Slipping my headphones on at work, I started up the chocolate grinder and pushed play on my phone app.  The words in my ears were unfamiliar.  The sounds of the letters together were difficult for my tongue to turn over.  I grated the chocolate speaking the words out loud over and over again. I was determined to learn something of the language.  10 words was my goal.  Polite words that I could use when asking for directions or ordering a coffee. My coworkers understood and let me ramble as I practiced these "essential" phrases over and over again.  I practiced them as I vacuumed the house and scrubbed toilets.  My brain felt like mush.  It was hard to retain what I had learned.  How could these simple phrases take so long to remember.  I really didn't need to learn these words since they spoke English and it was an official language used by everyone. However, for some reason I was drawn to learning and using this older language of the people.  It is made up of a conglomeration of languages, Arabic, Aramaic, Italian, and a few others.  The letters are 26 but in reality, there are 30.  I struggled to remember them but a few stuck, thank you very much was one of them; Grazzi ħafna. Our first morning, we took a tour and then climbed a lookout tower.  The sign in the tower asked for a small donation and as we slipped a few coins into the box, I used my Maltese phrase "Grazzi ħafna".  The attendant looked up from his reading as I walked out the door and asked if I was Maltese?  Laughingly I said no, encouraged I tried it again and again over the course of two weeks. I added new words to my small but growing vocabulary each time I talked to someone from the island. What I learned was not so much the vocabulary but how it opened doors to conversations.  Each time I was asked, why do you know Maltese? It was a surprise to them and encouraged them to talk about their language and their lives. Each time they wanted me to learn another expression, sometimes it took, sometimes it didn't but it was always fun to try. Then there was the fact that they had different English sayings. Some of the expressions in English that was used were "Let me tell you," and "Do you understand what I am saying".  Sometimes they interspersed their English words with Maltese words that may have been Italian in origin such as "Allura" meaning naturally or then. When we crossed to Gozo we learned that their dialect was different from Maltese.  Words that I had learned in Malta now had a different pronunciation in Gozo thought they are only 15 miles apart.  With a smile, I was still encouraged to try out words there and they corrected my pronunciation and sought to teach me even more words. My hope is that though I may never be back to Malta, I can retain a bit of what I have learned, that key phrases open doors to practicing which encourages conversations.

 My bare feet were covered in sand as I trudged along the beach when I heard the telltale shriek of an eagle.  I am used to that sound along the Nooksack River at home but not here.  Instantly I picked my head up, looking around trying to spot it in the tall pines.  Then I turned a different direction and squinting towards the waves. There is where I spotted it.  Just out of reach of the waves.  I used to run these shores and now I walk them with my camera in hand and so quickly brought up my camera to photograph this unusual sight.  Every morning, I walked the shore with camera in hand and was rewarded with another encounter of eagles, not just the one, but two along the beach.  Slowly, I edged my feet into the small fast flowing creek that cut across the beach, holding my camera high above the water as it crept higher and higher, and covering my knees.  Hoping it wouldn't get any deeper, the cold water swirled around my legs, I kept crossing, switching my view between the eagles and the creek bed.  I walked at a diagonal towards the pair of eagles.  Stopping to photograph them, hoping that I could get closer and not scare them into flight.  The combination of morning mist, predawn colors of the sky, rolling surf upon the beach, haystack rock and eagles became almost magical.

Our cross country trip lead us right past the Bonneville Salt Flats, sight of the US speed record for cars.  We pulled over at the rest area along with other travelers along I-80 from Salt Lake City to Wendover.  The smoke from the forest fires in California had drifted over the mountains creating a soft smudge of the horizon. The sun baked the salt into a a crust creating hexagonal cracks along the salt floor but from a distant is looks smooth yet almost alien since vegetation can't grow in this landscape.  Arid, dessert, and flat.  We walked out onto the crusted surface and took photos with everyone else but there was more to do here than just take photos.  A few miles west on the interstate is the turn off for the Bonneville Salt Flats racing course.  We gassed up and drove right onto the flats.  Getting out of the car, I watched as he raced away reaching speeds I didn't even want to think about.  Breaking hard and whipping around to face another direction. Living where we do, the kids didn't have a lot of experience with driving in the snow.  And still there is about a week of icy roads and snow each year.  I always felt it was important to know what to do if they were driving and started to feel like they were slipping out of control.  So their dad would take them to spin brodies and learn how to correct without over correcting.  Then on their own they would go drifting.  Well that "practice" was evident out on the salt flats.  Hmmm.  They learned that lesson well. 








 

 I place the nuts in the pan to toast and take out the butter to soften.  My thoughts drift to the child across the country at his first duty station. He celebrated thanksgiving while in bootcamp and Christmas alone in barracks. I think it's harder for a mother to bare than an almost grown and flown young son though.  I mull over how I have felt alone on a holiday meant for couples as eggs and sugar mix with the butter.  The ground almonds are sifted with the flour and the dough is placed in the refrigerator to chill.  All through boot camp I wrote almost daily to him and to others in his unit.  I've missed the writing and the mail back.  I've been spoiled with him being able to call now that he has graduated.  The dough chilled I take the time to roll out the dough and cut them into shapes.  I think about packaging them up and shipping them off and hope that he will enjoy them and maybe share with others on shift.  A mere 7-9 minutes to bake and they are left to cool before spreading the raspberry jam and a sprinkle of powdered sugar.  As I place them gently in the bag, slipping them into the dollar store container for shipping. Slowly I walk into the post office with my package, proud of the son out on his own across country.  Nothing new to others but to me it is.  Returning home I start the process over again and this time for my children out on their own here.  

I always knew this day would come. Christmas morning with a missing member.  Inevitable that they grow and fly, building their nest elsewhere. Mentally I was prepared. It wasn't a surprise and yet Christmas morning there was a piece missing. He was in Maine, (l'aute cote), the other coast. 3200 hundred miles away Since we had spent a week with him, moving him from Basic to his first station I hadn't prepared any presents to ship out. While we were touring the East Coast, Lona was at home, busy saving Christmas for us. She shopped, wrapped presents and decorated the house. I tried to keep some of our traditions. We read the bible, but this year we read the Lego edition complete with photos. It was very enlightening and I must say entertaining. And then we opened presents.  I have to say the whole time we were on the East Coast, I was missing Lona. Christmas morning I was missing Job. Christmas has changed for us and I understand that nostalgic longing for the way things used to be. However, life is about change and growth, so I'm embracing technology that allows me to stay intouch easier and instantaneous. To enjoy the time we have. To celebrate and have traditions such as cininamon croissant rolls and stocking stuffers and coffee and Bible readings, grounds me and allows me to embrace the change. So Merry Christmas and here, here to new normal holidays.

We've come up with a process that works well for us every year.  I stuff stocking for the kids so that when they get up, they get to open their stockings and have the sugar cereal that I put in there.  This way John and I can sleep in. Then when I get up, I finish up making the Christmas morning cinnamon rolls. The finish rising while we read the Christmas Story out of the Bible.  We chose a portion of the gospel and sometimes take turns reading it.  When John reads it, he always tries to do the voices for each person and we end up cracking up. We can't do a straight face when he is reading with a high pitch voice trying to sound like Mary or the Angel. Why the angel is a girl, I don't know.  After we hand out presents and watch each other open gifts.  Probably the best present for Isaac was the lava lamp in the shape of a hooka from Job.  Lona received speakers and was anxious to tear her car apart and put the speakers in. I got John a Mancrate that he had to open with a crowbar which was hilarious.  Clothes and techy stuff dominate our gifts instead of toys as they get older.  The stockings get filled with beef jerky, red bulls, San Pelligrino, gum, and car air fresheners. There isn't a need to keep them entertained in the morning since they sleep in instead of getting up early. Which means things may be changing the way we do Christmas morning. Afterward, I spend time cleaning up, we have breakfast and then go do our own little thing with our gifts.  Maybe next year we do a group gift of an activity instead of individual gifts. Who knows who will be around for the next Christmas. Things are changing. Is this our last Christmas together? I don't know.