It starts with a little sadness when cooler weather lingers longer. Leaves begin shriveling up and don’t look a whole lot different than my skin. When the back yard is covered in dried, brown foliage and winter’s approach is inevitable, melancholy dances atop my deepening sadness, thickening any atmosphere near me. Life feels like potato soup—with corn starch.
Then I’ll make the mistake of rousing the words
Christmas and
bank account in adjacent thoughts, and
whap! depression moves into my heart like mice when the cabin owners are gone.
“But Christmas isn’t about marketing, buying stuff, and being materialistic.” Right. But it would be nice to have an option.
Along with the gloom come ruminations of decisions that could have been wiser, relationships that could have lasted longer, opportunities that I didn’t pursue, relationships that lasted too long. But now, at my age, starting over is like having a cold car with a dead battery in the middle of winter. I think you get the drift.
“But what about the white-bearded guy who started Kentucky Fried Chicken when he was two hundred years old?” He was too blind to see that his chicken had hair all over it.
Yes, folks, ’tis the season. The holidays are upon us like a thong on a hippo, and they may not be pretty.
So what can pull a po’ ol’ gal out of her heavy-hearted humility?
A party! Sharing food year-round is my way of giving. (I can listen well too.) But eating nutritious fare with friends is one of the best things in life. It makes the sun shine brighter on a cloudy day and the moon look twice as good against a window.
So c’mon and join the Christmas Eve soirée, no matter what your persuasion. ’Cause like a little tree growing out of a chunk of granite, Auntie’s leaving dormancy and sending out (s)hoots.
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