I need to make sure I take out the butter to soften. The little butter dish, a gift from my daughter, Elizabeth, needs to be filled again.
I do this as it rains, giving me quiet moments; time to dust the lantern on the mantle in the living room. The months have left their dust and grime on the glass of the lantern my mother gave me in 1985. I am careful to clean the glass globe, careful not to break it, for it is a link to her memory, a memory that becomes even more tender in December.
It is a good afternoon to plug in Christmas lights and replace burnt bulbs. That was my job growing up, changing out the colorful bulbs. It made me feel grown up and special.
I will remove the old fireboard and hope what remains of a baby bird does not fall from the flue. They were there, the chimney swifts, all summer long, nesting and making noise. I loved the sound, and I loved that they had a place to go.
I will take the Snowman Christmas cookie jar, the one I bought at the Big K right before it closed, from the corner hutch and rinse it off and place it on the kitchen counter. The cute little snowman with the blue hat will remind me to bake Christmas cookies.
Christmas is coming, and these little things are the things that make it special…
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