And I mean now. Thanksgiving is finished. We had a different experience this year. Instead of bingeing on massive quantities of hot white buttered carbs and pie, we served some families from town at a friend’s restaurant. It was not as crowded as we had hoped (and she had expected) so there was plenty of “down-time” but the kids all got to help, and Kate played dinner music on her violin for 2 straight hours. It was Scott’s birthday, and I’m sure he could have envisioned something a bit more exciting to spend his day on than, say, squirting whipped cream onto slices of pie. But everyone was a champ, and service is always a good idea.
So the tree went up yesterday, and decorations were all over the house until I simply couldn’t stand it any longer and swept them all into bins to store again. Why can’t I throw away the funky ornaments from our “homemade” years? Why do I keep every tole-painted item that ever was wrapped and put under a tree with my name on it? I’m not a keeper, traditionally. I don’t attach myself to “stuff” or even to traditions (see yesterday). But I have a hard time just taking that whole bin of cheesy Christmas junk and dumping it into the can.
Maybe next year.