It was more peaceful when I reached the residential areas of town, although I doubt if I spotted a single house without some kind of Christmas or winter decoration. On the outskirts of town I passed by several hills and ravines bristling with sledders and snowboarders. And when I got out into the country, I passed the occasional group of people who in spite of the fact that they were rapidly traversing the frozen fields on cross-country skis still found the energy to wave their poles and me and shout “Merry Christmas!” and “Happy holidays!”
For a moment I tried to imagine trekking that way across the countryside with Michael and the boys. And then I gave it up. My arm had begun bothering me on the way home. I waited until I was safely parked in the driveway, then took the pill with a long pull from the water bottle and walked inside. Michael’s car was there, which meant he and the boys were home from their shopping.
James and Josh were very glad to see me, and only the sight of my sling prevented them from hurling themselves upon me. They kept staring at the sling and asking what it was until I finally led them into the kitchen and made each of them a dish-towel sling.
The boys were delighted, and began racing around to find someone to admire their new accessories. Mother, when she arrived, was startled.
“What have they done to themselves now?” she asked.
“Swing, Gamma!” Josh explained.
Jamie just held his sling up so Mother could see.
“They both fell off the swing?” Mother asked. “What were they doing outside in this weather?”
“That was ‘sling,’” I pointed to my own sling. “They’re fine. Monkey see, monkey do.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “Very elegant. You both look quite dashing.”
“Where’s Daddy?” I asked. “Do you want to show him your slings?”
“Show Daddy!” both boys shouted, and ran upstairs.
“And how are you doing, dear?”
“Long day,” I said. “But I’m home, and planning to rest now.”
Which was intended as a subtle hint that if she was planning to enlist me in the redecorating, it wasn’t going to work.
“That’s nice, dear. Yes, it needs a little something.” She was gazing around the hallway with a small frown on her face, so I deduced that last part was about the decor, not my napping plans.
“‘A little something’?” I followed her gaze. The whole hall was decorated within an inch of its life. Evergreen garlands alternated with gold tinsel garlands, all ornamented with red velvet ribbons. Every horizontal surface contained at least a few branches of holly sporting clusters of red berries. Several dozen poinsettias were massed along the walls—elegant silk ones, of course, rather than real ones that might be poisonous to the dogs. In the front corner was a rather elongated tree, chosen specially to reach as close to the ceiling as possible without occupying so much floor space that we couldn’t open the door. It was completely decked with red and gold ornaments. We had two Nativity scenes, one small and traditional on the hall table, the other large and modernistic, on the floor beside the tree. Two handmade baskets held the Christmas cards we’d received. Special red and gold bowls scattered throughout held Rose Noire’s special potpourri blends—spruce and pine scent near the tree, cinnamon and apple flanking the arch to the living room, and clove and nutmeg in the hallway leading back into the kitchen.
Arriving guests generally spent the first fifteen minutes of their visit exclaiming over the decorations, which actually wasn’t as inconvenient as it might sound, since it usually took me five or ten minutes to hack my way through the decorations to get to the hall closet or the coatrack to hang their wraps. And once I finally pried the guests out of the hall, the marveling usually continued. Mother referred to her efforts in the living room and dining room as more restrained, though of course they were only so in comparison to the hall. It was all fine for social visits, but whenever anyone came on any business I’d taken to leading them to the kitchen, where they wouldn’t spend their entire time sightseeing and could be more easily induced to help consume some of the surplus of holiday cake, cookies, candy, and fruit that was piling up.
Mother had even incorporated our two dogs into the decorating scheme. The original plan was to put large red velvet bows on both dogs’ collars and to have them sleep on matching red velvet cushions on the hearth. I felt sorry for Horace, who’d been drafted to help with this part of the decorating. Tinkerbell, Rob’s enormous Irish Wolfhound, gave him no trouble—in fact, she actually seemed to like the red bow—but Horace had ended up making a trip to the ER after trying to decorate Spike, our nine-pound furball, whose personality resembled a cross between a saber-toothed tiger and a wolverine. By the time Horace got back, Spike had established ownership rights to the wolfhound-sized cushion. The cushion intended for his use was barely large enough to fit Tinkerbell’s enormous shaggy head, but she curled up on it anyway. Fortunately Mother found the resulting tableau cute, since any attempts to rearrange it would probably have resulted in more trips to the ER.