​In the long season of my empty nest, one gift to myself each Christmastime is Frank Capra’s 1946 fantasy, It’s a Wonderful Life. Filmed during World War II, released in 1946, it seems I’ve known from childhood the story of George Bailey and his beloved Bedford Falls Savings and Loan.
     For my father loved movies and television, and it’s entirely likely my sisters and I first watched It’s a Wonderful Life when it first aired in 1956.
     One Christmas when a younger mother, I introduced my three daughters to George Bailey’s and Mary Hatch’s romance. One of my favorite scenes is Mary’s high school graduation dance where she and George gather an ecstatic crowd. The two kick and stomp the Charleston as they dance closer to the edge of the gymnasium floor, opened with intent for George and Mary to fall backward into the swimming pool.
     Cinematic invention at its best.
     About a decade ago, I added the DVD of the movie to my collection to relax for a few hours during the hurried Christmas season. Without fail, I’m reminded this truly is a wonderful life, regardless of all the Mr. Potters, thieves who sit in high places of power and influence.
     Last night, after packing and wrapping gifts for celebrating this Christmas with my California family in their home, I reclined in my reading chair. Again, I laughed when Mary and George fell into the swimming pool.
     I reserved the last half of the movie for this evening, the night before my departure for the San Francisco Airport. I’ll watch Mary and George’s family grow to four children. Poor Uncle Billy will unwittingly leave the day’s cash deposits for Bailey Bros. Building and Loan wrapped in a newspaper in Mr. Potter’s bank.
     Deceptive, greedy, and hateful, Mr. Potter will tell George he’s worth more dead than alive.
     George will believe his false accusation and determine to end his life.
     Upon the prayers of Bedford Falls reaching God in Heaven, Clarence, the angel, is summoned to save George.
     With much difficulty, Clarence guides his charge through Bedford Falls, reveals what his mother, Mary, and Bedford Falls would be like if he’d never been born. Clarence resolves, “You’ve lived a wonderful life, George.”
      The angel fulfills his earthy mission and earns his wings. The people of Bedford Falls rally to bail George Bailey out of Mr. Potter’s evil plot.
     Dear Reader, America needed this fantasy at the end of World War II. We needed its message during the Korean War. The Vietnam War. And perhaps we would better understand the present war with Israel and Hamas if we prayed to God who reigns high above us, and within us. 
     “For a child will be born to us, a son will be given to us; and the government will rest on His shoulders; and His name will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Eternal Father, Prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:6    
       I celebrate Christmas, pray for my family, neighbors, and our country. Thank God for this wonderful life. 

​“House plants are an exacting pleasure, and if we are not willing to meet their exactions we need not wonder if the pleasure be short.” Richardson Wright, “Gardeners Bed-Book”, December 11 entry
 
My mother poured Twin Pines milk into a small bowl, dipped a rag into it, and washed the leaves of her houseplants. She smiled at the shiny results.
     I applied milk to the leaves of the begonia plant that Gram, my grandmother-in-law, transplanted from her window box into a pot. My first houseplant, Gram’s thriving begonia welcomed me in the morning, pink petals hanging from a macramé hanger in our rented townhouse.
     Four years later, after sharing begonia cuttings with family, neighbors, and friends, I hung Gram’s gift in the sunny, kitchen window of our first house. Afterward, a hanging, fragrant hoya found its place in our dining room. Preoccupied with a kindergartener and infant, I neglected to wash the leaves of my plants. They bloomed and thrived nonetheless.
     After our family of five moved to a larger house with plentiful sunny windows, I added a large, potted cactus to my collection. A species requiring little care, Cactus abided unnoticed on our fireplace hearth.
     Until the day a daughter heard a strange sound coming from inside Cactus. I examined it from crown to trunk.  
     Yes, I heard gnawing and promptly carried Cactus to the backyard where it imploded to reveal tunnels of hungry insects.
     Nowadays, the orchid, African violet, and hoya are my favored indoor plants. All gifts and cuttings, I seldom take time for the pleasure of washing the orchids’ and hoya’s leaves with milk. I water them and they thrive.      
     Before the first frost this past fall, I transferred my potted succulents from my gardens to the only sunny spot in our basement where they’ve hibernated several winters. Due to their expense, succulents are worth my time and cleanup, for they fill garden gaps nicely and provoke a smile when they flower.
    New to my garden plants to hole up this winter is Passiflora incarnate, for which I paid a small fortune this past summer. She budded and flowered abundantly throughout the growing season, and the November day I loaded her on the dolly for basement stowage.  
     I rejoiced when new vines appeared within weeks, reaching for sunlight. Then small buds formed. Was this plant going to bloom in captivity?
     Indeed! A purple passionflower (aka Passiflora incarnate) now blossoms beside my red chicken boots in the basement. I found her pretty face this afternoon, exotic as any blossom is created to be.
     Dear Reader, the time and labor invested in this temporary houseplant is more than worth the pleasure of surprise. And there’s a bud beside the flower waiting for her moment of glory, with tiny buds appearing throughout the vines.
      It seems the pleasure of this blooming may be mine for a while, which makes me smile like Mom when I pull on my chicken boots in the morning and pull them off in the evening.   

Andy laying the foundation for the hen house

​I met Andy, a licensed builder, in a Michigan State University extension class in 2004. Adapting to a serious health diagnosis, Andy sought employment to suit his new limitations. And I was a writer who needed a handyman to help build my vision of a lavender farm.
     Andy afterward raised my henhouse and compost bins. Then he transformed an orphaned Coachmen into my little Happy Camper. He nestled her beside the pine cove in what I call “my back acres”.
      Sometimes, after weeding and harvesting lavender, I’d rest on Happy’s bed and pray for Andy. The evidence of his friendship and God’s faithfulness surrounded me in peace and gratitude.  
     Whatever I needed that fit within Andy’s abilities, he provided with a sketch, estimate, and an invoice to follow the completed project—the beautiful, hillside steps he built with trees harvested from the creek on his property, for instance. I planted Echinacea along the steps’ handrails.   
    One day I couldn’t remove a small tree growing behind Happy Camper, and Andy was up north fishing for the week. His eyes would light up whenever he said, “I’m going up to The River.”
     In Andy’s stead, I called my friend Erna, a gardener extraordinaire who lives nearby. “I need help removing a sapling growing too close to Happy Camper, and Andy’s out of town,” I said.
     “I’ll talk with Wally,” Erna replied.
      Wally, her husband, showed up with Erna. They carried an axe, and a Sawzall stowed away in its case. I stood by in awe as Wally toppled the wildling in seconds.
     “I’ve got to buy a Sawzall!” I said.
     Then came the tree’s roots. Wally, a gray, tall, fit man, picked up the axe and began chopping. 
     “Wally, I can do this. I do own an axe,” I said.
     “No. I will finish.”
     And he did.
     Days after, my husband brought home a Sawzall and simplified my life.
     After a decade of Andy and Erna rescuing me from one farm chore after another, I closed my lavender business at the end of the 2014 season. On a chilly, drizzly, spring day, Erna joined some former farmhands to remove lavender plants and weed cloth to reclaim the southern plot to grass.
     In June 2015, Andy succumbed to the sickness that had plagued him. The henhouse, Happy Camper, and hillside steps testify of our friendship and mutual devotion to husbandry.
     Sadly, I lost the man who’d become like a younger brother.
     This December second, two former farmhands and I visited Wally and Erna to sing them Christmas carols. Erna opened their door and waved us into the foyer where her Christmas tree almost touched the vaulted ceiling.
      Dear Reader, today, December ninth, I attended Wally’s funeral service in honor of his remarkable life. A German immigrant from Ukraine who married a German immigrant from Romania, I’ve lost an older brother.
     A transplant from Appalachia, I thank God for His lovingkindness to bring us together in my back acres to help build a vision. 

My nativity scene gifted to me over twenty Christmases from my mother-in-law, Rosie Kishalonis Underwood

​I drove by the little lake at the end of our winding road where two white swans abide. The past thirty-some years, I’ve seldom spied this bashful pair swimming together on the lake. My timing has never coincided with a glimpse of them gliding along with their chicks, named “cygnets”.
     Reeds and other vegetation thrive around the pond’s edge, ideal conditions for nourishment, nesting, and protection from predators. It’s a special day when I glimpse the white feathers of the male, “cygnet olor”, and female, “pen”, if only a second.
     Considering the lifespan of a mute swan could exceed the years I’ve lived on this former cow path, it is possible the pair is the same I first saw three decades ago.
     Then, at 8:40 a.m. Sunday morning, there stood two swans preening on the pond’s shore. From black knob and orange/red beak to webbed feet, they faced the road. As if to say “hello”, one swan flapped its powerful wings and extended its graceful neck.
    The wide, feathery wingspan and the couple wading the water together settled into memory. The serene effect was similar to finding our two cats sleeping under the Christmas tree the previous night. As if in some exotic kingdom, the cats slept in luxury under white lights and ornaments.
      I reserved the tree’s upper branches for the fragile, blue bulbs I inherited from my mother, safe from the cats. When our daughters were young, my mother-in-law gifted them Precious Moments figurines to annually recall their childhoods. Now, my grown grandchild’s artwork adorns the tree.
     Every ornament came from a loved one, and tells a story.
     I’d just decorated the tree and concealed the stand with the silky, burgundy, quilted skirt I found on sale some Christmas past. On cue, Cuddles nuzzled in the soft fabric under the branches. Her sister Mitty soon joined her.
     Again, they claimed their favorite Advent napping place as if their sixth sense knew I would soon infringe upon their cozy bed with one wrapped package after another.
     Eventually, the Christmas gifts will disappear. Depending how this tree sheds needles, sometime after New Year’s Day I’ll retrieve from the basement the big, battered box the cats know well. They’ll sniff around as I begin dismantling the tree—and, to their disapproval, I’ll remove their Christmas blanket.
     I’ll also stow away the fifteen ceramic nativity characters my mother-in-law fired in her basement kiln for my gifts the span of twenty years.
    For each Christmas I place Joseph, Mary, baby Jesus in the manger, and the angel, upon a small table in a dining room corner. I add four shepherds with three sheep nosing the infant’s feet. Three wise men from afar and the donkey complete the scene.
    Dear Reader, I ponder again the lowly beast of burden and its fidelity to Mary and Josef—and know again the tranquility of two swans preening, our two cats sleeping under the tree this Advent season.
    And I sing, “Joy to the World! The Lord has come!”