Lights Around Town

About a week prior to Christmas, we visited -finally- for the first time, Albuquerque's River of Lights, an annual extravaganza put on at the BioPark. Years past we either put off visiting until it was too late, or opted out of visiting due to finger-numbing cold (like last year). At long last we made the drive down Rio Grande Boulevard to the Botanical Garden, which sits on the banks of the Rio Grande (the river, not the street). There all the trellises and buildings were festooned with incandescent luminosity. Decorative sunflowers, bumble-bees, humingbirds, a jumping cat and so much more - all created and ablaze, illuminating the dark, dry night. It was an amazingly beautiful display of electrical ingenuity.

We spent our last Christmas in New Mexico as we have so many others before during our nineteen years here- dinner in Old Town and then strolling around to see the glowy luminarias. Reflecting on the humble decorations, I think I love them because they're not showy or flashy but are, rather, simple and charming and give off a soft, comforting glow.

Cara missed out due to a nasty flu-bug, for which she was at home drinking hot toddies in a desperate quest to rid herself of the chest-tightening congestion and cough. The hot toddies were my mother's orders for a quick recovery; she is a firm believer in their medicinal properties. Cold and flu? Hot toddy will fix you right up. Got a headache? Hot toddy! Arm has been severed? Hot toddy! Cara became a statistic in the national headlines, "Flu Epidemic in the Southwest," which was really her loss because not only was the meal delicious, the luminaria stroll was the warmest we can ever recall. Unseasonably warm temperatures allowed us to meander much further than we have in recent years, all through the Country Club neighborhood as well as Old Town. (Last year we made cursory run through two streets of Old Town before we all agreed to head home, so frigid was the temperature.)

As we wandered we saw a bright glow from the general direction of Old Town. As we approached it turned into a blaze - and then we happened upon this example of Christmas lights gone mad. It looked like the Abominable Snowman ate Christmas and then vomited it up on this house. "You can go look inside!" a girl beckoned. "It's all decorated inside, too." We were too afraid of what Las Vegas-style yuletide abominations we might find so we fled, heading quickly back to the soft, simple glow of the luminarias.

copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider

Mr. Jingaling

Because of the Christmas season, I've been receiving many hits on my blog from search engine quests for information on Mr. Jingaling. If you've hit my site looking this Cleveland icon, scroll down to the entry A Christmas Classic, where I pay homage to him and my memories of Christmases past. I hope you enjoy the stroll down memory lane. And if you have your own reminiscences of Mr. Jingaling (the Keeper of the Keys), of Higbee's, or other downtown Christmas traditions, feel free to share them in the comments section on that post.

Thanks for visiting 2 Baci in a Pinon Tree. I wish you a very happy New Year!

2005 Valerie Schneider

Going Postal

I've made several trips to the post office recently, mostly because the majority of our family lives elsewhere, forcing us to mail our goodwill and thoughtful gift packages far and wide. Five or six separate packages (I am losing count) are flinging their way to doorsteps across the midwest (and two to Italy).

Fortunately for me, the counter staff at the local post office is a friendly lot. Most of them have worked there since I moved to Corrales and know me by face if not by name. They chitchat about the weather, movies, or the busyness of the postal business this time of year. Chuck cracks silly jokes and makes me laugh. I don't mind the trip to the post, but I'm spoiled because in little Corrales there are rarely more than three people in line at a time.

Whether the packages fare so well is another matter. Last year it was truly with great faith that I used the postal system. After one package went astray never to be heard from again, I took my boxes to my accomodating sister who shipped them all DHL from her office. Alas, she no longer works there and is of no use to me this year. Last Christmas season, the postal system had glitches that resulted in packages being left in storage containers somewhere, and many of them not arriving to their destinations in a timely manner (a month to get across the country? Pony Express was faster!). This year, they recommended sending everything Priority Mail "just to be sure". Yeah, just to be sure they skinned me for a lot of money!

Friendly people aside, I've had issues with the US postal service. For one, we had an incident where our mail was stolen. For three days. During the time my passport was being renewed and expected any day. I frantically called the State Department to determine if my pasport had been sent out. Fortunately they had not yet gotten around to my renewal. It arrived two weeks later by regular post without any kind of tracking or signature required. For a passport! It turns out the contract employee they'd just hired had been stealing all the mail from three or four subdivisions for her husband to rifle through and steal identities. Brilliant thieves that they were, much of the mail (or at least the remains of it) was found in their home.

Further back in time, a few years after we moved to New Mexico, my grandmother wrote me a letter that was delivered more than a month after she sent it. It arrived battered and well-traveled in a plastic "we're sorry it's been ripped apart" envelope bearing markings from Mexico. Somehow it was routed to Old Mexico before arriving in Albuquerque, New Mexico. My mom was indignant and complained about the "incompetent poops who don't know geography from..." well, you know.

So, a few years after that when she was sending a Christmas box of goodies that hadn't arrived after a few weeks, she was livid and stormed down to her post office in a rage, with a map in hand, telling them just how maladroit they were and then proceeded to give them a geography lesson on the difference between "NEW Mexico...which IS a state in the Union" and regular Mexico, "which is a country". They assured her they would do all they could to find the package. Days passed without any word on the whereabouts of the absent parcel. Not long after, my stepfather arrived home and asked my mom, "Uh, hon, what's that box in the trunk of the car? It's been there for weeks!" Yep, that's right. The box was never even mailed. I asked if she'd gone to the post office and apologized. "Are you kidding?" she replied. "I drove to Sandusky and mailed it from there!"

This year, without the DHL connection, I prayed fervantly that my packages would arrive safely and then deposited them into the hands of the Postal Service. They may just arrive at their destinations on time. If not, at least I had a congenial time at the post office mailing them off.

copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider

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