It seems our home is a breeding ground. Workrooms are apparently getting together late at night. Next day, voila, more workrooms.
It’s the season, I think. There’s something about Christmas that demands space for stuff, hidden and lounging about. Stuff to be wrapped. Stuff to wrap with. Stuff to “conspire, as they dream by the fire.”
The wife is in the middle of all this, managing the workrooms like different fronts on a battlefield. Right now, all’s quiet on the Western Front, but the Eastern one is aglow with frenzied activity. I can hear Christmas music and rattling paper, smell candles burning. Things are happening there that will delight grandchildren and bring smiles to daughters and daughters-in-law. The men involved will grin in a manly man sort of way. I know, I’ve been there, done that.
The wife, the Grandma, you see, is the conductor and soul of the Thanksgiving-to-Christmas symphony. She signs off on the right tree to cut, I erect it, and she decorates it. Actually, she bedecks two, one real, one artificial. Used to be three when the kids were home: one real—the big one, one artificial—the artistic one, and another real one—the smaller one adorned with kids’, traditional, and sentimental family ornaments. Whatever, she is seen in them all.
The wife is the one, too, who actually works in the workrooms. I make forays in and get out quickly, like a medic on a field of battle. She stays in the line of fire and directs the action. She wraps decoratively. I tape paper around purchased items. She is the one, of course, who envisioned, found, purchased, and carried home the stuff—gifts—in the first place. She’s the one who transforms the stuff into Christmas memories.
So multiplying workrooms are a symbol of love not labor. God give us more workrooms.
© Rex M. Rogers – All Rights Reserved, 2010
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