family

Le jour de gloire est arrivée

/ J. F. Riordan / 23 Comments

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?”

Small Oversight

/ J. F. Riordan / 27 Comments

Life can be busy sometimes, what with eighth grade basketball practice, slope intercepts, multiple broken appliances, Christmas preparations, and hauling ten eighth-graders to and from an escape room. So somehow, we have managed to wait too long to buy our Christmas tree.

I bought a small one for the library as I do every year, and mostly handled it myself. But our main tree, the one that has to go to the ceiling, is more of a family project, and finding the right time to shop for it has been tricky.

I expressed my concern to my husband last night. “We live in Wisconsin,” my husband pointed out. “The land of Christmas trees.” And it’s true. The trees are harvested in August, then stored underwater in river beds until it’s time to ship across the country. But somehow the supply seems more limited than usual. We always buy our tree from a family who set up at the motel parking lot. They are from “Up North”. They are cheerful guys with rosy faces and thick Wisconsin accents. They are part of our tradition, and when their postcard comes every November we welcome it as a sign of the season. But when I drove past yesterday they only had two sizes left: Too small and WAYYY too big. The local Optimists Club, who sell trees to raise funds for scholarships, were also down to a dozen or so small, but pretty trees. Same with our family-run nursery, and the cut-your-own lot a bit out of town was already closed.

Now, as a confession, last year, when our worries about dried-out trees and fires were fresh in our minds, I bought a splendid fake tree from Balsam Hill. It looks very real, probably, and as a bonus, all the lights are already on it. I am stickler for lights, and yet it is a job I dread in both the putting-on and the taking-off of them. But somehow, for this Christmas with the family coming from France and Washington, it seems wrong to have a fake tree as our main tree. I just can’t seem to do it. And so, it’s still sitting in its box in our attic, doubtless inhabited by singing mice.

We will have to go on a tree hunt tonight after the basketball game. (What is the opposite of “undefeated”?)

It may come down to the fake tree after all.

Gratuitous Dog Photo

Auggie patiently snoozing while I work. No fire; it will be 55 degrees today.

St. Nick

/ J. F. Riordan / 17 Comments

We didn’t celebrate St. Nick’s Day when I was a child. I hadn’t even heard of it until we moved to Wisconsin. And it didn’t occur to my parents–who were not big on following along with the crowd–to adopt the local custom. I never felt deprived.

But St. Nick is a thing, both among the local families, and according to French custom, so with our French/American grandson living with us this year, the old fellow was expected to make an appearance at our house. I bought candy and clementines and a rather beautiful US Passport Christmas ornament, and felt I had met the mark. But when we heard that little brother in France got earbuds, we realized we had to up our game. So a late-night emergency trip to the local drugstore yielded a pocket retro electronic game which Grandpa had observed being coveted, and a crappy-cheapo plush Santa hat, which, apparently, is a middle school thing. St. Nick has dutifully delivered these treasures into the depths of the très chic name-brand boots we bought for the non-existent snow.

The boy is happy. And so are we. Kids make the season more fun. Although the game makes a familiar and annoying electronic noise that may drive me mad.

Should have bought the earbuds.