My Mother in law’s front room will always feel like Christmas, except of course when it feels like Thanksgiving, or Easter.
My 8 year old and his grandmother spent hours talking about the lights on this tree. Apparently some are more yellow than white. And this irked both of them. He sitting on the couch, consulting, she stringing the lights through the tree.
I sat in a chair trying to avoid the temptation to read the news, unable to figure out for the life of me which string of lights was the wrong color.
It’s all Greek to me.
Tomorrow they are thinking of starting to hang ornaments. I’ll be at the dentist, and the post office and making a trip to The Burrow in order to clean a few things out.
I’ll leave the perfect placement of each shiny ornament to those two. They have the flare for decorating, or one of them does. The other one might just have the flare for thinking he is right. All the time.
I’ll spend my time, savoring the smell of the tree and the gentle candle lights and even the Christmas music that we play after the first shift goes to bed.
It’s a new Christmas traditional, sleeping at Grandma’s now that we no longer live next door. Visiting our doggie, and working into the new way of things.
But this front room. Still the place to spend Christmas.
*Home for the Holidays
Thanksgiving came and went in a whirlwind of Turkey and Sweet potato pie, with family and random cardboard art thrown in for good measure.
And after a few rounds of Spykids and some more quilting. Quilting! We moved directly into painting The Burrow from head to toe.
Or top to bottom as the case may be. And in my case it was elbow to nose.
Officially time to go.
Easter was an unseasonably awesome day. The week that preceded it was usually PNW funky grey with clouds and hail and oh yeah rain. Every day, several times a day, the boys and I tromped out to the nut tree to check the status of the nut tree daffodils, which remained, unchanged. Not blooming. Not a one.
People spoke of the yellow dot on the forecast for Sunday, but we were all doubtful, and down right mistrustful. It was the hail that did it.
I was up early to make the traditional cinnamon rolls. Early I say, that is love.
And the not so traditional cinnamon rolls which were a huge hit, especially with those who don’t like as much icing.
And then it happened. Over the trees, I saw it. The sun rising! And later that same day? The daffodils? They bloomed. Freaking bloomed! On Easter day. It was like Magic.
We ate Easter dinner on the porch. Outside. Like, the outside and stuff! It was crazy, it was like all Californian and stuff, It was magic!
*Do you believe in Magic- Lovin’ Spoonful
Classic Easter Picture outtakes
La! la! la! La singing a Beatles song!
What? What is that in the lower right hand corner of the photo, look again? Hair?
My brother? huh? Oh there he is.
Mama: are you okay?
Him: Yeah I did that on purpose.
*Help – Beatles
Finally some blooming flowers
The Preparations are long and involved. And many. Many varied incarnations of traps, trickery and the general jokester behavior that you would expect from ones through whom Irish blood flows freely.
I think this is the second trap, or the third I’m not sure. I lost count. I can tell you that he has promised to call everyone he knows (‘you’re 8 years old! You only know you parents!) when he gets his magical powers on Saturday morning after his successful capture of a leprechaun.
I have warned him, that in my experience Leprechauns are naughty little boogers who tend toward skulduggery.
But he is nonplussed. And plods on as he tends to. With his plans and his adventure and his imagination.