The Simple Things
Last night, MaryBeth and I took our daughter and younger son to Stone Mountain Park (my older son — remember the TEENager – decided to stay home….and <gasp> we let him). It was actually quite a nice night to do so; not terribly cold, though I was commenting last week how odd it was for it to be a week from Christmas and Atlanta hit record highs last week. (Of course, the temperature plummeted today and now I’m wishing it was a skoash warmer.)
When we first got to Atlanta, Stone Mountain had the train that went around the mountain and a petting zoo and some other little attractions. A couple of years ago, though, it was purchased by a company that gave it much more of an theme park atmosphere. The main attraction area is called “Crossroads” and it’s supposed to be an antebellum-ish southern community. Throughout the park, there are people who are dressed in period outfits. It’s cute.
But last night, we had a mission. My daughter still believes. She still believes in the mysterious. She believes in Santa Claus; she believes in Snow Angels; and last night we went to visit with both of them.
In the midst of worrying about more adult issues (health, finances, blah…blah…blah), last night I enjoyed just watching my daughter’s face light up when she sat with the Snow Angel and Santa.
I know that Santa is not part of the religious piece of Christmas, but then again, I am Jewish Unitarian, so, technically, neither am I.
My daughter was delighted to spend time with Santa and told him how, above all else, she wanted a new pair of tap shoes (which, she has been asking about for a while). We had planned to wait until after the holiday to get a new pair, but apparently my daughter has other plans.
Interestingly, after very clearly indicating that he was in no way interested in seeing Santa, my son spent a bit of time talking with the Santa (the Santa at Stone Mountain Park, named Ed Butchart, is very good and has been the Santa there for over 25 years and he’s even written a book about his experiences as Santa called The Red Suit Diaries).
When all was said and done, we spent 2+ hours at the park, enjoying the holiday spirit, looking at all the lights, and enjoying our time together. I wasn’t “Merle the cancer survivor,” I was Daddy spending some holiday time with (most of) his family. I can’t say that I have completely gotten over the worry / concern that this might be the last holiday we’ll spend together, but I am much less worried about it than I once was (I think I’m still largely being influenced by my father’s recurrence).
Don’t worry about me, though. I am getting very good about living in the present. Speaking of which, my daughter is singing in the cherub choir at Eastminster Presbyterian Church this evening; yet another photo op for the resident princess of the family.
Merle
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