Muffy & Maude

Memories of my childhood are like treasured gems, sparkling in the darkness of a long ago past.  They are ethereal with time and space, far away and out of reach.  I grew up enveloped by the rolling hills of Southeastern Pennsylvania, a landscape rich in field-stone, lush trees and filtered light.  As an adult I found myself in Southern Arizona, a land as different from Pennsylvania as one could imagine.  In Tucson you differentiate the seasons by the position of the sun, and you pretend a lot.  Right now I'm pretending it's fall.  100 degrees or not, this is the season most rich in tradition.   Across time and space, my favorite memory still breathes life. 

 I'm still standing there in my parents house, 11 years old.  It's the last look before the surrender of sleep, my breath warm on a cold and frosty window.  The last look of Christmas Eve, and glowing bags line the street as far as my eyes can take me.  That last look is still the same all these years later.  Now it's the midnight drive through the neighborhood, headlights off and slowly, with just the flickering bags to guide me.  It's the soft refrain of Silent Night over the radio and a sigh of wistful sadness knowing it will be another year till I see magic once more.  I still love what I love.  Traditions rooted in childhood run deep. 

Holiday Luminaries is a tradition that has transformed my southwestern neighborhood.  It bridges ages, beliefs, and the rugged individualism so apparent in the West. It is beautiful for many reasons but mostly because it is something we do together.  I often think about the woman that started the tradition in my childhood neighborhood.  Could she have imagined she would be responsible for joy and beauty so far beyond herself?  That's what happens when we pour ourselves into our communities. We cannot know who we may touch.  We cannot know what children stare wistfully out their windows, sighing at the last look of Christmas.