The day arrived to go up in the attic and bring down all the Christmas decorations last Saturday. It is football day.
It is not a happy moment because it means climbing a ladder, crawling on my aging knees and working at half stance gathering boxes and paper mache manikins dressed as carolers, a six-foot plastic tree, assorted family holiday garlands that look like red poinsettia leaves, ornaments, and the silvery star that has seen a score of yuletides.
Bent over like Quasimodo, I have to make perhaps 10 trips back and forth with the memorabilia and hand them down to Elsbeth at the base of the ladder. She has a bean counter mind and knows exactly what is up there, so I can't fake it with a declaration that I have gotten it all.
Ugh. I detest being bent double and wonder where younger members are and wonder how the Huskies are doing.
Sure, the kids love the traditional Christmas Eve celebration, the glorious get together, the table laden with goody bites, the singing of carols and, of course, the colorful scene with little grand kids romping underfoot.
I do too, but I can do without the scraped knees and the contortions.
My beloved will now set about putting everything in place while I watch football and soon the whole house will look like a tornado hit us. I am useful for climbing ladders and finding boxes but a bane when she sets about decorating.
Life was a lot simpler when I was a kid. We had a tree my big brother severed from the top of a forest leviathan. We had some ornaments including a couple of glass birds with long blonde tails and we made popcorn garlands and hung shiny lead rain over the limbs.
We all went to bed early and opened gifts in the morning. I saved my wood piling money and put it in some mysterious place downtown every Tuesday morning during school bank day. It was always around three bucks and I could buy everybody something.
It is still a mess of boxes as I write this but it is beginning to look a lot like Christmas already.
And seeing her work her magic is starting to give me a warm feeling. I don't think it is the fireplace.
