burnt
Well-known member
Well if your house is like ours, it is much quieter now than it was a couple of days ago when all of the family returned home for Christmas Day. I had forgotten how noisy a few kids could be while trying to kill each other under the pretense of playing a game of Jungle Speed around the kitchen table. And this, after the relative (and deceptive) serenity of a big breakfast and gift opening first thing in the morning. Talk about uncovering a wide range of family dynamics in giving and taking – this was the ultimate discovery session! Whatever happened to "Peace on Earth…"?
Boy-oh-boy can they get into it, their mother seeming to enjoy it as much as they did! And Daughter-in-law fit in oh so comfortably. Miraculously, no blood was shed, the physical damage being limited to a few broken fingernails, bent-over knuckles and a catastrophe avoided as the coveted, heavy wooden game piece narrowly missed going through the kitchen-sink window when it was sent flying by two grasping hands empowered more by blinding greed than skillful speed.
Nursing a preference for quiet civility, I hunkered down in the Lazy Boy with a freshly-unwrapped, Joe Garner autobiography, "Never Fly Over an Eagle's Nest", in which he retells of his early years growing up on Canada's undeveloped west coast. It was easy to get lost in his vivid descriptions of unnerving encounters with wildcats, tough humanity and untamed country. Judging from the intimidating howls in the kitchen, it seemed safer to read of it in his lifetime than live it in mine.
Yesterday morning, through an inch of fresh snow on the exposed soybean stubble, we went to the bush to cut firewood. This trip served two purposes – working off some of the previous days' indulgences while building up next winter's supply of house warmth. By evening, we had a significant part of the requisite woodpile restored, with tired muscles giving corroborating evidence. It is always a wonder to me, seeing that pile of freshly cut and split wood grow bigger, piece by piece, until someone finally says "Isn't that that about enough for next winter?".
But in spite of a big pile and a full oil tank, we always end up adding more, spurred on, perhaps, by my memory of times when our big, old farmhouse was not well insulated and the woodpile was never big enough. And there was no oil tank. I can still see, in my mind's eye, the strips of cloth jammed into the cracks around the doors and windows, struggling desperately to slow down the biting east winds that always managed to penetrate our cocoon anyway. How things have changed . . .
I love Christmas with its celebration of the birth of our Savior, and with the celebration of family and all of the activity it brings. And I love the day after Christmas with its reflection on good times and return to the normal, mundane things of everyday life. It's a season when "Joy to the World" takes on a fresh meaning, and I sing.
JES, Dec, 27, 2012.
Boy-oh-boy can they get into it, their mother seeming to enjoy it as much as they did! And Daughter-in-law fit in oh so comfortably. Miraculously, no blood was shed, the physical damage being limited to a few broken fingernails, bent-over knuckles and a catastrophe avoided as the coveted, heavy wooden game piece narrowly missed going through the kitchen-sink window when it was sent flying by two grasping hands empowered more by blinding greed than skillful speed.
Nursing a preference for quiet civility, I hunkered down in the Lazy Boy with a freshly-unwrapped, Joe Garner autobiography, "Never Fly Over an Eagle's Nest", in which he retells of his early years growing up on Canada's undeveloped west coast. It was easy to get lost in his vivid descriptions of unnerving encounters with wildcats, tough humanity and untamed country. Judging from the intimidating howls in the kitchen, it seemed safer to read of it in his lifetime than live it in mine.
Yesterday morning, through an inch of fresh snow on the exposed soybean stubble, we went to the bush to cut firewood. This trip served two purposes – working off some of the previous days' indulgences while building up next winter's supply of house warmth. By evening, we had a significant part of the requisite woodpile restored, with tired muscles giving corroborating evidence. It is always a wonder to me, seeing that pile of freshly cut and split wood grow bigger, piece by piece, until someone finally says "Isn't that that about enough for next winter?".
But in spite of a big pile and a full oil tank, we always end up adding more, spurred on, perhaps, by my memory of times when our big, old farmhouse was not well insulated and the woodpile was never big enough. And there was no oil tank. I can still see, in my mind's eye, the strips of cloth jammed into the cracks around the doors and windows, struggling desperately to slow down the biting east winds that always managed to penetrate our cocoon anyway. How things have changed . . .
I love Christmas with its celebration of the birth of our Savior, and with the celebration of family and all of the activity it brings. And I love the day after Christmas with its reflection on good times and return to the normal, mundane things of everyday life. It's a season when "Joy to the World" takes on a fresh meaning, and I sing.
JES, Dec, 27, 2012.
:lol: 