It's the mess, messiest daaaaaay....of the year, here at the Rouse House. Yes, it is the day once again when Mama chucks her sanity to the wind and invites the children to participate in a little tradition called "frosting Christmas cookies."

This is a beloved  yearly ritual dating back to the ancient times of my own childhood, when my mother and sister and I put on our matching aprons and cluttered up my mother's kitchen. However, when I think back to those days, I recall much less mess. Whether this is because my daughters are more exuberant with the sprinkles than I was as a child, or because children in general don't notice messes and therefore my child-eyes were categorically blind to the frosting-hurricane we created, or because my mom was better at keeping things sane than I am, I don't know.



I can tell you that my cleaning-up this year involved not only bathing all three children and vacuuming the floors, but also vacuuming the countertops. Don't ask. It seemed like the thing to do at the time.

Really, anyone who has ever spent time around children has got to know that frosting + children = mess. What I didn't realize when I started doing this with my kids was just how much opportunity for lying it would give me. Because I am sorry, but my children do not generally make attractive cookies.

Their cookies do not reach out and appeal to a potential diner's aesthetic sensibilities, saying, "Look how pretty I am. You want to eat me, don't you?" No, my children's cookies say, "I am the product of a horrible nuclear accident and now half my face is melting off. Will you put me out of my misery?" and the diner runs away and averts his eyes and never eats cookies again.

Yes, I'm looking at you, orange-and-green snowman with the frowny mouth.

OK, so maybe I'm exaggerating a little. The older the kids get, the more conventionally attractive their cookies get. But they still operate under the "more is more" method of cookie-decorating--slathering the frosting on in inch-thick increments, adorning each little cookie with as many sprinkles and candy pieces as its weight can possibly support. To them, the more loaded up a cookie is, the more delicious it looks...not having come to the realization yet that amounts of sugar that massive are more likely to make people gag than anything else.

Which comes to the lying. Because my children firmly believe that each and every cookie they make is a work of art, destined for greatness.  And while I do, on one level, appreciate the creativity and passion that they bring to their work, I do NOT actually think their cookies look good.

And yet...when my three-year-old holds out to me a cookie that is covered in orange frosting, lavished with green sprinkles, and spotted with chocolate chips--this cookie looks more moldy, than anything else--and says, "Isn't it *lovely*, Mama?"...I do the same thing that all mothers before me have always done.

I lie to her face.

"Yes, sweetie, that is lovely," I say.

Here's the thing about Oregon: it does not have self-service gas stations. This means that when you pull up to the pump, you can't jump out and start filling your own tank. You must stay put inside your vehicle and wait for an attendant to do the task for you.

Most of the time, I'm fine with this law. It's more pleasant to stay in my nice warm car. But when I'm running late, I hate it.

Last Tuesday, I was running late.

Instead of going to the cheaper but busier gas station I usually go to, I went to the one down the street a little ways. The one that's a few cents more per gallon but doesn't ever have a line at the pump. And sure enough, I was rewarded: a young man greeted me at the car promptly, started the gas flowing, and then left to help another customer while it filled.

OK, I thought. This is good. As long as paying doesn't take too long, I'll only be five minutes late.

And then I saw the elderly man. He was in a gas station uniform. He had a squeegee in his hand. And he was headed, slowly but surely, right toward my car.

He gave me a friendly smile. "Let me just get that windshield for you," he said. I really don't have time for this, I thought. I do not care about getting my windshield washed right now. "Sure," I said politely. "Thanks."

He cleaned the windshield carefully. I could hear the pump click off outside my car. He finished the windshield. OK, now he'll get my receipt and I can go. He started to reach for my receipt. And then he turned and spoke through the open window.

"Has anyone given you a calendar yet this year?"

I was confused. "A calendar?"

"Well, let me get one for you!" He turned and headed slowly back to the office. He was so pleased, so glad to be of service.

A calendar? A calendar? I don't want a calendar! I don't need a calendar! What I need is to leave, NOW. I watched the digits change on my clock as he made his way back, then handed me the calendar. "Here you go!"



Small, spiral bound, with a pre-punched hole so you could hang it on a nail. "Beautiful America" it read. At the bottom, a rectangle extended advertising the name and address of the service station, so that no matter what month of the year it was, you'd always remember the Courtesy Corner. I flipped it open. Each month had a picture of some scenic American landscape. They looked like every picture postcard at every roadside truck stop you ever saw. The date squares were tiny, too small to fit the jumble of dates and appointments and to-dos that I scrawl on my kitchen calendar.

Tiny lettering above the dates caught my eye. "handy pocket for storing coupons, bills, receipts, etc." it said. Fingering it, I could see that each page did in fact contain a pocket where you could stuff small pieces of paper.

That would be kind of handy, I thought. When the dentist gives out those reminder postcards, I could stick them in that pocket. Then I'd have them, right there on the calendar, instead of lost in a stack of papers somewhere.

I suddenly felt like I'd seen this before--this calendar. It was just like the ones Dad used to get from the auto parts store or the machinery supplier. Or like the ones that some citizens' group in my childhood town of Sweet Home used to give out every year--was it the Elks? the American Legion? In tiny type on each calendar square was printed the names of every Sweet Home citizen who had a birthday or a wedding anniversary on that day. I remember flipping that calendar as a kid and being amazed: there was my parents' wedding anniversary! There was my grandpa's birthday! There was MY NAME, right there on the calendar. Right below a picture of some beautiful, beautiful place I wanted to see.

The old man in the uniform was back now, handing my receipt through the window. "It's got pockets in there, for putting in receipts and coupons and what have you," he told me.

"I saw that," I said. "That might be nice."

"We've handed out those calendars at this station for 60 years," he said. It was a simple statement, but I suddenly wondered if his name was the one listed first on the bottom of the calendar, the one with the abbreviation "Prop."--proprieter--behind it. I wondered if he'd been here for all of those 60 years.

"Yeah, you know, it reminded me of the kind of calendar my parents used to have," I said.

He broke out into a big, genuine smile. "I bet they did. I bet they did," he said, nodding.

I was 10 minutes late. I smiled back: grateful for the calendar, for the memory, for starting my day with an honest human connection. Grateful for the Courtesy Corner.

When I was a kid, my grandma had a dress-up box for the grandkids. She kept it in the back bedroom closet, and in it were her old clothes, I think dating from the 60s and 70s: A-line skirts that we hiked up to our chests and pretended were strapless dresses; brightly patterned blouses; multitudes of handbags; and high heeled shoes in many colors, excellent for clomping around the house in.

Also, I vividly remember,  it contained a pair of boots. Knee-high. Leather. Bright red.

They were huge,  nearly impossible for me to walk in. I adored them.

Flash forward 25 years. Yesterday, I went shopping for boots. I went to a couple of stores. I tried on several pairs. Nothing seemed just right. And then I found the perfect pair--they were on sale, they looked great with my jeans, they felt good on my feet--easy decision. I bought them.

It wasn't until I took them home and saw them leaning against the wall of my closet that I experienced the wave of deja vu.

Knee-high. Leather. Bright red.

They fit me perfectly.