M. Kathleen Crews

Merry Christmas! 

Jan 4, 2014, will be 5 years to the day since I was laid of from my manufacturing job at Caterpillar, Inc. 

The collapse of the housing market made my job disappear five years ago, and I am so very proud, and relieved, and grateful to announce to you all that on that 5th anniversary, I will be starting my new job with the State of North Carolina. 

It has been a long hard road to get to this point, and the new job will not be a cure-all for the troubles of the last five years (that will take another year or two at least), but it's a beginning.  And an ending.  And, like Christmas, a time to take stock. 

For all the uncertainty I've struggled with these last few years, I always had friends by my side. Old, faithful ones.  New ones.  Unexpected ones.  Friends I haven't even met yet, and you all know who you are.

To you, my friends, and to you, my family, all my love and thanks this Christmas.  Christmas is a time of beginnings, and you've made my new beginning possible. 

Joyeux Noël!

Temp's gonna be 105 today and feel like 115 with the humidity.  

This is what Faith looks like

She’s there on the coffee table in my living room; a little ceramic kitten.  See her?  She’s small, maybe 4” tall, barely noticeable next to the flower arrangement.  There, on the left, her neck stretched out and nose reaching up like she’s checking the scent of the flower hanging above her.  She’s nearly invisible, overwhelmed by the arrangement, but she’s there if you know to look for her. 

I found her in a thrift shop a few years back.  On closer examination I could see her ears were chipped (knocked over a time or two) but she had these lovely, delicate flowers decorating her little body.  She was sculpted with her feet tucked in, giving her a compact, even serene, profile.  This little piece is actually one half of a common, kind-of kitzchy, ceramic duet – a mother cat reaching down to check on her kitten and the kitten reaching up to touch her mother.  The mother piece was not in the thrift shop; probably broken.  Just the damaged little kitten, her face still uplifted to reach her mom. 

She was designed to be reaching up, nearly touching something, but that something or someone was gone.  A little, motherless, ceramic kitten.  So serene.  So patient.  So ... hopeful, perhaps.  Forever reaching for something to complete it and restore the balance in it's design.  I understood it, if that makes sense.  She was a kindred soul. 

So I, maybe, rescued her.  Who knows?  Maybe she rescued me. 

Alright, I know what you're thinking:  I’m reading entirely too much into my little ceramic kitten.  And, honestly, I've asked myself if I’m over-sentimentalizing her.  I’m prone to do that, I suppose. But consider this before you judge me too harshly:  

Something about the little damaged kitten was appealing enough that the original owner could not just throw it away when the companion piece broke.  Instead it changed hands, and the new owner also decided it had worth.  No telling how many hands it went through before it ended up in a thrift shop already overflowing with little knick-knacks of all sorts.  And still it made the cut – and was placed on a shelf, a modest price hopefully placed on it, until it caught my eye with its quiet, enduring faith. 

Everyday Use

There was a parcel in my mailbox when I got home from work one Saturday.  My baby brother had called to ask my address a few days earlier saying he had something to send me, so I eagerly gathered my package and headed into the house.

The box was rather small, about 10” x 8” x 4.5”, and surprisingly hefty, and I opened it with care.  Inside I pulled back the thin foam protective layer to find a beautifully finished piece of cedar glowing back at me.  I removed the contents to find a set of six nesting Shaker Boxes, exquisitely rendered in cedar and maple, shaped by my brother’s loving hands.   

He called the pieces “New England Tupperware.”  And they could almost be used like tupperware, except that he wryly advised his ditzy older sis not to ‘store wet things in there,’ lol.  He additionally informed me that the cedar tops are traditional - and unfinished on the inside of the box - because cedar keeps the bugs out.  The fit of the tops is comfortably snug, and the boxes are well made enough that they are surely adequate for storing dry goods.  The largest box measures 8.5” x 6” x 4.25” and the smallest is an amazing 2.75” x 1.5” x 1”.   They are, simply put, stunning examples of the woodcrafter’s art. 

And I am ridiculously torn about what to do with them! 

·        I want to keep them in their original cardboard box and squirrel them away in a dresser drawer as a family treasure, but I have no family to pass them on to. 

·        I want to send them back and say I am not worthy of such a gift:  They should be an heirloom piece for HIS family. 

·        I want to take them out and proudly display them on a mantle as a reminder of my family roots and how we’ve applied those skills learned at my father’s knee, and of which the youngest of our family has now become a master. 

·        I want to honor the gift so lovingly given by putting them to the everyday use for which they were intended – honoring the gift by filling them exotic spices and savories, but risking damage to them by subjecting them to the rigors of kitchen use.

They are still in the box he placed them in to send them to me, but I have so far resisted squirreling them away in the dresser drawer reserved for personal treasures.  They shouldn’t spend their life in a drawer.  And I have no mantle, or a fine, dignified place to openly display them with the reverence they deserve.