Last night, we stripped our lovely tree. Younger daughter couldn't bear it and disappeared upstairs; she had told her special education class that this had been "the best Christmas ever". I sat by the television which was playing Takin' Over the Asylum" (the Resident Fan Boy screwed his courage to the sticking place and set up our new universal DVD player over the holidays), my knees strewn with the surviving icicles from our first married Christmas. We've always sorted them into blue, gold and silver piles, although the gold pile is getting sparse. I averted my eyes as the beautiful bushy balsam was squeezed out the front door. Now it's propped in a snow bank, pretending to be alive, waiting to be taken away by the city next Monday.
Theoretically, we can leave the Christmas decorations up until
Candlemas (or, to use its ugly modern moniker Ground Hog Day, Imbolc if you're partial to Pagan), but the tree simply would be heartbreaking at that point. As it is, we may have to take the holly down before Candlemas Eve. Younger daughter's godfather sends it every year from Victoria; it's one of his few remaining pleasurable duties as Alzheimer's besets his fine engineer's mind. The indoor branches have been sucked khaki-green by the heating; and the outdoor branches have been blasted black by freezing rain, wind chills, driving snow and other hallmarks of a winter in Hades.
We will, however, leave the strings of Christmas cards up. Increasingly, cards and the mass-produced, impersonal, and usually unenlightening Christmas letters which some people think are mandatory arrive after Christmas and well into February. So it's official, people, such missives that arrive before February 2nd are
not late.
I always thought the sentiment of "wishing it could be Christmas every day" unrealistic, undesirable, and sappy (didn't like the damned song either), but this year, oh, I wish it could. I've watched younger daughter float through this time delightedly, words coming easily to her for the first time in months. It won't be easy watching her spirit get squashed steadily until June.
I managed to post daily for thirteen day straight over Christmas, but I really prefer posting every three days or so. I do plan to try
NaBloPoMo in February, a) because it's only 28 days; and b) because I want to see if I can do it. Provided, of course, I don't have to pay for the privilege. The "Terms of Use" thingie isn't that clear...
Last night, we stripped our lovely tree. Younger daughter couldn't bear it and disappeared upstairs; she had told her special education class that this had been "the best Christmas ever". I sat by the television which was playing Takin' Over the Asylum" (the Resident Fan Boy screwed his courage to the sticking place and set up our new universal DVD player over the holidays), my knees strewn with the surviving icicles from our first married Christmas. We've always sorted them into blue, gold and silver piles, although the gold pile is getting sparse. I averted my eyes as the beautiful bushy balsam was squeezed out the front door. Now it's propped in a snow bank, pretending to be alive, waiting to be taken away by the city next Monday.
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