The Secret Santa

Found a bag slipped over the handle of the storm door yesterday. A package was inside, addressed with a standard tag that read, "To: An English Major |  From: Santa." I am completely nonplussed by this. Any of the likely suspects are confirmed to not have been in the area near the time it was left. So I guess --- unless something is revealed upon opening it --- it's a truly anonymous gift. Feels like a book... and with a tag labeled as such, there's little doubt. It is wrapped in green paper with a Santa figure and is heavy on the Scotch tape.

Thing is, I wasn't precisely an English major. I received a minor degree in that concentration, which I suspect most people who have any interaction with me would know. And you'd think Santa would know that.... We'll wait until the morning of the 25th and see what it is then. Thank you, Santa.

"Common sense and a sense of humor are the same thing, moving at different speeds. A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing." --- William James

Sarah McLachlan - "Wintersong"

16 December 2009

Christmas shopping is just about wrapping up. Will not be divulging any secrets here. But I generally go for practical presents.

Toning it down a little this year, and I hope that our nuclear family will be making more out of the Christmas Eve movies (tentatively "It's a Wonderful Life" on NBC followed by "The Polar Express" on DVD) and the main event's morning meal (tentatively, Canadian bacon strata with a side of roasted potato medley) than presents. Then again, most people say that every year and each time the day takes on a life of its own. For a while now, I've wanted to institute an annual 'Very Merry Pajama Christmas' whereby everyone gathers to open presents on the morning in question in their PJs --- discretion required. Just doesn't seem to happen. This one is riding her broom, that one wants to do their own thing and meet a few days later, and mother has a history of meltdowns on Christmas Day proper. In the past several years, it's usually a day that has all the fun sucked out of it by people doing their own damn thing and with their own agenda. I accepted that, and made some of my own traditions. This included a Christmas morning walk with Sammy up the hill, around the lake and over to the Revolution-era cemetery on Swamp Road. This will be the second Christmas since he's gone, and the day is all the lesser for it.
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Our neighbor got a rescue-dog this week, a 4-year-old Staffordshire terrier / black lab mix named Elsie. Made the standard greeting of putting out the hand, but she was a little skittish and started yapping a bit. Neighbor said she believes the previous owner abused her, as she is skittish around men. Sheds like the Dickens! Hope it's a good fit for them both.

There's a whole debate about owning your dog from 8 weeks old and getting a rescue dog from a shelter. Some say that a rescue will never truly be your dog, some say that a rescue will love its new owner all the more. I will weasel out, take the middle ground and understand both points of view. It's a choice that each individual has to make. Myself, I would want a litter puppy, and it's a delicate choice. We have had luck with selecting males who are a little fatter and a little oafish. May be a little slow, but they are loyal and gentle. That is how their personality comes rough hewn; it is training that provides the finer touches. We are not ready for another dog, though, and I would be hard pressed to say when we will be. It's a heck of a commitment that too many people take too lightly.

"It will be of little avail to the people that the laws are made
by men of their choice, if the laws are so voluminous that they
cannot be read, or so incoherent that they cannot be understood; [or]
if they... undergo such incessant changes that no man who knows
what the law is today can guess what it will be tomorrow."
--- James Madison

So Much Depends

By James Dufresne

All deference to Mr. Williams,

but there are many other red objects

upon which so much depends

regardless of their juxtaposition to fowl.

Red hot water bottle pressed to an ear, insulated with white washcloth,

red dump truck stained with road sand, hauling demolished white plaster,

red windmill varnished with shellac, with spinning white paddles,

red candle brimming with wax, perched on white holder,

red fire engine freshly washed and waxed, a white Dalmatian atop,

red screwdriver speckled by old paint drops, securing the white mailbox,

red Coca-Cola can beaded with condensation, atop the white tablecloth

are equally dependable for their own purpose.

So much depends on these objects

but like the red wheel barrow depends

on a driver to grasp both handles,

lift its load, keep balance and spot-deliver its contents

So much depends on people using any red tool,

on knowing how to use them and exerting the

willpower necessary to start the task, then

persevere through setback, force majeure, or bad design.

With the red setting sun, so much depends on

walking through our red doors, eating a dinner

of roasted red potatoes and warming by red embers,

while thinking about what color to paint the barn.

"When the shadow of the sash appeared in the curtains it was between seven and eight o'clock and then I was in time again, hearing the watch. It was Grandfather’s and when Father gave it to me he said, 'I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it’s rather excruciatingly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father’s. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it.'"

--- William Faulkner from "The Sound and the Fury"

(Image © Yahoo! News France)

The Birdhouse

Alack and alas, here are the promised pictures of the birdhouse, old and new.

Technically, one is supposed to turn in expired license plates to the DMV, but these have been out of commission for quite a while now and no one has come knocking down our door for them. The plate numbers have been blurred for obvious reasons.