‘Twas the Monday after Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring “no spoons”! I was in my leather throne watching the white river flow through the tube and disappear inside my sugar bowl where it takes the place of eggnog and all the other goodies we take for granted during the holiday season.
When the Christmas tree was decorated it looked like Cinderella. Undressed, it looked like Whoopi Goldberg and Roseanne Barr, the color of the Incredible Hulk. All those bulbs, bangles and bright shiny beads that made children dream so, now stand unloved and unclaimed, naked.  Without all the accessories that make a Christmas tree stand out like Dolly Parton in a room full of ironing boards, it looks like a cheap call girl, tiny at the top, but its hips reach from sea to shining sea.
Trimming and untrimming a Christmas tree is like a woman dressing for a tea party or undressing for a honeymoon; one takes forever, the other takes more time than it does for a minnow to swim a dipper.
Peggy swoops down like an avenging angel. Gone are the Santa Clauses, wise men, Christmas trees, reindeer and angels. They have had their 15 minutes of fame. Now they are disappearing in the attic until next December. The nine stockings that hung on the mantle Christmas Eve, pregnant with hopes and dreams, have vanished like Rudolph on your radio.
The dogwood trees in the yard have completed their annual strip tease. All that remains are the red berries. Every Christmas tree is known by its ornaments and pictures of grandchildren.
 Our tree has orange tiger paws, orange tiger helmets, and one of my favorite, a Christmas ornament from the US Mint, a 1970 dime. That dime has decorated 29 Christmas trees. It looks old and tarnished, but how would you look if you spend 11 months in the attic and 30 days hanging on a Christmas tree?
So now the mall will be as empty as your pocketbook. The Cinderella with the twinkling lights and all the pretty packages underneath its branches has turned into a green gargoyle that will take its place in landfills and ditches all over the Pee Dee.
Today, Peggy will pay taxes at the courthouse and rent on safety deposit boxes. So my 83rd Christmas is history. Besides bills and a new granddaughter and Clemson winning a bowl game, I still have the NFL bowl games, the Super Bowl and a lot to be thankful for.