Lipstick on the Pig - - or Where Holidays Collide
You could really blame it all on Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire and all the people who put together the movie, Holiday Inn. Ever since I saw that particular movie at the age of 6 or so, I have been obsessed with holidays. I so wanted to have a little inn and staff and entertainers who ushered in each holiday. I wanted the snow, too, but here in the Deep South that is always “devoutly to be wished.”*
I drove my mother nuts. I harangued her for paper hearts, all the Christmas decorations we could find, pumpkins and turkeys and hearts galore. I begged for flags and shamrocks and bunnies to adorn our humble house and make it a holiday extravaganza. Now, these were the days before Pinterest, and tablescaping and all the avenues we now have to glean ideas for holiday decorating.
Maybe you could call me a design pioneer, or a creative person, or a NUT. But to this day I honor the holidays. This is why this very day you will find Christmas items still in my upstairs hallway, valentines on my stairs and shamrocks warming up so I can bedeck my space with the appropriate holiday cheer.
And then, I look around at the clutter and the chaos and the multitudinous books in stacks, and I feel that I am indeed “putting lipstick on the pig” or perhaps “pig sty” in this instance. It does not seem to bother me that I have this particular dichotomy—chaos and then neatly appointed holiday staging areas. I can’t help myself. Unless the Angel of Death is about to visit me I shall follow this routine until my mind is shot. (I know, I know - - some of my loved ones feel we are way past that mindset and off into the “undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns”* -- “holiday-land.”)
But, it makes me happy. And when one has suffered through seventy decades plus, one has the right to grab whatever happiness one can. I have a small piece of furniture, an antique washstand, the focal point of each holiday. As I come down my stairs, I can see the latest holiday’s trinkets reminding me to celebrate that day—and truthfully every other day I can. Life is short, so we must dance while we can. And for those of us who can’t dance, we must decorate.
I must close now as I hear the strains of “When Irish Eyes are Smiling,” and my shamrocks and rainbows are calling, especially since my Ancestry DNA results reveal that I am roughly 30% Irish. So, until we meet again . . .
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.
(Author unknown)
*Shakespeare’s Hamlet