In our family, we sure do like to relax for those first few days after Christmas. We eat a lot of cookies. We veg in front of the TV watching movies and reruns. We sing along to Christmas music and often rewrite the lyrics with unsuitable words. We play with our new gadgets. We sleep until 9 a.m. and rarely change out of our garish reindeer pajamas.
Then lightening strikes around 6:55 a.m. on December 29th.
On that day, at 7:30 a.m., and after half of a pot of coffee, I become completely possessed. I discard and recycle everything disposable in sight with wild and reckless abandon. Stash, store, clean, go go go ! I’m a woman on a mission and I cannot be stopped !
Finally, three days later, the decorations are stored, the pine needles are vacuumed, and the dried out fried-to-a-crisp greenery is disposed of in the proper receptacle.
Years ago, when I was first married, I began filing the best of those holiday cards in an oversized scrapbook.
We receive a medley of greetings year after year, from the elegant cardstock of William Arthur, to the corny mass printed letters from witty relatives.
Many folks spend hours cataloguing their lives, and simply I cannot bear to part with any of these mementoes, especially if they contain photographs.
Cause I get all gushy and mushy when it comes to sweet holiday pictures of families.
And how funny to document in this treasure of a scrapbook that we’ve received the very same card from 100 year old Grandma Verna for three years straight. We’re pretty sure she doesn’t even know it.
Now that’s priceless.