Three months, a lost stocking and a Christmas surprise!

Three months in. It seems as though these “catch up” or mark the timeline posts are all I can manage. Call it a rut, writers block, overwhelm or languish. The fog is present and the words do not come easily. Yet, here we are. Three months in Austin. No, I do not know my way around without my GPS. I do have a favorite taco truck though, so there's that. We've met a few neighbors. Mostly the ones with dogs that happen to love the grass we have in our front yard. I am not enrolled in classes. I've purchased a bike. Found greenway trails. Acquainted myself with volunteer opportunities. Attended a non profit org event and heard the two women from the podcast, "Pantsuit Politics" speak. Felt totally out of place and odd. New doctors, dentists, chiropractor and the like have been found and vetted. Mostly. Our little house has been decorated for the holidays and ever present is the fact that we, meaning, the six of us Hansons, are somewhat scattered. Two in Nashville, three in Austin and one in Vienna, Austria. This is not new news. Somehow, though it feels a bit more poignant right now. As in, my heart is aching. For all of their laughter. The sibling shenanigans. Loud, chaotic dinners and competitive game nights with all the trash talking and antics. Well, that doesn't necessarily cover the purview of a relocation catch up. And it does in some way feel so relevant too. 

Christmas music is playing in the background, the tree is lit and a candle is flickering, sending notes of pine into the atmosphere. Hot coffee with eggnog creamer sits next to me and paper whites stretching towards the sun are displayed upon the counter top. A tradition that I can't seem to let go. We grew them every year when our growing up adult children were littles. We'd place them in a glass dish with a few rocks so they could watch the roots of the bulbs take hold. Always planted around Thanksgiving time, they would bloom near Christmas. The delight of watching something grow and change is a feeling I don't want to lose. Ever. A theme, perhaps, for this season I find myself in? Possibly. Or maybe just an aging mother's nod to nostalgia. Either way, I am here for it. For welcoming all the feelings and memories. 

Including the deep sense of loss I have over my childhood stocking being lost in our recent move. There are few material possessions that I hold dear. Truly. I have purged and tossed, recycled and shared countless belongings, including books, throughout the years. Mostly due to downsizing, our constant moves and the desire to live a more minimalist lifestyle. These Christmas stockings were hand knit by my grandmother. Everyone in our family has one. They became, over the years, a rite of passage within our family. Jared was gifted one when we were married. Each of our children had one for their first Christmas. Framma, my chosen name for my grandmother, as I was the first grandchild, developed this pattern, made it her own and her adeptness with the yarn is evident in each and every piece she's crafted. These stockings are central to our celebration. My favorite memories of Christmas morning revolve around bulging stockings lined up and the squeals that filled the air as each little treasure was unwrapped. Or, Jared and I sipping on a cocktail, watching Christmas Vacation while wrapping each and every gift to fill the stockings. Tedious, yes, unforgettable? Also yes. To this day, as a forty three year old adult, I look forward with sickening joy to my stocking being filled. The only gift I ask for every year is that; a stuffed stocking. There is the context, now the story of loss. 

I am by no means a newbie as it pertains to the relocation process. I am familiar with the emotional preparation necessary to sustain me on both ends; the packing and leaving as well as the receiving and unboxing in the new location. After recent consideration it has been determined that this was our twelfth move in our twenty four years of marriage. Whoa. Every time has been different. Unique circumstances and why's. Anyhow, here we were. Day one in our new home in Austin. Movers had arrived. Coffee procured and the chaos ensued. The unloading and checking boxes and furniture was simple enough. That is until our dining room chairs were brought in with Christmas stockings on them. I know for certain that those stockings were packed away in their designated Christmas decoration container at the end of the season 2020. Caught a bit off guard, I picked them up, counted them and realized there were only four. Not good. The Christmas decorations had been brought in already and so I ran to them and found one more stocking. After rummaging through each and every article in the two containers I came to the conclusion that my stocking was missing. 

I will admit here that my heart began to race and a slight twinge of panic was making itself known. We asked the movers to have a look in their truck once everything was cleared. No luck. A decision was made by Jared, who obviously is way more logical than I, to wait on declaring the stocking lost until each and every box was unpacked and sorted. Fine. And not fine. The two of us went to task, taking inventory, unpacking and organizing. Still, no stocking. A call was made to our relocation contact and assurance was offered that they would search and do their due diligence, confident my stocking would turn up somewhere. Again, no luck. We realized the Christmas container was cracked and the lid wonky, thus the culprit for this misfortune. Well that, and possibly the lack of care taken by said movers, transporter, etc. The list goes on. Several follow up calls were made. An explanation attempted to convey the importance of my loss. Repeatedly Jared was asked for a monetary amount needed to replace my stocking. Umpteen times I heard him say, "I don't think you are understanding, this was like a family heirloom. Knit by my wife's grandmother, who is since deceased. It cannot be replaced. The only feasible compensation is to FIND the stocking." Given the extensive experience I have garnered with moving companies and such, my typically optimistic nature was squashed. It came as no surprise when our contact called back to inform us the stocking could not be located. Insert expletives here. All of them. I feel they are appropriate and allowed in situations such as this. And that is the story of how my Christmas stocking, the one that has made an appearance for forty-ish years of Christmases, would not be a part of our tradition this year. 

The story does not end there. Of course it doesn't. Framma left this earth three years ago. There had been ongoing conversation amongst our family as to whom would assume the stocking responsibility. I had wanted to. Yet I never took the time or made the effort to learn from Framma. The pattern itself is difficult to read. Never mind that I don't even know how to knit. I grieved this loss for a while. Without her my motivation was lacking. I longed for that connection to her. With her. A tiny piece of me holding out hope that the stocking might turn up unexpectedly. Found by some kind hearted stranger in a warehouse or something like that. A Hallmark movie ending for sure. Alas, that has not been the case. I had shared this story with my Mom. Knowing that I would find comfort in my mourning by someone who understood the magnitude of this loss for me. To clarify, I was, ahem, I am grateful that Jared's and the kiddos' stockings were not lost as well. 

Anyhow, my Mom shared that one of her childhood friends had interpreted the stocking pattern and actually made one recently. That sounded promising. Although for some reason I did not pursue further. I did, however, take to the internet with my fingers crossed, in hopes of finding a similar pattern. Practical thinking was not leading this charge. There was just over a month until Christmas and with no knowledge of knitting or the like, it would seem rather unlikely to have a stocking to hang. Irregardless I purchased a pattern, at the suggestion of my Mom, she sent me the link and everything. Upon opening I was immediately discouraged. If I had thought the prospect of learning German was difficult, the symbols staring at me in the shape of a sock might as well have been Latin, Russian, or any other language I am utterly unfamiliar with. A makeshift, mismatched, stocking purchased at some big box store would be the only plausible solution. Or maybe, no stocking at all.  

I had resigned myself to this fact as I hung only the five stockings this year. Sadness. Again. That grief monster, so unpredictable, and usually uninvited as well. The thing of it is, as I stared at those stockings hanging, with the names of those I hold most dear, my favorites, sadness quickly morphed into gratitude. What a gift that I had been able to hold this piece of my Framma for so many years. That her memory lingered in each and every piece of thread. Her love. My children knew her and still have that piece of her with them. As do I. Stocking or no stocking. Here is where I landed for this Christmas. Until an unexpected package arrived in the mail. I recognized the handwriting immediately: my Mom's. Because I am like a child when it comes to snail mail I ripped open the envelope without hesitation and discovered, you guessed it, a new stocking. Hand knit by my Mom's friend and made just for me. Same and not the same. The colors are bit different, the lettering larger, other little details are off too. However, there are now six stockings hanging and a permanent smile on my face every time I see them all. 

While the stocking rabbit hole was not an intended piece of my three month recap, it is a window into our lives and hearts at this moment. Scattered, grateful, weary and hopeful. Transitions are always, for me, a sacred mess of emotion and opportunity. 

I am becoming more smitten with our community garden daily. Rows and rows of wildly delicious greens, which we picked for a salad when we had a house guest a few weeks ago. There are herbs everywhere and wild flowers and peppers and cruciferous veg and garlic and a random artichoke and I just can't help but smile whenever I find myself in that space. The free library that stands on the curb just outside the garden is a regular stop for me as well. I've shared puzzles there and checked for books and watched with pure joy as a little and her grandmother carefully chose a treasure one morning. The squirrels in our trees are still ever present. Christmas lights are being lit and houses adorned with festive cheer. Nighttime walks to bear witness to this all are a favorite. I have pinecones and a candle on our porch and reading late afternoon or early morning out there is a sweet addition to my daily rhythm here. Sometimes there is a refrain on loop in my mind, playing that old narrative, with the same worn out, useless words...should and more. Those are neither helpful or necessary. So naming the daily practices, the simple delights and the tender, complicated pieces of change and new and the whole of it all is soul good. 

Resuming recap now. Jared's new position is going well and continuing to be both challenging and rewarding in all the ways. He is still working from home, in our tiny little office/guest bedroom/storage room. It works for us. Or rather, for him. A month ago he had knee surgery, which was successful and he is on the mend. Huzzah! He'll be resuming German lessons in the New Year and I might finally join him. Of course not in his class, we're back to the basics here. I can't speak to Gillian's transition or what that has been like for her. I am able to share that we're enjoying having a grown up kid roommate. Most of the time. There is so much togetherness. Which usually we all enjoy. There have been cribbage games after dinner and a partner for me to explore all the cafes with, a hiking buddy and adventurer and yes, another person to help with chores and such. Her presence has shifted the dynamics in our household and I really like seeing her face on the daily. 

In conclusion, these past three months have flown by. And yes, I am keenly aware that time is actually not moving faster than it did the day before, the year prior or even then it did ten years ago. I am, however, cognizant that as I grow older the minutes and hours, days, months and years seem to be fleeting. Why exactly is that? These three months have sped by and also felt like an entire year was lived in that span of ninety-ish days.