In a box of family pictures, one always makes me smile. It’s a rare picture of me that I like. I’m about four, bundled in a lavender snowsuit with gray and white faux fur trim, and I’m lying on my back on a field of snow, making a snow angel. It’s a scene re-enacted on lawns around the world, whenever the snow is clean enough, deep enough, fresh and white and compelling. On the surface, there is nothing exceptional about this picture.

Except for the blue at the edge. Blue-gray, really. It’s the Atlantic Ocean, winter cold, colored that slate color that means instant heart-attack should you go in, and it’s lapping at the shore of my snow field, because I’m a beach baby from a long line of beach babies, and even in winter the sea draws us to it’s edge, calling our names with the foghorns and the sound of wind and surf, wooing us with the thought of a steaming mug of cocoa or hot tea afterwards.

It has to be tea if it isn’t cocoa, you see. The basic black Lipton stuff, with the word BRISK on the label, or G. I. tea (when I was that age my grandparents still did all their shopping at the commissary at Fort Monmouth), is actually welcome after a day at the snowy beach, but Earl Grey is acceptable as well. (Irish Breakfast and English Breakfast are not, they are too soft – Earl Grey is a sturdier blend.)

I’m not a particular fan of Norman Rockwell, but I remember a painting in his style, if not from his hand, of an old sea-captain type with his weathered, thick fingers wrapped around a mug of tea. My grandfather was Army, not Navy, but he loved the sea, as did my mother, as do I, so even though he wasn’t a sea captain in life, in my head, he fills that role. He snapped the picture I mentioned, and my mother stood by, and watched me. She’s in the picture too. There’s a second one, from the same day, with me, walking hand in hand with my grandfather. I’m tiny, still sporting snow on my pants, and he’s wearing his fisherman hat an a great pea-coat that looked like the word “warm.”

In my heart, he’s still sheltering my hand in his.

Image by Carmi Levy of Written Inc.. Used with permission.

Chess is loaded with ritual, I said to a friend over IM the other night. I didn’t elaborate, ended up riffing on the subject of old men in Greek Navy caps, playing chess in parks, their thick overcoats keeping them warm, their gnarled fingers moving each piece. I’m not a chess player myself. Or rather, I’m a bad chess player, on the rare occasions when I play, but I used to love watching the little kids playing with the giant pieces on the board on the ground at Santana Row.

There’s a ritual in that too, in being a kid. Lots of rituals. Little rituals like making a plaster hand print, posing for school pictures without having front teeth, writing a letter to Santa Claus, and bigger ones: first dates, first cars – events, yes, but rituals as well – though the ritual is in the planning, the saving, the practicing until you know how to kiss, know how to park, get your license, get the guy of your dreams.

I stand out on the deck each morning, each evening, and just let the outside air sink into my skin. I listen to the birds and small animals, hear the neighborhood sounds. This grounds me, but it also lets me know the way the neighborhood should sound. For the dogs, my practice of strapping on my pink digital watch is the beginning of their Going Out ritual. First the watch, then the jacket, then their leashes. They know which jackets and shoes are for walkies, and which are not. They’re that attuned to me.

But back to chess.

There’s structure in chess, and order. And yet there’s passion, too. Of those three things (passion, structure, order) Ritual is born. Watch the chess players caress the pieces as they set up their boards, some time. They have such reverence as they go about their stylized war games, plotting strategies and planning defeats while the chessmen slide and click against the board.

Magic in numbers, magic in squares, magic in two small dogs knowing that the Reeboks mean walkies and the pink Converse All-Stars do not.

Everyday rituals.

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Written for the December Project at CafeWriting, Option Two: Can You Picture That?

From the Cafe Writing December Project: List seven traditions – big or small – that you and your family observe. You don’t have to explain them, but it’s more fun for readers if you do.

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As it’s December, and I’ve just strung my house with lights, and my lit tree is resting in the window, as yet bare of ornaments, I offer seven of my family’s Christmas traditions.

1. Resting Tree: We generally let the lit tree sit undecorated for a few days, even though it’s plastic, just so we can get used to where it is, and get a feel for the best side and worst side, etc.
2. Ornaments: From childhood, my mother and I would take out all the ornaments and talk about each one as we hung them on the tree. Most of our ornaments are hand-made or specially chosen, and none are plain glass balls.
3. Pfefferneusse: My mother and I share a box of pfefferneusse cookies every Christmas. These spice drops are perfect with coffee, and represent a shared history.
4. Aglio Olio: It’s a garlic and olive oil sauce that you toss with fettucini, and it represents our family’s Italian heritage. For most of my life, my mother always made it on Christmas eve.
5. Stockings: As we’ve grown older, we’ve pretty much stopped with huge presents (except between Fuzzy and myself) and embraced the challenge of only buying items that can fit in a stocking. Some years, this is extremely easy, other years, rather difficult, but it’s always fun, and it limits the amount we spend, as well.
6. Brie: I am a cheese fiend, and one thing always in my stocking is a small round of brie. Yay for runny cheese!
7. Tinsel: We no longer use it on our tree, either at my own house or at my mother’s in deference to the memory of my deceased uncle Merrell. I wrote about it in 2005 for that year’s Holidailies. The entry is here.