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Why this is the best holiday:
Corn bread - it's so good as dressing, stuffing, muffins, even for breakfast as a corn meal pancake.
Planes, Trains, & Automobiles (1987 film) - Steve Martin & John Candy can't get home. Ever been there? Ever said "If I ever get home I'm going to nail my feet to the ground"?
Hanging out in a warm kitchen (where the action is) while the slack-jawed stare at the boob-tube.
No pressure to get meaningful gifts. Bring what you enjoy and share.
Eat, relax, have dessert, walk - but not too far, get warm, TV, eat, relax, repeat.
Long distance phone calls are a convenient escape hatch. Most people are available for the call and are mellowed-out too!
Holidays are just starting so Santa & his minions have yet to be overdone.
This year I woke up to "Little Drummer Boy" on my clock radio alarm - before Halloween. I said before Halloween!
I changed the alarm before I did anything else that morning.
Now I wake safely to a CD.
Pah-rum-pum-pum-pum on that October morning was worse than the morning the station was playing "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" when the alarm went off. Both times I had to tell myself "this shouldn't ruin your day".
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And,
Two sets of prose supporting the theory
"why this is the best holiday":
To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
. . . (see comments)
- John Keats. 1795–1821
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Got my ticket, grabbed my load.
Conductor done yelling all aboard.
Find a seat and rare way back.
Watch this train going down the track.
Bring it on home.
(paraphrased)
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1 comment:
John Keats. 1795–1821
To Autumn
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 5
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease, 10
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 25
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 30
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
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