I’m in the process of making my annual Christmas CD for friends and family. Last year, I did an entire cd only of female artists. This year the collection is heavily acoustic, mixing coffeehouse jazz & folk, classical, pop, & country. Want a taste? Then here:

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I have never been a particular fan of pencils, and when I did have to use them in my early school years, I was particular about them. Those fat training pencils they give to very young children were never my style. My hands are small, for one thing – the average sixth grader has larger hands than I do – so I don’t like thick pens either, and they were never sharp enough. When I write, I like the words to come out in definitive black, not non-committal gray.

My pencils, then, were always sharpened to a needle-fine point, and while they were the No. 2’s that make ScanTrons happy in all corners of the universe, they were also brilliantly yellow, and smelled of cedar.

Actually they tasted like cedar, too. I know this because, I admit, I used to be a pencil chewer. Most of us had some kind of oral fixation in grade school, I think. For many it was gum. I’m not a gum chewer. I don’t see the point in food you’re not supposed to swallow, and frankly, I think gum is too much work for too little payoff. So, there were pencils. Not that they were a snack food, because of course, they weren’t. But when you’re thinking hard about something having a pencil between your teeth helps a bit. It’s the schoolgirl equivalent of being given a bullet to bite in order to distract yourself from pain.

I mention all this because I’ve bought pencils twice in the last two years. In October, 2006, I bought pencils to put in the survival kits I made for my WriMos. They were pencils in fashion colors – blue, maroon, mauve – points not included.

I bought pencils again, yesterday. Ten boxes. Presumably these are the yellow kind, but the color really doesn’t matter. I bought them because yesterday was Day 30 of the WGA strike, and there’s a campaign to flood the offices of the six corporate entities that represent the “bosses” in the strike. I support the WGA as a fan, because without writers there are no words for actors to speak. I support them as a writer, even though I’m in no way connected with the industry, because I know how much working writers really earn. I mean, I am one. Also, I like creative protests. I mean, picketing is all very well and good – it makes your point very visible, and all that, but sending mountains of pencils has an element of the absurd that really appeals to me.

So I bought pencils. (I also bought a tent-sized t-shirt to use as a night gown, because I’m the kind of girl who prefers big t-shirts to lacy lingerie, really. Cotton rocks my world, and all that.)

If you’re a fan, or a writer, you can buy pencils, too, for a buck a box.

[Image links to Pencils2MediaMoguls]

This isn’t meant as a rah-rah support the WGA post. It’s really just me sharing part of my day yesterday. If, however, you are inclined to read more about the strike, I suggest the following links:

• Speechless – a series of video spots featuring prominent actors.
• Fans4Writers – Fan support site. A bunch of folks from Whedonesque started it.
• United Hollywood – exactly what it sounds like
• To Live by the Pen, by Doris Egan, one of the writer-producers of House, as well as a novelist. It’s a fascinating piece of Hollywood history, as well as being a concise explanation of why these people are striking.
• Ethical Bloggyness, by Tanya Huff, Canadian author of the wonderful Blood Ties books, which Lifetime TV turned into a series.

In a box of family pictures, one always makes me smile. It’s a rare picture of me that I like. I’m about four, bundled in a lavender snowsuit with gray and white faux fur trim, and I’m lying on my back on a field of snow, making a snow angel. It’s a scene re-enacted on lawns around the world, whenever the snow is clean enough, deep enough, fresh and white and compelling. On the surface, there is nothing exceptional about this picture.

Except for the blue at the edge. Blue-gray, really. It’s the Atlantic Ocean, winter cold, colored that slate color that means instant heart-attack should you go in, and it’s lapping at the shore of my snow field, because I’m a beach baby from a long line of beach babies, and even in winter the sea draws us to it’s edge, calling our names with the foghorns and the sound of wind and surf, wooing us with the thought of a steaming mug of cocoa or hot tea afterwards.

It has to be tea if it isn’t cocoa, you see. The basic black Lipton stuff, with the word BRISK on the label, or G. I. tea (when I was that age my grandparents still did all their shopping at the commissary at Fort Monmouth), is actually welcome after a day at the snowy beach, but Earl Grey is acceptable as well. (Irish Breakfast and English Breakfast are not, they are too soft – Earl Grey is a sturdier blend.)

I’m not a particular fan of Norman Rockwell, but I remember a painting in his style, if not from his hand, of an old sea-captain type with his weathered, thick fingers wrapped around a mug of tea. My grandfather was Army, not Navy, but he loved the sea, as did my mother, as do I, so even though he wasn’t a sea captain in life, in my head, he fills that role. He snapped the picture I mentioned, and my mother stood by, and watched me. She’s in the picture too. There’s a second one, from the same day, with me, walking hand in hand with my grandfather. I’m tiny, still sporting snow on my pants, and he’s wearing his fisherman hat an a great pea-coat that looked like the word “warm.”

In my heart, he’s still sheltering my hand in his.

Image by Carmi Levy of Written Inc.. Used with permission.

Chess is loaded with ritual, I said to a friend over IM the other night. I didn’t elaborate, ended up riffing on the subject of old men in Greek Navy caps, playing chess in parks, their thick overcoats keeping them warm, their gnarled fingers moving each piece. I’m not a chess player myself. Or rather, I’m a bad chess player, on the rare occasions when I play, but I used to love watching the little kids playing with the giant pieces on the board on the ground at Santana Row.

There’s a ritual in that too, in being a kid. Lots of rituals. Little rituals like making a plaster hand print, posing for school pictures without having front teeth, writing a letter to Santa Claus, and bigger ones: first dates, first cars – events, yes, but rituals as well – though the ritual is in the planning, the saving, the practicing until you know how to kiss, know how to park, get your license, get the guy of your dreams.

I stand out on the deck each morning, each evening, and just let the outside air sink into my skin. I listen to the birds and small animals, hear the neighborhood sounds. This grounds me, but it also lets me know the way the neighborhood should sound. For the dogs, my practice of strapping on my pink digital watch is the beginning of their Going Out ritual. First the watch, then the jacket, then their leashes. They know which jackets and shoes are for walkies, and which are not. They’re that attuned to me.

But back to chess.

There’s structure in chess, and order. And yet there’s passion, too. Of those three things (passion, structure, order) Ritual is born. Watch the chess players caress the pieces as they set up their boards, some time. They have such reverence as they go about their stylized war games, plotting strategies and planning defeats while the chessmen slide and click against the board.

Magic in numbers, magic in squares, magic in two small dogs knowing that the Reeboks mean walkies and the pink Converse All-Stars do not.

Everyday rituals.

* * *
Written for the December Project at CafeWriting, Option Two: Can You Picture That?

From the Cafe Writing December Project: List seven traditions – big or small – that you and your family observe. You don’t have to explain them, but it’s more fun for readers if you do.

* * * * *
As it’s December, and I’ve just strung my house with lights, and my lit tree is resting in the window, as yet bare of ornaments, I offer seven of my family’s Christmas traditions.

1. Resting Tree: We generally let the lit tree sit undecorated for a few days, even though it’s plastic, just so we can get used to where it is, and get a feel for the best side and worst side, etc.
2. Ornaments: From childhood, my mother and I would take out all the ornaments and talk about each one as we hung them on the tree. Most of our ornaments are hand-made or specially chosen, and none are plain glass balls.
3. Pfefferneusse: My mother and I share a box of pfefferneusse cookies every Christmas. These spice drops are perfect with coffee, and represent a shared history.
4. Aglio Olio: It’s a garlic and olive oil sauce that you toss with fettucini, and it represents our family’s Italian heritage. For most of my life, my mother always made it on Christmas eve.
5. Stockings: As we’ve grown older, we’ve pretty much stopped with huge presents (except between Fuzzy and myself) and embraced the challenge of only buying items that can fit in a stocking. Some years, this is extremely easy, other years, rather difficult, but it’s always fun, and it limits the amount we spend, as well.
6. Brie: I am a cheese fiend, and one thing always in my stocking is a small round of brie. Yay for runny cheese!
7. Tinsel: We no longer use it on our tree, either at my own house or at my mother’s in deference to the memory of my deceased uncle Merrell. I wrote about it in 2005 for that year’s Holidailies. The entry is here.

I’ve never been one for posting lists of resolutions. Witness my post from December, 2004, in which I said:

o, just as I’ve tried to make it a rule that I do at least one productive thing every day, I’m going to resolve in very vague forms: to learn something new, to make a new friend, to help someone, and to do something to improve myself. Is this cheating? I don’t think so.

I didn’t post anything even similar at the end of 2005 or beginning of 2006, choosing to stick to the same goals. And truly? I think I’ve succeeded, though sometimes my “one productive thing” has been stretched to include “take a shower” or “get dressed,” but when you work from home these make all the difference.

In any case, I’ve learned many new things over the last year, made several new friends, and connected with a couple old ones, joined a group that helps me help others, and am taking small steps in the arena of self improvement. While these goals are still in place, maybe it’s time to be more specific?

So, while these aren’t really resolutions, as much as GOALS, here’s my obligatory “Things to do in 2007” list:

1. Use my camera more. I have a fancy digital camera that I almost never use, and I’m so envious of the pictures posted by people like Carmi, Utenzi, Janet, Rana, and Klae, that I have to do something about it. I’m not sure if I’ll have the nerve to share the results, but I’ll be snapping away anyway.
2. Publish something. I’ve lost site of that goal over the last year, and let fear keep me from sending queries. No more! I will not let myself get distracted and push stuff aside, and I will face my fear of sharing my work.
3. Spend more time outside. I’ve never really been an outdoorsy person, but I’ve been taking that to extremes lately. So, it’s time to get re-acquainted with things like sunshine and wind and pavement.
4. Read more. I haven’t been reading much lately, and what I’ve read has been fluffy mind candy, and not challenging or provocative. I’ve also pretty much ignored my bookblog since September. This must change.

And there you have it. Not very lofty goals, and actually they’re being layered on top of the list from 2004, because I think it’s a good list to keep, but goals nonetheless.

Check with me in a few months to see how I’m doing.

If my title is less than original tonight / this morning, at least the sentiment is sincere. We spent the evening hanging out at ComedySportz where I was NOT on the liners, but came just to help out. Technically we’re required to, and honestly, it was fun to watch the show for a change – the last two months I’ve either been away, on stage, or the show has been dark.

I was supposed to play last night, but felt icky and had NO VOICE so called in sick, which got me some well earned rest. I slept away most of Friday, and a good portion of Saturday, and while I felt a bit groggy this morning, and my back still hurts as it always does during certain times of the month, I had fun helping out tonight. We did two shows, and in spite of the chaos that entailed, our arena was like an island of calm in the even more chaotic West End. Someone had rented the bars in the building for the night, you see, charged $100 / head, and given an open bar and three bands, BUT, they over-sold and weren’t organized and by midnight the building was full of smokey pissed-off drunk people. Mmm, attractive.

My aunt commented that it was interesting to see me in a CSz show on Saturday night and then transition into wearing a cassock and surplice and singing at high Mass on Sunday morning, and I guess it’s true from outside my life, but if she knew how funny and snarky we are in choir practice, and how the ladies of the choir often whisper through the homily, and how much laughter is involved, she might not think it so. What I do know is that Sunday mornings post-show, especially if I was in it, and not just helping, come too soon after Saturday nights, and it’s often hard to find my vocal balance in the mornings. Tonight, however, is Sunday, and therefore there is no issue – our loftiest plan for Monday is that we might catch a movie.

Meanwhile, my mother has emailed to wish me a Happy New Year (she was probably in bed by ten), and my feet are screaming for new sneakers, and I have yet to eat anything approaching real food today – cake at church, soup and a sandwich I couldn’t finish at Panera at lunch, and then chips, pretzels, a coke, and a couple miniature eclairs at the show. I think I may be hungry, but I’m not sure.

In any case, the night is more than half done, and I have nowhere to be in the morning. I might post resolutions. I might not. Either way, I wish everyone reading this the very happiest of new years. May 2007 bring you whatever you want, when you want it.

Peace.

Pink frosting on yellow cake was the order of the day today immediately following mass. We were marking the retirement of Deacon Claire and the leaving of our organist and choir director, Clyde, and cake has never been such a mix of sweet and bitter without involving chocolate or coffee before.

I never really had a chance to know Deacon Claire. She seemed merry and smart, and warm, if not quite as immediately gregarious as Fr. Young. She has a lovely speaking voice, a bit gravelly from age, but still easy on the ears. It was mentioned today that she’s a Franciscan, and for the second time I commented to Fuzzy that I hadn’t realized the Episcopal church had orders, the way the Catholic church does. He merely smirked and said, “You said that last time.” And I never resolved the lack of information. Not very good on my part.

Clyde, on the other hand, is someone who I’d count as a friend. He’s funny – even snarky at times – warm, engaging, and amazingly talented. Consider, he not only plays the organ and acts as cantor but ALSO directs our balky and sometimes extremely amateurish choir. Directed. Acted. Today was his last day. Everyone tried to bribe him to stay, while also trying to respect his wishes, his needs – he lost both parents this year, and work (his day job) and family are demanding more of his time. You can’t really argue with that.

And so today after mass, after singing Christmas carols (because it’s still Christmastide in the church), we met in the parish hall and toasted these people, and laughed with them, and hugged them, and marked their leaving with plaques and cake with pink frosting.

I hope they got the corner pieces with the slightly salty sugar roses.
The corner pieces are the best, after all, and they deserved them.