myTMI

Christmas memories are like the giant oak trees I have come to love in my 13 years as a Floridian; they are indescribably beautiful and last forever.   Here, in no particular order, are some memories that are rooted in my heart. My father placing a blinking red lantern in the fork of a tree to alert me to the coming of Santa Claus, and later stomping around on the roof above my bedroom on a snowy night.  One year he fell off the roof into the snow-capped hedges and my older brother, Harold, had to rescue him. Putting the final touches on our tree with silver icicles while mom played carols on her accordion, an instrument that came out of the case only once a year. Cutting down our Christmas tree from a tiny parcel of land on Bond Avenue, owned by a kind old man in a flannel hat, and continuing the tradition on my own as a teenager at Mr. Helt's tree farm outside of town.  I came home every year with a tree sticking way out of the trunk of my yellow Mustang,...

by Vance Meyer Aunt Reba and I were the only two riders on the small municipal bus that ran a continuous loop of the northern neighborhoods of Marion, Indiana.  Her house was across the street from ours, and the bus stop was just a block away.   It was our ongoing agreement that I would be the one to reach up and pull the thin cable that rang a bell and alerted the driver to our desire to be let off.  Today's trip would take us downtown to the shops that adorned our town square before the mall swallowed up the shops and before Walmart swallowed up the mall. On this snowy afternoon we would not make our usual stop to see her sister (my mom) at the Grant County Treasurers Office in the old courthouse, where mom worked for 19 years.  This was a covert mission to find my Christmas present for mom.   Knowing my budgetary parameters, Aunt Reba suggested that we head right to SS Kresge's less than a block down Washington Street from the bus stop....

by Vance Meyer Aunt Reba and I were the only two riders on the small municipal bus that ran a continuous loop of the northern neighborhoods of Marion, Indiana.  Her house was across the street from ours, and the bus stop was just a block away.   It was our ongoing agreement that I would be the one to reach up and pull the thin cable that rang a bell and alerted the driver to let us off.  Today's trip would take us downtown to the shops that adorned our town square before the mall swallowed up the shops and before Walmart swallowed up the mall. On this snowy afternoon we would not make our usual stop to see her sister (my mom) at the Grant County Treasurers Office in the old courthouse, where mom worked for 19 years.  This was a covert mission to find my Christmas present for mom.   Knowing my budgetary parameters, Aunt Reba suggested that we head right to SS Kresge's less than a block down Washington Street from the bus stop.  We ki...