This post is two weeks overdue, but life kind of went sideways on me right around the 1st of December. I'm back. I think. More on that in later posts. I think.
For now, let me just say that it has been hard to get into the "Christmas spirit." For me, Christmas is far less about giving or receiving gifts, and far more about seeing my kids and my grandkids. Due to the pandemic, we won't be seeing each other this year. We didn't see each other on Thanksgiving, either, and I haven't seen most of my grandkids since last December. So, yeah, a year ago.
I don't want to dwell on that. It just makes me sad.
So allow me to reminisce, if you would please.
In 1994, two months after my first grandchild was born, I bought my first home as a single person. It took nearly every cent I had, and it took months to close escrow, but there we were, my kids and I, loading up our vehicles in a light rain just a few days before Christmas.
On Christmas Eve day, I shopped for gifts, bought a Christmas tree for our new family room, and made lasagna for our Christmas Eve dinner. My daughter and her husband came over with tiny, eight-week-old Ben, and I started a fire in the fireplace--only to fill the house with smoke because I had forgotten to open the flue. We hustled the baby outside while my son-in-law valiantly stuck his head into the fireplace and pulled the flue open to rescue us all. Sometime later, after we'd enjoyed dinner and were opening presents, the Christmas tree, hastily thrown into the stand by yours truly, fell over on top of me. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard since. I fell asleep on the couch that night, my kids gathered around, my grandson asleep on my chest.
Best. Christmas. ever.
The next morning I walked early with my boon companion, Alex Haley--not the author, but my big Rottweiler, Chow Chow mix, Alex the pound puppy, who would have loved nothing more in life than to always be within three feet of me, wherever I went.
The following is an excerpt from my memoir, The Dogs Who Saved Me:
I woke early to light rain falling on Christmas morning. Throwing on some jeans and a hooded jacket, I took Alex out to explore our neighborhood for the first time. We walked around the housing tract, misty sprinkles accumulating on Alex's fur, looking for all the world like tiny diamonds displayed on black velvet. He didn't seem to notice as he trotted ahead, sniffing each yard to learn who lived there, then returning to me to check on my progress. As we turned a corner, I saw Christmas lights blinking in the gloomy, overcast dawn, the yard filled with glowing animated decorations. Christmas lights were a simple pleasure we had been unable to afford for years. I vowed that by next year, even if we had to start small, we would have a string or two of lights to celebrate the holiday season.
My point in posting this flashback is simply to say, while some of us may not feel like decorating this year (I have yet to hang my outside lights--even though it only takes me about a half hour), I am ever so grateful for those who have. My neighbors throughout the community where I live really brought it this year. I have been walking at night (without Thomas, who, unlike Alex, is fearful of every new twinkling light or inflated creature), enjoying every colorful display, every festive expression of peace on earth, good will toward humankind.
If you decorated the outside of your home, no matter the extent, or put a brightly lit tree in your window, thank you. I'm not going to go door-to-door and thank every one of you personally (which would not be prudent at all in this time of pandemic), so this is my way of saying thanks; your effort means more than you will ever know.
