A Tree of Memories

Sunday was the day for stringing popcorn and cranberries and decorating the tree with the help of friends and family. We're fortunate to have a core group who've done this so often that I could just leave them to it.

But I don't. I love to watch the old familiar ornaments appear and get put where they belong-- like the tree-topping angel that I made from a kit almost thirty years ago.

At last the popcorn cranberry chains are done -- about 75 feet of them -- and Justin and Cory take on the job of draping them to my exacting standards.

Then there are the scarlet ribbons for the tree . . .

. . . and the dogs . . .


. . . and one cat (Eddie was having none of it.)

The ornaments are an eclectic mix -- from this shabby blue ball that still bears the traces of the glitter-traced "Skip" that either my brother (Skip) or I adorned it with over fifty years ago. . .

. . to store bought crocheted snowflakes and candy canes and tin 'icicles' and a few porcelain bells that once adorned John's grandparents' tree. . .















. . . and this kinda tacky thing that was part of a box of ornaments my parents bought from John who was selling them as part of a club project back in high school . . .
















. . and this sequined heart made by Justin way back in third or fourth grade. . . .















. . and still another heart, made by Theresa, Aileen's mother.

















The finished product isn't glamorous-- but it's laden with memories.

In the News . . .

Kinda love the headline about the jail . . .

Summer is Just a Click Away . . .

If the cold weather begins to seem oppressive and you find yourself longing for summer, remember that it's just a click away. Maria Cecilia's blog "Casa Dulce Hogar" is full of roses from her home in Chile -- a surfeit of bloom so complete that I can almost smell them.

Skies

From early morning's pastel streaks . . .

. . . to the roiling clouds of mid afternoon . . .

. . . our mountain skies put on quite a show.

Making a Start

Getting ready for Christmas involves a lot of deconstruction: taking down paintings and objets that I consider part of the fall decor, stripping the throw pillows of their autumn leaf fabric covers, moving house plants upstairs to make room for the tree, taking down the somber hued quilts that have been on display since September . . .

And then there's the unpacking of the Christmas odds and ends that all have to be put in their traditional places -- starting with the gaudy red and green and white quilt made by my great-grandmother.

John will get the tree today and it'll get put up and the lights draped around it. But it won't be decorated till Sunday when friends and family assemble to string popcorn and cranberries and eat chili and cornbread. (I made the chili yesterday.)

The packages for out of town mailing are ready -- so I'm off to the P.O. There's greenery to cut and a door swag to arrange and more presents to wrap and maybe I need some poinsettias . . .

After the December Rain

Since the snow of a few days back, the weather has been haze and drizzle -- gray and misty and cold. Then on Tuesday night there was a downpour that reminded us what a blessing shelter is. It raged and beat against the window panes, set up a tattoo on the metal roof, and generally sounded like Noah's flood had come again.

We feared that the road would be washed away but when morning dawned, there were only two inches in the rain gauge and, though branches that are usually mere trickles were roaring, the road was intact.

After all this time with no sun to speak of, it was a bit of a thrill just to see good strong shadows. . .

. . . and to see the river birch decked briefly in a million fairy lights.

Romance ... and Baby Makes Three

So, I'm at the recycling center emptying my recyclable paper and there on top of all the newspapers and junk mail are a bunch of new-looking paperbacks -- with this guy on top. Latigo, a renegade Apache, could only bring the widowed Rose Colby more grief . . .

Never mind that I'd just given a box of books to the library -- the painful result of trying to de-accession some of my book collection. Never mind that genre romance is NOT something I read. I couldn't stop myself from scooping up several of these abandoned novels.

Whar surprised me though was not so much Latigo, the half-breed hunk in APACHE FIRE who yearns for acceptance, family, and love, but these other two books-- from Harlequin's Born in the USA series. (The subtitle of the series is 'Love, marriage, and the pursuit of family!' (Notice the pacifier on the back cover.)

What's going on here?

BITTERSWEET SACRIFICE: A young widow, pregnant with a stranger's child. She's agreed to act a a surrogate mother for an unknown man who really, really wants a child. She does this in order to pay for the operation her adorable little son needs. But then he realizes she can't give up the baby.

Would you believe that near the end of this pregnancy she meets and falls in love with Zade (hunky, wealthy) who is incredibly turned on by her gravid charms. (I mean, REALLY turned on.) Plus he really likes her little boy. And son-of-a-gun, would you believe that he turns out to be the father of the child she's carrying?

LATE BLOOMER is about an forty-year old spinster in a small Alabama town who encounters (hunky) Ben McKenzie (also wealthy) who is on the run with his daughter, trying to get her away from an abusive stepfather. Not only do sparks fly and matters get pretty steamy between the (very attractive) spinster who buys a whole new wardrobe of sexy lingerie, but the hunky, wealthy Ben is the salvation of the dying little town, bringing a recycled paper plant to revive the economy.

I'm kind of fascinated by this phenomenon.

And I wonder which fantasy appeals to which women . . . and why.

Now for Christmas. . .

This sculpture group fiddles and picks and sashays year round in front of the Asheville Civic Center. When I was in there last Friday, they were already decked out for Christmas.

I'm wondering what lively tune they're playing. I'm going to be in need of some peppy music. As of last night, I was in the closing chapters of my proof reading. Now for the Christmas preparations -- cooking, cleaning (roust those dogs off the sofas,) wrap and mail packages, pull out holiday decor . . . aye, law, let the revels commence!

Still Reading . . .

Sunday, and I'm still reading the page proofs . . . and still really pleased with how good it sounds to me.



















More of the same -- cold outside, the dogs and cats and I clustered round the fireplace inside.
William and Miss Susie Hutchins . . .

. . . Ali Ali, Maggie, and Jack relaxing . . . they're really good at it . . .

Molly keeping an eye on things . . . and Ali Ali and Otis being snug -- another perfect December day.

First Snow

We woke Saturday morning to drifting snow. And as the day went on, so did the snow.

Fortunately, there was no need for the dash to the grocery for bread and milk and diapers that so many folks in this county seem to perform as a reflex in response to the first flakes.

There was one thing to do -- walk barefoot in the first snow to ensure health all year. Eddie tells me he's safe.

And now so am I.

(I don't always walk so spraddle-foot; that was me being ultra-cautious on a slick surface, not wanting to be healthy but with broken bones.)

It was a perfect day to sit by the fire with our five dogs, as well as Justin and Claui's two who were dropped off for doggy day care.

And I had the page proofs of The Day of Small Things which arrived late Friday! I have to read through all 400 plus pages very, very carefully in search of typos and other errors.

I've been away from Day and so deep in Under the Skin that it's almost like reading someone else's book.

And, though I'm only a third of the way through it right now, I've got to say that I'm glad it was I who wrote it.

Seriously, I've almost made myself cry a couple of times (not an easy thing to do.)

I'm looking forward to the rest of it -- I hope it's as good!