Time to close the old calendar and open the new. This year is going to be different. I’ll get the birthdays, theater dates and all that stuff written in right away. I save the old one to serve as a diary of the year that has just slipped by. I slide the heel of my hand down the new. It won’t lie flat. Give it a couple of days.
On to the second project of the new year. I take the tinsel and ornaments from the tree and replace them in their boxes. No more needles pemanently imbedded in the carpet since we’ve gone artificial but I still get pricked as I fold the tree branches.
I visually inventory the decorations on the mantle and the tables. This is the year I’m finally going to get rid of some of the older ones, the bent, the chipped, the dusty. First the reindeer with the broken leg. Rolly was three that year. He thought all four legs should be straight.
These little snowmen haven’t been white for years, I guess. Greg made them when he was in kindergarten.
How many times have I reglittered this old angel? I remember the night Bob sat her by my plate after we had that little tiff. He said I was an angel for giving in.
It’s no use. Maybe next year. Up to the attic with all!
While I’m in the mood, I’ll write some thank you notes. Not so many to write this year since most of us have decided that the times we share are better than gifts we don’t know what to do with. Those cute little cat notecards I saw in the mall would be perfect to write my thank yous in. I’ll run over later this week and buy a box.
Now I can sit down, drink a glass of wine and re-read all the Christmas cards and notes. Then I’ll sort them into those that call for a response, those I want to save for early display next year, and those I will reluctantly toss.
I drank that glass of wine, then I must have dozed off. A little wine always makes me sleepy. I’ve only gone through about half of my cards. I’ll finish them later.
There is some leftover ham in the fridge. I think I’ll have a ham sandwich and the last of the Christmas cookies. Tomorrow I start my diet. This Year’s Going To Be Different.
By Dorothy Denne