A Walker in the Suburbs

Of course, we have one — a living room, that is. It’s never been like the living rooms of my youth, which were more like parlors. You sat in them with company but didn’t lounge around in them. 

In this house, there is no true “family room,” so the living room is where I spend time, especially now, with the tree by the window, the cards on the mantel, and the wrapping station by the fireplace. 

In these precious days, I sit on the couch and marvel at the “in-process’ness” of the room and the season. Some presents need wrapping, others need ribbons tied and curled. There’s food shopping yet to be done, holiday goodies still to bake, but this year (finally!) there’s time to savor the season itself, the living of it.  And what better place to do that, but in the living room.  

They are such fine-boned things, the glass so thin and delicate. But I always place a few old-fashioned ornaments on the tree. Most of them are vintage, ones from my childhood. All of them reflect the lights, make the Christmas tree a kaleidoscope of shine and sparkle.

I felt this red one slipping from my fingers as I tried to attach it. Had it landed on the carpet it might have been saved, but it didn’t. And though part of it survived, a considerable chunk of it became sharp shards and pieces so tiny I can only call them glass crumbles. 

What to do? Nothing but sweep it up, mourn its long life, and be glad that I was the one who broke it … 

‘Tis the season of group sings and holiday parties, of crowded cashiers in stores that are only crowded once a year. ‘Tis also the season of rhinovirus and adenovirus and respiratory syncytial virus. Put these together and you have a noxious stew.

As one on the receiving end of this special kind of holiday giving, I can say … 

I’m glad I was felled when I was. With any luck, I’ll be fully recovered in time to mail the cards, wrap the gifts, bake the cookies, and enjoy the cheer. 

Until then … aaaaachoooo! 

The new year padded in on little cat feet, like the fog in Sandburg’s poem. It swirled in with the firework smoke that clouded my view of the Christmas lights extravaganza behind us. 

It rang in on the Westminster chimes of the mantel clock, working again for the first time in decades. 

And now, almost nine hours into 2023, we’re having a peach of a morning, sun-softened, bright with promise. 

Happy New Year!

What a people-filled holiday season it’s been, visiting with family from near and far. After the presents are opened, the leftovers consumed and the last dishes washed and put away, it’s the people memories that linger longest. 

The gift that hit the mark, when you weren’t sure it would. The hugs we finally don’t feel guilty exchanging. The long conversations over breakfast, the long walks, too. 

At the beginning of every holiday season I experience a sort of inward groan as I look at the long list of to-dos.  But by this time every year I’m always glad I made the effort. Because behind all the cleaning and cooking, the getting and spending, there’s just one motive: to share the season with the ones I love.