Had a rough day yesterday. Even though it was a rare snowy day in Seattle, it was as if–everywhere I turned–memories conspired against me. As you get older, the holidays become as much about celebrating family, as they do missing family. This year my Papa passed away and so the holidays and his birthday are going to be a little hard.

I felt a bit haunted by his ghost today. Everyone outside my cafe was smoking Camels. For some people it’s oatmeal cookies, but I can’t smell a Camel cigarette without thinking of my grandparents. Then My Yahoo start page has a story that Bennifer popped out a kid, named Violet. That was my Nana’s name. A man in the balcony is wearing the exact fedora my Papa used to wear, band, feathers and all. He has the same slightly stooped shoulders and when he catches my eye, for just a second…. Just as I notice this, a woman calls to her husband from the line, “Carl…” That was my Papa’s name. The woman who just sat next to me smells of violets, and I specifically didn’t use my violet soap this morning because it reminds me too much of the face cream my Nana used to wear. This all happens in a span of 10 minutes, and just as I’m starting to freak myself out I see this photo on Seattle Bon Vivant:

I went to the site for some holiday cheer. Anyone who visits Viv’s site knows she has such a wide-eyed, yet knowing, way of looking at the world that just makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. I was just thinking about this one memory that I have, of my grandparents. And it all centers around this very tree. The Marshall Field’s Christmas tree inside the downtown store on State Street.

I remember being a little girl, getting dressed up to go shopping in the city, getting dressed as hardly no one gets dressed anymore. I should mention that we weren’t rich…it’s just that, when you were with my Papa, you did things right. My Nana, a little pixie of an Irishwoman with a Camel-husked giggle, wore a blue crepe dress and swooping wool coat to match, topped with her famously raspberry-colored Cherries in th Snow lips. My Papa in his winter fedora, full suit (uh, that means 3 pieces) and wool trench. I couldn’t have been more than five or six. We took cabs everywhere, snow crowded the walks, and it was like seeing my grandparents in their natural habitat for the first time. I can imagine them galavanting about after the war, my Nana dancehall hopping in her impossibly tall size 5 heels. It was the first time I ever saw Marc Chagall’s Four Seasons mural. It was the first time I ever “lunched.” We had hot cocoa and brandy at the Drake hotel. It was an event. And we hardly bought a thing. When I think of how I want the world to be, I think of that day.

Thanks for reminding me, Viv.