Our First Christmas

Lying in bed caught between slumber and silence, fresh white linen and oversized pillows. I remember today is Thursday. My new husband will be home for the next four days. I can't wait. I haven't seen Michael for almost two weeks. I've missed him so much.

I think of the last time we were together. I still can't believe it, still doubt it and still cherish it. We spent the day looking for antiques. In particular I was looking for an ink well for an old school desk he bought me for my birthday. Finally, we found one in a store that was just about to close. I charmed the old shop keeper into letting us take a quick look around. Michael whispered, “I love watching you flirt with old men, making them feel good about themselves. Reminding them of a time when the world was their oyster.” I found that ink well and sure enough he dug out a set of pens still in their original boxes from a school supply company in Flint Michigan dated Sept/41.

At the counter I noticed a mason jar with the lid nearly rusted on. It was full of black and white glass marbles. They were a little larger than usual. The shop keeper told us,“that they were used for casting votes in various social clubs like the Elks or the Masons and that members cast a white marble for yes and a black marble for no when considering prospective members. One too many black balls and you were out, hence the term black balled.” I loved the story and had to have the jar full of marbles, and of course he gave them to me for free.

I was so thrilled and as always Michael was always amazed at where I often found joy, In a jar of marbles, an ink well, a used coat. It sometimes seems like the world is my thrift shop, every piece has a story, a lover, a name, a home. I seem to find value in it
all.

The ride back to the city was too long. We decided to stop and visit some old friends, but first we stopped and picked up a bottle of Frangelica and some flowers. Michael started to tell me

That “yes I know, you have told me a hundred times,” it means 'the tears of angels’ and it was made by Franciscan Monks a thousand years ago. I still love the story.

We ended up at McMannus Bed and Breakfast. The Amish family, that built our potting shed at the cottage. I had brought some cloth for a quilt Sarah had been working on and of course Michael had stashed a flask of whiskey to give to Whilhem.

Dinner was great and as a rule bed came early we both loved reading by oil lantern. Michael knew I was excited to write in my journal with my new ink pens and decided to take a long bath and give me some extra time with my new found treasure. He read nearly 3
chapters of John Irving's 'A prayer for Owen Meeny.’ when he finished he expected to find me working away at the shaker desk.