post mortem...

There is a Christmas, in the enchanted forests of my imagination, that is not about spending and getting, running around frantically, eating unhealthy foods, passing interminable amounts of time with people who are not interested in anything, and enforced merriment.  But in real space and time my Christmas was a bit too much of all the things that I respond to with a kind of opposum-catatonia.  In an attempt to recover my senses, I've watched Christmas in Connecticut (the Barbara Stanwyck version) four times.  I've tried to stir up some excitement in my jaded felines for their squeaking wind-up mice.  I made, not without event, another pair of mittens.  Fortunately, there was snow to be shoveled and juncos and cardinals to be fed, books to be read for the first time in weeks and writing to be done.  At least no one was sick.  And the felted clogs made my aunt very, very happy.