Jack of Harts

I love the holiday season. We start out by thanking God for what we have. And the next day we have the time-honored tradition of ritual combat over the best sales on the planet. Then we cut down a tree, stuff it into our house, put ornaments on it, and light it up like a roman candle. The hope is that it will stand there for a month or two, drying out the whole time, and pray to God it never gets dry and hot enough that it actually bursts into flame. We hang stockings from our fireplaces for a fat man to come down our chimneys and stuff with gifts, and hope a stray ember doesn’t get caught in their fabric. We throw chestnuts into the fireplace, and hope they don’t scatter the flames when they explode. We place multi-piece candelabras on our pianos and hope the molten wax doesn’t seep into places we’d rather not. And I haven’t even started on the food. I gain ten pounds just looking at it. Maybe the happiest part of the holidays is somehow managing to avoid killing ourselves before we get through them.