YES! We have wreath. We wreathers wreathed wreally. Okay,  I am cheating for alliteration – a little cheat, not a soul-selling one.

Yesterday I stripped the wreath down to its fake evergreen garland, redid it with old-fashioned mini lights, rehung the bead strands, put a big reflective Christmas ornament in the middle and hung that baby out front. I also put some big bulbs on the bush behind it – the kind of bulbs that are too hot to use on anything artificial.

And it all glows. Golden.

I did not stomp the old lights; I saved the bulb-shaped colored plastic that fit over the really bright LED lights. At least that part was okay – nice rich colors. I may net have a use for them later, but it is just a small storage bag and my intuition tells me to keep them.

When I was a teenager and young adult, I would take a hula hoop and tie real fir branches on it, add lights and whatever and we would hang it in the big front window at the Grandma up to Scott Town House. It smelled so good while I was doing it . . .  and the aroma lingered for about 24 hours on my hands that had been tattooed by sharp needles with resin.  My hands also stung every time I put them under warm/hot water – but it was worth it.

None of the red-headed regulars at the PBC & R helped me this year when the wreath became difficult. “But we have no fingers,” they said, holding up their raggedy ann mitten hands. I asked how Lydia played her piano and heard Foo whisper, “Do you think she knows about our retractable fingers?” She was then silenced by a loud chorus of “Shhhhhhh.”