- Make a post (public, friendslocked, filtered...whatever you're comfortable with) to your LJ. The post should contain your list of 10 holiday wishes. The wishes can be anything at all, from simple and fandom-related ("I'd love a Snape/Hermione icon that's just for me") to medium ("I wish for _____ on DVD") to really big ("All I want for Christmas is a new car/computer/house/TV.") The important thing is, make sure these wishes are things you really, truly want.

- If you wish for real life things (not fics or icons), make sure you include some sort of contact info in your post, whether it's your address or just your email address where Santa (or one of his elves) could get in touch with you.

- Also, make sure you post some version of these guidelines in your LJ so that the holiday joy will spread.

Step Two

- Surf around your friendslist (or friendsfriends, or just random journals) to see who has posted their list. And now here's the important part:

- If you see a wish you can grant, and it's in your heart to do so, make someone's wish come true. Sometimes someone's trash is another's treasure, and if you have a leather jacket you don't want or a gift certificate you won't use--or even know where you could get someone's dream purebred Basset Hound for free--do it.

You needn't spend money on these wishes unless you want to. The point isn't to put people out, it's to provide everyone a chance to be someone else's holiday elf--to spread the joy. Gifts can be made anonymously or not--it's your call.

There are no rules with this project, no guarantees, and no strings attached. Just...wish, and it might come true. Give, and you might receive. And you'll have the joy of knowing you made someone's holiday special.


Things I would like…

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If you haven't a mailing addy for me, drop an email to my lj addy. :)

Remembrance, November 22, 2008
Laura

It was the gun salute that got to me. Four older men, Marines in years long past, represented the military at this soldier's funeral.

My grandfather served at the end of World War II. Two or three days before he shipped out came Armistice, and he liked to joke that when the enemy learned that "Rob Johnson, the squirrel shooter from Oklahoma was comin', they just laid down their weapons and gave up." He still went to Germany to help with cleanup efforts there, and came home after a year.

So many stories were shared by those who brought umbrellas but never opened them, for the sky turned blue over our heads, an odd thing for a November morning in Crescent City, California. My grandfather, caught by his belt by his cousin before going completely overboard in a fishing boat. He lost his glasses and his hat, but he got the fish, gosh darn it! Helping build the current church building in the 60s: "If you were going to work with Robert, you'd better keep up, and he was right behind me, telling me how to do it better and faster!"

And when it was over, they fired the guns and played a very mournful Taps. I grasped my oldest cousin's arm and probably left her bruises. My niece stood on my other side, my husband behind me, my brother behind him, my sisters beyond and behind my niece, my mother there, too, and stepmother, and all the other children scattered around us like petals tossed from a rose to land amid so many adults gathered to say goodbye.

My younger boy cousins, sons of my uncles who all started their families far later than my father did, were the most visibly upset. I held Hunter for a long time. Travis' family lived nearby, and so saw their grandfather nearly every day, and this was probably their first real, remembered loss of a loved one. They were too young nearly six years ago to know my father, their uncle, and we lived too far away for it to make a big impression. But grandpas - they're far more special. Even my own children miss their great-grandfather, but they talk about their grandpa Bob more often - even Jayne, who was only a baby then.

Once the reception at the hotel conference room was done and those who were going to the house got there, several of us escaped to the beach to enjoy the late afternoon sunshine before it completely sank below the horizon.

My aunt Diddy shared a story with me. She's been taking care of my oldest cousin's dog, Taylor, along with my grandfather, and on the days when she could get away from the tiny house and caring for her father, she would take the dog to the beach with her for some solitude and exercise.

Twice, a raven came. The raven would play with Taylor. Not run from her, but tease her, make her chase her, come after her itself as if the bird wanted to be played with. My aunt and I know exactly who this raven was. My father. He is also responsible for the raccoon under the house for Taylor to get excited over. This was the sort of thing he'd do - distract and tease and play, and if he couldn't be there in a physical body, he'd be there metaphysically.

Lately I haven't felt my father's presence as strongly as I used to. He's been with my aunt and his parents, waiting to guide my grandfather across.

And then that night, Saturday night, we went back to the beach for a bonfire, made with my grandfather's firewood. If anything, this funeral has left happy memories for all the grandchildren, whether they are all grown up like myself, my sister, my oldest cousin Emma, or the children, from 17 year old Sam to the nearly-adopted Brayden, and the nine great-grandchildren. A party in a room with family and photographs, frolicking on the beach and in the water (in November!), and marshmallows over an open fire.

My aunt and her husband took a short trip alone to the edge of the water, their silhouettes merging as a single dark mark against the white of the surf. In an unusual weather pattern for Crescent City, the sky was crystal clear. Lacking light pollution to muddy it, the Milky Way spilled out over our heads and we watched as Orion rose in the south.

My uncles and I stared up at the night sky and pondered the arrogance of those who could believe we are the only beings in the universe. The fire crackled nearby, with children starting campfire songs and demanding more marshmallows to spear on willow branches cut and cleaned by Ed's boys. The jetty buoy sang its singular note to warn and guide the ships at sea and we stood perfectly still, yet tossed in our emotions at the sense of great insignificance of ourselves, yet remembered the ones who were so significant to our own existence.