caught in the web

My essays, two of them anyway, as well as my book reviews, are now available, free, to anyone who might want to read them. A year ago, I would have refused to "sell out" this way, but it feels good. The essays have pictures that enhance the ideas; the book reviews are there for anyone who looks; my blog gives a little glimpse into the chaotic, Zerrissenheit-ridden mind of this writer.

It feels good.

I hope somebody finds my little nuggets and sees them as gold. Or fool's gold. Or gilt. Just as long as my words find a home and a reader or two or three!

so this is christmas...

...the seventh without Andy.

When we were young and full of hope but empty of bank account, I used to give the kids a special little giftie to open on the first Sunday of Advent. One year, I bought crayons and made stencils, which Andy treasured. Years later, he wanted to share the traditions of his own childhood (from the oh-so-mature perspective of middle school) with his sisters. He made a careful, detailed picture using those stencils, colored with bright markers, now framed. On the mantel we have three matching stockings, embroidered with the names "Tom", "Lauren", and "Andy", that I made in 1982, the fall semester I took off from graduate school, just after Andy was born. His little manger scene, a gift from my mother. The red cedar creche that Andy helped me choose. The pieces are beautiful, hand carved by "Mr. Ben" (Ben Atkinson, a Tennessee artisan), purchased at the rate of $40/year until Mr. Ben ran out of ideas. My creche is amazing--I even have a pig! --as well as the requisite wise men, angels, shepherds, sheep, a cow, drummer boy and girl, camels, a horse, a cat, and some chickens. The cedar smells like every Christmas tree we ever cut from the Shawnee National Forest--more Andy memories, first as a little guy and then a toddler, riding in the frame backpack we used for such purposes, finally as a strapping boy with his own opinions about the perfect Christmas tree. Wrapping presents in Andy's room, going through the old cards and tags, I see with a start his handwriting. His favorite Christmas albums--Nat King Cole, Alabama, Amy Grant. The off-color jokes he and Tom shared about Amy in her various sexy poses....

The ghosts are friendlier as the years pass, perhaps. This year, for the first time, Andy's tree is pretty much fully decorated. That means he's been dead long enough to accumulate a full memorial tree, with ornaments from my sister and the mother of one of his good friends. His is the only real tree we put up now, and I don't intend to change that. My sister thinks I am nuts--Andy was practical, and would have eventually caved in to the convenience of an artificial tree. Maybe she's right.

Who would my son be now? He'd be 26. Would he be here for Christmas? Would we be creating new traditions to accommodate a daughter-in-law, maybe even grandchildren? Would I be a cool young granny? Would his wife like me? Would he be a lawyer? A businessman? A teacher? A stay-at-home dad?

Who would Andy be? We'll never know. "Aye, there's the rub."