All I Want for Christmas

I never had the pleasure of knowing my great-grandmother, Berthamae Howard, but if Gammy (my paternal grandmother) is to be believed, she was a very special lady. When Gam passed away last year, my dad came into possession of a book concerning our family history that was compiled by my Grandmother Howard, and it contains many anecdotes typed on this Smith Corona Electra 110. It's a big, dusty old thing, and it doesn't much please the eye, but it types beautifully in cursive.

It was purchased in the 1970s from a store that no longer exists--the Hannibal Typewriter Service at 277 Broadway. It didn't become mine until a few years ago, and I've been lugging it around ever since. The poor thing has endured all manner of dents and dings, but the motor still purrs like a sewing machine when you turn it on. That's not to say, however, that it couldn't use some love and attention. The space bar only works when it wants to, and the "u" hammer sticks, among other things...

After doing a little research, I found a handful of typewriter repair shops in the Chicago area, but typewriter repairmen seem to be a dying breed. It's important to me that we spend the money to get it fixed because the time is fast approaching when no one will know what to do with a vintage typewriter, and I'd hate for it to fall by the wayside (as these things often do). I can only hope the repairs will be affordable. The sentimental value far surpasses its monetary worth, so it will be difficult to decide how much is too much.

...I'm a bit of a romantic, if you haven't noticed. I can't imagine anything better than sitting in the window and typing letters to my friends and family on the very same typewriter my great-grandmother used to record what is now her legacy. I think the day will come, too, when it is my turn to do the same for my children and grandchildren. By then, though, my little Vaio laptop will likely be the relic...

Eat, Drink, & Be Merry: Part I

I wanna state right off the bat that goodbye never gets any easier! Phil and I dropped off Mom and Ross (my stepdad, but more aptly, a great friend and confidant) in Franklin Park this morning. After all sorts of hugs, kisses, and tears, it was time to part ways. It's hard to be too sad when you've had such a fantastic time together, but it's always tough to see them go. 

Because Phil and I won't be able to make it back to South Carolina for Christmas this year, our Carolina Christmas came to us (albeit, a little early). Mom packed a boxful of homemade baked goods, some canned veggies from their garden at Clay Heels, as well as a couple of bottles of Ross' muscadine wine (made from local Scuppernong grapes). 

They were kind enough, too, to bring us some coffee from the Leopard Forest Cafe in Travelers Rest. I don't care how much you love Starbucks, this is the finest coffee I have ever had the pleasure of drinking, and if you ever find yourself in up-state South Carolina, it's a must. 

We got into the Christmas spirit by popping in a jazz CD (yes, I still own CDs) and putting up the tree. It's a little bitty thing, but it suits our purposes nicely, and once it was up, it was of course time for the photo-shoot.  Phil loves photo-shoots. I especially like this picture of us because it looks like he has a halo, and it's not immediately noticeable that I'm sucking in like my life depends on it. I don't even think I was breathing when this was taken...

Oh, yeah...the tree. Pretty, huh?

I promised myself I would cook a goose for Christmas dinner, but when I saw the $60.00 price tag, I chickened out (no pun intended, it just happened that way) and went with a $17.00 duck instead. I'm happy I did, too, because after four hours (and 18 minutes, but who's counting?) of tender loving care, it turned out beautifully. And it didn't taste too bad either! Mom also made some homemade rolls, and we whipped up a white chocolate pumpkin cheesecake for dessert, but I'm being pretty generous in giving myself any credit on that.  I mostly just crushed up gingersnaps for the crust and made a run to the grocery store to pick up the vanilla extract. I'm Ms. Reliable in a crisis...

All of these things made for a great Christmas dinner, and Ross' wine really tipped the evening over into awesome. You know you're enjoying good food with even better company when opening presents is only half the fun. I was overwhelmingly grateful for the knit scarf and goose-down jacket this morning, and they couldn't have come at a more perfect time. After being on her best behavior all weekend, Chicago dropped down into the 30s...

Yes, this is Duck.

Once Upon a Time

As the holidays draw near, I can't help but be reminded of my great-grandmother--Mildred Harrison. She passed away shortly after I moved to South Carolina in 2010. I knew when I went to visit her at the nursing home the day of my departure that it might be the last time I saw her. Just before I left, she asked me to write her while I was away, and I promised I would...

Grandmother and Granddad, pictured on the right.

My sister, Tiffany, and I spent a lot of time at our Grandmother and Granddad's when we were little. They lived in a big house with a big yard, and it came with a few peculiarities that I remember well--particularly a rock wall in the back. The landscaper had placed several large geodes alongside it as he found them in the yard, but the idea that someone may have discovered them before Tiffany and me was inconceivable. I don't know how large they actually were, but I do recall having a great deal of trouble lugging the largest up the back-steps and into the kitchen where I could show Grandmother what I found. Fortunately for a five-year-old's fragile ego, she was kind enough to act surprised.

The house itself was chock-full of rooms, and each had a name of its own. There was the Victorian room, filled with antique furniture, oil lamps, and glass figurines; the Safari room, so named for its excessive use of cheetah and zebra prints; Elizabeth's room, adorned with family heirlooms and flowered wallpaper that was fuzzy to the touch; and then there was JuJu's room, with it's bright red carpet and our family's over-sized wedding photos mounted along the walls. I usually wanted to sleep with my sister in the Safari room, which was hers by tradition, but my room was JuJu's. I slept in it every night we stayed there, and before me, my father did the same.

Grandmother, Tiffany, and I spent most of our time together in the Victorian room. This was where we toasted marshmallows and threw tea parties. It was imperative that there be a tea-party every time we went to Grandmother's house. It would sometimes take us half the afternoon to prepare all the little snacks and dishes, my favorites being the sandwich squares and strawberries dipped in sugar. When the time came, Tiffany and I would wrap up in feather boas and put elbow-length gloves on, all the while cooling ourselves (whatever the temperature) with a couple of sequined folding fans she bought for us.

Occasionally, Grandmother would pile us into her long, white Cadillac and take us down to the riverfront. She always enjoyed the shops down there, and each time we went, she allowed my sister and I to pick out an item we wanted to take home with us. On one such occasion, she bought Tiffany and I each a little porcelain tea-set. I still have mine (and the folding fan) today.

After dinner most nights, Granddad would take the three of us out to Grandview Cemetery to see where their son, Leo Jr., was buried. This was a daily ritual that I didn't understand until I was much older, but I enjoyed collecting the fragments of plastic flowers that littered the cemetery lawn. From there, we would return home, where the rest of our evening would be spent with Grandmother in the master bedroom. Tiff and I would get comfortable on the day bed and watch I Love Lucy while Grandmother tended to whatever business was necessary, oftentimes bringing in clothes hung to dry from the roof of their screened-in porch. (It could be accessed through a door in their bedroom, and I was always considered too little to venture onto the roof, so it was only when I could steal a minute alone that I would even dare.)

Should Grandmother ever require any alone time, my sister and I would watch television or entertain ourselves at the saloon-style bar in the basement. It was such a fascinating old house. Grandmother always had an affinity for cowboys and Indians, so we would take turns waving around an iron pistol or running amok in a full-sized Indian headdress...

...but Grandmother's house wasn't the only venue in which she entertained us. We would often hang around her desk at Harrison Motor Company, too. It was "the shop" to us, but "the place of business" according to Grandmother. Four generations of Harrison men, beginning with my great-great-grandfather, all worked in the shop at one time or another, and to this day, what Grandmother did there is still unclear to me. But there she was just the same, and I could always rely on her to save me a cake doughnut with white icing. Those were her favorite, and mine too, coincidentally. Whenever I exhausted myself roller-skating up and down the showroom floor, my doughnut was waiting for me at Grandmother's desk.

As I got older, so did Grandmother. By the time I left for South Carolina, she was no longer the person I've described and she hadn't been for many years. I wrote her a letter as promised, and it was delivered the day she went to the hospital. In the melee, Granddad was unable to check the mail, and she passed away before getting to read it. I was devastated by this, as was Granddad, but he photocopied the letter and we placed the original with her in the casket. I like to pretend it wasn't too late.