[Special Holiday blog]
On the radio at the moment they are playing a Christmas song I love, about Snoopy and the Red Baron. I think it’s a cool song with very catchy music and with lyrics that I like, but it’s also about Snoopy. I love Snoopy, and if you don’t, I’m taking down your stocking and eating the candy myself.
It is raining hard here in Walton County, Georgia, east of Atlanta. Since I’m sitting inside in my brother’s giant living room, looking out the wall ’o windows at a small lake mottled by the rain, I don’t care too much what the weather is. At least it ain’t snowing. We had home-made biscuits and spicy sausage gravy for breakfast, so everything is just like Santa intended. Or Jesus. I get confused. Which one is in charge? Aren’t they brothers?
Yesterday morning I was in Charlotte, North Carolina, and before I left to drive to Georgia, I went into the kitchen to find that my friend had put on Lynyrd Skynyrd rather loud, and she was dancing in the kitchen in preparation for making a chocolate pie. It seemed like a proper start to Christmas Eve.
I got lucky driving from Charlotte to Georgia, as it was beyootiful sunny weather, but today we’re having a wet Christmas, like the song says: “I’m dreaming of a gray Christmas…” This afternoon all of the immediate family who were able to come showed up, including my 78-year-old mother and her new husband as of two months ago, along with my father and stepmother, brothers, wives, and nieces. We had an Italian meal, as all good Scotch-Irish southerners would naturally do, then we exchanged gift bags, and there was much merriment, ho-ho guffawing, and careful examination of other people’s bags. Afterward I came upstairs to rest a few minutes, and as I lay on the bed, I was noting just how much laughter I heard down the stairs. We are, in all honesty, a very weird family, but a jolly one at Christmas.
—A bit later in the day—
I have yet to eat desert. My heart wants it, but my head so far has remained in charge after a solid savory lunch. I believe sugarbomb time lies ahead in the future. We are down to three of us in the house now, not counting the dog Max, who seems willing to lie stupefied in true canine fashion, or leap about barking until told four or five times to shut the hell up. He’s a flexible dog.
Now that I’ve finished writing this, the rain has died down. The colored scraps of paper are picked up. The leftover lasagne is in the refrigerator. And now there is news on the radio. It must be that Christmas is drifting into the evening before tomorrow.