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I think I shall explode.
Either that or, with the heaping portion of turkey I have eaten, along with a tower of potatoes decorated in sunny yellow corn and savory, celery laced stuffing with a sizable slab of cranberry sauce and chocolate pudding cake for dessert, fall asleep. It was all so delicious I just had to do it justice. And so after prayer and a carol, I loaded my plate with the mouth-watering selection they put out. As well as a spud from the Spud man – giver of spuds. *laugh* I know, it's awful that I can't remember his name, but every year he is one of the volunteers who hands, or rather tongs, steaming baked potatoes to dinners who care to have one. This is how he remains in my memory, I suppose. He, of course socialized a bit and stood around our table, busying himself with refilling drinks and threatening people with a spud in the head if they didn't watch out, until he was relieved by, amazingly enough, a Brothern man who was also volunterring. You can imaging our surprise at seeing him and his wife helping at a methodist church. It's not wrong to help out there, just peculiar considering usually members host these events. We'd seen them taking off their coats and sending their little girl with what we now know is her aunt before the couple started serving. Dad took it apon himself to be introdused, got to know who this "Carl" person was. They really hit it off! So well that Carl stayed after the tables where being cleared just talking! Not doing his job. -_-' That's men for you..
His wife's greeting was not as forthcoming. Mom and I literally had to go to the kitchen and call her over (as did the rather bousterous and tactless worldly woman who was oblivious to any of our discomfort at yelling across the room for someone trying to avoid you.). They really liked us, or at least Carl did. Hey, I'll go over their house simply to spend time with the baby. *grins* His wife (whose name escapes me at the moment) is sick, so we'll see.
After the meal, I was nearly lulled into el-tryptophan induced sleep by a surprisingly harmonious instrumental three-some. Ivy, the pastors daughter, and her older sister and fellow home schooler played a few songs, just the three of them, on a flute, a violin, and a long black tubular thing that sounded like some kind of baby trombone. I don't know how Ivy, whose height is maybe a few inches beyond my own, mustered up enough air to play that gigantic ungangly pipe. *shakes head* They obviously knew what they were doing. Could have used one of those ticking triangles in the background to keep a tempo, not that I'm in any place to critique. Despite wanting to learn the hand bells since third grade, the only instrument I can literally play is my voice and my nose, the latter of which can bring on the most interesting reactions. *laugh*
“The First Noel”just so happens to be my favorite carol in it's tune. Though, I find the words of Silent Night ultimately more illuminating of the feeling of that night all humanity rejoices in.
Now, Most years there is an activity, and this year was no exception, though it lacked somewhat in my eyes compared to last year's. The pastor called up Ivy, , and two other people, one of which just so happened to be me. So up I went and, much to my surprise, I did not turn three shades of red standing in front of all those strangers, singing no less. He handed each of us large poster with the words Bethlehem, Manger, Angel, or written on the front and a scrip of the story on the back with the designated word highlighted. After assigning a few tables to each person, he gave us instructions to how the story telling game would go. Every time a certain word was said, say it was Bethlehem, then I would raise my poster and my group would sing the first line of the first verse of “O Little Town Of Bethlehem”. That task seemed easy enough for a kindergardener! Right?
Erm, well there were a few brave soloists out there who didn't think so, i, in, including myself. Once the get started, they just can't stop. *chuckles* No, you can not compare it to seeing a table of elderly women pose as eight maids a' milking, but I can say it was tolerable enough.
So ended our festive afternoon of celebration. We were giving three goodie bags to go and a grocery bag of superb spuds and a hefty tub of poultry from the kitchen, so as not to let us go empty handed. Heaven forbid we should go without turkey for the agonizing three weeks of digestion after Christmas. Ah, what I wouldn't do for just one more piece apple of pie...
Your Bloated Buddy,
~Gabby~ ><>
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