Holiday

Livvy, my 8-year-old, is beginning to worry about Christmas. Specifically, she's worried that not much is happening around here. There are no lights on the trees outside. There's not a wreath on the door. There's no elf on a shelf. There's not even an Advent calendar, and December most surely has begun.

I remember one year, when I was 13 or 14, driving home with my mother several weeks before Christmas. It was almost dark, and as we drove up the driveway, I asked her why she hadn't started decorating yet. Instead of answering, she began to cry.

It scared me then, but I understand it now. And I'd like very much not to feel so much pressure around this holiday (with a child's birthday thrown in the mix) that it makes me cry. Last year that meant not sending out Christmas cards. This year it means taking a little time to think about the holiday we just had and maybe starting the Advent calendar a week late. Over Thanksgiving, we went to Washington to meet my sister and brother-in-law. It was good to get away and be tourists for a little while. To let the preparations for the next holiday wait. I know they'll get done. Livvy shouldn't worry.

Cartwheels at the Kennedy Center.

A majestic Abe Lincoln.

Each time I've visited Washington as an adult, I've walked around with a lump in my throat. It was true at most of the memorials, including World War II and Vietnam, shown above. It was certainly true at the Holocaust Museum.

The Air and Space Museum is always a fan favorite.

The lump in my throat was back during our walk through Arlington National Cemetery.

This time we took a tour of the Capitol, a first for me.

A little sisterly love :).

All photos taken with my iPhone.

Good things online

Two new-to-me Web sites I'm loving, plus one not-as-new but always good:

A group of bloggers - writers, photographers, stylists - recently got together and started Clementine Daily. I love it for its name but also because it's like getting a favorite magazines in the mail - or email - every day. House tours, interviews, fashion, food, and a daily quote that I like most of all.

Have you heard of Tradesy? It's a site where you can sell clothing items - jackets, handbags, sweaters, etc. - you no longer need or want, and Tradesy will do all the work, including sending you a pre-paid shipping box once an item sells. You can go there to shop, too, of course, and I just spent more time than I should have looking through an assortment of size 10 shoes.

I've been reading Sweet Paul Magazine for some time now but always get excited when a new issue comes out - and a new issue just came out. The photography is gorgeous, and there's always something good - from recipes (salmon stir-fry for dogs!) to travel (Stockholm) to interesting kitchen finds. I think you'll enjoy.

Home

It feels as though I've been away from this blog for a very long time. Last week was school vacation, and we flew out of Logan Airport the morning after the Boston Marathon, wondering if we were doing the right thing. As a friend said of her family, their feet were in the sand, but their hearts were at home. That was true of us, too.

Part of my silence over the past week was being away, but part was a struggle to find words. So much has been written about that day, so eloquently. As for me, I didn't run, I wasn't at the finish line, and everyone I knew who ran or watched from the end of the race eventually got home safely. I'm so grateful for that. Still, I'll share one impression from what I think of as "before," and one small anecdote from "after."

The official halfway point of the marathon is down the street from our house, and every year we love to watch the runners and wheelchair racers react to the 13-mile marker. Some raise their fists in a silent cheer, some grimace, most check their watches, and every single one keeps going. We'll keep going, too, as long as we live here. It's our tradition, and that won't change.

One week later, we were coming home from our trip, making our way through security. We were flying to Washington and from there on to Boston. I handed my driver's license to the security officer, who looked at it and then at me. In an accent I couldn't place, he asked me where in Massachusetts I live. I told him we live outside Boston. "I'm praying for you, you know," he said. Immediately, my eyes began to sting. "Thank you," I said.

"This is why we're a great country," he went on. "We're strong. And we support each other." I nodded, not trusting my voice, and we continued through security headed toward home.

(Photos from Boston.com)

Escape

My daughter and I took an Amtrak train to New York the other day. As we stood on the platform, I listened to an announcement over the loudspeaker telling passengers which cars were "business class" and which were something called "quiet cars." The train was crowded enough that we were happy just to find a seat, but I was a little intrigued by the "quiet car" concept, so I looked it up on my phone.

Amtrak says people who sit in quiet cars have to talk in subdued tones. Actually, they shouldn't talk much at all, and they definitely can't make or answer calls. Anything that might ding has to be muted, and even the lights are dimmed.

I think Amtrak is on to something. At home, I have a place like that, and it happens to be my car. It's become a habit that when I pull into the driveway, my children get out while I stay in. Often I'll sit and sift through emails (or, if I'm being totally honest, Facebook or Instagram) on my phone. Sometimes I'll listen to a story on the radio. That time in the car is my escape.

The bathroom - a place where lots of people like to hide out - doesn't work as well for me. Inevitably there are visitors to the bathroom. Usually they knock, but sometimes they don't.

Dorcas

I read an article the other day in The New York Times Style Section about the Mexican town of Merida, where artists, architects, and other creative types have been busy buying up haciendas and renovating them. Some have moved there full-time; others visit for several weeks each year. It used to be towns like San Miguel de Allende that drew these artists, but over time, those towns became too popular.

My great-aunt Dorcas was a painter who lived for years in San Miguel, before it filled with what the Times piece calls "American snowbirds." I visited her there once, with my mother and sister, when she was quite elderly. Toward the end of our trip, we went to a party given in her honor that included a sale of some of her paintings. My sister and I each picked out a painting, and mine is now in my dining room. It was my first piece of "real" art.

Several years later, my sister and I were going through boxes in my mother's basement, and we came across a sketchbook that belonged to my aunt. The sketches - all flowers - look like they were done in thin black marker, and the paper has faded to yellow. I'm not sure anyone would ever buy them, but to me they're beautiful.

I hung six of these sketches in our family room, next to a crayon drawing of a fish (care of my daughter) and a painting of a small orange house (done by either my sister or me - we're not sure who - when were were little) to add color. I think Dorcas, who loved color above all else, might approve.

But one last story: Dorcas once offered to do a painting for my father. She asked him what he'd like, and he said he'd like something that reminded him of the sea, with lots of blues and grays and greens. The photo below is that painting. Not what my dad was expecting, perhaps, but done in her own way and possibly my favorite of all.