I sat at my desk yesterday writing Christmas cards and looking at the snowy Olympic mountains across the water, shining in the sun. Another spectacular winter day. Now that the hedge is shorter, I have the only seat in the house with an actual view of something. John's desk is right behind mine, and he has a view of the wall. Oh, well, some people have all the luck.
I'm forever pecking away at the computer, but with actual pen in hand, the mind wanders in a pleasant way. I enjoy all the tactile fuss of Christmas cards. Using my real address book once a year, organizing the neat stacks of cards, picking holiday stamps and those free Christmassy return address labels the charities always send us. But decent penmanship takes more effort with each passing year.
Christmas brings back so many family memories. Mom bought boxes of Christmas cards-- everyone did back then. She wrote long letters, addressing and signing cards for hours. Her address book (always one of her most important possessions) told many stories itself, with notes and dates and entries added as children were born or crossed off as people passed away. Dozens of cards would arrive in the mail and they were always displayed on a string or taped up on a wall. Our tiny house was cluttered and beautiful with homemade decorations.
We have a busy weekend planned. We're taking Uber downtown tomorrow for our annual holiday treat. No driving or parking this time-- a treat in itself. There's an Andrew Wyeth exhibit at the Art Museum and I made lunch reservations at The Pink Door in the Pike Place market. We've never been there, but it's an old Seattle restaurant with a good reputation for Italian. So John gets a break from my brown pasta. After that, I might be able to talk him into a little shopping.
On Sunday there's a big Seahawk game, and our friends Terri and George are coming over for dinner-- chicken enchiladas are on the menu.
Have a great weekend. 17 days until Christmas!
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