Well, tonight’s Christmas Eve and there’s good and bad to talk about.
I’m pretty amazed at the Heart Threads stuff. We ended up with four neck scarves, two pairs of mittens, six caps and five blankets! Five! Monday night there was a knock at the door and it was Lupé and her mother. Their church group donated two blankets, two caps, and a whole bushel basket of wool for more things. My mouth nearly fell on the floor with amazement. THEN, on Tuesday morning, Mrs. Spencer from the wool shop came by with MORE wool to donate AND a patchwork blanket that she and her friends knitted. She said she was so happy to help out, and they’d all worked it in pieces then finished putting it together just the day before. With the two throw blankets Sarah and her mama gave us, that made five.
We left Tuesday afternoon with all the food and my Heart Threads stuff in some boxes. Two other trucks came with us carrying canned food and clothing donations, and best of all, some toy donations from the fire station. We met at Abby Mae’s store, where her dad handed round hot coffee and pecan bread for the volunteers. Then we scattered like a herd of deer and gave everything out. Maybe it was the cold, bright day or maybe Christmas just crept into my spirit, but I felt like singing the whole time. Every word came out steaming, too! Abby Mae and I gave that old man the warmest blanket we had; Daddy cut him some more firewood and we left him soup and cranberry loaf. His name is Peet Boone McCabe and he’s 82 years old.
Of course, we also stopped by Mr. Rafe Buford’s place—I was all ready for a big fuss—but he was quiet and polite, for a wonder. He thanked us for the food and wished us a Merry Christmas. Maybe the season crept inside him, too, like old Scrooge! My favorite was giving out caps and mittens to little kids and their mamas. We stopped by that single-wide to give them things, but those folks were gone, even the soda under the trailer. I hope they’re okay. It bothered me to think about it.
Well, Diary, all that’s the good news. The bad is, I guess, that we’ve never heard anything from Trail. We sent off the CD, I hope it got there in time for Christmas. Mama’s pretty sad, I can tell, and Daddy sighs a lot and says, “Well, well…” when he pats her on the shoulder. It’s going to be hard to think of Trail over in the desert when we’re all eating turkey tomorrow afternoon.
Sounds like someone’s come calling downstairs, and no one’s answering the door. Guess I better go see who it is…
Merry Christmas, Dear Diary!