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.”

Yes, sitting inside my little spaceship, I have worked hard to make a critical piece of equipment function. And now, after numerous tries, I have failed. I look out the window . . . and the earth is getting smaller.

Sometimes I do this, pretend that the task at hand is a part of the movie where the hero must quickly negotiate the trickiest of maneuvers to save himself and/or the world from disaster. Often I hear the fateful KABOOM in my ears as I fumble one thing or another. But I go on.

Now this time . . . with this wreath . . . this blasted wreath, I don’t feel the second of disintegration; unfortunately, somewhere along the line, the movie scenario became one of “must fix this to get back to earth and not float off into space as my oxygen runs out and I enter an eternity of silent drifting in the stars.”  Yes, the entire light system has failed! Internet inquiries reveal that many people have found this model of cheerful lights defective. I lay my head against my cabin window and watch home get farther away.

BUT WAIT!  Maybe if I string together the lights on the control panel, I can get this wreath working. (Control panel? Wreath actually on spaceship? Actual spaceship? My mind must be confusing scenario with reality.)

Focus, AmeliaJake. Can you cobble together something to save the day? Forget fixing what is broken, find something else to serve the purpose.

Yes, tie flashlights to the evergreen. Okay, no. All our flashlights always have dead batteries. Candles? No, it is windy outside. I must think . . .

These are trash stomping feet; they have that job every Wednesday. I just looked down there and remembered I had hurried grabbed any shoes to let me get out there and do the deed. Two trash bins side by side in the garage with a stepladder in between – I roll up my pant legs and these feet climb up and step into each bin on a piece of cardboard placed on top. Depending on the airbag percentage, I go down anywhere from mid-shin to mid-thigh. I climb out, add more bags and another layer of cardboard and do it again.
Glamorous, no? Oddly enough, I do get satisfaction out of it. I don’t think the shoes appreciate it; I know the one on my left foot which is on the right is pissed because I painted in him and his mate. See the little dots of garage door color? The black one and its buddy got off easy this summer. My lavender and brown jobbies got the call to ride the mowers and dig in and work when it was time to push the walk behind one. But then Summer borrowed the black ones now and then and they are a little stretched out. Sigh.
But tonight here we are: AmeliaJake feet and shoes . . . and we’re content.

I was going to switch the lights on my wreath yesterday, and I did, but not enough. I discovered I had a set of multi-colored lights just like the clear “cool white” ones. So I headed out to switch bulbs, and I did. As I was working on this, I began to think that perhaps leaving some of the bright lights would be not a bad idea . . . but it was. So today I am going back out and switch the rest, although I’m fairly certain I’m going to leave three buried behind some branchlets to see if that works. I doubt it but you never know.
Good thing this wreath isn’t on the roof.

I made my wreath using an old homemade grapevine one I had. In truth, it was the Thanksgiving wreath: I took off turkeys and Pilgrims and gourds and put on evergreen garland and lights and ropes of beads. And when it a got dark, I realized the LED cool white lights did not look like shimmering ice but were harsh, not unlike spotlights in a POW camp in the Arctic. (As if I know)

I’m going to have to go out there, retrieve the wreath, take off the beads and cool white horrible lights and put on something that radiates rather than penetrates. It seems like a plodding chore right now, but I know when I do it, I will feel good . . . because somewhere in that redo is a bit of real Christmas spirit.

The tree is almost decorated; I think it needs a little beaded garland pizazz, but we will see. I have hung wreaths and put garland on the stairs and over the double doors to the dining room and hung my GoodWill find- an “All Hearts Come Home for Christmas” sign. I have tied nutcrackers to the staircase poles with raffia; they look good there, not happy, but good. Now I have to figure out what to do with the rest – the potential army of rescuers.

But the main thing is I need something outside that is “Goldilocks God Damn JUST RIGHT”; people are tired of my putting strands of lights like floating stars on my tall bushes . . . and I am going along with them because if I don’t I will be the only one out there in the cold with those tall bushes and those tangled strands.

I’m thinking large wreath – but not too large. Maybe I could work two into the bare branches of the bushes on each side of the door so the wind would cause them to twinkle, but they could be steadied with guy wires to the stronger branches? This is how I work on projects . . . letting ideas develop. Sometimes people around me tend to panic, but I find it invigorating and festive feeling producing . . . even when I look at it and have a Gordon Ramsay moment: “AmeliaJake, you are seriously f____!”

But you take a deep breath and give it another go. I may or may not have a picture in a day or so.

These pictures are not in the order I designated! I’ve got to study up on this. The gist of it is LZP sent us a zany box containing, among other things, a solar cockroach and a beer that he spent 45 minutes picking out – – it was in TWO brown paper bags. I also included beginning tree pictures and Shane’s nonchalance.

We brought the tree in this morning and got it nice and straight in its stand. I still need to pound a nail into a stud and use a bit of rope to make me feel totally secure, however. I was going to do that this afternoon but I forgot. I may have a twinge of nervousness but I am trusting my trusty Krinner Tree Stand of which I have written many times.
See:

HERE

HERE

HERE

Oh, gee, while looking for these references, I have been interrupted many times  . . . sigh.  And then I was reminded of Little Ann. (See below) So tomorrow I’ll gather the guys together and think about putting the lights on the tree. Yes, we’ll have drinks and foldovers and think.

While looking for references to our Christmas Tree Stand,  I came across this post about Little Ann, our dog who passed away at an advanced age.

Little Ann was a cocker spaniel, and, I suppose, in the heaven that dogs just have to go to, I guess she still is – a cocker spaniel angel. We loved her dearly; she loved my husband to bits, was fond of Quentin and tolerated me. She was, however, a free spirit.

Little Ann came from the Butler County, Ohio, Animal Shelter. She was about a year old and, by the way, had never had her tail docked. I think she was probably born and said, “I’m emancipating myself; I’m out of here.” Of course, she gave Quentin the smiling, happy look that said, “I know you’re going to take me home. I know it. I know it. I’m so happy. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

So we took her home. And she promptly took off. She had used us for her escape. Ah, but she did not know her new adversary. She wasn’t going to break my son’s heart. I kept tracking her down and she kept running away. She did that for 13 years. Of course, somewhere along the line, she would run away and I had learned to shout, “Fine, find your meals somewhere,” and she would be scratching to come in when she had wandered around enough. If you wanted her back right away, the trick was to take about five steps to chase her, and then turn your back and walk away. She would follow.

I remember taking her to the Fairgrounds. When it was time to leave, she would not get in the car. I would drive a few feet and she would run along behind. I’d stop and open the door and she would run off. Many is the time I drove the few blocks home with a dog following a car that stopped every half-block for her. I would get so furious. And I’d turn round and take her to the Fairgrounds the next day. We got another dog, Sally, and Little Ann would get Sally to run beside her and then she would run past a tree and Sally, watching Little Ann, would run into it.

One time, when Quentin was a senior, he got so incredibly upset with her that he bowled her in the porch door. She rolled over and over along the carpet to the other end and bounced off the wall. Did not faze her.

She would come for Cameron when he came to live with us. He was five or six and he would see her make an escape and run for the door, calling, “I’ll save you, Ann.” And she would look at him and come. He called her Sweetums. We would get him up late at night to stand in the door and call, “Come here, Sweetums,” when she was being especially stubborn.

I took her to Mother’s a lot, although we just had to take it for granted she would show up when it was time to go home. She liked to make trips out at night and she would buffalo me into believing she had “to go”. She’d be off and I’d have to get Mother to demand, “Little Ann, you get in here right now.” A lot of folks are a little cowed by Mother.

Anyway, one night, we were there and she went out and came in willingly. Thank you, Ann. She had been skunked, right on the forehead. At 2 am, we bathed her in tomato juice and vinegar and Dawn dishwashing liquid – which is supposed to work. We thought it had. I returned home the next day and everyone exclaimed, “WHAT is that stench?” More baths – nurse baths, the ones where my daughter-in-law scrubbed her with one of those net mesh things and then rinsed . . . and then did it again.

I don’t know if it was the actual skunking or the nurse baths, but Little Ann stayed clear of skunks from then on.

She got old and she got cancer. We did what we could but she got worse. Her spirit was so indomitable I knew she would never give up – I had her put to sleep.

Ah, Little Ann, I can hear St. Peter calling now: “Little Ann, you get back in here . . . Do you hear me? Don’t make me get the Big Guy . . . “

I went to bed last night suspecting my foot would be swollen and painful this morning. I WAS WRONG. It feels pretty good for the average walking gig; I did a body stretch in bed this morning, though, and that was a mistake – I felt as if I were all foot for a few seconds. A big, screaming, searing, alarm-going-off FOOT. I can still feel the residual tingle, but, overall it works for typical moves without pain.
This could have been otherwise. Hopping AmeliaJakes are noticeable and the Christmas Ribbon Bell Hair Band makes more noise in such a situation. I could have wound up with a collateral punched-in nose.
Which reminds me – where Is my Rudolph blinking nose?