The morning is cloudy again. The clouds seem to sneak back at night. Earlier morning was a little chilly, but it is now getting warmer. The high today will be 50˚. The winds have disappeared leaving hardly a breeze. I need a yard clean-up again. I see torn paper, a can and the remains of a box. Nala has been trash picking.

My house is getting cleaned. Maria started upstairs. Skip, my factotum, is here to put up the outside lights and, I hope, to take the trash. Having help makes me feel a bit regal. I’m still waiting for the butler to bring me coffee and warm croissants with marmalade on the side, lemon marmalade.

Most of my Colorado presents have been wrapped. The couch is covered in festive bags filled to their brims. My hope is to send them tomorrow. The only presents left are for friends and for my other sister.

When I was a kid, Christmas took forever to come. I remember the advent wreath with the four candles. A candle was lit for every week of advent. Yesterday three candles would have been glowing. We used to take turns lighting the candles and fighting as to whose turn it was. My mother was the ref who made the call. I was into lighting the candles and fighting for my turn so their significance was lost.

By this time in December, our house would be Christmas ready. All the cards would be strung from one wall to another. The tree was lit in the growing darkness of the late afternoon, and we raced to turn on the window candles. We watched Santa on TV on a station from New Hampshire. He told stories, sang songs and played with toys. I remember watching him get ready to leave on Christmas Eve.

My mother waited until closer to Christmas to make her cookies. Our favorites were always the sugar cookies. She made other cookies. I remember chocolate chip cookies, and I remember her pies, apple for my father and lemon meringue for the rest of us. From the leftover crust she made turds, that’s what my father called them. They were rolled dough with cinnamon in the middle and baked in the oven. If I make a pie, a rare occasion, I make turds and think of my father.