A Christmas Classic

It's that time of year again. The feeling of Christmas is in the air...it's the time of year when I want the comforting smell of pine wafting through the house; cookies baking in the oven; Christmas music - traditional and not-so-traditional as only my family can initiate into annual custom (what, every family doesn't play Wooly Bully as part of their yuletide chorus?); and, of course, A Christmas Story on TV.

Yes, that's right, that cult classic of a Christmas movie is my favorite. For those who may live in caves or who for some reason haven't yet seen this film, it's an off-beat tale of a midwestern family in the '40s told through the eyes of nine-year-old Ralphie, whose only wish is to receive a Red Ryder BB gun, and who is repeatedly told that with such a gift "you'll shoot your eye out". Witty and endearing, it portrays many aspects of childhood in the midwest that we, too, experienced.

On a more personal level, though, it shows some of my own childhood Christmas events, as the film, while purportedly taking place in Hammond, IN, was filmed in Cleveland. I grew up just an hour from there and no Christmas was complete without a trip downtown to see the glorious displays in the gigantic windows of Higbee's, Halle's and May Company. We bundled up, walked around and gazed upon the splendor of a bedecked city center as only children can- with stars filling our eyes as we took in the lights, the larger-than-life themed showiness on display, and then topped it off with a visit to Mr. Jingaling. Mr. Jingaling was, to me, better than Santa himself. He had gigantic keys which - you guessed it - jingled, he smiled, he was sweet and enthusiastic and knew how to connect with kids and make them feel at ease. He was like a favorite uncle you saw once a year, who couldn't wait to give you a hug, and loved to see your little, front-teeth-vacant smile. He was wonderful. And he was a Cleveland icon. (Appropriately, when he died a couple years ago, it was the day after Christmas.)

After, we indulged in a treat. Walking around the corner from Higbee's the heavenly aroma filled the air, wafting on a breeze across the street and beckoning our nostrils to follow it obediently, which we always did. Freshly roasted nuts...salty and warm and oh-so-delicious. I sometimes dream of that smell and mourn that I've not encountered it anywhere in the past 25 years.

If we were really lucky -or my mom had extra cash (a true Christmas miracle if ever I saw one!) we were treated to the ultimate indulgence - lunch at the Silver Grille at the top of Higbee's. This usually occurred if my grandma joined us and was paying for lunch; it was her favorite indulgence as well. This was a special place. It felt sophisticated, grown-up, but friendly and welcoming. You reached the restaurant by way of an elevator with a real, live operator inside who called out, "Tenth Floor, Silver Grille". It was an art deco room with glittery silver and cool greens and a square fountain in the center. Their treat to children: our meals were served on little plates tucked away inside metal stoves. It made dining out something fun and special. It was here that I first tasted such culinary delights as beef stroganoff and chicken a la king.

I don't remember actually doing any shopping on these excursions. It was all about the atmosphere, the twinkling lights, the parade, the tremendous tree in the lobby of the Terminal Tower. It was about community and interaction and tradition. How I miss those days. A chill in the air only contributed the sense of "something special", the spirit of the holidays. Is it any wonder I so dislike the modern shopping "experience" with it's sterile, climate-controlled, dull- flourescent, generic, homogenized, bland malls. It's no experience at all.

At least I can relive these memories annually through Ralphie's eyes and look at the scenes and think, "No, it wasn't a dream or a fairyland, it was real. It was just like that, and I was there." It was a wonderful time to be a kid, I think.

copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider

About Mr. Jingaling

Roba da matti!

A few weeks back I learned a useful phrase in Italian class. Roba da matti, which translates as "crazy stuff", or "what nonsense" was introduced into my vocabulary. It's one of those sayings that can be used in varied situations: in a coffee bar when the patrons are gesticulating and discussing politics trying to draw me into the conversation, I can throw up my hands and say, "roba da matti!". The weather, misbehaving unseasonally, can be described as "roba da matti". Prices in the stores, injustices, and more. I've tucked it away for use when we arrive in Italy.

So yesterday, when I turned on the morning news and saw the coverage of the insanity that is the day after Thanksgiving sales with the accompanying hoardes of fools plowing over one another in their quest for cheap goods, my initial utterance was, "What a bunch of losers," but then I recalled my lessons, threw up my hands and exclaimed, "roba da matti!"

This is one of those phenomena that I will never grasp. What is this all about? Why, why, why, I ask myself every year. There is something seriously demented about these people who will rise at 4:00 a.m. to beat down the doors of a retail store, trample their fellow citizens, punch and claw their way to an item for their children and call it a bargain. Excuse me, but no matter how low the price, the cost is too high. This is teaching kids proper behavior? How to share? How to brook disappointment? Not on your life. And why, I always wonder, must the media cover this with such obvious glee, giving glory to these wack-jobs?

More disturbing, this is done to "celebrate" Christmas. Is such mayhem really a good way to commemorate the birth of the Prince of Peace?

Don't get me wrong. We celebrate Christmas and we give gifts as signs of affection and goodwill. But instead of scratching and biting my way into a store, I make purchases throughout the summer and fall when I see an item a loved one would like, or we make hand-crafted gifts, giving a more personal touch. We're certainly not going to clobber other shoppers in pursuit of an inanimate object and call it a "merry Christmas". And, as Christians, we remember that it is a holiday and try to keep the reason for the day in perspective. (Another issue is that Christmas is now too-often thought of as the most significant Christian holiday, but that would, in reality, be Easter.)

Giving gifts goes back to the magi presenting their gifts to Jesus, but how it's evolved into a full-fledged orgy of gluttony is beyond my comprehension. The overly-commercial emphasis and the greed that drives it must surely have Jesus shaking his head, throwing up his hands and saying, "roba da matti!"

copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider

Of Trash and Treasures

It's becoming obvious that we have lived in one place for quite some time. As we begin to take an objective look at our household possessions we realize that we have, set before us, the daunting task of packing for our upcoming move. More daunting, though, is the prospect of how to go about said packing. We must first prioritize what possessions will be kept, and are, hence, worthy of paying storage fees to keep; what we will pack to take with us to Italy; and what we need to unload. At this point the ballast seems heavy. We need to clear out some things.

I've never really considered myself a "consumer"; I am not one of those women who have a deep and abiding love for the action of shopping. Rather, I find it rather tedious, mostly because when I'm looking for a specific item I can't ever find it. And if I went just to browse I'd find all kinds of tempting things that I really didn't need and would later regret purchasing. So I gave up shopping as a leisure pursuit and confined myself to going to the mall only when absolutely necessary (and because I dislike the lighting, fake atmosphere, and redundancy of malls, it really must be absolutely necessary). I also try to buy whatever I need locally, supporting my neighbors when possible. Wal-Mart is never a stop on my list, I utterly refuse to give them one thin dime. But that's an entire blog topic in and of itself.

Because of this shopping reticence, it was surprising to realize just how much "stuff" we'd accumulated in our home. And it's not a cluttered house by any means. I don't have knick-knacks or objects d'arte on display (do I look like I can afford that?). No, we're rather minimalist in comparison to most people we know. And yet we've got all this stuff to go through.

Some of it came from my grandparents' house when they moved to assisted living. While I've never put out the silver-topped condiment bottles of etched glass, it was Grandma's and someday I'd like to have it replated. (I hope I will.) The antique furniture pieces are a given...they'll be stored. But what of the leather sofas? Is it better to sell them and then buy something else when we get back? Or pay to store them rather than buy new later? A conundrum. My kitchen items are staying. I'll never find another Oster Kitchen Center, that most useful of products which Oster no longer manufactures, for reasons beyond my comprehension. I use this treasure daily. It slices! It grates! It blenders! It mixes!

How I got some truly hideous sweaters that have been shoved to the back of an armoire, I don't remember. Those need to be given away. But will anyone want them? This is the other dilemma. I know the saying is that "one man's trash is another man's treasure" but I feel bad about pawning off my trash on someone else. But on the other hand, it seems wasteful to just throw it away. I must admit, though, that the ugliness of some of these things makes me think they should be burned rather than inflicted on a fellow human being.

My stuffed animal collection, hoarded and treasured from childhood is difficult to part with emotionally, despite the fact that they have languished in a box in the garage for several years, like some unanimated zoo waiting to be loosed again. Some are well-loved (ie, worn) and will be of no value to anyone but me. But are they valuable in a crate? And what of Bryan's camping gear, unused for several years now that his camping buddies have all moved away.

While four months seems like plenty of time, it's deceiving as we've procastinated far too long already and really must begin the unloading process. I think the first step will be in determining what we absolutely don't need. And then what we definitely will take (this is will be easier, as it will be mostly clothes and books). It's the in-between we're having problems with. Meanwhile, we console ourselves by not buying anything new that won't be given as gifts. Or maybe we can just make our trash someone else's treasure for Christmas. Anyone up for an ugly sweater?

copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider

Wednesdays

For the past few months I have again been enrolled in the advanced Italian conversation class which previously so intimidated me. While I'm not necessarily improving at a rapid pace, I find myself understanding more of the conversations, participating a tad more, and enjoying the interaction. In short, I look forward to Wednesday mornings.

There are five of us students with the teacher and this term we are meeting at her home. This has been much more conducive than a sterile classroom to the free exchange of ideas, opinions, and thoughts. I have gotten to know much more about my fellow Italian-speakers and I'm awed by them. We have an amazing circle of women (and one man) who have led fascinating lives, overcome incredible hardships, loved deeply, given much, and who laugh often. They are, I think, steel magnolias - beautiful and delicate yet strong, with resolve, talented and complex, who continue to bloom.

Spending time with these ladies is pleasurable. Their stories touch me, inspire me. Each is unique with an interesting history, yet we've melded together over our common desire to learn Italian. Is it speaking in a foreign language that allows people to open up a bit more about themselves? Or just the feeling of safety we have as we are cocooned away in the living room sipping coffee for two hours as one topic flows into the next.

I often feel rather mute, not so much because of my still-lacking Italian skills, but because I don't have much to offer to their years of experience and intrigue. Any one of their lives could easily be made into a compelling, beautiful film. My own,often dull 39 years would make a short, not-so-interesting comedy in comparison. And that's okay. I am just thrilled to be part of this group, to hear their stories, to learn from them and laugh with them, and hope that I will be as graceful and giving and full of life as my years pass. Oh yes, and as fluent in Italian. I have much to learn.

copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider

Dreams and Reality

The sign went up by the driveway on a cool Wednesday evening two weeks ago. By that Saturday, the paperwork had been signed and our house was under contract to be sold. We find ourselves suddenly, effectively homeless since we'd not anticipated such a quick sale. Two days? Not in our wildest dreams! We need to scramble to find an interim home for the next few months.

But the sale of the home isn't the real news. The real news is the reason behind the sale. We are, after a couple years of dreaming and plotting; years of reading every book about Italy that came down the pike; years of looking at photos and webcams and sighing...we are now seriously making plans for a move to Italy. We are planning to stay for at least a year. Hopefully longer.

We made this decision official by telling our parents and family members, as well as close friends. Most said, "hooray for you, be happy". Others questioned "why?", to which I promptly replied, "why not?". I realize it's a bit of a simplistic answer, but really...why not? Life is short! We want to live it and enjoy it while we're, well...living. (Makes sense, right?)

This answer doesn't seem to satisfy everyone, though. They want a more complex explanation. Some seem to think we just woke up one morning and said, "gee, let's move to Italy". It wasn't that spontaneous or easy. We have spent several years dreaming of this, and at first it was just that - a lovely dream. After a couple more trips of immersing ourselves into small Italian towns, we came home a bit restless, and noticed a growing dissatisfaction with the "rat race," consumeristic mentality of our culture, the lack of focus on what is important in life that seems to surround us. We started to long for the piazzas where people gathered; evening strolls where the entire town turns out to flood the streets in a nightly parade of interaction; leisurely meals prepared with fresh, seasonal ingredients. A sense of community. The beautiful rhythms of life being carried on from time immemorial, still a part of daily Italian culture. So many aspects of our own culture began to seem so gaudy, new, shallow, homogenized...fake.

Our vision may be a bit romanticized, and all of Italy is not like this, of course. Cities and industry are very present, and times are changing there, too. But we'd like to experience this historical and beautiful land while it still retains these cultural elements we so admire.

We love the stone houses. Buildings that are hundreds of years old being lived in and oozing charm. Heavy wooden shutters on the windows. Kitchens with fireplaces for roasting meats. Weekly markets that roll into town with fresh produce and other goods. People who know how to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. Amazing art and architecture at nearly every turn. An emphasis on beauty- natural and artistic. Millenia of history to explore and study. A musical-sounding language to learn. Real cappuccino, not the overly-milky, $3.50 a cup insipid, burned-tasting stuff passed off as "cappuccino" here. These are among the reasons we want to move.

Besides all this, no man knows the number of his days. Why is the propensity to put off the "living" part of "making a living" until it's too late and we're too old to enjoy it? "Life energy [the hours of precious life available to us] is all we have. It is precious because it is limited and irretrievable and because our choices about how we use it express the meaning and purpose of our time here on earth," writes Joe Dominguez in Your Money or Your Life. "These hours are all you've got. There is nothing in your life that is more valuable than your time, the moments you have left. You cannot put too much awareness and intention into the way you invest those moments"

So we've decided to take some these precious moments of our lives and invest them in this dream. There have been many occurrences, conversations, readings, and emotions that have served to confirm, strengthen and clarify this dream and the actions we'll need to take to make it come true. The sale of the house was a big step (and a big confirmation since it sold so effortlessly and for asking price.) Now the hurdles begin: dealing with the Italian consulate to obtain a visa along with all the accompanying documents we'll need before we can apply; locating housing and enrolling in language school for the first few months; determining where we'd like to settle for the longer-term. These are more sketchy and scary aspects of this process and we realize that it will be frustrating and challenging. "The way of the Dreamer is difficult-but anything less is hardly living at all!," says Bruce Wilkinson in The Dream Giver.

A recurring question, showing an area of concern for some who may not be entirely comfortable with our move, is "But what will you do there? If you can't work, what will you do with your time?" First, I'd like to say that I don't think a person's work is entirely determined by what he or she does to make money. Unpaid activity is often seen as worthless, "worth less than paid activity". Why is that? What we do to earn money isn't the sum of our identities or abilities. Our work will include learning a foreign language, not a casual endeavor, to be sure. We'll study the art and architecture and history. Make friends and renew old friendships. Observe cultural differences and place ourselves into the local rhythm of life. Shop in the local produce and fish markets. Write. Eat. Study. Stroll. Learn. Love. Live.

That is the sum of our dream. We now walk down the road to making it a reality. We are pursuing it now because we don't want to look back with regret, to wonder "what if" or "if only..." No, that's not for us.

Is it all going to be beautiful and fulfilling? I honestly don't know. But I can't wait to find out.

"Well one thing I've noticed wherever I wander
Everyone's got a dream he can follow or squander
You can do what you will with the days you are given
I'm trying to spend mine on the business of living

Seize the day - seize whatever you can
'Cause life slips away just like hourglass sand
Seize the day - pray for grace from God's hand
Then nothing will stand in your way
Seize the day"
-Carolyn Arends


copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider

Brief Beauty

Autumn is my favorite time of year. The cooler, yet still-warm days, the crisp evenings...it marks the change of seasons as well as relief from a long, hot summer, and promises relief from sagebrush allergies. It also happens to be the most beautiful time of year here.

The Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta has been underway all week, bring untold hundreds of thousands of visitors to town, along with the colorful panorama of floating splendor. Every morning we hear the distinctive whoosh of the propane burners overhead, marking fall as surely as the cooler air in which they float. To us it is a typical, yet unusual and somehow comforting sound. It's one of those "only in New Mexico" things, that makes us reflect, now this is something you don't see and hear everywhere. Each morning we have looked out the window or stepped onto the back patio to watch the gentle giants as they march up the Rio Grande Valley, a colorful awakening. Today is the last day of Fiesta and rare rainful has snatched away their last mass ascension. Local balloonists will continue to fly over the next month or so, but the brief week of splashy hues completely filling the skies is now over.

But nature's autumnal array is just as showy. Driving into Santa Fe, yellow radiates out of the valleys and bowls in the upper reaches of the mountains as the blazing gold aspen shine forth their annual emblazonment. We drove into the mountains to see the dazzling display.

We walked along a trail surrounded by trees - pines and aspens - the mountain air cooler at the higher elevation. The leaves are intensely yellow this year, the entire mountainside brilliant golden, punctuated by small patches of red, all radiant against the huge, bright blue sky. The wind blew occasionally, sending the leaves into their classic quaking and fluttering. The resulting sound was one similar to gently flowing water. Beautiful.

The trail was glittery with flecks of mica, making it appear that the path had been strewn with gold dust glinting in the brilliant sunshine. We walked hand in hand, breathing in the pleasant, brisk dryness, greeting others we encountered and petting their dogs. Santa Fe is a dog town, and we were the only locals without one in tow. We could, thus, easily tell the out-of-towners.

The trees at the higher elevations are already beginning to shed their leaves. In another week, the beautiful display will be nearly complete, the straight stands of aspens will reach heavenward without their ornamentation.

The beauty of autumn is brief. But it is a stupendous beauty while it lasts.

copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider

Vendemmia, New Mexico Style

It has long been our desire to participate in a grape harvest in Italy. I'm not really sure why, but we have had romantic visions of a vendemmia...out in the beautiful countryside, enjoying the sunshine and camaraderie, cheerfully chatting while harvesting the bounty and seeing the grapes getting crushed, destined to become wine. And, of course, the feast that always follows such activities spread out on long tables under large trees in the sun-dappled garden.

It was with these visions dancing in my head that I immediately volunteered our labor when a friend from Italian class mentioned they would be harvesting their grapes right here in Corrales. Bryan was, thankfully, thrilled to have the experience, too. I say thankfully because I'd committed his time and energy without asking him first. I knew I'd need him to pick up any slack when I started to lag and to carry my full buckets of heavy grapes for me. We reciprocate in this manner...I envisioning the dreams or projects, he carrying out the brunt of the work on them.

We arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m. to find a small vineyard with about 14 rows of grapes. Ah, this will be done in no time, I thought to myself. We wore the recommended "migrant worker attire", Bryan looking quite dashingly local in his straw gardening hat, which I call his "Corrales hat" because the farmers hereabouts wear them in their fields; me in long sleeves and old pants; my old shoes which quickly became mud-caked. The recent rains were not so great for the grapes, we were told. At least the ground wasn't spongy or slippery with mud, just soft. There were about six others assembled receiving lessons on how to use the grape-picker-thingy. In my innocence I thought we'd use clippers, but were handed orange-handled blades which resembled mini-scimitars with serrated edges inside. I quickly realized these were more productive than clippers ever could be. More people wandered in and out, some helping in the house, some picking awhile and then needing to depart. One wiley couple showed up only for the last few, easier rows of grapes and we envied them greatly. They had obviously done this before.
(Gail peeking through vines; Bryan in his Corrales hat)


We began to slice at the Riesling grapes first. I can assure you that, after spending two hours harvesting these very juicy grapes, should I ever plant a vineyard I will not, ever, plant Riesling. They are the wicked, ill-behaved stepchildren. They gnarl up and grow almost upwards, turning back onto themselves, vining and winding around almost for dear life, making the harvest very difficult. It was with true relief when we were able to dump the last of the Riesling grapes into the truck for transport to the winery, and move on to the rows of Vidal. These were well-mannered grapes, growing like they should in heavy clumps hanging obligingly downward just waiting to be easily sliced from the vine. Joyfully we made quick work of the four rows of Vidal and begged our hosts to plant more of these gracious grapes in the future. The entire harvest was carried out, as I had imagined, with camaraderie, commiserating over the difficulties and travails of the stubborn Riesling clumps, chit-chatting across and through the vines as we worked. The day was sunny and warm, not a cloud in the bright almost-turquoise sky. Hats bobbed up and down among the rows as we talked and sliced at the grapes.

When the final grapes were loaded for the last, short trip down the road to the winery, we grateful laborers lined up for the enchiladas, burritos, posole, guacamole and sangria that had been laid out, and we quickly laid waste to the beautiful buffet. Greedily we consumed the spread as if we hadn't had food in days. It was harder work than I'd imagined, and I was famished. We ate out under trees, but the New Mexico sun being as strong as it is, the sky being completely cloudless, we found ourselves quickly baking in the heat and inching our chairs backwards trying to retain shade as the sun moved. The hostess, not content to merely lay out enough delicious food to feed an army, had brought in a live musician to serenade us with guitar music while we munched and unwound. Now this girl knows how to reward her workers and throw a nice party.

It was, all in all, what my vision of a vendemmia should be, just without the medieval villages dotting the surrounding hillsides. In Corrales there are no hillsides. And enchiladas instead of pasta. This is, after all, the land of chile and posole. Muy bien!

copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider