“Chipmunks roasting on an open fire,
Frostbite chewing on your nose,
Yuletide carolers being thrown on a fire,
And folks dressed up like buffaloes…”
Ahh…the traditional sounds of Christmas. Thanksgiving is over, and we’re well into the Christmas, excuse me, “Holiday” season. Actually I prefer the Thanksgiving holiday myself, but it seems like it’s getting pushed aside more and more every year for that other great holiday tradition—“retail sales”. This is the time of year where you can be sure that every Monday morning, no matter what else happened in the world—earthquake, plane crash, war in the Middle East—the very first news story of the week will be a stimulating report on that weekend’s retail sales figures. It’s heartwarming. Really, it is.
Christmas at my house doesn’t begin until the day AFTER Thanksgiving. In spite of severe pressure from the media, and others, I have managed to hold on to this cherished tradition. It begins, as I said, the day after Thanksgiving, when I go to the garage, no, check that. The Sergeant Major sends me to the garage to recon, identify, and recover her “Christmas decorations”. The stuff I lovingly refer to as “all that crap in the corner”. We’re not talking a tree stand and a couple of wreaths here. She has 12 heavy Tupperware tubs, a large trash can, and several “Hefty” trash bags filled with Holiday treasures. Our garage is not attached to the house so I get out the wheelbarrow and begin to make the multiple journeys between the two buildings, all the while singing Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”. (You do believe that, right?)
Meanwhile, inside the house the Sergeant Major is busy taking all the normal décor off the walls, and the shelves, and is merrily stacking it in the middle of the floor. I’ll spend the next few days dodging the pile until she can empty the Christmas stuff, and pack the regular stuff in the tubs, can, and bags, so I can get out the wheelbarrow again, and equally joyfully, make the trips to the garage in reverse.
In the midst of all these journeys, I (cheerfully of course) remarked, “What am I? Your pack mule?” to which the Sergeant Major lovingly replied, “Either that, or my jackass!” Such love. After all, that is what Christmas is all about, isn’t it?
Eventually, the decorations do get put into their proper places, the tree is up and lit up like a…well, like a Christmas tree, and I am surrounded by the sights and sounds of another Christmas season—the tree, poinsettias, ornaments, wreaths, nutcrackers, a miniature village covered in snow, and of course, Santa. Dozens of Santas in fact. Apparently the Sergeant Major never had a visit from Santa as a child, so she keeps him close—on the shelves, on the bookcase, on the window sills, on the end tables. (Last year I swear I caught the one on the end table drinking out of my beer. He apparently waited until I’d had several hoping I wouldn’t notice).
To say the house now radiates Christmas would be an understatement. It glows. Literally. Between the extra extension cords criss-crossing the floor, to the candles glowing brightly in their stands, this place is a pyromaniac’s dream. So I have adopted the practice of giving a gift for each of the twelve days of Christmas. I don’t go the partridge in the pear tree route, and most definitely not the twelve drummers drumming (although I confess the eight maids a milking sounds tempting). No, I just stick to fire extinguishers and smoke alarms. The bright red fire extinguishers really do lend a festive note, and they’re really not that obnoxious if placed carefully next to the poinsettias.
And it’s not like everybody in the world is going to see all of this. It’s not even like ANYBODY is going to see all of this. Those of you who know me will not be surprised to learn that I have few friends, and we live several miles beyond “the sticks” so it’s not likely anybody is going to drop by. (Really. The nearest town, population 750, is six miles away, although the modern world is starting to reach us. In addition to the bank, and the general store, we now have our very own Indian gaming casino.)
But I think the crowning glory was the Sergeant Major’s decision last year to “modernize”. Now, for years, our “stockings were hung by the chimney with care”. But for some reason, she decided that was no longer good enough, and replaced the traditional “stockings” with (I am not making this up) “boxer shorts”. Yes. What says “Christmas” better than a pair of boxers? Oh, they’re in the proper Christmas color—plaid—but really, boxers? I had a hard enough time thinking about Santa sneaking around the house putting stuff in my socks. The image of him reaching into my boxers…no, I just can’t go there.
Anyway, it makes the Sergeant Major happy, and as everyone knows when the Sergeant Major’s happy, the troops are happy. She’s at peace with the world now, so I have time to crack open another “barley pop” and listen to that wonderful Christmas music…
”Grandma got run over by a reindeer…”
