furniture and boxes that need to find a home, fast. I placed a few things on Craigslist but up till now I’ve only managed to sell a couple of rugs.

Fortunately I spent yesterday with two of my best friends from my college days at the ODU Oceanography Department. Julie and Carole have been with me since LA trip number one in 1995. They have always supported my dreams, even when logic was not a deciding factor. Saturday I had dinner with SuzeCate, my long-lost elementary school chum brought back via FaceBook, who it turns out has been less than 10 miles from me for most of the past 20 years. Friday night the best neighbors on the planet cooked me a vegetarian dinner and we whooped it up in our usual fashion of unusual entertainment like reading How the Grinch Stole Christmas, playing the piano and dancing swing (or attempting to) by the fire to Christmas tunes while banging on bongos that only one of us truly knows how to play.

And a couple of weeks ago I spent a brief but oh so magical afternoon in Louisa with three of the OBX Skanks, Debra, Pam and Steff. We were blessed with a pretty cool snowstorm that dropped some cozy Christmas cheer into our quick but memorable day and took a few pictures for Lee Lee out in Colorado. My friend Brenda is coming all the way from Lynchburg to spend this weekend helping me pack and keep my sanity, and last night’s work party provided a great last chance to be merry with the colleagues. Christmas I’ll be staying with my mom and Hosa and having the annual oyster breakfast with my sister (both of them, I hope) and it’s the one time of the year I eat oysters, even though I still only eat them fried. New Year’s Eve I’ll be in Colorado with my best-est longtime friend Lee Lee. But there are still people I want badly to see before I go.

It would be easy enough to schedule a couple of hours this weekend to meet in one of the local pubs if it weren’t for the one snag in these perfectly flowing plans, and that is LolliPop. My baby seems to be suffering from some sort of spinal problem for a few days now and both a trip to the chiropractor and strong doses of drugs have helped only slightly. We spent last night sleeping in the living room floor, her head curled against a pillow between me and the sofa, Daisy above us keeping a watchful eye on her while I slept.

I’ve massaged, held, and sung Unchained Melody to this dog, but despite muscle relaxers and pain killers she’s shaking and whining, and when I went to check on her at lunch today she hobbled over to me like a little old woman, scooted her head into my lap on the floor and tried to curl up into my body as much as she could. I’m wearing my big girl panties because I’m the mama and I’m not the one hurting, but it’s brought me close to tears more than once already today and the Christmas songs, bittersweet as they are, are not helping. Logically I know she will be fine but with me logic is usually lost to emotion, and hearing O Holy Night back to back with Dan Fogelberg’s Same Old Lang Syne sends my thoughts to the summer of 2008 when I lost Pearl just weeks before the last scheduled move and synchronicity swirled in like a mist over the full moon to change my plans for awhile. Quite frankly I’m not willing to go there again.

So Lolli and I head into visit Dave, another dear friend and in my opinion absolutely the best veterinarian in Virginia Beach. He thinks Lolli’s got a bad disk in her back and takes x-rays and amazingly, her back is fine, perfect bone from top to bottom. But she’s also full of crap, from tip to tail, so much so that it’s clearly visible on the x-ray screen. Turns out, my dog is constipated. Her back hurts because the muscles around her spine are going into spasms made worse by the fact that she’s packed full of poop. The irony of this revelation isn’t lost on me at all ~ not after all I’ve been through here. The thing is, my instincts were telling me this was the problem but I jumped to the worst conclusion, even thinking she had a tumor, instead of trusting what I already knew.

Lolli got an enema and I got a reminder to give myself a break and trust what I know, which is that things are going to be just fine. Now it’s 9:30 at night and I’m eating a late dinner while standing outside in the freezing cold encouraging my dog to relax and just let it flow. Change is good, especially when it’s change you’ve put in motion yourself. Times like these, when there seems to be so much to do and the memories are swirling and the friends are saying goodbye and you feel one door closing and the other one opening, it’s just good to remember that selling the rugs is not the same as having them pulled out from under you.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

My four year old daughter, Maggie, hums herself to sleep. She says she hums because it keeps her bad dreams away. I find this pretty amazing. She was born in China, thousands of miles between us and I too hum myself to sleep. (Must be that red thread . . .) I hum the same song winter, spring, summer, or fall, every night, and it works. . . .

I’ll let you in on a little secret, I’m a Christmas-a-holic. I love everything about it. When I hear people complaining about last minute shopping (mine’s not finished, either) I laugh. When they say they’ve gained weight over the holidays, I look down at my own little pooched out belly, and I smile. When they stress over not finding that perfect gift for that certain someone, I sympathize, but not much.

You see, I am a worrier, and from January through September, it’s chronic. But then October arrives, and all of my problems and worries are miraculously put on the back burner by Christmas magic. It’s only October. My kids say I’m a Christmas nut.They tell me to stop flying my holiday “freak flag”. They look at me wearily if they need to ask me for a ride because they know they will be listening to Elvis singing “Blue Christmas”. And each CD after will be playing more holiday tunes. Changing the station isn’t up for debate. You need a ride, you listen to Christmas carols . . . They laugh, they roll their eyes, they huff and puff. Maggie and I ignore this and count how many houses we see with Christmas lights until we reach our destination. I can’t explain it, but the music brings me comfor. . . . and joy? Yep, and joy. LOL.

My house smells delicious like apples and cinnamon. I smile at the tacky holiday cling-ons stuck on my windows. I say they are for Maggie’s enjoyment, but I love them, too. The lights, the music, the decorations, I love it all. I try to instill my love for Christmas in my children. I hope it works.

The “25 Days of Christmas” on tv is reserved solely for me. The kids get the tv for 339 days of the year, and they think this is unfair! Why on Earth should Mom get to watch Christmas specials in guady holiday pajamas for 25 days?! Maggie’s with me in this though; she’s still wrapped up in the magic of christmas, an innocent child untouched by the ugliness of the outside world.

I sit back with a cup of eggnog and watch “Santa Buddies” with Maggie. When it’s over she states “I think they ( the Santa Buddies) learned Christmas is about giving.” And I think maybe that’s what makes me feel so at peace. It’s the one time of year when people do take the time to love, and listen, and give of themselves. I feel safe in this holiday happiness.

Kaylyn, my 20-year-old daughter, gave me a wonderful gift last month . . . (OCTOBER)!! Late for work, she was running out the door when she stopped, turned around, and said “Mom, can I borrow your Elvis’ Christmas CD?” It’s ONLY October I replied. You’ll have to get it out of my car . . .

Tonight I will smile as I think of that, as I’m drifting off to sleep humming to myself the same ol’ song I’ve hummed for years, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. . .”

Merry Christmas Everyone and may your hearts be light!!

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.