I didn't grow up in the Georgia mountains, but every time I come through here, I feel like I should have. It's just so stinking pretty up here. The place we visit is a brand new build, and I look forward to it becoming the "old family cabin" someday. It has good energy. This is my second holiday here, and it has been a fun one so far. The man and the dogs have traipsed around the hills, running (and rolling) through the hills and sending me pictures of proof that bears do indeed poop in the woods. I will spare you that particular photo, and I have to wait until the man wakes again to get pictures he took of the pups. Each one of us took turns falling asleep in our chairs today, but he took it one step further and carried his sleepy self off to bed early as soon as he woke from his nap. What better present for someone who spent way too many months working six days a week? Sleep well, Mr Man.
We each only asked for a couple gifts each, and we seemed to have gotten all we desired. I'm pleased that I no longer have to balance my electronic devices over bowls to hear them beyond arm's length. And after years of pretending I was disinterested, I finally admitted how girly I really am, and how much I wanted a Pandora bracelet, so the family got me started on one. Apparently I wasn't the only one who wanted to tease the man about his new mountain mining claim. I gave him an aluminum walking stick, and my dad gave him a big prospector's ax. Now he needs to get out there and find us some gold. (Or he can once he gets a license to use dynamite up in them thar hills.)
There's a family tradition, mostly perpetuated by me, that for every family gathering, somebody has to be sick. My dad and the man are both teetering on the edge of feeling crummy, but they are holding in so far. Me, I skipped colds, fevers, flu, or headache, and went straight to bodily trauma. I am not used to avoiding footboards on beds, so when I went striding across the room where my suitcase was, I wasn't careful enough to give a wide berth to the iron-framed bed. I smashed the same two little toes that I very nearly pulverized into pudding when I was a teenager. And just like that time when I was fourteen, I knew immediately it was more than just a stubbing. It wasn't until a couple hours later, when one whole toe was dark purple before the rest of the family understood that I wasn't just limping for sympathy. So I guess that's it. It's really a down home Christmas. Just like old times.
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