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1971 Terry was married in June at our church, with red roses because she said white ones looked like a funeral. Warren walked her down the aisle and then sat down and blew his nose for most of the ceremony. He said it was hay fever. Warren never had hay fever a day in his life. Our Terry wed in June this year, In white, with roses red; Her father shed a single tear (Hay fever, so he said). The house is quieter, it's clear, With one less stocking hung, But Christmas brings our children near And keeps the old heart young. |
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1976 The Bicentennial. We hung red, white and blue bunting on the porch for the Fourth and never took it down, so at Christmas it was there with the colored lights, and Warren said we looked like a gas station. Two hundred Christmases before, General Washington was taking his men across the Delaware River in the ice, which Warren, being Navy, said was a very poor night for a boat ride. Two hundred years! The bunting's out, The bands have played, the children shout, We've waved our flags and watched the sky Light up with rockets, red and high. But all year long I've thought it strange How little some things ever change: Two hundred Christmases ago They lit their candles, row on row, And sang the songs that we still sing, And waited for the bells to ring. So here's to all things old and new, And Merry Christmas, friend, to you. |
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1979 Our first grandchild, Terry's boy Toby, born in March. By Christmas he could pull himself up on the furniture and he went straight for the tree. Toby, this is the one you typed in first. I noticed. A grandson! Who'd have thought that we, Still feeling newly wed, Would rock a baby on our knee With Terry's curly head? He claps his hands, he pulls the cat, He grabs the tinsel down, And Grandpa calls him, just like that, The finest boy in town. |
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1981 Warren retired in June after thirty-five years at the plant. He lasted about a week before he started building a workbench in the cellar, and then birdhouses, and then, that December, a wooden sleigh for the grandchildren, which is still in my garage. I retired from the telephone company the same year, but nobody noticed, because I still had to make dinner. He's hung his lunch pail on the nail And swapped his time card for the mail; For thirty-five years, rain or snow, He punched the clock. Now off he'll go To build a birdhouse, fix the gate, And sleep in late (well, half past eight). He's in the cellar, sawing wood For something that he swears is good; I've learned this year it's best to stay Upstairs, and keep out of his way. But Christmas Eve, he'll sit with me, The two of us, beside the tree. |
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1983 Forty years married in September. The children gave us a party in the church hall, and Warren danced with me for the first time since about 1958. He was not any better at it. I didn't care. Some forty years ago this fall I married my young man. He had his Navy blues, that's all, And not a single plan. The plans came later, as they do, And children, and gray hair, And through it all, the whole way through, We've had a love to spare. |
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1989 In November they opened the wall in Berlin, and we watched on the evening news as people climbed up on top of it and danced, and chipped pieces off it with hammers. Warren sat in his chair a long time without saying anything. Then he said, "Well, I'll be." That was a lot, for Warren. This fall we watched a wall come down Across the sea, by night, And people dancing in the town With hammers and with light. I didn't think I'd live to see The things I've seen this year; It makes me think that peace may be Not quite so far from here. |
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1994 Warren died in April, after a short illness, at home. I did not think I would send cards at all that year. Then Terry said, "Mother, there are ninety people waiting to hear from you." So I sat down at the kitchen table, in his chair, under the same lamp, and wrote this one. This year the card is just from one, And that is hard to write. For forty-eight Decembers, done Together, at this light, He'd read my verse and say, "That's fine," And sign his name below; This year there's just the one, just mine, And still I'd have you know That he was loved, and he loved you, And he would have me say: Make merry, all the season through, The way he did each day. |
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1998 Toby put a computer in my sewing room last Christmas and taught me how to send electronic mail. By spring I was writing to people I hadn't heard from since Eisenhower. But I still sent the cards on paper, and I always will. This year I learned a brand-new trick: My grandson taught me how to click A little mouse, and type, and send A letter to a far-off friend That reaches her before I've stood To put the kettle on. It's good. But some things still should come by hand, On paper, so you'll understand That someone sat and thought of you And licked the stamp, and sealed it too. So here's my verse, the fifty-third, In ink, and every single word Is what I'd say if you were here: God bless, and Merry Christmas, dear. |
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And This Year?
This December's verse will be the fifty-fourth, and it will be about the year 2000. I have not started it. Toby says it ought to be about computers. My great-niece says it ought to be about the end of the world. I expect it will be about the same thing it is always about, which is the people I'm sending it to. If you are one of my ninety and you found this page, write me on the electronic mail and say hello. Toby says I will get it. If you are not one of my ninety and you would like to be, write me anyway. The list can always use a few more at the long end. Edith |