Christmas Eve - Part Three

‘Twas the night before Christmas . . . well, it’s morning still . . . all the anticipation of a lovely day with my family, though shrunken in size this year the spirit is still the same for me. I love going out to see my mother, helping her set the table which says I do so much better than her. Nibbling on the rice pudding to make sure it is just right. Watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” with John and smiling when the bell rings; I remember when John first told me he had seen a movie with Clarence and how the angel gets their wings. That was the first time I saw the chink in John’s armor, Mr. Macho Man with a sentimental streak! Then we have some skirmishes as the livers come out – we both like them and there isn’t very much but that is part of the afternoon snacking. [good lord, I forgot how to spell “skirmish” I was spelling it “squirmish” - I must worry about this brain of mine but I’ll leave it for another day] Finally the ducks come out and we are done in about 5 minutes. We Abildgaards are good trenchermen.

I’ve got no idea how we are going to handle the evening after that. It won’t take long to open presents and with only 4 of us and 2 protesting about the dancing even when we are more there will be no dancing around the Christmas tree. Will there be caroling? I don’t know. None of us will be on Canadian Idol any time soon. Singing is not a national trait. The song writing doesn’t leave much to be desired either. “Don’t touch my raisin” are some of the words to a song that I wish my mother would totally forget. As it is she can sing part of it while we try to hold back our groans (not very graciously I might add) and we painfully listen as she tries to remember the words. I have absolutely no idea what the song is really about but we have to sing it (sort of) at Christmas time. She keeps asking me if I have seen her Danish records and I told her I broke them many years ago. I will never let her have them again after we were tortured for over an hour about 10 years ago with these records. If I had known what my aunt had sent her I never would have delivered the parcel. Danes cannot sing, they cannot write songs and they have no sense of doing the wrong thing when the begin cauterwauling. They should stick to drinking ale.

That was a little sidebar on what is basically a lovely day for me.