I have some of the Avon Christmas plates on the walls; I have the candles in the windows; I brought in the holiday coffee mugs. And today, I re-arranged the living room.
I can't really say I like the arrangement, the way I pushed the couch into a corner. But I wanted to put the Christmas tree in a front window this year, and that's the only way I could make room there.
I hope we can go to the nearest Christmas tree farm and cut our own, because that's the only way you get the full benefit of the fresh pine scent, which is the only reason I stubbornly insist on a real tree. That smell takes me back to all my childhood Christmases. Honestly, the memories are the only reason I mess with any of the holiday things.
The grandchildren don't care whether I have a tree, and I doubt if Cliff does. But so far, I do all this stuff every December in hopes I'll find a second or two of my childhood in the process. Because I really do wish I was a kid again. I wish I still believed Santa was real.
I'm especially anxious to decorate my tree this year because a kind reader sent me some bubble lights last year, and I can't wait to see them on my tree. Hmm, maybe there is a Santa after all.