Scout Moves

This stretch between Christmas and New Year's, and the few days on either side of the holidays, usually has my family traveling. This year was no exception. Last week, the four of us flew to Atlanta to spend a few days with my side of the clan—we met at my mother's house, my sisters and their families and my bunch. We sat around and told stories and laughed and had the big meal and laughed and opened presents and laughed. We like to laugh, and I'm not talking about muffled chuckles. Sometimes our cackling could startle a rabbit, whatever that means. This Christmas was our last in my mother's house because she's about to move in with my sister. If this house were our family homestead, where we had all grown up, that might have been sort of traumatic for us, but my parents moved into this house after we had all left. I have no childhood memories related to it, and I don't think I'll miss it, but my mother was troubled. Despite knowing next year will be differe

Today is all about packing and sorting out the house because we're leaving for Georgia. We go there every year for Christmas because most of my family lives there. My sister from Chicago will join us as always so that all four of the Wells Girls (my sisters and me) will be together. That feat only happens at Christmas, and I look forward to it all year long. Eustacia has been home from school for about a week, and No. 1 just arrived last night. We opened our presents from each other right away, talked for a while and then called it a night. So, now we'll combine our family unit with the other family units down south. This gathering is a tradition that we've maintained since 1974, and it has evolved as people have joined the family through marriage or birth, but this year, I wonder if we're being stretched a little at the seams. One sister has been estranged from her husband for years, but he continues to share Christmas with us because he's like a brother, and he ha

Last Thursday, the English class met for one last session before the holiday break. Between illness and work schedules and social agency programs, only four students could attend, as the teacher suspected, so we had a light schedule. Actually, we had no schedule at all except that I showed them how to make origami Christmas wreaths . We all sat around the table and folded paper and talked and talked. The teacher asked everyone what they wanted for Christmas, and that single question led to such a discussion, we all ended up a little teary eyed. Each one of the students talked about their families, including the ones left behind in Puerto Rico and Guatemala, and how all they want is for peace and security for the ones they love. Life is good, they said, and their children are happy, and they all have everything they need, but they miss family. One of them told us her mother died when she was a little girl, and when she was just 11, her father was murdered, and she went to work in a litt

Husband and I went to a performance of Handel's Messiah this afternoon—excerpts from, of course. Not the entire thing. It's an annual event in Small Town, with my orchestra and a community choir performing. Most of the soloists were local as well, although there was one soloist I didn't recognize. Instead of holding it in the performing arts center, it's performed in a large church, which makes it a cozy concert. The Messiah isn't as big a draw as I thought it might be around here, so gathering in a church sanctuary is about right to handle the crowd. I went to this performance last year, and I remember being put off by the tenor, who sounded as if his shoes were pinching his tiny feet and his bow tie might have been a tad snug. But this year, the soloist who replaced him was anything but pinched. He was a big man, broad in the shoulders like the side of a barn so that when he stood up, his arms hung out away from his torso. He was the only man in the choir not wea

We aren't really the party types—we only host one or two a year, and we only attend one or two a year at somebody else's house. But this week is a week for parties. The holidays do that to you, I suppose, make you gussy up and go out on a night you when you would normally sit at home with your feet up on the ottoman, a second glass of wine in hand and a cat on your lap. This week, Husband's company hosted its Christmas party, which is always held at a lodge outside of town. The place is a lovely setting, with the entrance lined with lights that contrast against the dark and snow-covered grounds, like you're driving into a winter wonderland somewhere in the wilderness. It's actually a camp ground, but you forget that in the dark and in December. We have the dinner catered by a local restaurant that makes great appetizers and desserts people actually fight over, in a nice way. With a blazing fire in the center of the room, everyone sits around with their friends from

I wrote about The Autobiography of Mark Twain in yesterday's edition of Small Town Newspaper. You can read it here , if you want. This is the photograph I had in mind while I read Clemens' dictations. He really was a masterful storyteller, even when rambling on about the poorly designed door knobs in Florence or in describing the Countess Massiglia, who he described as a "pestiferous character." About her, he said, “She is excitable, malicious, malignant, vengeful, unforgiving, selfish, stingy, avaricious, coarse, vulgar, profane, obscene, a furious blusterer on the outside and at heart a coward.” And I laughed out loud.

This past weekend was just dripping with Christmas. Eustacia came home Friday for her winter break from school, which started it all off. Then the orchestra rehearsed that evening for our Christmas concert—at some point, the new performing arts center will feel less new, I assume, but at the moment, it still seems brand spanking, and I get excited just walking through the door. Then we performed the concert Saturday evening after one more rehearsal. And Sunday was filled with tree decorating and cookie baking and movie watching. As far as horn playing goes, the Christmas concert is never very challenging. A childrens' chorus is the feature, and they belt out tunes they have rehearsed for weeks. One of the boys sang a solo like a cherub—Once in royal David's city stood a lowly cattle shed—and he created such a lovely, quiet setting with just his clear and simple voice. All the other kids stood on risers and fidgeted with their hands and tugged at their clothes. They picked their

The English class for which I tutor will be having a Christmas party next week, and we always exchange gifts. The teachers and volunteers give handmade gifts, and the students pool their money and give us each something like chocolate or a mug. Last year, I think they gave me a mug filled with chocolate, actually, and it was very nice. The main teacher always makes miniature loaves of banana nut bread because she's good at that sort of thing, and last year I made cookies for everyone. But this year, I thought I'd try something different. My friend Kyle, who writes for a weekly paper and is a wealth of information about gardening and art and cooking, included a recipe for applesauce cinnamon ornaments in her article last week, so I thought I'd give those a shot. I've never made them before but have always wanted to know how. In this recipe , you mix applesauce, cinnamon and white glue, roll, cut out with cookie cutters and bake all day long at 175˚on a baking sheet spray

You may be wondering how my kitchen appliance dilemma was resolved, or maybe not. Maybe you have more pressing things to think about other than whether or not I have a functioning stove. Well, I'll tell you about the repair process. We bought all of our appliances at Sears years ago, so when they all began to malfunction, I called Sears repair service for one huge repair visit. Of course, because we have different types of appliances needing help, Sears sent two different repairmen, which meant two different fees for the visit. You know, they charge you for coming to your house even if they don't fix anything. The first guy was here to fix the ice maker in the freezer. It works, actually, but the bin that collects the ice has been broken for a while. So, he ordered a replacement bin, which will be here later this week. About an hour later, the other repairman came. He listened to my imitation of the sound my washing machine makes and immediately declared it to be the bearings,

I'm a cook. I plan meals, and I prepare them from scratch, mostly, and I enjoy it as long as I get a break now and then. I use both ovens and all four burners and generally have a good time in the kitchen. But at the moment, I feel as though I'm all thumbs. Or maybe I have no thumbs at all. And I'm wearing mittens. Picture a standard poodle, or maybe a Labrador, standing on its hind legs in front of a stove wearing mittens, an apron and a blind fold. The problem is, my stove/oven is broken, and a repairman won't be here until tomorrow afternoon to fix it. It happened on Saturday evening when I came home from orchestra rehearsal. I knew I would only have a couple of hours between the rehearsal and concert to provide dinner and get dressed, so I had made a casserole using up leftover turkey ahead of time. I turned on the top oven, and within a minute or so, sparks were flying. A small flame was working its way around the heating element and spitting like a sparkler on the