The first year of Willie and I’s domestic bliss/mutually-agreed-to partnering/legally binding marriage, we celebrated Christmas Eve quietly at home and then joined family on Christmas.
A first marriage, a first Christmas. Oooooh. My gift to him was already sitting in the garage, a red ribbon somewhat sloppily looped about a mid-range snowblower perfectly suited for the city. Not the most romantic gift, I’ll grant you, but a highly practical one.
How was I to know I was soon to be “out-practicaled”?
Willie got me two gifts that year and there they were under the tree: one was long, cylindrical, the other very thin and flat.
“Open it! Open it!”
I opened the first one.
An umbrella – an enormous black umbrella, the kind that perhaps a caddy would hold over you while you putted or maybe something that you could use in hand-to-hand combat.
My mouth dropped open.
“Wait! Wait!” He handed me the last gift.
It was a calendar.
Waaaaaaaaaaah! I burst into tears.
“But it’s a Lord of the Rings calendar!” he protested, confused. “Look! March is Legolas! Isn’t he your favorite?”
He shook his head, perplexed by this turn of events. “But you love the Lord of the Rings!”
Looking back, I’m no longer sure what, exactly, made me cry like that, but the next year I got a cashmere sweater and a bottle of very lovely perfume.
Merry Christmas, my bloggy friends.
Season of the Buffalo
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