Overcoming a Dry Spell

A New Year has begun, and with it some silly resolutions which should be happening right along rather than paying attention to the date of the calendar. At least my refrigerator might appreciate good intentions.

I worked as a TA Sub for 2 full days already this semester, and booked some next week by request. They like me, they really do!!

It seems that I am liked in these parts also. My writing is missed by Readers. I cain’t say that I miss doing the work of the typing. This here Word Press place has so many symbols that don’t say anything, almost like hierglyphics.
but sometimes a gal just gotta step up to meet expectations.

My mind and soul have been in a real dry, low place for several weeks. My kitty girl cat passed away, our oldest son is still so far away from us, middle son says he doesn’t want to be traveling over holidays, I don’t want to be traveling during awful weather, my mother is in chemo treatments, and I’m being told by my spouse that Facebook is a sell-out for serious communication even if it is so much easier to understand and then update the status and photo albums. He’s a very good husband, but I don’t take well to him as a tutor.

So, let’s get into the official blog entry.
I’ve told this story to a few folks in the last few days, but if I write in for the blog, it goes to Archives and might be read over again another day.

On Christmas Day, youngest son Christopher, came over for the traditional freedom toast with real maple syrup, and sausage. After we opened gifts from near and far, and watched Oscar playing in the wrapping paper, then Chris got up from his chair, walked over to his guitar case, and took out my favorite one of his. It seems to have a deeper voice than others, plus the way it came to be in his possession makes for some connections to other persons.

Anyway, he goes back to his chair with guitar in hand, sits down on a bit of paper, some is also hanging on the arm of chair, tunes the strings, plucks a bit, and begins to play.

I recognize the tune of O Holy Night, which is one of my favorite songs of all time, let alone in my own living room on Christmas morning played by my youngest son whose guitar lessons were paid for by my wages whilst I was changing stinky diapers in a daycare center.

By the time he went thru a few times, murmuring the words every now and then, I was a weeping pile of sentimental motherhood, right there in my bathrobe on the couch.
Husband has pictures of it all, but I’m not sure where they are stored now.

So, that was a great time for Christmas.
the day after Christmas, I started working on a knit hat on a special peg loom. Tiny stitches with dark colors in the yarn. I had to set up on a folding tray right next to the window to be able to see for proper wrapping the loops.
I kept a little paper nearby the tray, writing minutes on it, which added up to 18 actual hours of looping to knit a hat of 3-ply yarn. I wanted to finish that one project before moving to any other task. It’s lovely, even if it doesn’t match my coat, but I’ll not do another. I had borrowed the loom to see if I might want to make a purchase. Nope.

Still on my list is the Family Newsletter and Picture Pages, address and stuffing the envelopes. Relatives without computers for e-mail and Facebook are laying on even more guilt than blog readers.
We really do have a failure to communicate.

I was glad to be able to get back in a classroom. First day was in a Pre-K room, with a teacher who is so organized and helpful, and her students know the rules. We had such a fine day.
During the course of the activities, there’s awhile of “Free Play” time, when students can move about from one center to another, chat as friends. I was sitting quietly on the sidelines, available should a need arise.

One boy with dark hair and brown eyes, and the longest eyelashes, pulled his chair over close to me, and quite earnestly asked “Mrs. Wiman, what was your most Favorite Christmas gift?” I stared at him for several seconds.
How could a kid not quite 5 years old be so seriously interested in asking a grown-up that question?
Most children are all full of stories of their own gifts, and one-upping what the others talk about. It was happening in other groups around the room.

And the word choice:
Christmas Gift? not thing, not present, nothing about Santa

And so I told him about my son and his guitar and my favorite song, and how that memory of real music, not a cd, is the sweetest gift I remember from this recent holiday.

Well, by the time I finished my little story, I realized that several other children had stopped playing, and come closer to listen. Even the other teacher was quiet.
then one little girl talked about being in the angel choir at church, and a boy said there was a guy with a horn when he was in a store

The first boy, the one who asked the question, was sitting there looking quite pleased with being the one who started it all. He did not mention his own favorite gift. I figure his future will have him being a guidance counselor in a junior high.

Now I have many good memories, interacting with young folks.

My tale is done. the hour is late. My bed is calling.

~~love and Huggs, Diane