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
