The morning is pretty, bright and clear. Everything is still. It is in the low 40’s, warm by winter standards. The dogs are having their morning naps, not to be confused with their afternoon naps or their evening naps. I’m almost healed, but I’m still tired. I’ll join the dogs for an afternoon nap on the couch. This is a busy week, a busy uke week with practice, a lesson and four concerts though I won’t attend them all, maybe only three. I still need my tree. I’m thinking Thursday. I just haven’t felt good enough. The next time I hit the deck I hope it is during a quiet time of the year, certainly not at Christmas, my favorite time of the year.

My sisters and I say we got the Christmas bug from our mother. She always made the season so very wonderful. The house was filled with fun and unique Christmas decorations. The tree stood in a corner of the living room in all three houses where we lived. The nutcracker wearing red stood by the fireplace as did the Santa I needle pointed for my mother one year. The old ceramic Santa cups spelling noel for the handles and Mr. and Mrs Claus salt and pepper shakers came out every year. I found the same Santa cups and salt and pepper shakers and bought them. They are on my table every year. Santa has a curly beard. The shadow box above the couch got a small garland across the top. Every table had some sort of decoration. The dining room table groaned under the weight of all those cookies.

One of my favorite Christmas traditions was going to the Christmas fair held by my parish every year. It was at the town hall up the street from my school. We walked two by two by class from the school accompanied by the nuns. Once we reached the town hall, we were free. My mother gave us money for lunch and for buying some Christmas presents. The lunch was hot dogs every year. They had tables with inexpensive gifts. Some gifts were only a dime. My sister Moe bought my mother a Christmas cactus one year. It lived forever, even longer than my mother. It was on the end of the kitchen table by the window. Every year it bloomed with red flowers. I remember buying white handkerchiefs for my father. He always carried one in his back pocket. It was always rumpled.

This entry was posted on December 12, 2023 at 12:12 pm and is filed under Musings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. Both comments and pings are currently closed.