Reflections on the Second Week of Winter – Curse the Candle and Light an LED

George and the LED Luminaria

    After years of freezing my tush in the dark to light candles in paper bag luminarias, I dug through three Christmas storage containers to unearth our LED luminaria kit. A week before Christmas, I set the plastic bags and LED candles on the kitchen table where I couldn’t forget them Christmas Eve. No frozen tush for me this year.

    Only I forgot.

    A fortunate mistake? Piercing the country dark, the luminarias could welcome my daughter Ellen and her husband Chris. They’d arrive between 8:00 and 9:00 p.m. Tuesday.

    Tuesday afternoon, in preparation for their visit, I baked a batch of pumpkin oatmeal cookies and two batches of peanut butter cookies. Then, after a late dinner, I washed baking sheets and mixing bowls. George, one of my cats, hovered around my feet, the wood stove clicked with changing heat, and aroma of peanut butter drifted through the kitchen. The clock chimed 7:45. When it chimed 8:00, I’d set out the luminaria.

    But at 7:50, the gate scraped against the cement. Feet stomped across the porch. The front door burst open, frigid air swirled in, and Ellen flung her arms wide to engulf me in a hug.

    “I wanted to put the luminarias out to welcome you.” I said, let Ellen go, and hugged Chris. “But you arrived before I got to them.”

    Chris slipped out of his snowy shoes. He picked up a plastic luminaria bag and flipped over a plastic candle exposing two metal contacts. “You fill the bag with water and float the candle?”

    I nodded and put cookies on a plate. “I thought the lights would guide you down the driveway.”

    “That would’ve helped.” Ellen shrugged out of her coat. “I missed the driveway and parked off to the side.”

    Chris put the candle down and reached for a peanut butter cookie. “But the water would have frozen and messed with the LED lights. They’ll work better inside.”

    So Thursday, before my brother-in-law’s family arrived, Chris set out the luminarias–two on the coffee table, one on the table by the wood stove, and one on the kitchen table next to the yule log.

    George jumped onto the sofa, swished his tail, and leapt between the bags on the coffee table. His tail whacked one bag. The floating candle jiggled. He stuck his head in the other bag. Its candle floated to the side, and George’s pink tongue lapped water. When the water lowered, George stuck his head in further. The bag slid to the edge of the table.

    I grabbed the bag before it fell.

    Due to his kidney failure, George needs lots of water.

    I put more water in the bag, set it in front of George, and ran for my camera. He lapped, and I focused the camera lens between giggles.

    An hour later, my great-niece Addy, two and three-quarters years old, pushed her tummy against the coffee table and reached into the nearly empty corn chips bowl. She dipped a small piece of a blue chip into the salsa and munched. Addy stuffed one salsa loaded piece after another into her mouth.

    Halfway through the pieces, she paused. Her gaze traveled from the flickering LED luminaria beside her to the burning yule log candles on the kitchen table.

    She wiped her fingers on a napkin and walked to the kitchen table. On tiptoes, she pointed to the yule log. “Is it my birthday?”

    “No, Addy. The candles are for Jesus’s birthday,” her mom said.

    Addy blew at the middle candle. The flame disappeared into rising smoke. Laughing, she walked back to the chips bowl.

    Addy munched then blew on the luminaria. The white light glowed. She blew again, but the LED candle stayed lit. With a scrunched forehead and pouting lips, she dipped another piece of chip into the salsa.

    Two days later, with Ellen, Chris, and my brother-in-law’s family back snug in their own homes, I prepared a left over pizza dinner. Since I didn’t have cut flowers from the garden to decorate my tray and the potted poinsettia wouldn’t leave room for food, I filled a luminaria bag with an inch of water. The LED light didn’t need much water, and I didn’t want to bump the bag and flood my pizza. I sat in the Adirondack chair by the wood stove fire. The candle flickered, and I ate.

    After dinner, I set the tray on the floor to check my email.

    George hustled to the tray and pushed his head into the luminaria bag. Before his tongue reached the water, his head stuck to the sides. He lifted his head. The bag plopped back to the tray. He pushed his head in again.

    Push, lift, plop.

    Push, lift, plop.

    Push, lift plop.

    On George’s fifth try, he shook like a dog stepping out of a lake. The bag flew, hit the tiles in front of the wood stove, and emptied itself. With a soaking wet head, George licked the puddle on the tiles. Inside the wet bag, the candle glowed.

    I grabbed a handful of rags, knelt beside George, and mopped the water he didn’t drink.

    Curse the candle and use an LED. Despite mop-ups, LED luminaria work well inside–water for George, a conundrum for Addy, and decorations for me.

   Best of all, I didn’t freeze my tush in the dark.

Addy at the Chips Bowl with Ellen in the Background

 (Photo by Bruce)