One more thin gypsy thief.
The year is coming to a close, winter break more than half over and holidays mostly gone, while the little patch of dirt where I make my home goes spinning helically around the axes of the planet and the sun, and angles slowly toward the light. You wouldn't know it on a day like today. Straight rain; nothing but big bellyaching clouds as far as the sky shows. Crazy drivers tailgating me with no lights on.
Holidays mostly gone. New Year's Eve isn't much of anything I do, really, and considerably less so now that I've got a littlun. Reckon I'll stay home and, if I'm lucky and she stays awake, kiss my lovely wife at midnight.
My gradually decreasing interest in holiday foofaraw, a well-established trend, has been counteracted this year by the enthusiasm of my lovely daughter. There's a big-ass difference between one-and-a-half and two-and-a-half; she's so much more in the world now, asking questions and rehearsing answers wherever she goes, blooming with emotion and imagination. So my grinchy distaste for the obligations of the season -- like taking time to wade through masses of consumers in search of gifts that aren't arbitrary or useless -- pales in comparison to the joy I feel watching Genevieve smile when she opens another advent calendar door. "It's a star, Mama! It's a chocolate star!"
A chocolate star, a set of watercolor paints, a doll, a rocking chair for her. For me, books and guitar picks and the new three-disc Tom Waits album, which I haven't listened to yet, which has my ears salivating madly, which is bound to be a holiday all its own.
Love to you and yours from me and mine. Peace out. See you next year.
Holidays mostly gone. New Year's Eve isn't much of anything I do, really, and considerably less so now that I've got a littlun. Reckon I'll stay home and, if I'm lucky and she stays awake, kiss my lovely wife at midnight.
My gradually decreasing interest in holiday foofaraw, a well-established trend, has been counteracted this year by the enthusiasm of my lovely daughter. There's a big-ass difference between one-and-a-half and two-and-a-half; she's so much more in the world now, asking questions and rehearsing answers wherever she goes, blooming with emotion and imagination. So my grinchy distaste for the obligations of the season -- like taking time to wade through masses of consumers in search of gifts that aren't arbitrary or useless -- pales in comparison to the joy I feel watching Genevieve smile when she opens another advent calendar door. "It's a star, Mama! It's a chocolate star!"
A chocolate star, a set of watercolor paints, a doll, a rocking chair for her. For me, books and guitar picks and the new three-disc Tom Waits album, which I haven't listened to yet, which has my ears salivating madly, which is bound to be a holiday all its own.
Love to you and yours from me and mine. Peace out. See you next year.
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