I’m dreaming of a wet Christmas.
The first drops fell after I had fetched the kindling from the back porch at 4:30 this morning. It sleeted for a while, sizzling like hot grease as it hit the metal roof of the house, but now has become a stready cold rain before first light; it promises to be a bad day for new roller skates or tricycles on Blue Ridge city sidewalks. But then, I suppose not so many children get that kind of active toy as they did when I was a kid. Rain means nothing when you unwrap your X-box on Christmas morning.
Ann and I will defer our modest gift-exchange until the kids arrive, one set later today from mid-point in their trip from St. Louis, and the other tomorrow afternoon coming up from the in-laws in far western North Carolina. Both, I’m afraid, will drive in the rain. But at least it isn’t frozen this year as it was last year this time.
And there will be Abby, almost six, to enjoy the goodies–no X-box included–and the warm puppy. And maybe Wednesday when the rain stops, we’ll take a ramble along the creek or that night, find a chance for her (and her grampa) to play with the glow-in-the-dark Frizbee. Oops. I can’t say that yet. It’s a surprise.