Simple Truths
T Sue of Ballston Spa
2–4–6 Hard Candy “This nostalgic recipe originated with my maternal grandmother.” 2 Tbs. Butter 4 Tbs. Sugar 6 Tbs. Molasses Cook until it comes to a boil & forms a soft ball in a cup of cold water. Pour into a buttered pan to harden, refrigerate and crack into bite-size pieces when solid.
46 | Simply Saratoga
raditon
Celebrating the Simple Art of Story Telling
Meghan D. Lemery, LCSW-R
Tradition: the handing down of statements, beliefs, legends, customs, information, etc., from generation to generation, esp. by word of mouth or by practice: a story that has come down to us by popular tradition. As we approach the holiday season, most of us begin to feel the pressure and stress creep into our minds. Our minds race with the never- ending list of tasks set before us… “Order the turkey, buy a new holiday sweater, clean the house for the relatives…” In the blink of an eye the stress and pressure of the holidays can steal any joy and peace of mind from truly enjoying the season. Instead of enjoying time with our families and loved ones, we can become consumed with the details and tasks at hand of creating a “perfect” holiday. This year, let’s get back to the simple truth of what the holidays are really about. Let’s take the pressure off ourselves and get back to the art of celebrating the traditions of the season. Traditions can be found in the recipe of your grandmother’s homemade applesauce, the ornament you made in kindergarten, the annual tour of neighborhood lights and decorations and perhaps my favorite tradition of all, the art of storytelling. Every year it was the same tradition. My three siblings and I would wait in anxious anticipation at the top of the staircase for my parents to give us the green light to race down the stairs and open our gifts. My father would light the fire while my mom made us hot chocolate with mounds of overflowing Cool Whip. As we waited for what seemed like hours, my father would yell up the stairs, “Sorry kids, Santa must have gotten lost…no presents here this year.” To which we would scream in protest that he let us see the evidence for ourselves. Once the fire was crackling that was our signal to invade the camp. Had we been able to parachute into the living room I am sure we would have. We would race down the staircase Chariots of Fire-style knocking and elbowing each other out of the way. As the runt of the litter I would beg my siblings to slow down and wait for me as we all screamed with glee and delight. Thus began the tradition, year after year, of how we celebrated Christmas morning together. Now as adult children with significant others and families of our own, each Christmas Eve we get together and recall these traditions and stories. Dad always tells the story of the year he descended the stairs at 2 am with handfuls of gifts to assemble for us by Christmas morning. In a haze of exhaustion he