Albo P Fossa—December 28, 2019
2019 was just peachy. We dealt with dementia, an old Presidential lump on the breast of honor.
Our back porch reached fruition and we rested our lazy butts on a new mattress. We saw the world’s largest rosebush on the way back from our 35th anniversary trip to Tucson, where saguaros bloomed. Our garage-door went from arm-strong to push-button. On our way back from finding Bonanza in Nevada, we followed the Loneliest Road and peeked at Monument Valley. A new iPhone survived a 55mph leap from the car window on our way to see hundreds of cranes flock toward a recently exposed corn row.
By December 7th we lit up.
We draped the roof parapets’ light strings in seven to eight foot scallops: the sensor brought them up dusk to bedtime. A potted tree held lights outside the living room window near a mantle laid out with ornaments arrayed on evergreen cuttings.
The studio archway had its usual light string: both it and the little porch tree had remote controls.
By the 15th cookies and party mix were in boxes and bags, and the last parcels were shipped. We sent cards and packages just before the Post Office rush, and their counterparts arrived from all around.
By December 28th the time came to dismember Christmas: cut cards for use as next year’s gift tags, take down and fold light strings, and wrap and stow ornaments.
Lights, ornaments, cards, cookies, party mix, and memories, all in their appropriate boxes. Now we’re ready for the roaring twenties, a new decade where the teens may come to full bloom.
Happy new year.