Not much to report today. With a stomach ailment, I was up all night in my office which is situated next to the bathroom.
My mother was an insomniac and spent the night worrying about it. I try to avoid that, so when I have a very, very rare bad night, I try to get things done. Those tasks can be nothing too demanding, I certainly won't be writing the Great American Novel at 2:00 a.m.
Last night, I re-did my Christmas card list, a job long overdue, last done in 2005. I had to remove at least a quarter of the names from the list. Sadly most of those people are no longer alive.
In the old days, I sent between 70 and 80 cards each year. I've lived so many places in my 69 years. Those once a year Christmas notes kept me in touch of old friends I left behind.
This year there are only 39 cards to make out. The list will continue to dwindle, I'm afraid, as old friends die. I am making new friends, but the younger crowd send e-mail greetings at the holidays instead of snail mail. I am probably old fashioned but I still prefer getting those lovely cards out of the mailbox on cold and dark December days, putting them in the red ribbonned basket, while remembering with a smile the people who sent them.
Christmas is about memories. Last night's lack of sleep gave me those.
My mother was an insomniac and spent the night worrying about it. I try to avoid that, so when I have a very, very rare bad night, I try to get things done. Those tasks can be nothing too demanding, I certainly won't be writing the Great American Novel at 2:00 a.m.
Last night, I re-did my Christmas card list, a job long overdue, last done in 2005. I had to remove at least a quarter of the names from the list. Sadly most of those people are no longer alive.
In the old days, I sent between 70 and 80 cards each year. I've lived so many places in my 69 years. Those once a year Christmas notes kept me in touch of old friends I left behind.
This year there are only 39 cards to make out. The list will continue to dwindle, I'm afraid, as old friends die. I am making new friends, but the younger crowd send e-mail greetings at the holidays instead of snail mail. I am probably old fashioned but I still prefer getting those lovely cards out of the mailbox on cold and dark December days, putting them in the red ribbonned basket, while remembering with a smile the people who sent them.
Christmas is about memories. Last night's lack of sleep gave me those.
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