“When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.”
I’d like to change the poem and say “Now that I’m an old woman I shall wear a purple robe with red slippers, which doesn’t go…”
Last night was our Christmas party, and my friends decorated my tree, as they do every year.
Drinks were drunk, eatables were eaten, and resolutions were resolved. A good time.
Yesterday it was my great joy to officiate at another wedding. Mark’s sister Kelly found the love of her life in Rich, and they were married yesterday, on the Winter Solstice. Bride feet, groom feet, minister feet, and photographer (Mark) foot.
This is my Christmas card this year. In The Art of Happiness the Dalai Lama says “If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.” Since I printed it over 100 times, I’m hoping it will remind me to practice compassion. I’m also hoping the recipients practice compassion when they judge my Christmas cards.
Yep, we closed on one yesterday. It’s small. Very small. Hopefully I’ll have photos of it soon. We may not get to work on it for a couple of weeks, what with water heaters, washing machines and furnaces giving us trouble. I’ll keep ya posted!
We’ve had some snow here in Plymouth, of late. Over six inches of snow. As you may recall, we’ve quite a number of properties, now in need of snow removal. We use a variety of methods, including a snow thrower and hiring people with plows. But one of the methods involves walking from place to place with a snow shovel in my hand.
As I trudge along, I can’t help but to think of Yuri Zhivago plodding through the Russian landscape of thick snow to Yuriatin, in Doctor Zhivago. Then Lara’s theme plays in my head. Enough. Enough with the snow. Enough with the balalaikas.
Do you make any of your holiday presents? I make some, I buy some that others have made, and I buy some that factories have made. Here’s the thing, when I’m making presents, my mind flies wildly back and forth between “What a beautiful little hand made gift, made by my own fingers, with love and care” to “who’s gonna want this piece of crap and maybe I should throw it out now before anyone sees it.” I’m not one who really cares if the recipients appreciate the time and effort, I just want them to like it and not have to be polite and pull it out of the closet when I’m coming over, only to hide it away as soon as I’m gone.
At first I’ll think the thing I’m working on is quite beautiful, then I think it looks pretty good for handmade, maybe like something from an import store, well, perhaps imported from a country where they have limited tools and haven’t discovered rulers and measuring yet. Pretty soon I’m hoping the recipient isn’t going to laugh and ask where their real present is.
When it comes to my own work, I cannot be impartial. I’m too close to see. Am I making a wonderful little keepsake? Or am I doing the adult equivalent of gluing macaroni to a box and spray painting it gold? If that’s the case, um, sorry.