I remember Advent filled odor and color: the shortbread a little drier than it was with Mom, full of flour hair, which were spread out the dough so thin that the shortbread fingers smashed in, or conversely, if they lacked coarsely always cooking inside.
I am very fortunate to have one of those moms who do not pass behind the children and let the cookies crumble, scissors cut askew, brushes take on too much paint no resume, no comment on the happiness of little fingers clumsy learners.
There were also chocolate truffles, specialty of my big sister, but we had the right, we, the small, make regular balls roll in unsweetened cocoa.
Ho, there were still those colorful paper decorations, these stars of David drawn with the aid of an equilateral triangle need to draw a first, then return to the right place and draw a second time, point downwards.
And throngs of children standing quietly by the hand, whose mother we traced the leader, and we cut their tongues and praying that the fragile hands do not break the unfolding, the folding fan not slip in misalignment dresses and bonnets pompom ..
And these snowflakes folded paper and cut we stuck to the windows. And folded in garlands of crepe paper or cut from a high ....
But my greatest happiness, even greater than the true tree that loses its needles or fake snow spray which sticks to the window and that there are still traces at Easter was the manger.
In truth, the nativity scene. There was one that the children of Cate Mom, bottles dressed Canson, I do not even know if we had had one for us in the lounge, but I remember the joy of watching these "large" and figurines oversized és , or you yet read the happiness of the fruits without the bubbles. There was that of "Pomme d'Api " or Holy Family skirted a modern family, families that I liked to swap babies, giving a bit of modernity to the infant Jesus, while that one or Stephen Lau rent joined the arms of Mary.
There was Mom's crib, to the fragile painted figurines of land, where, a year, Joseph left his beheaded up to a supernumerary Magi. Manger whose stable of lightweight wood fascinated me: real straw and covered with soft green moss, it seemed larger than life. Much later, my hands became more dressed we repainted the outside of the old nursery, abused by generations of curious children and adults nostalgic.
And this procession made fuzzy by the memory of objects that dresses up steam: nurseries ephemera, paper or plastic tape and transparent ball of light ... or a Mary remained detached from the base upside down, map Greeting glitter or paper cut gave depth to the barn, and where you saw off the Magi who put so long to walk the last meters to the child ...
Then there was my day care of young woman, then Mom, tiny jewels of earth or plastic, the size of miniature doll trying to push the walls of my apartment imp.
Then there was this cardboard box faded, made by Mom, Grandma forgiveness, a day of Advent when my Peas were tiny and a house and garden pocket offered the prospect of a real Christmas decoration and not crèchetimbre stamps and the tiny plastic Christmas tree that my daughters have taken place this year under the true fir, Grand, who will lose their spines shortly. In this box, Mom I passed the magic of Christmas past, my past ...
In this box, and a little child of color, a strand of yarn in excess of a girl in garter stitch, knit years ago by applied a girl, a chicken without feet, a donkey and an ox, which may under the pressure of clumsy hands doing the splits of the four legs: my crib, the one I left excited, year after year, its cardboard dust, early days of the Advent this Advent yesterday splashing, whenever this box spring, the joys of the past Advent today.
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