What a Difference a Goal Makes

Several years ago, I read an interview with a former governor of New Mexico.  He was a Republican, with very liberal social views (and admitted to using drugs in his youth).  He was not a party favorite.

He also spoke about his annual resolutions, although he preferred to make them goals to be worked on throughout the year.  He believed resolutions, decisions to change a behavior on January 1, were recipes for failure, usually by January 2 (although I quit smoking at midnight December 31 more than 24 years ago).

Instead, he drafted a set of goals for the coming year.  Some were more challenging than others.  Some were for personal improvement.  Some he might start working on at the beginning of the New Year, others would not be done or attempted until later.  He included easily achieved goals on his list, feeling little victories were important to keep the momentum.

Since 1998, I have made a yearly goals list.  I used to keep it to 10 goals, framing and keeping them on my desk and on the bathroom counter as constant reminders through the year.

Two years ago, I switched to post-it notes on the bathroom mirror, each removed when the goal is met.  I can tell you I have never completed a list, but I usually pluck off more than 70%.

I have 14 goals ready for the coming year, and I'm certain to add a few more before the crystal ball drops in Times Square.

Here's a sampling of goals for 2014:

1. Build my saving account.
2. Write one poem a week.
3. Restart my McDougall eating plan and plant-based diet.
4. Visit the Delaware County Historical Society.
5. Enter 4 manuscript competitions.
6. Advance my bread making skills.
7. Buy a laptop.

Some goals are worked on throughout the year, like building my savings or healthier eating.  A visit to the historical society museum can't be done until summer when it reopens.  I make bread all the time and want to experiment with other ingredients.  Nothing is overly lofty, but each one of these goals are things I should be doing or want to do.

Some will require planning, the creation of a ritual, like writing a poem each week.  Buying a laptop might be largely dependent on how well I build my savings.

What goals would I read on your bathroom mirror?

'Tell me something wondrous.'

'Tell me something wondrous, something to remind me of the spirit of Christmas.'  This was the request today from one of my dearest friends.

Christmas is less than four days away; our pace has slowed.  The office parties are over.  The shopping is mostly complete.  Meals are planned and in the staging process.  The kids are out of school and folks are traveling to be with friends and family.

On the banks of the Maquoketa River, the winter solstice dawned with a glassine coat of ice on the bare tree limbs; everything a shade of white and gray, beautiful.  I passed a farm, surprised by the brilliant yellow of a full corn crib.

The first day of winter and we await a snow storm.  In town, there was the expected scurry of shoppers on the last Saturday before Christmas, but there was more bustling as they prepared for several inches of snow and the guarantee of a white Christmas.  It was the talk of every shopkeeper, every customer, and no one seemed too bothered by it.

I have only to wrap a few gifts between now and Christmas.  I'm halfway through listening to my Christmas music collection.  Afternoons are filled with Bing Crosby, Elvis, Bette Midler, the Pink Martinis, Dixie, jazz and folk Christmas carols.  I save 'O Holy Night' and Mahalia Jackson's 'Silent Night' for Christmas Eve; the moment I feel the true spirit of Christmas and as close to God as I can get.

I will think of all my friends, scattered the world over, it seems.  I will think of Jeff and remember our Christmases together.  I will remember my friend, Christopher, who passed away this year, and those glorious, fun, strawberry-filled Christmas Eves we spent in the warmth of our closest friends.

The older I get, the more astounded I am by the passage of time; by things I have collected and the memories attached to them.  I am mystified by the blessings I've been given.  I have been softened by  heartaches.

The perfectly not-so-perfect path our lives seem to take.

Those first snowflakes tonight, the vallens (an old word for snowfall), will arrive quietly, muffling an already silent river valley.  I will stand at the window, in the glow of my Christmas tree, and breathe deeply.  And wonder.

Merry Christmas.

Ugly Christmas Sweater Season

True confession: I am a connoisseur of the ugly Christmas sweater and I was one before it became a trendy, party-worthy collectible.

It's time to set some standards.  First, an ugly Christmas sweater is not a craft project.

Last Saturday, a friend and I attended an Ugly Christmas Sweater contest in Cedar Rapids.  His sweater was a delightful diorama of skiing snowmen, and his accompanying too-small ski jumpsuit, ski goggles and dancing hat made his assemble a thing of joy.

I wore a previous contest winner, one I call 'Patriotic Angels'.  It is a splendid flurry of flying angels carrying flags as they hover over a horizon of Christmas trees and bedazzled homes. 

There were 17 entries, and neither of us made the first cut.


I won't go into the politics at play in the judging, but half of those chosen in the first round were sweaters hung with ornaments and candy canes, sweaters that smelled like glue guns, with cleverly placed stockings at the crotch, or garland wrapped seductively about a twerking waif.  The winning sweater was a knock-off sold at a local hipster/college clothing store.  There were three others just like it in the crowd.

I own 16 Christmas sweaters.  Thirteen were found in thrift stores for less than five dollars (the others, including 'Patriotic Angels'. were purchased at a consignment shop).  My sweaters are originals, sold on HSN or QVC with designer labels like Quacker Factory, Take Two Studios and Holiday Elements.  They were marketed as stunning, festive garments to women of a certain demographic, women who carry faux gold lame handbags.  Women with lots of cats.

Like velvet paintings, or anything kitschy, these Christmas sweaters, when observed collectively, are art.

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the humor in the craft-project sweater.  I have a friend in Raleigh who has designed some truly amazing ugly sweaters, so customized, you'd think it was store-bought.

I have hosted two ugly sweater parties.  I encouraged my Borders coworkers to wear them.  We held friendly competitions, and I  crafted trophies to be given in different categories: best craft-project sweater (The Crapplique Award), best original sweater (The Jean Bice Award, the legendary Quacker Factory designer), and Best in Show.

Standards, people.  Standards.

I'm going to two more contests next week, not necessarily to enter, but to view the sweaters.  I'm sure there will be plenty of craft projects on parade and I'll be woozy from sniffing glue.

To find those Christmas sweaters that once delighted a third grade class, or wowed the congregation at Lutheran Holiday Bake Sale, you have to begin your search in August.  Waiting until the week before the party or contest is for amateurs.

Reclaiming Cookies & Christmas

The temperature this morning is a brisk -1, an arctic front has pushed its way down into much of the midwest and points south.  The dogs did not waste time doing their morning business.  No one is wasting time outdoors.

We're a week into December and the hustle of the Christmas holiday seems to be at maximum grind.  There remain decorations to be put up, my Christmas cards will be done this week.  I've done little, if any shopping, and fortunately my list isn't a big one, and I'll wipe it clean in one or two visits to local stores.

I'm hosting a small party this year, my first since Jeff died, so there will be cleaning to do, menu-planning, a toilet to be scrubbed.

Then there is baking.  Jeff and I used to bake a busload of his grandmother's sugar cookies each year and frost them in lurid colors.  We took them to parties and gave them to co-workers.  I don't know that the cookies tasted all that great (I think they did and he and I ate enough of them through the season), but honestly, it was the frosting.

The first year we made cookies, we agreed frosting was key.  We remembered frosting cookies as kids and being admonished for using too much icing. We were adults now and decided it was our house, our cookies, and by God, there would be lots of frosting.

Our cookies provided the most intense sugar rush, the frosting thick, decadent.  We used as much coloring as needed to get deep, rich colors.  Sometimes, we added sprinkles or those little silver pellets that look like BB gun ammo.

I made a small batch of cookies last year with my sister, at Dad's request.  He wanted sugar cookies like his mother made and fortunately, I had her cookie cookbook and we did our best to recreate those cookies for him.

Today, I'm baking with three women.  Each of us is to bring a cookie and candy recipe.  I've loaded two large boxes with bowls, mixers, ingredients.  I'm taking fun Christmas music.  And wine.

I found a sugar cookie recipe (after Jeff died, I couldn't take seeing his handwriting and threw out his grandmother's recipe) and made the dough last night.  I'm not sure of the results and it doesn't matter.  If they fail, I will continue to search for the best recipe.

Christmas was a big deal for Jeff and I.  His grandmother's cookies were part of that.  This is my third holiday without him.  The first year, I just wanted to get through it.  Last year, I determined to reclaim the season and make my own traditions (with a mix our old ones) and I started with a small tree and a few of our collected ornaments.

This year, I'm busting loose.  I bought another tree and most of our ornaments are now on display.  Decorations have branched out around the house, including a fat, stuffed Santa Claus from Montgomery Ward Jeff bought the year before he met me.  It is the first time Santa has been on display in more than five years.

Last night, I drove into Manchester to do my grocery shopping for today's baking and I took some time to look at all the houses lit up, including a co-worker who takes the season to heart.  Her yard and home was joyous and I practically cheered her spirit of fun.

Now, let it snow.