I have spoken often of the Chickenpox Sofa, but I’ll be darned if I’m I going to take the time to look up any references right now. I am too busy demolishing it in situ. And by that I mean I am systematically dismantling it in the sitting room. I am 62 years old; I had the chickenpox on it when I was five. I remember sitting  Indian style and taking my medicine from the end table. I was feeling better so Mother just put a cup of tea, chocolate, whatever there . . . along with this gigantic pill, a cube, a BIG CUBE.  Something came over me and I hid it under the saucer. That “something” wasn’t on the smart side because of course she found it. And I confessed.

Heck, if I’d stuffed it way down some crack, I might be finding it today. But probably not because this sofa is very well made. I’m using pliers, hammers, screwdrivers, scissors and a pry bar and it ain’t easy. I only wish I had been put together as well as this vintage sofa from the early fifties. You know what wouldn’t surprise me, though? If one of those awful chickenpox pills had decided to stay in my body and calcify. I’m probably walking around with it today.

This is silly. I suppose some people started thinking along those lines when I mentioned taking a sofa apart in a room. Well, really, why not? It gets the job done.

I call it panache.

Just a couple of days ago it was 60? here and all the snow was gone and it was raining and muddy and, of course, humid . . . sort of a shock to the system after a frigid week. I mean, I had to put stuff in the refrigerator, instead of just setting it in the back vestibule.

It started yesterday – getting cold again. First we went to chilly and this morning it feels like 5? outside if you consider the wind chill. My feet are bare but warm in front of the firestove, as I slouch in the corner of the sofa with a bushel barrel of packed-up nutcrackers to my right. There are some still in the wild that have to be tracked down;  the  chubby ones – really, that’s what it said on the box – are leading a revolt I think. Heck, they can’t go far – they’re chubby. Ah, but given that line of thinking, what kind of pursuit can I generate?

Most of the ornaments are off the big tree – not that too many got on thanks to my grumpy and pouting elf brigade this year. I actually wrote on one box: “Not used in 2010 because I live with Humbug Jerks.” Yes, I am that type of person.

The Alien Tree is still on the wide windowsill across from me and to tell you the truth, I’m a little wary about approaching it with the intention of dismantling it. The Cow Tree is undone, though, and all cows are accounted for, including the one I wore on my belled headband all Christmas Day. I don’t think I got a picture of that get-up. Are you thinking small tinkling bells embedded in a knit band? It was a nice blue ribbon with larger bells dangling from it – and one cow that mooed when you touched its head. I held it on with a hair clip.

Quentin wore one of those knit hats that has the ear-covering arcs included and from each arc hangs a knitted string with a tassel. He made the riced and mixed the mashed potatoes with it on.

We don’t wear antlers anymore because they tend to squeeze your head until they work upward and pop off – or fall in front of your eyes like Jordy’s Star Trek visor when  you look down.

Oh, look, I found my camera.

See, nutcrackers in a basket.

And this is the bagpipe nutcracker giving me the eye. Is it an evil one?

Ah, the old Kris Kringle is facing the basket; bet he’s upset. Well, maybe it happened when he was transported from the top of the old radio to the porch. See that little drum at the top? I made that when I was a teenager. It’s sequins and there were once three. I remember sitting at the big oak table poking those pins in.  There is a big round classy Santa buried in the greenery. I can’t see him, but I know it