Easter feasts and other festivities

Sibi ... off the chain

Last Saturday, Erica, Audrey, Dagny, and I assembled at Casa Porter for a festive Easter brunch to which the lady of the house had invited us earlier in the week.

We would also be together the next day for a more elaborate Easter feast at my house -- and I'll tell you all about that too -- but this was a casual event.

In a year where we didn't get to shop for Easter dresses or bonnets or other seasonal adornments, it seemed to Mrs. Porter -- now working from home, as is Mr. Porter -- that some orchestrated gaiety was in order.

We saved the date

(We Weber women like our finery. It sticks in the craw that we haven't been able to doll up for church in what seems like a month of Sundays. I mean, we could -- but what would be the point?)

Naturally Sibi was at the party too, to lend the sweetly silly atmosphere that only the presence of a hyper-energetic puppy equipped with weaponized cuteness can produce.

(That's if you don't count Dagny, who spent the night with Erica and Chad the night before, and so contributed to preparations for the party -- most notably, she helped to set the table and hand-lettered the place cards.)

Miss Priss

I arrived at twelve thirty, having driven the twenty-five minutes or so from my house to Erica's, alone.

That doesn't mean I didn't talk to anyone. I passed under an amber-lit sign that stretches importantly over both the eastbound and westbound lanes of I-26, ordering:

G O   H O M E

S T A Y   H O M E

Oh shut up, I said, out loud. I'm going to my daughter's house and I'll stay there as long as I please, and I'll go home when I'm ready and stay there only until I decide to go out again.

Hop on over

You should try it! It helps to verbalize your intentions. Say aloud what you intend to do. And NOT do.

All of that being said, I haven't gone out much since March fifteenth. In fact, as I've told you before, I have only left my house to shop for groceries, three times. There's nowhere else to go.

My fourth supermarket run since lockdown would take place that very day, when Audrey, Erica, and I went grocery shopping after the party.

We had an accord

I was in pursuit of supplies for our Easter dinner, and there were blanks to fill in regarding Dagny's Easter basket, and we all needed birthday cards.

(Tax-Day-Baby Allissa's twelfth birthday was yesterday. I have her gift but I'm saving it for when I see her in person, which we all hope will be in a few weeks. But I needed a card to send her, that she would have on the day.)

(Also I have a dear friend whose birthday is on the seventeenth, and our Joel will celebrate his birthday on May first, and I had to pick out cards for them too.)

Extra y, we know not why

But I digress.

Upon arriving at the Porters' abode I was greeted by Erica, Dagny, and Sibi simultaneously. Erica was busy preparing fresh berries; Dagny immediately began pointing out what she'd done to the Easter table. 

Sibi ran around underfoot when she wasn't jumping up towards my knees, wanting to be picked up so that she could alternately chew on my ears and ride on my shoulders.

High there

Audrey wasn't on the premises quite yet. Chad had gone with Jonah (his personal dog), to spend the afternoon with his parents.

There were two quiches baking scrumptiously in the oven. To go with them Erica had diced baby potatoes and squash chunks which were seasoned and waiting on a pan, to be roasted.

The strawberry/blueberry/raspberry combination would add color and a fresh burst of flavor.

Easter joy

Our hostess had bought Canada Dry Blackberry Ginger Ale to serve with the meal, as well as a "hot" ginger ale by the same maker.

(I love hot ginger ale -- spicy hot, that is -- but having years ago tasted Blenheim, for me at least, no other brand will do. Nothing -- not even Vernor's -- comes close to being as hot as Blenheim and since that's the whole point, I'll pass on pretenders.)

I'd told you before about Erica's seasonal tree, which sits beside the hutch in her dining room. It wasn't lit up when I arrived so I said Alexa, light the tree, and she did.

Spring has sprung

So charming.

Erica had raided the dollar aisle at Target and come away with some adorable decorations. She had festooned her yellow hutch with an Easter Brunch banner and some other things which were so cute.

(She's talked of sending her hutch out to be milk- or chalk-painted a creamy white and distressed á la shabby chic, but she hasn't done it yet. Vote here if you think she should pull the trigger on that.)

Two-pronged attack

Her centerpiece was a three-tiered galvanized metal stand which was, naturally, laden with flowers and Easter treats.

Of course the bowl of classic Brach's Jelly Bird Eggs had to be situated at eleven o'clock at my place setting. Its volume was reduced by at least thirty jelly beans by the time I left.

(I do not contend that I ate them all; why would you think that of me?)

I answer to Mom, Mamaw, and jelly beans

(Don't answer that.)

Mrs. Prdr had baked a drool-inducing vanilla confection with matching vanilla glaze, and it rested in her heavy glass cake stand with matching dome, that she acquired in exchange for one dollar at a yard sale shortly after her marriage.

The cake stand is so heavy, I can't even. I love that thing. In fact I told my daughters that if they needed Mother's Day gift ideas, I would be much obliged if they went in together to get me one of those.

That's Mrs. Prdr to you

Never mind that they can be expensive. Very expensive.

(I have a beautiful cake stand but no dome. I want a dome. I am domeless and that needs to change.)

(You know how I am about glass. Give me more glass. Keep it glassy is basically my motto.)

She was so well behaved at that elevation

At mealtime, our hostess said grace and we tucked into the luscious quiche with roasted vegetables and berries.

There were two kinds but I chose the spinach-feta quiche. Spinach and feta combined with eggs is one of my favorite things in the whole world.

In fact, for dinner tonight TG and I are having spinach and feta omelets, with Canadian bacon and breakfast sausage.

Peace out, homie

(We've gone low carb but we refuse to sacrifice either fat or flavor.)

(i must confess that for a few weeks we were in the habit of having ice cream sundaes at night, as we watched TV. Do not judge. It was the early days of the "crisis." We don't do it anymore. It's been at least three days.)

After brunch, Erica made coffee and, since Sibi was pronounced ready for a nap (her mommy can tell by looking at her eyes that Sibi is finally tired), I went to sit in the recliner and hold the baby.

It could have held thousands of jelly beans

She flaked out on me and Erica brought me my coffee.

Sitting in Erica's front room, beside her picture window, with a cup of delicious coffee, is so enjoyable. I don't get to do that often enough so I was ultra-content.

In time a wedge of cake was brought to me too, and I don't have to tell you how I felt about that. 

I like that you can see through it

As I sat with the snoozing puppy on my lap I was thinking about the Easter dinner I had planned for the next day.

I might as well tell you: it ended up being rather splendid.

We had baked ham (I need to tell you too, soon, how I made that ham and, more importantly, the story behind it), potato salad, creamed corn (my homemade crock pot creamed corn, simple but spectacular, that is), honey-cinnamon glazed carrots, a salad of cucumber, grape tomatoes, and onion in homemade balsamic vinaigrette, and fluffy croissants. 

Home is where the hutch is

For dessert, I made pinapple upside-down cake and served it with hot, fresh, strong, half-caff coffee. With heavy cream, if you wanted it. The coffee, that is.

There was Reddi-wip for the top of your cake if you wanted it too, but as it turned out, no one did. The cake was rather sweet, what with having been baked on a layer of brown sugar, butter, pineapple, and maraschino cherries.

(I had also kicked my boxed yellow cake mix up a notch by using butter instead of oil, putting in one extra egg, substituting buttermilk for water, and adding a packet of cheesecake-flavored instant pudding.)

Name recognition

When TG and I finished off most of the cake the next day, we did add Reddi-wip and for my money, it was not overkill in the sweet department. Not in the least.

But then, you're not likely to find me objecting to the enhancement of a slice of cake, least of all with whipped cream.

It was a pleasant day, our Resurrection Sunday. Our church had devised special email forms that we could distribute to friends far and wide, inviting them to join us online for Easter Sunday service.

Eventually Sibi succumbed to sleep

TG sent several of those. Two out-of-town friends took him up on it, later letting him know that they'd logged on and enjoyed the service with us.

Along with that came the heartbreaking reports that in some states, police were issuing tickets to folks who wanted to sit in their cars and enjoy an outdoor service at their churches.

(There will be a reckoning for this insane fearmongering, leading to unlawful suspension of our God-given and Constitutionally guaranteed rights, in the near future. Or at least there should be.)

Birthday Girl Allissa with Shiloh ... several weeks ago

After watching and listening to our pastor's message, we ate our dinner. The rain rolled in; Chad and Erica eventually left to have a late-day dinner with his parents.

Later that night -- towards dawn, actually -- thunderstorms ravaged South Carolina and nine folks were killed as a result -- by falling trees and related disasters.

TG and I were awakened by our power going out at around five thirty on Monday morning (my ceiling fan stopped, waking me, but then there was a lot of noisy, gusty wind and thunder too), and was not restored until shortly after Noon.

My stained-glass pineapple upside down cake

I was thankful that, at least, we were able to have a pleasant and peaceful Easter Sunday together.

Our state mourns for those who lost their lives in the storm, as well as from the seasonal flu (although we never talk about those), and of course from COVID-19.

We are keeping well and we hope that you are too.

Let not your heart be troubled

May God be with President Trump as he navigates the shark-infested waters of this election year.

God bless the United States of America and preserve her from all enemies, both foreign and domestic.

Especially domestic.

Meanwhile it has been so nice chatting with you.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Thursday

comorbidity + stupidity = futility

A few days ago I was compelled to leave my home and go to the grocery store.

We were out of ice cream.

Lest you think me frivolous, playing fast and loose with my own life and that of my fellow citizens, please know that I have no symptoms of any kind of illness and have not been anywhere except the store since mid-March.

Also I ended up with ground sirloin, russet potatoes, pork and beans, breakfast bread, hamburger buns, brown rice, Spanish peanuts, Reddi-wip, and chocolate syrup, to name but a few of the items that filled out my order along with two half-gallon containers of ice cream (vanilla and chocolate chip).

Publix or bust

My store of choice was Publix. Although on the way there I saw perhaps twenty-five cars, when I arrived the parking lot was more or less full. I don't look for close-up parking spots and would never fight you for one, but even if I'd wanted that this time, I wouldn't have gotten it.

When I entered the "lobby" of the store -- where you pick up your cart -- I noticed a lady wearing a green Publix uniform standing in the far back corner of that area, behind rows of conjoined carts.

She was stationed next to a single cart that seemed to be in use for the purpose of holding the materials she needed for cleaning all of the other carts.

The supply of pre-moistened cart-handle wipes having been exhausted in this time of mass hysteria pandemic, the store has resorted to assigning an employee to spray the carts with a cleaning solution and wipe them down with white cloths.

Several of said cloths, soggy from use, were draped along the sides of the cart beside which the aforementioned employee was standing. A large spray bottle sat in the child-seat section of the cart.

Neither cloths nor spray were in use as I entered, however. That was because the employee was busy -- nay, exceedingly busy -- blowing her nose.

As in, loudly, elaborately, and thoroughly, in a honking fashion that I think anyone would agree was prolonged and dramatic.

Never in all of my life have I seen an employee stationed in the cart corral area of a food store, taking a break from cleaning the carts to blow her nose.

Never.

But now, during a time of pandemic so dire that we can't even go to church or school, and millions are not allowed to work? I have seen it.

There is a restroom not twenty yards from where the lady was standing, to which she could have easily repaired so as to take care of cleaning her nose in private. 

After which she could have washed her hands and then come back to finish doing her job.

But no. Not this time.

Dauntless is my middle name

I selected a cart (yes; I was thinking ewwww), and entered the store.

I hadn't taken twenty steps before I saw the first of several strategically placed signs (professionally made in the style, color, and font used for all Publix signage) admonishing shoppers to observe social distancing protocols by keeping six feet apart.

I hadn't taken fifty more steps before a gentle male voice came over the public address system, intoning a message further reminding shoppers of their duty to maintain a distance of six feet from one another, because we're all in this together.

Oh shut up, I said. Out loud.

Because even as the message was being disseminated for all of us to heed and obey, I was pushing my cart down an aisle that was perhaps six feet in width. Maybe seven but I doubt it.

So how were we customers to maintain a distance of six feet from one another, when our paths crossed as we pushed our carts up and down said aisles, looking for groceries to buy?

If you said (or thought) That would be impossible, you would be correct.

Meanwhile, approximately fifty percent of the patrons of the supermarket were wearing masks.

The same masks that I read again only yesterday, will not necessarily keep you from contracting a virus -- not this current hyper-partisan election-year China Virus or any virus.

One of my daughters, who is a keen observer of human behavior, opined that many people are enjoying all of this. They like the drama; they get a kick out of going around wearing a mask as though anyone to whom they may come within closer proximity than six feet, may kill them with a single glance.

Only, many of those same people have at least one preventable underlying health condition that will likely spell their demise long before corona virus will have a chance to nail them.

Masking for a friend

Take for (only one) example the young -- I'm talking maybe twenty years old -- man who passed me in the aisle and caused me to stop and (not politely, I am afraid) stare.

I would have taken a picture but even I am not that impolite.

He was wearing a mask. 

He also weighed at least four hundred pounds.

Child, I thought, you will kill yourself with your knife and fork long before a virus gets you. Wearing a mask in the grocery store isn't the answer; losing half your body weight is. You'll be healthier -- and your overall wellbeing more protected -- for having done that than you will ever be from wearing an N95 mask, even if you wear it every day for the rest of your life.

People. Think for just a moment.

I'm not going to insult you by pointing out that we're all going to die someday, and that even on the day after that day, whether the departed be you or me or whomever, the sun will still rise.

Even though all of that is true, I won't be so flippant as to point it out. I fully realize that I could catch corona virus, and die from it.

We all know that none of us are getting out of this (life) alive. At least in the earthly sense.

However.

To quote another of my daughters, I don't want to get any virus. That's why I take -- and have always taken, for my entire adult life -- the precautions that everyone should take all of the time, to avoid that.

But if I fail and if I get sick, I stay home. I don't go out, all business as usual, where I could spread illness to others.

If I do get sick enough to stay home (and it doesn't happen often), depending on how ill I am or how contagious I think I may be, I'm also considerate of others in my household.

In January of 2018 I came down with the flu. It was severe; I had a high fever and was in a lot of pain. I stayed in bed for the better part of eight days. I wouldn't even sit next to TG to watch TV.

And I'm sure I wash my hands a dozen times on an average day.

But sometimes illness is simply unavoidable: we encounter a germ and we get sick.

It's a wash

Years ago I was in a grocery store. I was standing at least six feet behind a woman who sneezed in a big way, without covering her mouth.

I'm going to catch something, I thought, even as I quickly moved out of the area.

And I did. I had. Even though I was careful not to touch my face and although I scrubbed my hands and forearms when I got home, within two days I had come down with a heavy cold which developed into bronchitis.

It was a lousy break and miserable. But I survived.

Such is life.

Had I been a person whose health is so compromised that I could not survive being sneezed upon, I would have had no business whatsoever going out in public to shop for groceries.

The same is true today. If you have underlying health issues and other risk factors severe enough that catching a virus -- any virus -- could kill you, then you should be the one staying at home.

Counting for seasonal flu and allergic reactions and anything else that may have it mortally in for you, you probably shouldn't venture any farther than your yard between Christmas and Mother's Day.

In other words, if you're a sitting duck for a marauding virus, the onus is on YOU to stay under wraps -- not for healthy people to be locked down at home, disrupting vital routines and decimating a robust economy that may take decades to recover.

And that would be true in any calendar year, no matter whether a president despised beyond all reason by the opposing party, is up for reelection.

But right now? For the foreseeable future, if your health is compromised anyway, you should definitely stay home and let others bring you whatever you need. While they're in the house, don't get within six feet of them.

Wash your hands a lot.

Beyond that, there's not much you can do. Something may still get you. We are mortal, after all.

And healthy, strong, responsible people -- including children -- should be allowed to work and go to school without being ordered into lockdown at home for weeks on end, by the state or federal government.

It's called freedom. And it's guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States of America.

When pigs fly 

In 2011, Audrey contracted the H1N1 Swine Flu. She lived alone at the time, in Knoxville. She managed to get to the doctor, where she was tested and the diagnosis confirmed. She was extremely ill for several days. Although she went back to work as soon as it was feasible, many weeks elapsed before she felt truly well again.

She was (and is) a young, healthy woman who takes all of the precautions we all should always take.

That same year, she and I were walking a cemetery in Knoxville when we happened upon the grave of a young woman (in her twenties) on whose tombstone it stated that she'd died of H1N1 during the pandemic.

Do you remember that pandemic? The one where sixty million Americans contracted the disease and thirteen thousand died from it in a single year?

Nor do I, except within the context of the events I just described. Schools did not close; restaurants weren't ordered out of business by politically correct governors. We all kept going to church. Basketball and Baseball seasons weren't canceled. Prisoners were not released. There were no bailouts.

No one was commanded to go home and stay home for the foreseeable future.

It was during the Obama administration.

Dads weren't arrested and handcuffed for walking in parks -- as happened in Colorado a few days ago, to a man taking a stroll outdoors with his wife and six-year-old daughter.

There weren't daily news conferences with lefty globalist Deep State career-bureaucrat doctors being given more TV coverage than the Super Bowl, the World Cup, the Masters, the Final Four, the World Series, and the Olympics put together.

There weren't millions of Americans who, having suddenly lost their jobs, were relegated to standing in unemployment lines, thereby coming into contact with random people at least as much (if not more) as they would if they simply went to work.

There wasn't David Paterson (the then-Governor of New York) on Fox News every morning, blathering on about what he needs and what the President of the United States hasn't done for him, as Andrew Cuomo does now.

There wasn't his brother, Chris Cuomo, on CNN for hours every day of the world, broadcasting from his basement, about every drop of sweat and degree of fever and twinge of pain he has experienced with corona virus, even up to showing his own (normal)  chest X-ray and having Dr. Sanjay Gupta on air to evaluate it.

Not that I'm watching. I'm not. I'd rather die. 

Slouching towards checkout

Back to Publix. Eventually -- I'd been in the store for maybe twenty minutes -- it was time for me to get in line and pay for my purchases.

I noticed that people -- most of them -- waiting in lines had positioned themselves so that the front edge of their carts were a perceived six feet from the backs of the people in front of them.

(Never mind that that put them nine feet from the person in front of them; everyone seemed to think that at least six feet from human back to metal cart was the way to go.)

I chose a line and got in it. Because of where the person in front of me was situated, I had to wait in an aisle where people were trying to shop. If I hadn't I would have blocked the long cross aisle where customers walk to access all of the aisles, and to get into position to pay, just like me.

I hadn't been standing there long when a man wearing a mask and carrying two crossword puzzle books walked by the front of my cart, using the ample space between the cart and the back of the person in front of me in the checkout line.

As the man -- fiftyish, short, wearing baggy sweat pants and two big tee shirts, layered -- passed me, he turned and faced me, and stared.

I stared back. He then began grunting loudly while pointing in jabbing motions with both hands at his own face mask. He glared at me.

I shrugged my shoulders and looked back at him, not at all sure what his deal was.

Then he began coming towards me in a threatening manner. His eyes never left mine and he looked angry.

I put both my hands up in front of me and took as many steps back as I could without coming any closer than six feet to any fellow shopper.

The man stopped coming towards me. He turned and walked away.

The cashier whose line I was in, though a lovely and completely nice person, was also extremely slow-moving.

I watched as she carefully placed each piece of a customer's produce order individually into a mesh bag the environmentally-conscious customer had brought along.

One avocado. One cantaloupe. A bunch of celery. A crown of broccoli. A bag of carrots. Two oranges.

Slowly. Ever so slowly the bag got loaded up with fruits and vegetables. 

Then she finished scanning the remainder of his order, stopping every few seconds to push buttons on her screen, at one point finding it necessary to leave and bring someone else back to punch some buttons for her.

Meanwhile the vertically-challenged masked man who had rebuked me, charades-fashion, for (I assume) not wearing a mask, had trolled around and behind me several more times. 

I had plenty of opportunities to keep my eye on him; I'd been in line for at least ten minutes.

Scanning the horizon

In due course it was my turn to have my purchases scanned, and to pay for them and go home -- if all went well, before the ice cream melted.

While I was in the processing area -- where, due to space restrictions, I was unable to get more than three feet from the slow-moving cashier -- I asked said cashier as well as the lady helping to bag my groceries, why it was that neither of them (in fact, none of the cashiers or baggers) were wearing either gloves or masks.

The cashier answered that if they wore gloves, they'd have to change them between each order. I am still trying to figure that out. If you figure it out before me, please let me know.

I mean, they were using their bare hands, which for obvious reasons cannot be changed between orders.

And let me be clear: I am referring to them wearing gloves to protect not me, or any other customer, but to protect themselves.

The women pointed to a pump-bottle of hand sanitizer and said that they use that between orders.

But I'd been in line for three customers and I can promise you that no one had touched that hand sanitizer. They'd touched dozens of other things, though.

As to masks, the girls said that "maybe next week" their employer would provide them with such equipment.

But -- they both assured me -- they did not anticipate actually wearing the masks.

Too hot, one said.

Just a hassle, the other one said.

Okay. So, you say you can't wear gloves because you'd have to change them between orders, and you could wear a mask that will be provided to you at some point, but you have no intention of doing so because it would be inconvenient and/or uncomfortable.

I thought we were all supposed to be terrified for our lives. Because of a virus from which the overwhelming number of sufferers recover while resting at home.

But they're putting up the plastic shields, maybe tomorrow, the bagger offered.

I haven't yet seen these but TG and the girls tell me it's like a transparent curtain between you and the cashier, in case someone sprays a droplet onto someone else.

Something which, at all points up until now, all mask-less individuals have ostensibly been doing anyway.

Here's the deal

Look. God created us with incredible things called immunities. Immunities keep us from catching diseases from the germs that are all around us in the millions every day of our lives.

The immunities -- some of which we have to build up in unpleasant but not life-threatening ways -- are there to protect us.

Without them, none of us would live for very long. Most of us would have died in infancy.

Is it sad that people of all ages catch germs and get sick, and sometimes die?

Well. Let's ask one of the eighty thousand people who have died from the seasonal flu in America so far this year. 

Oh wait; we can't. They're gone. Unless you personally knew one of those eighty thousand unfortunate individuals, was your consciousness raised by a crazed media to the death of even a single one of them?

Did you watch or listen to even one White House press briefing, laced with disrespectful, gotcha media questions aimed at President Trump, addressing the calamity and the impending doom resulting from seasonal flu?

No; no, you didn't. You weren't. Because those press briefings never happened and those deaths were never publicized politicized.

And now as an additional (and we hope, final, but I doubt it) insult, the powers that be are openly admitting that the death toll numbers from corona virus are being actively padded.

As in, anything remotely suspected of being China Virus resulting in a death, regardless of comorbidities present in the victim, is counted as a China Virus death.

The lefties eaten up with terminal late-stage Trump Derangement Syndrome (like hydroxychloroquine for WuFlu, there's a cure but they don't want to take it and they don't want anyone else to take it either) are devastated at the death toll -- as in, it's not high enough.

They foamed at their collective mouths at the early grisly prospect of well over two million Americans dying from the virus that originated in the Chinese wet markets. It was an election-year dream come true.

They drooled and salivated over the CDC and IHME model numbers like the Chinese drool over bats and rats and dogs and cats.

But the numbers aren't cooperating. Now, the ones determined not to let this crisis go to waste may have to be content with a disappointing sixty thousand American deaths. 

Even the padded numbers aren't anywhere close to the hundreds of thousands of corpses they predicted we would see stacked like cordwood in makeshift morgues throughout America.

The good news? Fewer people are dying from cancer and heart attacks and any number of other deadly diseases! Like, if you've smoked yourself nearly to death and have end-stage kidney failure and COPD, but you happen to spike a temperature?

Or -- what? You don't even feel sick?

You're going to die of China Virus whether you like it or not.

Folks. This is an election year. Yes; Wuhan Flu/China Virus is a real thing. No one is disputing that.

But decimating our economy -- and countless human lives, in ways that can be worse than death, for generations to come -- because of it, is immoral.

What we are seeing is the very definition of spiritual wickedness in high places. At its core it is the work of evil people. 

And it's also stupid.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Weekend :: Happy Easter

The Easter Tree

In January of 2019 I was forced to recalibrate my Christmas tree game.

As in, while decorating our seven-foot pencil tree for Christmas of 2018, I declared that it was the last time I would have that tree in my house.

We'd used it since 2002 and it was shot.

So it was that on the day after Christmas, I de-ornamented the tree and pitched it out. I told myself I had eleven months before I had to think about replacing the tree, and summarily forgot about the whole thing.

For the last several years the tree had dominated our sun room, where it had plenty of space to breathe and accommodate gifts, but could be seen from the adjacent TV room.

That had worked out great.

And then, this past July, I acquired Sweetness the Tuxedo cat.

Sweetness is confined to the sun room; she can peer through French doors into the TV room if she feels like seeing all that she's missing.

She also has a three-story enclosure with several shelves which hold her various beds and her food and water dishes, to live in when she's not allowed to roam free.

(Don't worry; i spend a lot of time in that room, and with her. She loves lounging in my lap.)

But I feared that there was no way for a cat (well -- THAT cat) and a Christmas tree to live together in the same room, without the Christmas tree and its delicate ornaments being in perpetual peril.

That meant that this past Christmas, I planned to move the tree (the one I didn't yet have) back to the front room, where for years it had been placed before I decided to move it to the sun room.

(I see your eyes glazing over. Stay with me.)

The disadvantage of setting up the Christmas tree in the front room is that people have to -- on purpose -- walk into that room in order to enjoy the tree.

(Since that room functions as my photography studio and tutoring studio and office, the tree wouldn't be seen very often by very many.)

(We don't use our front door to enter the house, as a rule; it's an entrance for my students and for non-family company. And we don't often have non-family company.)

But I had no choice. It was there or nowhere. 

I decided that we'd place the tree into the space between my two Caribbean-blue velvet armless sofas, which face each other in the front window from which my tree and its festive lights would shine out into the street.

All that was left was to locate a new Christmas tree.

It turned out to be a relatively simple process; we found one at Big Lots and it was on sale and it was pre-lit, which I'd never had before, and which I like although I know they are notoriously unreliable after the first year.

I moved my armless sofas so as to leave enough room for the tree, the height of which was augmented by placing it on a wooden platform that TG painted black.

I placed my antique reclaimed-wood box that serves as a coffee table, off to the side of one of the sofas.

TG set the pre-lit pencil tree up for me. It took all of five minutes.

And wow, I said, is that ever skinny.

(My previous tree had been a pencil tree but compared to this tree, it was one of those chubby pencils some of us used in grade school.)

But I liked my new tree and I decorated it with ease (it holds fewer ornaments and I was fine with that).

It needed additional lights because I like lots of lights. Adding them was a simple matter.

I don't remember when I arrived at the decision to keep my tree up throughout 2020; I'm pretty sure it was during the Christmas season itself. 

(Normally I'm on a mission to strip the house of everything Christmasy immediately after the Big Day.)

I do remember that it was our Erica who urged me to leave the tree up and decorate it for the seasons.

She has a darling (more folksy, rustic) tree in the corner of her dining room, beside her hutch. It's left up year-round and decorated for the various holidays. Siri turns the lights on each evening.

(It's separate from Chad and Erica's Christmas tree, which goes in their front room.)

I took Erica's suggestion seriously and started planning what I would do with my tree when it was time to divest it of its Christmas decorations.

It already sported blue lights (with the white pre-lits) and frosty blue ribbon interspersed amongst the branches, as well as a big blue bow at the top.

So I located a quantity of real glass "icicles" on Amazon, and decorated the tree with those, all wintry-like, for the month of January. 

I admit that in February, I failed to get the tree decked out for Valentine's Day. I tried but then ran out of time. I guess you could say my heart wasn't in it.

In March, I removed the icicles and added green lights. For St. Patrick's Day.

And that's as far as I got because as we all know, March was fraught with drama, plus a trip and three birthdays, one of which was mine. If I do this again next year, perhaps there will be shamrocks.

Before everything melted down due to Coronavirus, TG had taken me to Hobby Lobby where I purchased all the wide-width wire-edged ribbon I would need to take my tree through to autumn.

I chose purple for April and Easter, and pink for May and Mother's Day.

I picked out a rustic red ticking-stripe ribbon to add to my tree for the summer and patriotic holidays. 

As March waned, I knew that what I needed next was pastel-colored spring lights. You know; for my Easter and Mother's Day tree. 

I ordered some fairy lights from Amazon, that I throught fit that description.

Only, they arrived and they were not pastel colors. They were multicolored Christmas lights.

I ordered two strands of string lights that really WERE pastel, but on white cord.

Only, they arrived and one, I hadn't bought enough of them (only thirty-five lights per strand for a total of seventy and that's skimping and I don't skimp when it comes to lights) and two, I didn't like the look of the white cord on my tree.

I know I know I KNOW! It was all my fault! I wasn't thinking clearly.

I put those lights to use elsewhere (so it's all good) and found more pastel fairy lights on Amazon. I believed these would be the ticket.

And they were. They're pink and purple and yellow and green and blue and they shine brightly and, when combined on the tree with bits of purple ribbon and Easter egg ornaments and some white metal bird ornaments, bring to life my Easter tree.

I finished decorating it yesterday.

We are officially decorated for Easter; the bunnies are on the tables and pastel-colored lights glow here and there.

I cried today when I realized there was no chance we would be able to gather at church on Easter, and all be together to celebrate Resurrection Sunday.

I'm hopeful that instead, we are able to gather at home to watch the service online, then have a resplendent Easter meal together.

Even now we have so much to be grateful for -- not least that so far, we are all well.

I know that is not true for everyone, but I hope it is true for you and yours.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday :: Happy April