Where
the Buffalo Stampede.
 This
Saturday the sprawling Stanfill clan assembles
for our annual seasonal Xmas-Palooza. We always
meet the Saturday before the 25th as it then
allows everyone a chance to return to their
respective
corners and celebrate the Big Day quietly with
their families. It also means the stores are
open for last-minute shopping or if we run
out of fake snow. Very convenient.
When I say "sprawling" I'm not kidding. My
folks had eight kids and most of them wasted
no time
unleashing their genetic lightning upon this
hapless, unsuspecting world. And we don't waste
time,
either. My
mother was a grandmother at 36, a great-grandmother
at 54, and is probably a great-great-grandmother by
now (though that branch of the family tree
is a bit gnarled). Counting all the spouses
and successive
generations of offspring we may have close
to 40 people roaming the halls
of the home of my patient sister and her outwardly
cranky yet inwardly gracious hubby. (Hi,
Al!)
We'll eat like starving stevedores, trade a
zillion gifts, and then wind down the evening
with
a raucous
game
of
Dirty
Santa, though there yet exists an ever-present
threat of karaoke. I anticipate
a handful
of contusions, at least one
fist-fight, and any number of shared pathogens.
It'll
be awesome. I hope your celebrations are likewise.
Addendum: It hasn't escaped
non-theistic little me that this Saturday is
the Winter Solstice.
That's why all my packages will gleefully bear
the little solstice message(aboove) instead
of an Xmas-y one.
=Lefty=
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