My History With Candles

Candles.  This time of year, their holy symbolism comes to mind.  A candle is light in the darkness.  It’s God on earth.  It’s the breath of the Holy Spirit.  Catholics light candles to the dead to show solidarity with the person who has died, a way of proclaiming that, in heaven or on earth, we're all in this together.    

When Resi and I were kids—I was maybe five years old—one of our parents lit a candle in the center of the kitchen table, and we all circled around and watched the dancing of the tiny flame.  This was an uncharacteristic activity, and to this day I can think of no reason for it.  Maybe the parents were trying to teach us about fire.  Resi and I were big-eyed for a few seconds, then we were just bored.  Then all of us became distracted by chores and projects, and we went our separate ways.  After a while, when someone walked back through the kitchen, the table was on fire.

Later, as a music major, I was expected to join the band sorority.  I was pulled in many directions at the time—I didn’t live on campus, had a commute to get there, and held a part-time job in another town—so I really didn’t have time to join a club.  My attitude toward the whole endeavor was pretty snarky.  And when the sorority sisters (oh, they took themselves so seriously) herded us pledges into a dark room, handed us candles, and had us swear our eternal loyalty and dedication to all things band, I got tickled.  I hadn’t participated in anything so silly since I joined Rainbow Girls.  My eyes snagged the eyes of the girl on the other side of the candle circle, and she, too, was fighting laughter.  I tried to stop, but couldn’t.  Running tears, stifled snorts, shaking shoulders.  I’d control it for a few seconds, and then it would bubble up again.  And the girl across—she was having the same issues, so we dared not let our gazes meet.  I’m sure there was an explanation in the ceremony about what the candle symbolized, but I was preoccupied. 

Years later, same kind of thing, only this time I wasn’t the one being herded into a dark arena—it was Sam and his fellow students, being told to form a half-circle on the unlit high school stage.  They were being inducted into the Spanish Honor Society.  David and I were in the audience, looking around, checking out the number of parents who turned out for this rather boring gig.  A teacher came on stage and started handing something to the kids. 

 “What is it they’re doing up there?” I asked David.

“Passing out candles.  Some kind of ceremony,” he said.

“They’re taking an oath over candles?”  Of course the whole sorority debacle popped into my mind. 

“Look at the program.”

Sure enough, right there as the main event, Oath to the Mother Candle.  

The teacher lit the candle of the kid on the end, who shared the light with the next kid, who shared it with the next, and so on.  Then a large candle, the Mother Candle, was placed on a table in the middle, and it, too, was set alight.  Then the kids all made some kind of promise in Spanish.  To this day, we laugh about Sam and his classmates swearing allegiance to the Mother Candle.  At least, in this case, I understood that the candles represented education and knowledge.   

David called from India this morning, where he gave a lecture to petroleum engineers from the ONGC, the national oil company of India.  And he knew I’d get a kick out of this—the opening ceremony involved lighting a candle. 

“Was it a Mother Candle?” I asked.

What does the candle in this Indian setting stand for?  Education, like with the Spanish Honor Society?  Or, considering the group, fossil fuel? 

I ponder it:  The professional gathering of successful well-educated Indians, coming together to hear what my husband has to tell them about shale gas, but before he can get started he must participate in an obscure candle-lighting rite.  I just find that funny.   

Sam's Spanish Honor Society certificate.  It really did happen!  

David lighting the Indian Mother Candle

A poster about David's lecture.

This has nothing to do with candles.  It's Trip in his Thundershirt, which is what he wears when it's storming outside.  Be brave, little Trip!  

Before the Option Period Ends

Marble Falls is three hours and fifteen minutes from Houston.  The drive goes smoothly.  I brought Christmas CD’s, six of them, every one of which contains Let it Snow.  I arrive at the Bluebonnet Café exactly as Diana, my best friend from high school, pulls in.  I recently reconnected with Diana.  It’s an odd thing—I haven’t seen her in thirty years, have rarely thought about her, really; nor, I imagine, has she thought about me.  We’ve both been busy living our lives.  But as soon as I saw her again I realized that I’ve been missing her all this time. 

We exchange news over lunch (Diana’s treat—thanks Diana!), run a few errands, then make our way to the house in Capstone Ranch, which David and I are in the process of buying.  The option period runs out in a few days and I want to take a final walk-through before fully committing. 

Diana and I were both raised in Amarillo.  We went separate ways after she got married and moved to Lubbock.  Then I got married and moved to Cairo and it was basically good-bye to Amarillo forever, which was a farewell, believe me, that I never mourned.  What’s surprising is how Diana and I ended up leading such similar lives.  Both our husbands travel in their jobs.  Neither of us pursued careers.  We both had two sons.  Going against statistics, we’re both still married to our original spouses.  She and her family settled in San Antonio.  We settled in Houston.  And now both of us own property in the hill country, twenty minutes away from each other.  Hers is a weekend house, though, right on Lake LBJ, not a primary residence, as ours will be. 

The Marble Falls house sits on a little over an acre of land in a gated cul-de-sac.  In the future I’ll be able to push a button on my rearview mirror and the gate will open.  It’ll be like magic.  But for now, I must tap a number into the little box.  Capstone Ranch is still in development, so there’s every chance that in the next few years construction will invade our quiet corner.  But for right now, the area is brushy, untended, and natural.  Deer are all over the place.  I’ve been told I’ll come to abhor them.  Also, apparently there is an issue with wild hogs.  My soon-to-be neighbors have installed electric fencing to keep the hogs out.  One of the houses has some serious lawn damage due to hog foraging.  And my little dog, who’s been walked on a leash his whole life, will still not be allowed to roam free in his own yard, due to hog danger. 

Patty, the realtor, meets Diana and me at the door.  Upon entry, I’m immediately puzzled.  There’s a buffet in the dining room, bar stools at the kitchen bar, a zebra print rug spread across the floor, an oversized painting of a girl propped on the mantel.  The last time I was here, the house was empty.  Now it’s got all this stuff in it.  Why would someone move furniture into a place they’re moving out of?  I ask Patty, who gives a shrug, communicating that in her experience people often do things that make no sense. 

Patty has been great.  She possesses every quality a realtor should possess—she’s helpful, optimistic, energetic, tactful, patient, and savvy.  If you’re interested in buying in the area, just ask me for her number.  Thanks for your help, Patty. 

I measure some spaces, open cabinet doors, squint at light fixtures.  There are two living areas, formal and informal dining rooms, an expansive kitchen, and four bedrooms, one of which will be a study for David.  The two back bedrooms will double as workrooms and guest rooms—I have many projects, but I also anticipate friends and family members visiting.   

While driving Diana back to her car, I mention that though it’ll still be a while before David retires, I’m worried about what he will do when he no longer has a job to go to everyday.

“Unlike me,” I say, “he likes to have a purpose.  He needs to feel he’s accomplished something at the end of the day.”

“Not to worry,” she tells me.  “The church here builds ramps for the handicapped.”

Well, there you go.  David can build ramps  I bet he'll be great at it.  Way to be on top of things, Diana. 

Isn't this a beautiful front door?  You can't tell by looking, but that's wrought iron, not wood.  

One side of our front porch.  I assume they'll take the chairs.  I'm thinking a porch swing.   

The formal living area.  

The informal living area.  We'll mount our massive television above the mantel.  

The back porch, lots of room for David to play with.  

Nothing more needs to be said.  

Diana and me.  This was taken in June in Trina's back yard.  

The Every Third Year Christmas Letter

Hello friends and family members. 

This year finds David and me settled in Houston after three years in Singapore.  We’re back in the same house we left, falling back into the same routines, walking the same route through Tanglewood on Saturday mornings, going to the nine forty-five service on Sundays.  Nothing much in the neighborhood has changed.  Buck, the amazingly old guy around the corner, still hobbles around with the aid of his walker, but he doesn’t make as much sense as he used to.  And the guy across the street, an economic advisor to Ronald Reagan, still hunches over the steering wheel of his BMW, peering through his thick glasses, reminding me in the most frightening way of Mr. Magoo.  As to Houston, industry abounds, the people seem happier and friendlier, and we now have recycling containers and pickup.  Good job, lesbian mayor! 

David’s year has gone well.  His company changed location while we were away, and now he’s even closer to the house than he was before—instead of a ten-minute drive, he has a five-minute drive.  In Houston, where some people drive over an hour to get to work, he feels very fortunate.  Also, he was selected by the Society of Petroleum Engineers to be a Distinguished Lecturer, and so he is committed to several international tours in which he teaches people (in Pakistan, India, Australia, Canada—but not Russia, because of sanctions) about the geologic features of areas rich in shale gas. 

Our oldest, Curtis, is lawyering in Houston.  After graduating from Columbia Law School, he worked for a firm in New York for a couple of years, then clerked for a federal judge in Atlanta for a year, and then got himself back home, where he lives in a high rise overlooking Herman Park, works out at the gym, plays tennis and golf, and hangs out with his charming girlfriend, Anna.  He enjoys being in a city that’s got an excellent Tex-Mex restaurant on every corner.  Also, he works.  A lot.

Sam is in Beijing.  After graduating with a double major, East Asian Studies and Economics, at Columbia—gosh was it four years ago?—he moved to China.  He taught rural children how to speak English for a couple of years, then moved to Beijing and worked a while for a Chinese tech company that specialized in app design.  He sometimes goes weeks speaking only Mandarin—no English at all.  His girlfriend Julia, is beautiful and British, with a Home Counties accent reminiscent of the one the boys had when they were young.  These days Sam’s an entrepreneur, starting a buy-one, give-one social enterprise with the goal of selling glasses to the middle class city dwellers in order to support eye care for the rural poor.   The charitable affiliation of his company, Eyes in Sight, can be found online at education-in-sight.org.  If you want to see him in his role as Chief Development Officer, look it up.  Go Sam!  

And here’s what’s going on with me:  I unpacked the last box from our latest move yesterday, the same day our bid for a new home in Marble Falls was accepted.  In the hill country, on an acre plus, this house will eventually be our retirement home, though we’ll be straddling two worlds for a while.  So when asked what I do, I usually say that I pack and unpack, move to one location, then to another, then to another.  Some people might find this tiresome, and it can be exhausting, but I feel fortunate to have lived in so many countries and become intimate with so many diverse cultures.  The only way to understand the world is to get out of your chair and go see it.  Fox News is a tiny and closed entity when compared to reality.  And I’ll preach no more.  Obviously, I continue to write.   It’s depressing sometimes, though—the career that never, ever, went anywhere.  On the other hand, I’ve enjoyed setting up the website and writing the blog.  And I’m currently trying my hand at a quirky mystery, destined to be read by no one but my older sister, who’s always supportive and sometimes even complimentary. 

So, busy and moving forward.  We wish all of you a Merry Christmas and a healthy and prosperous 2015.

Jenny and David Waldo

This is Sam and Julia's Christmas photo.  I can't tell if the deer are on Sam's shirt or if he's holding them in his hands.

David says Merry Christmas.

I'm scowling at David, telling him to get a move on, quit taking my picture--we're running late.  That purse is looking worn, but don't worry, I selected another for David to get me for Christmas, same brand, similar in style, only red.  Brahmin.  Beautiful.  

I've posted this picture of Curtis and Anna before, but I don't have a more recent one.  It's not like I run around taking pictures of them all the time.  

Decorating for Christmas

As a second child I learned quickly that there’s simply no point in competing.  My elder sibling would always be faster, stronger, bigger, more coordinated.  I’m not complaining—it was one of life’s trade-offs.  While Resi might have been better at pretty much everything, because she was the first child she drew the unceasing critical scrutiny of our parents, which allowed me a freedom to evolve that she never had.  Sorry about that, sister. 

Flash forward years and years.  In Sugar Land it was a tradition in our neighborhood to have a progressive holiday dinner.  As it was our first year there I wasn’t expected to act as one of the hostesses.  I probably took something like a side or a dessert—not important.  What’s relevant is that my spirit of competition, which had died an early death, was, as a result of this first progressive dinner in our new location, reborn. 

The homes were lovely, and most people had similar good taste (in fact, so homogenous were the People of the Cul de Sac that it took me years to tell one neighbor from another).  As David and I walked into our neighbors’ Christmas homes, I was impressed, amazed, awed, by the abundance of Christmas decorations.  These women had gone crazy with their bows and beads.  Not one surface was bare.  Garland and glitter covered every countertop, every table.  Candles and candy canes, Santas and snowmen, poinsettias and pinecones.  I could alliterate Christmas nouns all day.  One woman collected nativity dioramas—she had at least thirty of them; a couple were as large as furniture; several were small enough to fit into the palm of a hand.  One home had a fully decorated Christmas tree in every room. 

In the future, I would be expected to host one of the courses.  People would judge my Christmas home next year the same way I was judging their Christmas homes this year.  The wives would share critical observations with their husbands.  And the next day the women, and also the men, would meet their neighbors at the mailboxes, and they’d trade comments on my dedication to the season as demonstrated by my display of holiday decorations.

This wasn’t about the spirit of the season.  This wasn’t about the birth of Christ.  Christmas in Sugar Land was all about the stuff. 

I could not, must not, be found lacking. 

A fanatic was born.  I, a person who has no patience with collections and no affinity with collectors, became obsessed with having as much of one thing as possible.  Antique shops, fairs, flea markets and, of course, Michaels—all have happily taken my money in exchange for tree ornaments, snow globes, themed music boxes, Spode, and red plaid draping fabric.  And every year, on one of the days between Thanksgiving and the end of the weekend, David and I haul out the boxes and boxes and boxes full of all the paraphernalia I’ve accumulated over the years, a ludicrous amount of fake greenery, shiny balls, flickering lights, fat red candles, mangers, stars, and Santa Clauses; and we turn on the Christmas music—the station that plays Bing Crosby and Doris Day and Burl Ives—and commit to as much time as it takes to achieve the perfect artful arrangement in built-in shelves and atop chests of more colorful Christmas stuff than a sane person would want to see in a single lifetime. 

And in five weeks we’ll start talking about how it’s time to take it all down and put it away.  We’ll dread the work.  Changing back is never as fun as changing to.   

Look at the Santas--and this isn't even all of them.  The smaller ones are from the 1940's and represent Santas from all over the world at that time.   

This is one of my favorites--the Santa in the pocket watch is looking at his pocket watch.  

The carolers and kissing angels are very old.  They belonged to my mother's second husband's first wife.  . 

The buffet in the dining room.  I'm not exaggerating--there's stuff on every surface except where we eat.