sueeeus

Making gingerbread houses is one of those childhood memories that Mr. Gadget wanted to share with our little gadget guy. It wasn’t such a big deal when I was growing up. I don’t think a gingerbread house could survive construction in the home and surroundings of my youth, what with nine of us storming the castle on a constant basis. I do remember wonderful smells and treats around Christmas time. I especially remember a decadent Christmas in which my mother made cookies AND peanut brittle, and set it OUT, in dishes. I think we could even HAVE some. It was a magical memory.

So. A gingerbread house. I bought a kit. The first and last. If ever we do this again, I’ll make my own icing and gingerbread, or just use graham crackers. At least then it would taste good. That commercially packaged stuff was just gross. Blech. Not that anybody really eats gingerbread houses. Do they? Everything will be long stale and hard by the time Christmas comes. I think the young gadget, oh wait, we now call him Harry*. I think Harry had a good time.

*Harry Osborn, Peter Parker’s best friend, and son of Mr. Osborn who became the Green Goblin.

He tells me, “I’m Harry. I’m not <real name>, Silly.” <pause> “Just kidding!” <pause> “No, I’m Harry. I yam Harry.” <giggles> <eyes twinkle>

I love this age. I’m excited about making Christmas magical for him.  Next year we’ll bake cookies and decorate them.  We will all enjoy that, and this time, they’ll taste good too.

I have had a huge collection of boxes that I’ve carted along with me, through the years. Every letter, ever card, every ticket stub, every theatre programme. I’ve been working my way through, and whittling my life down. My life in boxes. Pretty boxes.

It’s not that I love anyone any less, but I’ve decided to keep only those things that are most historically important to me. Because the boxes, they are a burden. A cluttered weight upon my soul. I’ve saved my journal writings and all the sappy poems that I’m embarrassed to have written. I didn’t save all the copies of letters I’d written to siblings. After (re)reading them, I (re)discovered, to my horror, that I am/was a bossy sister, meddling in their affairs and trying to tell them what to do. Well, I was earnest. I wanted the best for them. I didn’t want them dropping out of junior high school, in one case, or racking up debt without holding responsibly to a job, in another case. In my defense, I was trying to parent where parenting was lacking. I hope they forgive me. I meant well. To my (further) horror, I (re)discovered that I was a zealot for far too many years. My life as a zealot. Granted, those were the years in which I was most attuned to myself and least subject to depression and melancholy, riding the wave of self-conviction. How I wish I had found the happy medium in which I held fast to that level of self-esteem and assurance, while honoring the delicacy of the human spiritual walk. I hope the recipients of that young zeal forgive me. (And it’s not that any beliefs I hold have changed, but the level to which I share or discuss them has.)

And now, with my life reduced to the contents of these boxes, I aim to rediscover something of myself. What were my hopes and dreams in the innocence of my youth? Can I find my way back to the place called happy, if ever the place existed?