Our neighborhood is a web of cul-de-sac streets with only one entry into it. Our particular street has one street coming off of it, is about two blocks long and ends in a cul-de-sac. There are five or six houses around this cul-de-sac that are infested with a swarm of rug rats. Most of them are elementary school age, a few younger, with a sprinkling of teenagers. What is cool is that these kids tend to play in the street like we did back in the “good old days.” They are riding bikes, scooters, various new fangled riding contraptions that I am clueless as to their names. Street hockey and soccer are big in this neighborhood. They seem to stay very busy entertaining themselves and each other, all the while running into and out of each other’s houses.
I was walking Princess Lily aka Tater Tot aka The Wee Dog Christmas Eve evening, and she chose to lead her obedient subject up our street to the infested cul-de-sac. In all the cul-de-sacs there are islands for cars to circle around. This specific island the families have turned into a bit of a playground that even has a hammock.
This evening a grandmotherly sort that lives in one of these houses was outside with a couple of the kids, one elementary age and one a teenager. We recognize each other, but the relationship begins and ends at a neighborly nod. In front of their cul-de-sac island she and the kids had outlined in white chalk, in the street, in big letters, the words MERRY CHRISTMAS, and were now busily filling in the letters with various other chalk colors and designs. The grandmotherly sort was helping, crouched on one knee filling in one of the letters.
As I neared the work with Princess Lily I stopped and I said in a loud voice, “You have misspelled Christmas.”
The grandmother stood erect immediately, backed off a few steps and began pointing her finger at each letter while mouthing the letters, “C-H-R-I-S…”.
It was at this point that I confessed that I was just picking at them and Christmas was indeed spelled correctly. Fortunately for me she laughed. I apologized for such a mean spirited joke on Christmas Eve. She in turn, in the spirit of the season, still laughing, told me not to worry as it was funny.
Dodged another one. Sometimes I forget that silence is indeed golden.
And so it goes in my alternate curmudgeonly reality.