We performed a hurried domestic duty in town this morning at the grocery store. There were things we needed to cover us during the upcoming several days surrounding the Christmas holiday. The supermarket was packed with people. The festive activity was evident. Judging by the anxiety of the drivers in the parking lot and the sound of car horns, tempers had elevated as well. It was thus a contrasting pleasure to return home to our riparian digs and nestle in for the afternoon. The weather forecast was Heavy Snow. Already it had started to snow. My hibernation was soon sanctioned and confirmed.
But I spoke too soon. The drawing room would remain at bay for yet another half-hour. My inexorable dedication to cycling surfaced upon dropping my passenger at the front door and after having then completed the precision parking of the Cadillac in the garage. Initially I had anticipated returning immediately to the apartment. But whatever moderate gusto I still possess directed me instead to my tricycle stationed in a corner near the entrance to the lift. I accordingly removed and positioned myself upon the three-wheeler.
What then followed was an uncommon number of proceedings in the garage. Joining me in my Olympic endeavour was Don. He too satisfied his routine athleticism by pushing his wheeled walker about the garage. According to his latest information all is well – though having coincidentally spoken only moments earlier with his wife Helen upon her return from shopping – Don may be in more perilous condition than he advertises. Helen said he is committed to buoyancy whatever the circumstances. Judging however from his appearance, I accept Don’s assertion that things are well or at least no worse. Besides, none of us knows; so it amounts to more correct logic to carry on in the face of whatever may materialize.
Next I encountered Joy unloading what at first appeared to be colourfully packed goods (but which she advised were only groceries in decorative bags). She reported rather gleefully that she and her husband Gary will be joining their son and his betrothed at a party of nine for a celebratory Christmas dinner. At which, pointedly she added, she shall have nothing whatever to do. I later met Gary in the garage and he echoed the popular sentiment accounted by his wife.
The further commotion in the garage was people coming and going without lapsing into the exchange of particulars. This included Dave and Mary Lou who were demonstrably consumed by removal of their collection of packages from the family automobile. We together proclaimed season’s greeting and best wishes, predominantly careful not to lapse into the vernacular of Christian bigotry though I have to admit there persists a small fervency when wishing others a Merry Christmas. So much of Christmas is coloured not exclusively by religion, rather by imagery of generosity and sharing, not the least of which are Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley.
“It is required of every man,” the Ghost returned, “that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world—oh, woe is me!—and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!
In the process of going round about, up and down along the subterranean garage floor, I entertained myself to attempt to identify the owners of the various automobiles; and, to guess which of them was about to depart to points southerly for the coming months until Springtime.