You won’t get any work done.
If you can’t find a tree, don’t panic. It’s Wisconsin.
Open car doors when attaching tree to roof.
Buy favorite champagne early.
Always drink champagne before shopping for tree.
Get lots of fresh air.
Balsams smell amazing, but don’t last as long as frasiers.
Go to at least one concert.
Buy and wrap presents early. HAHAHAHAHA
Listen to husband when he says tree looks great without ornaments.
Taking down the tree is a miserable job. But worth it.
Chex Mix.
I suppose I should begin by saying that although my gardens thrive, I am terrible with houseplants. I am so terrible, in fact, that my husband makes little “Help me” voices when I bring one home. My friend, Julie, after yet another botanical demise, recently told me that she would never give me a plant again. But a few years ago, I was inspired by my niece’s spectacular living room trees, and was determined to try once more.
So I bought two of the same variety, and remarkably, after three years, they are not dead. One, in fact, is a beautiful, lush, tree. The other is a pathetic stick with a couple of leaves sticking out.
They live in our sunny bedroom, and in the summer I put them out on the patio to soak up the sun and rain. From the first summer, the one immediately thrived and grew. The other languished. I tried switching their positions outside—no mean task because they are in big, heavy pots—but it made no difference. I brought them in for the winter, and the healthy one kept getting healthier, and the listless one continued its malingering.
Last summer, though, things took a turn. The healthy one grew spectacularly. The wan one kept falling over because it somehow collected water in the pot, and no matter what I did the soil kept turning into a marshy soup. Since they were only about five feet from one another, theoretically receiving the same rainfall and not under a drain pipe or anything, it was puzzling. And since we were mostly at the lake, I lost track, and the poor thing nearly drowned.
By the time I was paying attention again, plant one was spectacular, but plant two was in dire straits. I stood it up, added rocks and more soil, and brought them both inside. They both got fertilizer—probably at the wrong time of year—and as life became busy, I resumed my pattern of neglect.
About three weeks ago, I noticed that plant two had three teeny leaves growing valiantly from its spiral trunk. I was doubtful, so every day I have double-checked. They continue to grow, and so far, seem determined to persist. I am being careful to pay attention, not to over or under water, and I switched positions of the two plants so the desperate one gets the benefit of whatever the healthy one had last winter. The healthy one is…healthy. It’s getting so big, I’m not quite sure what to do with it.
But maybe now the pathetic one will grow, too. My New Year’s resolution is for it to match its boisterous friend.
Hoping for advice, I asked my niece about her beautiful living room trees. They died.
It is quiet in the house. Auggie snoozes on the couch nearby. Eli has discovered the new bed in his favorite corner of the living room. The fireplace has one log burning, and above it I have lit my favorite scented candle. Outside, the sky has the specifically blue clouds that foretell snow. A hawk is flying low, on the hunt, and now, a very faint, fine snow has begun to fall.
Yesterday, I took a long nap, and didn’t feel any urgent need to get up to do anything. We went shopping, bought a television that actually works to fit in the bookcase, and braved the frantic grocery store to buy smoked salmon and shrimp for our New Year’s Eve. The dogs came with us in the car, and enjoyed the scents from open windows.
Today I will make soup, take another nap, and reclaim my office in preparation for my work. Later, we will talk of the future, and drink champagne.
This will be a busy year of work.
I feel ready.
The French retreat officially happens on Saturday morning, so we have three days left. Tomorrow is the family birthday party for our grandson, so I have things to do, but my enthusiasm for big extravaganzas is at low ebb. We are keeping it simple: birthday cake, champagne, and sparkling cider. AFTER dinner.
The weather is making it a challenge to keep the house clean. There’s been nothing but rain and mud for weeks now. There are splashes of mud on the wall in the back hall, and the little corners of the toe moulding need to be cleaned wherever the dogs have walked. I had hoped to convince myself to let this go, but I can’t.
We will not discuss the bedspread.
Knowing my boys, they will want to come pick up the cake (notice I did not bake it myself) and buy fresh flowers, and maybe even use the last of the Christmas cookie dough to cut out cookies. Tomorrow grandpa will take them to the bounce place to get everyone out of my hair.
I have loved having everyone here, but I am tired, and need the long, uneventful days that are my ordinary life. Next week my real work begins, and in contrast, the full days of writing will feel like a vacation.
But there are a few more days of happy chaos to come.
One thing: I think we can be fairly certain no one at the party will strip to the waist to play hide and seek in the dark.
Merry Christmas to all of you, and to all you love. This dog photo is not gratuitous.
The French invasion has commenced. Last night we celebrated winter solstice with candlelight, vin chaud, and a warming stew made with beef, brandy, and root vegetables.
A long night seemed particularly appropriate since 2/5ths of us were jet lagged, and the rest were sleep-deprived after a 2:30 am bedtime. The kids, almost too tired to eat, took baths and went to bed after dinner, while the adults sampled champagne options for Christmas and walked together in the cool night, engaged in overdue conversation.
When we came in, the boys were not asleep, but giggling together in the dark in their shared bedroom. They’ve been apart for a long time.
Winter lies before us, but we look ahead all the same to lengthening daylight.
Personally, I’m praying for snow.
Happy Solstice.
Well, tomorrow.
What we affectionately refer to as the French invasion begins tomorrow, when our daughter and younger grandson arrive for Christmas. Today there will be a certain amount of bustle as beds are changed, the house is cleaned, flowers are refreshed and we stock up on coffee for our daughter, and bake Christmas cookies for boys.
Also the dog hair must be vacuumed from the back seat of the big car. And Eli, who is responding to the warm winter in true long-hair fashion (he is half long-hair), is blowing his coat. He will need to be taken out to the orchard and brushed. Brushing him near the house makes visitors suspect we’ve had some kind of massacre of enormous bunnies.
I still cannot find the fragile glass icicle ornaments I pack away so carefully each year. Most annoying. They add such a magical shimmer to the tree. And, of course, our appliance debacle continued yesterday, on our first cold day in weeks, when our five year old furnace motor found a dark spot. Whatever that means. I am hoping the new part arrives today.
Meanwhile, only three days of school left for our long-term visiting grandson. Last night he meticulously wrote thank-you notes to all his teachers, and together we put bows and gift tags on his Christmas gifts. He will return home with his family before the new year.
All the bustle is fun and carries the requisite note of Christmas cheer. But there is cooking to be done, and wrapping, and still a few elements of shopping. Ah, and all the bed linens to be washed.
Speaking of cheer, there is one other note of preparation for the coming festivities: A case of champagne and the big bottle of whiskey.
By the end of the night, grandma may require a wee dram.
In any case, she will have earned it.
Update:
My husband, upon reading the above: “You have started calling yourself ‘Grandma’ and referring to yourself in the third person?…Also, where’s this whiskey?”
J.F. Riordan 