The house smells like lemon Pledge. Peggy is cleaning up the landfill created by Santa Claus and five grandchildren. She waltzes around the den with the vacuum cleaner reminding me of Gene Kelley dancing with the umbrella in, “Singing in the Rain.”
I sit on my leather throne reading “South of Broad” by Pat Conroy, a gift from the Legal Eagle Billy Jenkinson. When he brought me the book, we visited my chamber of horrors to show off my scrapbooks of journalistic jewels. Peggy, who sticks to me like duct tape, left my side for a skinny moment and that’s when I fell backwards, bruising my “somewhat” and hurting my “otherwise.”  Nothing was broken, but my dignity was blushing. My head bounced once on the hardwood floor, but the vacuum survived intact.
Lavern Ard gave me the best seller “Going Rogue” by Sarah Palin. The book by Pat Conroy spotlights his sense of humor, which is as sharp as the crease on a $40 dollar pair of pants. The book by Sarah Palin proves that common sense is an endangered species.
Robert Allen “Cabbage” Williamson baked 52 nut cakes this Christmas using the recipe of Mrs. Jeanette Inman. But there’s no shortage of nuts as long as those in charge over our public school system are in charge.
This is the first year I didn’t receive any cigars or egg nog for Christmas. I realize smoking has filled up many grave yards and enjoys the same popularity as a ham hock in a punch bowl, but hardly a day goes by when I don’t miss those sticks of 100 percent tobacco as long as a summer’s day and as big around as the equator. The aroma would make a septic tank throw up. But after one of Ole Scrap Iron’s semi deadly meals, this nicotine pacifier, a recliner, and a football game on TV was my ticket to paradise.
I miss Peggy’s egg nog, as thick as the Old Testament, made out of eggs, milk, half and half whipped cream and enough ‘ol grave yard to make grandpa kick a mud hole in King Kong.
But after the rain, there’s always a rainbow. This Christmas the rainbow’s name was Abby, Peggy’s and my fifth grandchild. She’s one month old and already has a potbelly. Her eyes are blue and a voice that don’t sound like angels singing. And Abby never loses her temper she uses over and over again. The male voice changes once in a lifetime, but the female voice changes every time she stops chewing out her husband to answer the telephone.
At Sandy Bay all the trees in my yard have shed their leaves. But the only man who was happy to see the leaf fall was Adam.