This is our few weeks of winter. I love it, seeing the snow, almost down to the valley. The rain, which is flooding my yard and flowerbeds. To sit in front of the fire, with a cozy blanket and reading books.
As in times past, I have put all of December away. Christmas Tree, outside lights, everything that I put out in November. I think I just got into the habit. When we used to get a real Christmas tree, by the time the 25th rolled around it was a fire hazard. Then of course, we had six kids, if there was a baby that year, the baby would undecorate the tree, and leave a trail of ornaments that I would be picking up and putting back on the tree. Or, my particular favorite. My oldest daughter had an very large Iguana. She would let him go in the living room and he would always make for the top of the Christmas tree. Then like a distorted angel, sit on the tree top, blinking looking down at all of the faces laughing at his funny face. As she tried to get him out of the tree, his little hands would pull ornaments off and garland and I would decorate it all back. Or they played in the tree the games they had made up that normally they played outside, but the tree was such a warmer place to be.
So, that was when I got into the habit. Putting things away. I purposely always got ornaments and my Nativity that wouldn't break, because I wanted them to love Christmas and be able to touch and handle everything. This was the first year, I decorated my tree with glass. It was a pretty tree, but so sad as I had no Iguanas to climb to the top. Aw good times.
I decorated my mantel yesterday. I told Ron it looks like I am doing my January mantel for the Gold Rush of 1849. Ron got some of his grandpa's things from his mom and we were going through boxes and there was this great tiny anvil and that tiny hammer. He was a jewelry maker and these were some of his tools. In the background is his rock hammer too. He was also a rock hound and taught Ron all about polishing rocks. He was a very, very interesting man.
I wish you the best of days,
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.