Two more days of Christmas--for liturgical folks

                On Christmas Day, I sat quietly—except for scolding Greye about his constant short forays into the frigid attic and back, leaving the door ajar—and reveled in Sunday’s, Christmas Eve day, “Christmas at Couchwood.”

                My four adult children, spouses, and five grown grandchildren—if you can call age 16 “grown”—spent the earlier part of the day with their dad, and the later part with their mom—moi.

                I had already traveled to Tull to church, returning at 11a.m. to finish last-minute cleaning, and perhaps have a chance to sit with the newspaper. Didn’t happen. Oh, I got done what I intended to, with twenty minutes to spare.

                 That included making a batch of mac-and-cheese for a granddaughter who, last Christmas, betook herself to the kitchen, opened the cupboards, spied a box of said product, and—without consulting me—proceeded to do just that. This year, though she knew it was waiting, either she ate too much other stuff, or she forgot. Not to worry, her cousin Billy ate it later that night.

                Everyone came laden with gift bags and Walmart sacks of left-overs from their noon meal in Bryant--as well as additional food–in case we didn’t have enough. My black eye meant explaining (despite the advice from my Canberra blog friend to “don’t explain”) how it happened. I also didn’t do like several Facebook friends jokingly suggested and make up a doozy of a story.

                I tripped over a box of Billy’s stuff that he’d moved “out of the way instead of to his room as I’d asked. He’d do it when he returned from “hanging with friends,” he said, closing the front door behind him.

                I forgot it was there and on my way into the middle of the room, I fell over it, literally sliding face first into the 3-legged tree stand, the tree and the fishbowl-full-of-marbles holding the tree’s stem. The piano leg on the right stopped me as the heavy fishbowl landed above and to the side of my left eye. It felt like my head was in a vise and someone was squeezing.

                Someone asked me if I cried. No. Someone else asked me if I cussed. No. When I stopped sliding, I thanked God I didn’t pass out. I turtle-crawled around to turn off the tree lights because I’d spilled a bottle of water on the hardwood floors, and remembering what the floor folks said, I pulled myself up—I could walk OK--and towel-dried the wood. The table was toast, its three legs akimbo and disembodied from the circular top.

                I’d immediately emailed all children and siblings and BFF (but not Billy) of my accident and assured them I was OK. That happened Thursday night and by Sunday morning, well, it would be my first Christmas with a black eye.

                Once the family was satisfied with my story and my well-being, admired the re-doing of the tree set on an oak TV table, and after we’d decided to share gifts before another round of eating, we settled in. Fireplace was burning (I can’t say “roaring” because gas logs don’t roar), window, snow village and tree lights were glowing, as was this matriarch.

                Three-and-a-half hours later, the Conway bunch left, then the Hot Springs bunch. The local folks stayed a while longer, but not much. Several seemed to think it was bedtime. But it was only 6:30.

                Christmas came a day early at Couchwood, and all was well in my world. I hope it was good for you, too, and continues to hold sweet memories. Blessed Epiphany, and Happy New Year.

c 2018, PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR