And the first tree that's in the greenwood it was the holly
We had a nice Christmas! My brother's family came over for the afternoon and my niece ran around handing out presents to people whose names were on them, although occasionally she handed presents back to the people who had given them on account of they'd signed their names. ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch and I exchanged Russell Hoban's Turtle Diary (1975) and William Gropper's Alay-Oop (1930). My mother kept warning that it would be a thin year for gifts and yet somehow I have come home with the CD of Britten to America: Music for Radio and Theatre (2013), Anne Sinai's Reach for the Top: The Turbulent Life of Laurence Harvey (2007) and the fantastically pulp double of Wade Miller's Kitten with a Whip/Kiss Her Goodbye (1959/1956), and a new pillow that pray God may decrease the amount my neck and shoulders feel like constantly twinging concrete. I have also inherited the analog flight computer mentioned previously, along with some of the papers of my father's uncle who flew with it. I have his Canadian pilot's license from 1937. He was in his late twenties; he looks as dapper as a film star. I am beginning to think that was the one decade in American history when mustaches really looked good on men. The weather prevented the visit of rushthatspeaks and gaudior with Fox, but late in the afternoon we got a drive-by choco_frosh who ended up internet-calling his mother from my mother's scrupulously distanced tablet in our summer kitchen. We had our traditional roast beef for dinner followed by our traditional plum pudding, which this year was mostly an apricot and cherry and citron pudding, but it still burst into splendid blue flame when my father poured the brandy over it. We came home to good cats who had only managed to lever the pantry door open and gnaw their way into a bag of kibble. My niece threw herself backward while she was hugging me goodbye and spontaneously reinvented swing dance.
spatch and I exchanged Russell Hoban's Turtle Diary (1975) and William Gropper's Alay-Oop (1930). My mother kept warning that it would be a thin year for gifts and yet somehow I have come home with the CD of Britten to America: Music for Radio and Theatre (2013), Anne Sinai's Reach for the Top: The Turbulent Life of Laurence Harvey (2007) and the fantastically pulp double of Wade Miller's Kitten with a Whip/Kiss Her Goodbye (1959/1956), and a new pillow that pray God may decrease the amount my neck and shoulders feel like constantly twinging concrete. I have also inherited the analog flight computer mentioned previously, along with some of the papers of my father's uncle who flew with it. I have his Canadian pilot's license from 1937. He was in his late twenties; he looks as dapper as a film star. I am beginning to think that was the one decade in American history when mustaches really looked good on men. The weather prevented the visit of rushthatspeaks and gaudior with Fox, but late in the afternoon we got a drive-by choco_frosh who ended up internet-calling his mother from my mother's scrupulously distanced tablet in our summer kitchen. We had our traditional roast beef for dinner followed by our traditional plum pudding, which this year was mostly an apricot and cherry and citron pudding, but it still burst into splendid blue flame when my father poured the brandy over it. We came home to good cats who had only managed to lever the pantry door open and gnaw their way into a bag of kibble. My niece threw herself backward while she was hugging me goodbye and spontaneously reinvented swing dance.
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It was! I like my family. I just wish it were easier to gather all of them safely together.