Ghosts of Christmas past...

Well, we were sitting around this morning reminiscing about our childhoods, and kind of whining a little, too. I am remembering my mother busily baking up a storm around this time of year, so that the whole house smelled of cinnamon and vanilla and chocolate, too, when she stirred up the fudge. We had Hallmark Card Christmases, with very tasteful flocked trees and bowers of holly and even beribboned bunches of mistletoe over the doorways. Sometimes, the presents were piled as high as the tree. You would think this was all very wonderful, but the truth was, my mother martyred herself to this process, and instead of enjoying it, seemed to labor under the burden of the work. Now, I love a good Christmas cookie. I am going to bake some myself this afternoon. And my roommate is making candy, too. But it is a joy to do this, really. I insist on enjoying myself, even in the stores full of maniacal shoppers, even in the wall-to-wall traffic, even in the rain. There's not a thing I can do to change any of that, after all. So I sit at the stop light, for the fourth time, and just scratch Boo under the chin, or sing along with Barbra who in crooning her heart out for me on the CD player, and watch the window steam up. It could be worse, after all. I could be living in Iraq, and in fear of my life everyday I leave my hovel. There is always something to be grateful for, if I work a little at it.