The last month has been a pleasant whirlwind of events celebrating our favorite daughter.
While chatting with a friend in late autumn we mutually discovered that her visiting family was looking for a place to stay over Christmas, while we were looking for someplace to travel for the holiday. The plan was born.
Day 1. Feeling Hopeful.
Me. “I am calling to check on the status of this lost baggage.”
KLM. “The baggage is not lost. The Amsterdam ground team is looking for the baggage.”
Me. “If the baggage is not lost, why I am calling to check on the status?”
KLM. (Looooooong Pause.) “I am sorry.”
Once upon a time…(more like, just six years ago) our American Thanksgiving weekend followed a well-honed routine: Thursday of course was Turkey Day; and on Friday we procured the Christmas tree (no Black Friday nonsense for us!), which meant pulling the Radio Flyer wagon to our local parish and selecting an always-too-large tree from amongst the Boy Scouts offerings. ‘Tis a gift of maternal heritage; I also only know how to cook for either 2 or 10 people.
The entirety of the weekend was reserved for decorating both the tree; and, especially, the white picket fence around our garden with precisely-aligned lights and pine garland. Our home was on a corner near the elementary school and our neighbors and others had come to look forward to the glow of said precisely-aligned lights during the holiday season during their to and fro; in the first year following our move overseas neighbors even sent us sad photos of our house, void of holiday cheer, and writing about how much they had come to look forward to the lights.