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It’s time to be a kid again By Peggy Dover Nov 27, 2022 12:15 AM A A My great niece and nephew are visiting for a few days, and I am utterly delighted. I was unsure when they would arrive at my door, as they traveled through challenging weather with three dogs, two ferrets, and hauling a long, long trailer (we will watch the movie of the same name this evening). They are escapees from the Arizona desert relocating to the Grants Pass. I can relate with their dream to embrace evergreen country. Autumn and Jonathon took the dream seriously, too, and now they are here. I long to celebrate the victory of their overcoming challenges and setbacks to make it happen. They arrived during the holidays. Perfect timing, right? Perfect if I’d nothing on the calendar, fall decorations stowed safely, a tree standing bright and sparkly, had an ample supply of baked goods in the freezer, all my gifts bought and tied festively, and could boast a couple weeks’ worth of columns in the can. However, I’m just not motivated until deadlines loom. So, here I am again, teaching myself the ABCs of enjoying what’s important before joy is trampled by a false sense of duty. Autumn and Jonathon have no expectations but a place to park their RV. My expectations have a tendency to zoom straight to “unrealistic” on the lunacy meter. All I really want to do is love on them, and show them how glad I am that they’ll be near. Not sure about the ferrets. Cricket the under-deck kitty is living up to his name and lying low in the meantime. It’s that mad time of year again. The season of tree cutting, decorating, shopping, breathing hard, getting together, synchronizing calendars, buying tickets before they sell out, baking, panicking, wrapping, parking, yodeling, (no, wait), throwing the budget out the window, and repetitive jingles is upon us. From whence did the season of peace and light become a season of hype? I think with the advent of retail stores. Is it necessary to pack all the special feels of relationships and goodness into a four-week scramble? How about if I, along with Ebenezer Scrooge, avow to “honor Christmas in my heart and keep it all the year.” January might seem less depressing. The thing is, each activity is good and fine and emblematic of some great perfection or magic memory I’m trying to achieve or recreate. I will never retrieve those perfect Christmases on my grandparent’s farm in Washington as a child. I had no responsibilities. I was not in charge of creating a feast for 20. All we the cousins had to do was eat, have fun, and open A FEW presents. My goal this year is to be a kid again. You may not receive a card from me. One time when Lane and I were driving back from a Southwest art show, our route took us over the Sierra Nevada range. We hoped to drive through Yosemite, but, as Lane often proclaims, there’s always a snafu. The entrances were closed due to excessive snow. That meant driving around it in excessive snow, at night, with the temperature dropping, in a regular car with no studs, no fellow travelers, and no guard rails in sight. Stress climbed like the ever-elusive summit as the temperature and gas gauges fell. Then, out of the frosty dark, Lane made a counterintuitive suggestion to pull over. I found a wide spot on the shoulder and reluctantly shut off Fiona’s engine. He stepped outside in the icy, clear night. I followed, barely able to make out the silhouettes of towering evergreens that stood around us. The longer we waited there, the more the quiet through the trees sounded like a reassuring hush. It soothed the fear and calmed my pounding heart. When we got back in the car, we left worry behind. When stress tugs you off course, turn off the engine, go outside at night and look up, but not under an owl. Peggy Dover is a freelance writer/author. Reach her at [email protected].