This is being written the day after Christmas as I look upon a room that was filled with action and laughter just 24 little hours in the past.
There’s a downside to being a grandma. Everyone goes home if they live in the same town or within a short drive and memories flood in.
Memories. The son, now nearing 60, who enjoyed three days here, then left for the place he has enjoyed just northwest of Pueblo. The day after Christmas when he was 4 was spent watching my dad and brother play with his electric train.
It was an ill-advised purchase, signed, sealed and delivered before dad realized it had an electric transformer and wires that needed to be hooked up.
An accident? I smile as I recall the hours of fun the men of the family had “testing” it.
He still has the Lionel train set, which I tell him would fetch good money on an auction site. It’s more than 50 years old.
“Mom, that’s a materialistic comment,” he says with a smile.
It set me to thinking.
My last 10 email messages advised me I could get “what I wanted for Christmas” for less than half price, I was in danger of being dropped forever from “riches for life” if I didn’t use a special search engine, a publisher was eager to look at my book, I could save the nation by donating to a person considering a run for president and a crucial gift shipment from Amazon was still delayed.
The gift delay is supposedly because I moved and the Amazon techbot which handled my order didn’t notice the change of address, which was discovered later, somehow throwing a wrench in the works. That’s what the tracking message indicated.
The order will be here Friday.
While the grandkids played with a throwback Atari, I watched the Grinch and could certainly feel his pain.
When I went to bed Christmas Eve, I half expected to be visited by a ghost of Christmas past.
A special one visited me in my dream.