...on Christmas Eve.

The town of Whitewater seems deserted. Pax and I had a long walk on campus and saw no one, only occasional footprints. McDonalds and Walmart about the only things open.

And, speaking of open, I remember Bookstore Christmas Eves, when we were very much open, in fact experiencing pandemonium right up to the closing bell. But then, at five, satisfied relief, and a celebration—we had done it, and made enough money to keep the store alive another year.

Since my memory sometimes falters, I asked John to provide some background:

Mostly, Christmas Eve was something to get past so morning would arrive sooner. Dad always read "The Night Before Christmas " just before bed. We were allowed to open one gift. Once, I remember going to bed and hearing noises from downstairs (music? I thought). Come morning we found a new record player under the tree. After opening lots and lots of presents, the cousins would show up, and perhaps also Unkie and Aunt Janet, and after another round of present opening we would eat a big brunch. But this was Christmas Day. I remember hoping for ice (smooth ice) to arrive over Christmas Eve so we could skate on Christmas Day.

Christmas day, mentioned above, reminds me about early Christmas mornings when we kids had to roust our recalcitrant parents out of their long winter's nap. It was slow work. Then Dad had to go downstairs to plug in the Christmas lights—taking forever and seeming to forget about everyone left upstairs. When he eventually returned, subtly suggesting that Santa might or might not, in fact have missed 7 Crandall Avenue, the rest of the family had to line up behind him, single file, in ascending order of age (I do believe), with Mom in back to make sure nobody got lost. Then we would begin descending the stairs. But ever so slowly! And a few steps down, invariably, with the view of the tree still obstructed, progress would halt, and we would encounter some problem that might require a little backing up. Once that got resolved the descent would resume, but slowly.

Eventually, once everyone had a view through the bannister of the tree and what lay below it, there was no more slow.

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ON CHRISTMAS EVE

In byre and barn the mows are brim with sheaves,
   Where stealeth in with phosphorescent tread
The glimmering moon, and, ’neath his wattled eaves,
The kennelled hound unto the darkness grieves
   His chilly straw, and from his gloom-lit shed,

   The wakeful cock proclaims the midnight dread.
With mullioned windows, ’mid its skeleton trees,
   Beneath the moon the ancient manor stands,
Old gables rattle in the midnight breeze,
Old elms make answer to the moaning seas,

Beyond the moorlands, on the wintry sands,
While drives the gust along the leafless lands.

—William Wilfred Campbell (19th century Canadian poet)

What I find so interesting about this poem is the complete disassociation between its content and title. Maybe that's why I like it, too.

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Pax is in hunting mode. After yesterday's taste of squirrel he's obsessed. As we were shoveling this morning he chased a rabbit right through the garage.

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Above freezing most of the day, making it convenient for shrimp on the grill tonight.