A Peace of the Past Article

[COUNTRYBUMPKIN]

A Peace of the Past
Like many women I know, I've lost count of how often I've envisioned creating perfect holiday celebrations. I saw myself presiding over flawless dinners complete with my best china and spotless crystal, with Bing Crosby's 'White Christmas' and Handel's 'Messiah' harmonizing with the laughter of loved ones. Visions of my grandparent's home drifted in snow and blanketed in the fragrance of cloves and vanilla sent me scurrying for favorite cookbooks, with the intent of creating a feast for the eyes as well as the stomach.

For a few years, I gave it my best. I made lists, shopped, decorated, baked, wrapped and flung myself into the holiday spirit. I took my kids to the city to see lights, the giant Christmas tree and decorated store windows. My parents had done it for me, and I had to carry on the tradition. What kind of mom would I be if I didn't whip out ten dozen assorted cookies from my own mother's recipe archives? How could I not send everyone I had ever painstakingly entered into my address book a holiday card? Bow out of coordinating the holiday pageant at church? What was I thinking?!

The big reality check came in the form of pneumonia just before Thanksgiving. The doctor told me it would be weeks, even months, before I fully recovered. Stress of any kind was strictly forbidden. Visions of glistening hams, lighter-than-air sweet potato soufflés and decadent trifles were replaced with antibiotics and inhalers. Caroling was out of the question. I could barely breathe.

Privately, I indulged myself a secret sigh of relief. It had finally dawned on me that what I craved wasn't rest, it was peace. I spent the next two weeks in bed, nurturing new ideas for the upcoming season. I gradually realized that the fantasies I had of creating memorable events for others were no more than carefully selected and cherished recollections of my own childhood holidays.

The gatherings I so fondly remembered had doubtless run my mother and female relatives into the ground as they baked, cleaned, shopped and dressed us for the occasion. I forgot that Grandma was up at 4:00 AM Christmas morning to put the ham in the oven, after spending all of Christmas Eve day in the kitchen paring, slicing and doing dishes, or that my mother spent hours after we went to bed making costumes for grade school holiday programs.

As my body slowly mended, the holidays approached with the relentless speed of a downhill skier. I began thinking of how I needed to celebrate. A simpler and slower pace was within reach. Instead of attending numerous parties, I considered an informal open house, where guests could arrive without feeling pressured to have a gift or newspaper-swathed casserole in hand. A simple yet elegant buffet of assorted olives, cheeses and crusty bread could replace the usual overblown spread of assorted hot and cold appetizers. What if I decided to forego the thorough housecleaning in favor of lots of cinnamon and apple-scented candles to hide the mantle dust and spots on the rug? Would anyone refuse to speak to me if I declined to take on the title of Holiday Pageant Czarina? Wouldn't the kids be just as happy having a snowball fight on the front lawn in place of the long drive, and even longer trek, to the sledding hill in the forest preserve?

Cocoa in front of our fireplace became more appealing than champagne at a ritzy hotel 35 miles away, and the bonus was it didn't involve wearing restrictive undergarments! A few nice bottles of wine on hand for co-workers and neighbors meant a single trip to the liquor store instead of six different stops at local boutiques over my lunch hour at work. I decided on holiday cards only for the people I didn't see on a regular basis, and chose to attend only one afternoon, family-oriented holiday party.

A crippling illness and a blizzard of must-do's evolved into something that comforted and nurtured more than any gourmet meal ever could. Sitting in the audience of a holiday pageant instead of pacing backstage gave me the opportunity to appreciate rather than orchestrate. Best of all, I learned that memories don't need to be replicated to remain precious. I invited peace into my home, and it found residence in my heart….

Rebecca Cusanelli lives outside of Chicago, and make the best of winters with lots of hot cider, roaring fires and footed pajamas. When she's not writing - she's reading. Her favorite winter comforts include bubble baths, building snowmen and 'movie nights' at home with her family.

[Ellise]