Snarls Dickens? When Holidays are Hard to Face

Grumpy Cat as Snarls Dickens, by artist Jewel Renee

This morning I opened the high kitchen cupboard above the refrigerator for the first time since I put away the Christmas cards I bought last January. I thought I'd get the cards down and begin to address them this weekend. I hope to get my annual Christmas letter written before I leave for Arizona for Thanksgiving.

Peering into the cupboard, I took stock of the few ornaments stored there, and once again regretted having brought so few. When I sold my house in NE Washington late last year, I gave away nearly all my Christmas decorations, keeping only a fluffy Santa that a Peace Corps friend had mailed me when I was so far from family in distant Seychelles, and a couple of other trinkets. I thought I'd have no room to store anything. I was right. I really don't. But there's a handful of ornaments that I now wish I'd kept.

For some reason, I forgot to rescue a circa 1960s Norman Rockwell coffee table Christmas book, which I inadvertently left behind. Year after year, I'd dig it out, and reread some of the holiday stories and find myself infused with the spirit of the season anew. I could use such a dose of good cheer this year.

Last Christmas was the first I'd celebrated with my son and daughter-in-law in the 25 years they'd been married. I'd always been in another country, another state, another city.

"I can't believe we're finally all together," Mari Lou had said that afternoon, as she and Steve made certain her mother, Maria, and I were seated comfortably at El Torito. Some might think a Mexican restaurant is an odd choice for Christmas dinner, but we'd all agreed we were still weary of turkey and stuffing from Thanksgiving. I remember savoring a chicken tostada and a strawberry Margarita. On Christmas a drink should be red.

Later we drove to Long Beach to revisit Daisy Avenue, with its annual Christmas Tree Lane. We concluded the evening with dessert at my new apartment, Coco's Pumpkin Harvest Pie, and glasses of sparkling

cranberry juice.

This year Mari Lou won't be with us. Losing her at the onset of her favorite time of the year, not long before Halloween, has devastated all three of us. Nonetheless, we plan to spend Christmas together once again.

Christmas still can be magical, I remind myself. As I compose my Christmas letter, I'll count my blessings. I'll banish old Grumpy Cat, and think of all those Christmases from long ago, when I couldn't wait to wake up on December 25. I'll get my letter written and the cards mailed, thankful that I still have friends who will want to open them. I'll remember the Fezziwigs and the Crachits and will honor Christmas in my heart.

Traveling in Times of Terror: Andechs

Kloster Andechs

Yesterday an acquaintance asked if I planned to cancel my planned trip to London for this coming February. Puzzled, I asked why.

"Well, because of what happened in Paris last night...that's why. Nobody with any sense with leave home with all the terrorists out there."

Believe me, I do understand why people are fearful. I've been fearful when overseas myself. I remember, for instance, the aftermath of 2001, when many were afraid to get on an airplane. My recollection of those harrowing days is recorded below. My late husband, Ken Wilson, and I were among the few who traveled shortly after the terrorist attack. I can't foresee the future, but figure I'll likely be seeing a West End musical and basking in the sunlight on the Isle of Wight, come February.

Suds and Solace

 By Terri Elders

“The future is an opaque mirror. Anyone who tries to look into it sees nothing but the dim outlines of an old and worried face.”  --Jim Bishop

The morning of September 11, 2001, I’d just opened an HIV/AIDS seminar in a shabby hotel two hours north of Port-au-Prince, when I was pulled aside by the Peace Corps/Haiti health program manager. I'd been excited to travel to the Caribbean to facilitate this training, the first on the issue conducted in Haiti by the United State's grassroots development agency. 

“The World Trade Center and the Pentagon have been attacked by planes,” she whispered. “It’s not a joke.”

She shared what little she’d heard with the Volunteers. Horrified, everybody crowded into the adjacent bar

which had a generator-powered television set.

After a while we decided to join hands and recite The Lord’s Prayer. Our Haitian partners would arrive the next day, most hiking miles across rugged rural terrain to reach bus stops. I prayed for strength to get through the week.

I worried, too, about my husband’s safety. A late riser, he’d still be sleeping soundly in our townhouse in Silver Spring, MD. Married a little over a year, Ken and I looked forward to finally taking a belated  honeymoon. We’d planned to go to Munich for Oktoberfest. The future now looked murky.

Incredibly, the HIV/AIDS training went forward without mishap. The following Sunday the US Embassy somehow maneuvered me aboard a return flight to Miami. Even more improbably, American Airlines rerouted one extra flight to Dulles, since Reagan National, my original destination, had closed down. I got its last remaining seat.

When I reached home Ken welcomed me with a hug and a glass of Chardonnay. He settled on the sofa beside me.

“What do you think?” he asked. “The news commentators are speculating about more possible hijackings. Should we cancel the trip?”

In our sixties, we’d married the previous summer. Right after the wedding I’d started to work at Peace Corps Headquarters in Washington DC, so we’d postponed our honeymoon until I’d accrued some vacation time. Ken pined to revisit the towns he’d lived in during his Air Force service in the 1950s, so we’d chosen Germany.

“I want to see one more Oktoberfest,” he’d said. “This’ll be my fourth, and the best, since you’ll be along. You’ll learn to love German beer, I promise.”

I preferred a glass of chilled white wine to a mug of tepid beer, but agreed. I knew Germany was famous for its Liebfraumilch and Riesling, as well as all that celebrated beer.

But now I fretted. We were scheduled to fly out in just a few days. Would we be safe? Would it be foolhardy to travel at such an uncertain time? New travel regulations had gone into effect, so navigating airport security lines would be arduous. On the plus side, we’d already arranged for a rental car at Franz Joseph airport in Munich, and Ken claimed to remember enough German to ask for directions as we headed for the Black Forest, Landsberg, Garmisch and all those other magical-sounding places he’d described.

“Let’s do it,” Ken finally said. “We’ll probably be safer in Germany now than here in the outskirts of the capital. You’ve been working hard. You deserve a vacation.”

.

So we went, with me praying for our safety every leg of the journey. On the first day of October we settled in at Oktoberfest’s Hofbrau Haus, surrounded by crowds of young people, nearly all from New Zealand and Australia.

“We were able to find lodgings here after so many Americans cancelled their travel plans,” one young couple told us. “Let’s toast America!”

We all raised our litre mugs and sang along with a brass band that pounded out “Stop in the Name of Love” and “Roll Out the Barrel.” We ate salted radishes and pretzels as big as our heads, and toasted every English-speaking nation on Earth, including Belize, Guyana and Seychelles, countries that may have gone unmentioned if I hadn’t a personal Peace Corps knowledge of them. Then the Kiwis and Aussies even joined us in a chorus of “Blame Canada” when a trio from Ottawa asked to join us.

Ken and I listened appreciatively as our new friends poured out their sympathy for the States, and gratefully accepted their gracious good wishes for a safe return home. We left Oktoberfest carefree, flushed with lager and love.

Then the United States initiated a bombing mission over Afghanistan. We heard that American citizens abroad should register at American embassies, and that tourists in other European countries had been threatened by terrorists.

“Should we try to return home early?” I asked, nearly overwhelmed with fear.

“I don’t want to leave Germany until you’ve seen Andechs,” Ken replied, shaking his head. “We’ll be all right. We’ll be safe here.”

 

Ken described Andechs Abbey, an hour south of Munich, as a Benedictine monastery housed in a castle that dates from the twelfth century. Its brewery produces lagers with an alcohol percentage nearly as strong as fortified sherries.

“We’ll sit in the beer garden, share a basket of rye bread and monastery cheese, and sip a beer and contemplate the frescoes and stuccoes. We’ll really relax at Andechs,” he insisted.

Ken drove along the eastern shore of Lake Ammersee, eventually pointing out a castle looming on a hill.

“There’s Andechs!”  He patted my hand.

I’d read that Andechs had been a cherished destination for pilgrims for over five hundred years. Now, as we headed up the hill that frosty morning, I felt as if we, too, were on a pilgrimage.

The beer proved just as delicious and heady as Ken had promised. Then after lunch, we toured the ground floor of the church. I sat for a while in the Chapel of Sorrow, praying for the United States, for Washington DC, for peace, and for our marriage. I especially prayed for a sense of serenity. As soon as I asked the Lord to instill peace in my heart, I felt an enormous sense of relief. The fear seeped away, leaving me calmer than I’d been since the morning of September 11.

The medieval Chapel of Sorrow houses the grave of Carl Orff, the 20th century composer of “Carmina Burana,” hypnotic music that for me always makes everything seem epic. 

When we crossed to the St. Anthony Chapel, with frescoes by 17th century artists, I reflected on how so

many pieces of the past seem to come together at Andechs. As we left, I picked up a brochure that quoted the Andechs’ Abbot, Dr. Johannes Eckert, on the purpose of the monastery. One phrase hit a chord, and I read it aloud to Ken. Eckert hoped pilgrims would “relish the present and the moments which go by so quickly, yet indeed not forget that which went on before.”

I recalled that September day in Haiti, when we all decided to move forward, to not become paralyzed with fear. As we strolled to our rental car I turned to Ken.

“In the chapel I prayed for help in giving up fear,” I said. “There’s no room for it on our honeymoon. I think it worked. I feel more peaceful now.”

“Good decision. Just don’t ask Him to make us give up German beer.”

I laughed. Suds and solace seemed perfect mates, just like us. I squeezed my wise spouse’s hand. And thanked the Lord for restoring peace in my heart.