Quiet and charming, that’s Christmas 2014.
It came in as it’s sure to go out (as I write, it’s but the 5th day of Christmas you know): with very little fanfare.
No, it wasn’t the likes you’d find in the pages of a magazine. There were few of us to celebrate. But we rallied nicely. We ate and drank and laughed and otherwise partook of holiday festivities.The pie I saved until the last minute–resulting in a hurly-burly attempt at pie crust. In a fit of despair, I tossed my attempt in the waste basket; I dug it back out moments later. Ultimately, I decided the idea ill-advised. We may have eaten a ready-made pie crust, but we had eggnog pie all the same. It wasn’t exactly a white Christmas; but snow fell Christmas Eve, just as Bing Crosby crooned White Christmas. It snowed just enough to add a layer of white–but not enough to require shoveling the driveway and sidewalks on Christmas Day.
And we mustn’t forget the gifts.
You know, it seems as though we spend a lifetime wondering what gifts will be bestowed by family and friends–what Santa might leave us. Yet when all the paper lies crumpled in a heap, boxes rise precariously high, and fanciful ribbons and bows are little more than cat toys, what did we receive? We’re hard pressed to recall . . .
Thankfully, the older we get, the more gift receiving takes something of a backseat. As a matter of fact, my own gifts were the least of my concerns. When friends asked what I’d love for Christmas, my mind drew a blank.
So wouldn’t you know, this would be the year I’d receive gifts the memory of which will last a lifetime.
They came from my mom, you see: a pen and notebook; bubble gum (’tis true–chewing gum serves my thinking device); soft sweatshirts and a string of pearls (a few months back–after coming home from work one day and throwing on an old zippered sweatshirt before getting ready for a party–I proclaimed a soft sweatshirt and pearls to be my writing uniform of choice).
She gave me gifts with a writing bent; but more importantly, she gave me a pass to continue dreaming . . . to tell my stories . . . to do what I’ve always loved, no matter what it takes . . . to write.
Why yes, I did shed a tear, however did you know?
All in all, imperfections considered, I’d say the holiday held a hint of perfection.