A Gift of Memories

How brilliant the sun shown on the snow that covered the branches of the pine trees from top to bottom, as if the latest winter storm had wrapped them in a thick winter coat. The newly fallen snow under my feet was deep—so deep that if I had not bloused my pants with rubber bands, the snow would have packed the open crevices of my boots. The woods—with its clean, crisp cold smell; its holly berries clinging to bushes, splashing red against the snow; its chickadees and blue jays pleasantly scolding each other and flying here and there, knocking snow to the ground—was thick with the pine trees. Their scent filled the air with Christmas as my sisters, my brother, my foster parents, and I tromped through the woods looking for that perfect Christmas tree.

Almost everyone has that one Christmas memory that is held close to the heart, the one carefully put away and unwrapped only for special occasions. I’ve unwrapped this memory more often lately; I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because I’m getting older and am becoming more sentimental (or just plain sappy, I suppose), or perhaps it’s simply because it was the last Christmas I spent with my siblings before our lives were forced in different directions. In three short months, we would be torn apart and placed in different foster homes. So that last Christmas together was the best gift I could receive.

When we had arrived at this foster home after being taken from our mother three months earlier, Betty and Harry opened their home to all five of us children with ease. It was the grandest house that I had and have ever seen. Well over 100 years old, its two-story massive wooden structure, nicknamed the “Club House,” sat well off the road at the edge of the wood line on the lake. Outside were several outbuildings; I can only guess what their purposes once were. Nearby were various sized cottages that were houses themselves—probably for guests or even servants of long ago. We slept in the largest of these cottages, along with Betty and Harry. I never did know why they didn’t sleep in the Club House.

The Club House was stately. The entry opened into a large foyer, and to the left of the foyer was a great wooden staircase that curved as it reached the second floor. Upstairs were fourteen bedrooms and several bathrooms. Downstairs, the formal dining room held a table that sat twenty-two people comfortably. This room led into another huge room that could have been the setting of a sports lodge: fox, bob cats, deer, and a variety of birds and other animals were mounted to the walls as if ready to pounce, spring, or fly away. Bear rugs (with heads) and zebra skins were scattered about. It was fittingly called the Club room. Several windows on the right offered a clear view of the beach and lake waters. At the far end, a stone fireplace seemed to span the length of the room. This room was my favorite—it offered a quieting comfort I craved.

Christmas at the Club House was one that could only be imagined. Betty and Harry— particularly Betty (a born craftswoman)—brought such spirit to decorating the house. Tromping through the woods that bright wintery afternoon, we found the perfect Christmas tree, and when we arrived home from school the next day, Betty had spray painted the tree a gleaming gold and stood it next to the fireplace in the Club room.

In the days that followed, the Club House was transformed into a Christmas House. Betty adorned the banister with a mixture of pine and holly from the woods, adding red ribbon and white lights. With the leftover sprigs, she fashioned centerpieces for the tables, doors, and mantel. She taught us to make 10-point stars in various sizes from colored strips of paper, dipped in wax and sprinkled with glitter. These we hung on the tree, along with paper chains, cranberries, and colored popcorn. Betty crafted a partridge in a pear tree from a tree branch with handmade ornaments representing the 12 days of Christmas. As we helped cut and glue the pieces, she taught us to sing the 12 days of Christmas. Glistening garland and sparkling lights were strung everywhere.

The kitchen was warm with the smells of Christmas—cookies, cakes, and breads always seemed to be baking. One evening, Betty had us in the kitchen helping her make hard candy. She brought each batch of the sugary concoction to a boil, added a flavor of cherry, orange, mint, root beer, or anise (a licorice flavor), and poured it onto the table over powdered sugar. Then everyone, armed with scissors, cut the rapidly hardening candy into bite-sized pieces until our hands and fingers hurt.

Betty and Harry filled our last Christmas together with such spirit and love. Their kindness was a gift beyond compare. They gave us a Christmas memory that I treasure—one that I can unwrap and rewrap for all Christmases to come.

My Claims to Fame

When I was 11 years old, my mother decided she wanted a Himalayan cat. My sister and I went along with her to meet a breeder in Maryland who told us she had a new batch of Himalayan kittens, all balls of gray and white fluff with pink noses.

They were so adorable that my mother decided we'd get two. As we were picking out which kittens we wanted, the breeder happened to mention, between "They are strictly indoor cats," and "If they jump on counters, you can spray they with a little water," that their great grandfather cat was a movie star.

He had appeared in the 1971 James Bond Film, Diamonds Are Forever, as Blofeld's cat - the one with the diamond collar.

* * *

When I was 15 years old, I sailed aboard the Queen Elizabeth 2, or "QE2," on a 6-day transatlantic crossing from New York to Southampton in June 2001 with my parents, my two siblings, and my grandparents on my dad's side.

I can still vividly recall the QE2's elegance - the ice sculptures in the middle of the midnight dessert buffet, the spas with the ultimate pampering, and the tea room with the white-gloved servers and tiny sandwiches. But I digress...

One evening, after indulging in lobsters, my siblings and I decided we'd take the elevator to our deck with our grandparents, who were beginning to have a difficult time getting around, especially on a rocky boat. As we stepped into the elevator, we were greeted by Julia Child.

At the time, I didn't realize how famous she was, but I'll always remember her tall height and the sound of her high-pitched voice as she cracked jokes with my grandfather. I wish I could remember what she said.

We later learned there was a theme to the cruise - "Chef's Palate," - and we got to see her again while on board, though when we did, she was speaking in front of an audience as a chef prepared some of her favorite dishes.

* * *

About a year ago, my grandfather was reunited with his sister who lives in Louisiana. They were never very close growing up, and they hadn't spoken in years, so they had much catching up to do.

They traded stories of their family, and she mentioned a relative named Marguerite Clark, who had passed away in 1940. My grandpa learned that she was a famous silent movie star who had appeared in many Broadway shows and films from a young age, winning numerous awards.

Turns out, she starred in the first film version of Snow White in 1916, and she made such an impression on Walt Disney, he chose to base his classic version, the one we all know so well, on Marguerite, my great aunt's sister's child - a distant cousin of mine.

I'm related to Snow White.