CHRISTMAS PAST

My gang arrives today. Nostalgia for Christmases past and simpler times come to mind as I sort through old cards, but I know, Christmases past are best remembered and not relived.  I wonder how different my kids remembrances of Christmas will be as they get older and look back.
The beautiful lettering on this card, along with the clothing says “old-fashioned”.

Children cry when meeting a scary department store Santa. What would it be like to see this Father Christmas at the door? Smithsonian Magazine’s website asked people to vote for the scariest Santa from about twenty pictures. There were some doozies.
Quaint language tickles my fancy since I love poetry and doggerel, both :
When Christmas comes to your abode,
May care be laid aside,
That naught but cheer, good will and mirth,
And joy and peace abide.
or:
We wish you a glad, merry Christmas
Surrounded by dear ones and friends;
We wish you a sweet, pleasant pathway,
For New Year, wher’er it wends.
And from 1931 :
We hope you’ll have a drumstick that is eatable,
Potatoes mashed , and gravy of the best,
A slab of mince or pumpkin pie unbeatable,
And-it doesn’t  matter much about the rest.
.
Today, I’ll finish any cooking to be done ahead of time, clean out the ashes in the stove, stack in some wood, turn on the music and wait for the best part of Christmas-the family’s arrival.

AT WAR WITH MYSELF

I'm a collectiholic. I hate throwing anything away. I've kept bags filled with used corks, pretty colored bits of shiny paper, magazines articles, wire, bobby pins, broken fishing poles, tool handles,  faded lumpy sleeping bags, hair curlers...if it has a shape, and a former use, it  is useable. If I give-in and throw it out, that item immediately reveals its usefulness the moment I can no longer retrieve it.  I'm honestly trying to change those old habits.  I'm regularly at war with myself over this issue and the junk often wins. Imagine my delight and validation in rediscovering Edgar Guest's poem:
THE JUNK BOX
                   The Junk Box
                                                      Edgar Guest
          My father often used to say:
          "My boy, don't throw a thing away:
          You'll find a use for it some day."
          So in a box he stored up things,
          Bent nails, old washers, pipes and rings,
          And bolts and nuts and rusty springs.
          Despite each blemish and each flaw,
          Some use for everything he saw;
          With things material, this was law.
          And often when he'd work to do,
          He searched the junk box through and through
          And found old stuff as good as new.
          And I have often thought since then,
          That father did the same with men;
          He knew he'd need their help again.
          It seems to me he understood
          That men, as well as iron and wood,
          May broken be and still be good.
          Despite the vices he'd display
          He never threw a man away,
          But kept him for another day.
          A human junk box is this earth
          And into it we're tossed at birth,
          To wait the day we'll be of worth.
          Though bent and twisted, weak of will,
          And full of flaws and lacking skill,
          Some service each can render still.