Get Away From The Manger
Ebenezer Scrooze may have spawned a daughter. Or I am channeling the Grinch again.
How many years has it been already when I really felt the Yuletide spirit take possession of my jaded soul and melt my frozen heart and warmed its cockles that the heat would spread to the tips of my toes and create a crimson flush across my cheeks? Three? Seven? Who would remember?
I used to make Christmas decorations in mid-September, be the one to insist on putting Japanese lanterns up by October, and be the first to sing Christmas carols while people still honored their dead.
Maybe that early frenzy robbed me of the novel feel for the holiday season as the years progressed.
I did buy some tinsels and shiny balls and glittered flowers yesterday. But when I got home and emptied the bags on the kitchen table for a bit of show and tell for Ta’s elder sister, I discovered that I can’t summon the energy to create a Yuletide wonderland.
While Ta’s sister, Marichu, puttered about with dinner preparations, all the while expressing her excitement at the decorations, I tried hanging up some of those sparkly garlands. But the results were – blah. Totally lifeless. I can’t feel the joy although I did try to “breathe” in the season’s spirit. Maybe the spirit has departed already for a more lucrative venture on Valentine’s day.
Even Marichu noticed the blandness of it.
“Perhaps a bit of green on that side,” she suggested tentatively and pointed to a cluster of the gold garland with gold balls and gold flowers. Right. Truly monotonically monochromatic.
I did as she advised. Then ate dinner. And then slept.
The early morning found most of the shiny balls on the floor, one made crackling sounds in our dog’s mouth. The garlands were a tangled mess. Turned out I didn’t put enough adhesive to hold the whole sheebang together… even to last just until Christmas morning.
Don’t mind me. I am not really up for cheerful holidays. Maybe, I function better with occasions that commemorate gloom, like Halloween, Feast of the Fallen Warriors, and Guy Fawkes’ Night.
Call me when Black Saturday rolls in.