Monthly Archives: November 2020

Personal Essays

The Cookie Tree

When I was a wee babe of 9 months, our family of five moved from Salt Lake City to Delta Junction—a tiny town at the end of the Alaskan Highway, approximately 90 miles SE of Fairbanks. At the time, Delta Junction had a population of approximately 500 and has never recorded more than 1000. Through the years, my parents remained good friends with the next door couple who rented to us. At one point, the four of them idly talked of moving both families to Australia. And, much later, they vacationed together there.

Delta Junction, Alaska (me)

Of course I don’t remember the move to Alaska, but I do hold a few memories of my life before our family relocated to Las Vegas three years later. Certain stories come to mind, some from family lore, such as the moose that stuck his head through our trailer’s kitchen window, my little sister being born during a blizzard, my near-drowning in the Delta River, and Anchorage suffering through a 9.2 magnitude earthquake. But those stories are for another time. This one is about my mother’s knack for making the best of difficult situations, especially where her children were concerned.

Delta Junction, Alaska (two neighbor kids, my brother, and me)

Why, you might wonder, would anyone move to Alaska in November? As it so happens, my parents were looking for a fresh start after my father was fired from his position at a grocery store. When it was discovered two employees were embezzling funds, Dad was held accountable as he was the hiring manager, and he took too long in detecting the theft. Word got around to other stores in the area, and my father lost confidence in securing a new job. So we migrated north where he found work as manager of the PX at Fort Greely. And soon afterward, as was typical everywhere we moved, my mother was hired as a nurse at a local clinic.

Salt Lake City, Utah (Mom and me)

Although my parents brought appropriate clothing and rented adequate lodging, our household items were left behind in Salt Lake to be shipped later by my grandparents. Thus, when Christmas approached the following month, we had no decorations. Having little to do in the near-constant darkness of Alaska’s winter, Mom hatched a plan that became a years-long family tradition. She whipped up batches of sugar cookies and cut them into shapes of stars, bells, wreaths, and trees. Before popping them into the oven, she pushed a thimble into the dough to create a small hole at the top of each. Once the cookies cooled, she iced them with red-, green-, yellow- and blue-dyed powdered-sugar frosting. And after my father dragged a tree inside, my mom hung cookies on every limb using yarn from her knitting case.

Glimpse of Cookie Tree – Arlington, Texas (in the kitchen with my older sister peeking through the branches and me with my baby doll)

Over the years, other edibles were added, such as candy canes and popcorn balls, but the cookies were the only constant. One full day in the second week of every December, our house was a flurry of flour. My mom enlisted the whole family and stationed us along her makeshift assembly line. No one was exempt, and truthfully, we’d be disappointed if we were. Here’s a picture of me with Roman Meal bread bags wrapped around a cast on my right arm—a break that happened from a fall after attempting to skip two rungs on the monkey bars in first grade.

Las Vegas, Nevada

While living in Texas, we invited the neighbor kids for a holiday party, everyone bringing a gift to share. After singing carols up and down the streets, we circled back to the house and devoured the cookies off the tree, avoiding the ones at the bottom the dog had clearly licked. All the while, my sweet mom ladled hot cocoa into mugs filled with marshmallows. The sugar highs must’ve lasted for hours.

Arlington, Texas (brother, me, little sister, big sister)

I can’t find a picture of the full tree, and I’m not sure one exists without kids obstructing its view. But this photo shows a table laden with cookies, where sprinkles were now a thing and new shapes of horses, chickens, and Santas were added. I distinctly remember a rabbit and Scotty dog, but I don’t see any here.

Arlington, Texas

Sadly, my mom no longer remembers the cookie tree or Alaska, because a misdiagnosis robbed her of memories. But family, friends, and neighbors remember. And our lives are richer for having been surrounded by her warmth, kindness, and whimsy.

And for the record, years later I tried duplicating those cookies. Although delicious, they were missing the dash of magic only my mother could bring.


Vegan Recipes

Vegan Snack: Thyme & Maple Savory Nuts

These nuts are a staple in our household, but they also make great gifts. Although delicious on their own, they’ll add flavor and crunch to salads, trail mixes, granolas, and much more.

What you’ll need:

  • Mixed Nuts – Kirkland or Planters Brand (2.5 cups)
  • Vegan Butter (2 tbs. – melted)
  • Pure Maple Syrup (2 tbs.)
  • Vanilla Extract (1 tsp.)
  • Liquid Smoke (1/4 tsp.)
  • Dried Thyme (1 tsp.)
  • Cayenne Pepper – Optional (1/4 tsp.)

Preheat oven to 325. Line baking sheet with parchment paper. Add nuts to a large bowl. In a smaller bowl, whisk together remaining ingredients and pour over nuts. Coat evenly, and then transfer entire contents onto pan. Bake 25-30 minutes, tossing every 5-10 minutes until most of the liquid has evaporated or hardened. For ultimate crunch and flavor, let cool completely before eating. Store leftovers at room temperature in airtight container.

Personal Essays

Fiddle Lessons

I was ten when I told my parents I wanted to learn to play the violin. The notion came to me after my grandfather died, leaving my mother two memorable artifacts upon his death—a collapsible top-hat and his childhood violin.

My mother rarely talked of her father—silver and gold engineer, widower at forty-nine, remarried, retired to Las Vegas. What I remember most was that he drank a lot and his wife exhibited coldness whenever we visited. Now that I think about it, who wouldn’t be upset with four rowdy children clinging to the brand-new fence and playing a game where the pristine lawn represented hot lava?

According to my mother, her father had his heart set on a boy. But being a girl wasn’t her worst offense. He was greatly embarrassed by her lack of “girlishness.” What did he expect after raising her in mining camps?

When my mother turned seventeen, he told her she needed to find a vocation, because she was neither pretty nor appealing enough to attract a husband. Maybe that’s why she transformed Grandpa’s 1917 West Point uniform into a child’s suit when my brother was five.

Sweet picture of my brother and dad.

The only time my mother softened toward her father’s memory was while talking about his violin. Evidently, his side of the family boasted a few classically-trained musicians, and even with strings missing, he could play a recognizable tune on the fiddle. She admired him in those moments, as if music could somehow transcend years of hurt.

On the left, my grandfather’s stringless fiddle.

When I was ten, learning violin would’ve been cost and time prohibitive for my parents, because the lessons weren’t within the school’s free curriculum and were offsite. And, to be honest, I probably would’ve hated being inside while my friends played hide-and-seek and whiffle ball, and tromped in the woods behind our house. But I never lost interest.

Having heard the story a few times, my husband bought me a violin. Fortunately, he also bought me lessons. My music teacher, and now dear friend Sarah, worried I’d struggle as an adult student, and she didn’t want to get my hopes too high. We started with the Suzuki Method, and I plugged along as best I could. But then she realized the songs I leaned the quickest were ones I recognized from childhood, so she changed books and switched to fiddle tunes. I even participated in a recital, alongside grade-schoolers. I was so nervous, my bow bounced the whole time, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Now I’m learning to jam, using open strings. Some of my writer friends are talented musicians, and they don’t seem to mind if I miss a chord or two. And, I even busked once with a seasoned performer. What a thrilling experience that was!

Breakfast concert with poet Gary Lilley at Port Townsend Writers’ Conference

I guess it just goes to show. Even if a door is locked when you’re young, doesn’t mean you can’t find its key later in life.