Blood, Sweat, and Reindeer

Hoisting.
Struggling.
Sweating.
Cussin'.
Straining.
Sneezing.
Broken glass.
Cussin'.
Blood.
Tears. Denial that anything is wrong.
More sweat.
Teetering.
More cussin'.
Way more blood.
Crying.Blinking back tears.
Bandaids.
Gaping wounds.

An incessant internal dialogue which rarely ventured far from the simple question, "Why?"

Yes, folks, the Christmas decorating season is killing us killing me upon us once again.

Yesterday I attempted to hoist the 42 thousand million bins of lights and decorations from the basement up to my dining room, which is Christmas Cussing Central Christmas Decorating Central in my house.

As my daughter played video games in the adjacent room, I teetered atop dining room chairs straining to untwist, uncoil and arrange tangled-up lights, garlands, old Santa Clauses and strings of epithets beads delicately balanced atop the china cupboard and various overhead shelves, which are at least seventeen feet high if they're an inch.

After uttering several unsavory words under my breath--lest Chesapeake Bay Daughter hear me--I watched in slow-motion horror as a strand of extra large, white lights plummeted to the floor, taking a stuffed Santa Claus or two down with it as it fell. I was holding on to a prayer to another Santa Claus with my right hand, all the while standing tippy-toe on the dining room chair, wondering what planet I was originally intended for since clearly it was not Earth.

At least not at Christmas.

Using my cat-like reflexes, I grabbed those plummeting lights with my left hand before they hit the ground, but as I grasped and squeezed, an extra-large bulb cut a main artery the palm of my hand. Then the rest of the strand dropped on the hardwood floor, shattering at least 3 other bulbs.

Blah blah blah, there was bleeding and cussing and bandaids and Santa Clauses and garlands and stars and lights. And tourniquets.

The End.

p.s. I haven't even begun the arduous project of toting the bin which contains the qwazillion parts and pieces of an 8-foot artificial Christmas tree up the narrow steps from the basement.

We won't talk about assembling it once it's upstairs. Nor about putting on the tangled lights once it's assembled.

Thank you.

Click here to read about last year's efforts to put up outdoor lights, which is most people's first the last step in the whole Christmas decorating process. I can't allow myself to read it due to post-traumatic stress disorder.

Does Martha Stewart ever stand on dining room chairs?

The Eagle

This is one of two eagles who were frolicking around my parents' locust tree on Thanksgiving day. Eagles do that you know. Frolic.

This one spent the previous day lollygagging in a pine tree near Smithers Cemetery, which is across the creek from me. Eagles are prone to lollygagging, especially after before they frolic.

Mr. Eagle spent some time in this tree before settling on a dock post. He was dead-set on getting some scraps of fish my mother had thrown into the creek. But a heron was there to remind him that you don't always get what you want without competition. Even if your name is Mr. Eagle.

Here's hoping you have a Sunday where the worst thing you have to watch is an eagle and a heron vying for fish scraps.

Amen.

p.s. If you're not watching eagles, herons and fish scraps, what are you doing today?