But all the while he was longing to dance, for a funny new tickly feeling ran through him, and he felt he would give anything in the world to be able to jump about like these rabbits did.

The strange rabbit stopped dancing, and came quite close. He came so close this time that his long whiskers brushed the Velveteen Rabbit’s ear, and then he wrinkled his nose suddenly and flattened his ears and jumped backwards.

“He doesn’t smell right!” he exclaimed. “He isn’t a rabbit at all! He isn’t real!”

“I am Real!” said the little Rabbit. “I am Real! The Boy said so!” And he nearly began to cry.

Just then there was a sound of footsteps, and the Boy ran past near them, and with a stamp of feet and a flash of white tails the two strange rabbits disappeared.

“Come back and play with me!” called the little Rabbit. “Oh, do come back! I know I am Real!”

But there was no answer, only the little ants ran to and fro, and the bracken swayed gently where the two strangers had passed. The Velveteen Rabbit was all alone.

“Oh, dear!” he thought. “Why did they run away like that? Why couldn’t they stop and talk to me?”

For a long time he lay very still, watching the bracken, and hoping that they would come back. But they never returned, and presently the sun sank lower and the little white moths fluttered out, and the Boy came and carried him home.

Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn’t mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn’t matter.

via The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams.  Illustrations by William Nicholson.

Just because I love this little story.

It’s me and my mom. Taking a walk on Hillcrest Street. Believe it or not, her hair style is the same.

Just thought it needed to see the light of day.

Spring rains, however, do not hold a place in my heart like summer rains.  Oh, it isn’t that I hate spring rains;  I recognize their need intellectually, of course.  I’ve also learned appreciate to the fierceness of the storms and respect the power of Mother Nature.  Spring rains, however, are like a woman in desperate need of her estrogen shot:  unpredictable.  They can be harsh and cold in one moment, soft and weepy in others, and in the next moment, unreasonably angry.  Anyone in the “Tornado Alley” of the US understands, I’m sure.

Summer rains?  Now those are a totally different animal.  My reminiscences of summer rains are all about unbearably hot days and quick thunderstorms.   I’m sure there is ferocity to summer rains, but those are not the standouts in my memory.   The best summer rains were the ones that took place in July when I was at my grandmother’s house.  She allowed me to go out and play in the rain, telling me that I didn’t have to worry about “catching my death” thanks to the warmth of the air.  There was nothing better than the first moments  of standing barefooted in the grueling heat one moment and in the next, but hit with big, fat drops of rain.  The rain was cooling and soothing and fresh, a way to wash away the grime of the 100 degree day.

And there is nothing like the smell of the cooling summer rain as it first hits the hot concrete.    Trust me, the smell of a spring rain, as evidenced by my brief stand on my front porch, just isn’t the same.

We got there early – too early for me to actually drop her off, so we went East by one street and I showed her where my Granny had lived when I was a little girl.  My Granny was my dad’s mother.  She and my mother didn’t get along and I was not the favorite grandchild, but I know that she loved me and I loved to visit.  My Aunt Dot’s kiddos were the favorite grandchildren.  I don’t know, now looking back, if I sensed something, or if it was because my mother complained about how Granny favored Dot’s kids.  My mother insists that it was because Pop Pop, who died long before I was born, loudly exclaimed that my Aunt Dot’s daughter was the ugliest baby he had ever seen whereas my older sister was the apple of his eye.

I wonder now if it was true, because looking back, it never really showed.  Going to Granny’s was always fun.  And she always loved me.

She lived close enough, that I could take my bike.   She made the best grape and plum jellies, and there was never store bought jelly at her house.  We always had pickles, too, which she made as well.  Sweet and crispy bread and butter pickles as well as tart and tasty sunshine dill pickles.  Oh,  and the very best Sweet Tea in the whole world.  My memories of spending time with her are mixed in outside play with my cousins, Lawrence Welk on Saturday nights, lots of laughter, shelling peas and amazing food.  Even as a little girl, I guess I was food driven.  Somewhere around here I have her homemade fudge recipe.  Maybe I should dig that out this weekend.

She had two living sisters that lived close enough for us to visit, and their husbands were living.  Having older uncles the age that grandpa’s are supposed to be was a great novelty to me because neither of my grandfathers were living.  She was Louise.  Here sisters were Tena and Bertha.  We are southern, so they were “AINT TEENER” and “AINT BER”.  Aunt Tena’s husband was Uncle Will and he had a farm outside of town.  It was from their farm that the cucumbers and peas and okra came from.  Going out there meant playing in the barn and in the hay.  Aunt Ber was married to Uncle Cecil.  They lived in Ft. Worth, which to a girl from Mansfield, Texas, in the early 1970′s was the big city.  Uncle Cecil played the piano and Aunt Ber made cherry jelly, and a visit there meant going home with a small jar.  Cherry jelly was even better than grape or plum, maybe because it was so rare.

Sometimes, I think as we age, so many recent memories and stresses crowd out our brains and we forget what it was like when we were little.   So, when you are my age – middle aged, I guess is what it would be considered – our to do’s crowd those to the back of our brains.   But then, there is a trigger that brings both traces of memories that are lacking in the details.  And then there are the triggers that bring floods of memories so detailed that we can hear them, and smell them.  And taste them.

I didn’t expect such strong memories this morning.  But chance had it that we had a few extra minutes in a life that is usually running at full force, and the few minutes it took to drive down Hamil Street triggered ‘em.

Work stress – and all the mess with closing one career down had left me so not in the “spirit”. The pieces of Christmases from my marriage….brought back to me some of the lovely moments, but mostly, it left me needing to deal with some of the things I avoided the last couple of years. I purged quite a bit. I blessed another family with boxes of decorations, including the angel topper i purchased the first year of my marriage. I sent a couple of boxes of items back to my ex-husband…. My tree this year is filled with the ornaments of my children’s Christmases, a few ornaments from my childhood….and the few birds I purchased this year.

We went to my sisters last night….and I realized last night that the drive to my sisters is very reminiscent of the drive to my Aunt’s, where we typically spent Christmas Eve when I was a child. I can remember driving home late on Christmas Eve…just dying for Santa…and struggling to keep from falling asleep on the half hour drive home.

It hit me when we passed the giant Cement Factory…at night, all lit up, it looks like a huge steamship. Now, as the mom, I am driving…

The ghosts of my childhood are both good and bad, typical likely of many…..My mother is, well, my mother. Often childhood was a struggle of spending time with one side of the family vs the other side. Mentally ill (or emotionally abusive) parents often put children in more of the position of caregivers….but I never noticed the issues until I got a little older….maybe 5th grade or so?

During my marriage, I gained some courage to step away from my parents at times. It took even more courage to step back into their lives.

The Ghost of Christmas Present did well. After dinner at my sisters, where I got to hold and love on my 6 day old great-nephew, the girls and I came home and watched a movie. Em and I stayed up another hour talking….a very good talk – about what she wants in the future…and to discuss some of the stress we are both going through right now.

After a very leisurely morning…and the youngest heading to her dad’s….I had dinner with Em’s boyfriend’s family. They were so kind and welcoming…and I can tell that they love my daughter.

Now the house is blessedly quiet. Greta is snoozing beside me….and it’s time to climb into bed, write in my Gratitude Journal…and get some much needed sleep.

I hope the Ghosts of Christmas Present were kind to you this year….and that the Ghosts of Christmases Past weren’t too bothersome.