La-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-THUD. La-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-THUD. Brass bells were playing merrily in the living room when the dog and I returned from our walk this morning. They operate electronically, and have lovely, bright tones. I weave strings of them into the living room Christmas tree. We really enjoy them, except for the occasional thud.
Thuds happen when something is touching the bell, preventing it from ringing freely. A single evergreen needle will make the bell go flat. More than one needle produces a thud. So just free the bell, right? Yes, once you locate the offending bell. This involves positioning yourself close enough to the tree to see some of the bells, listening for the vicinity of the thudder, and repeating as necessary till you home in on the troublemaker.
Another series of noises caught our attention in the morning darkness this Wednesday. They were snow-shoveling sorts of noises but lacked the rhythm of a person applying shovel to sidewalk or the sustained thrum of a snowplow’s engine. The sound was more of a restless mutter.
A child who grew up on our court is a father himself these days, and still runs the snow-clearing business he started in high school. The young man left the family home years ago, and his mother died, too young, a few weeks ago. No one from his family lives across the court anymore.
Yet it was the sound of his truck that we heard before dawn, clearing the street for his former neighbors. The sound was intermittent because it was garbage day, and people had rolled their wheelie bins out by the curb for the city to pick up. He was going house to house, lifting the bins out of the street, plowing, then setting them back out for pickup and moving on. What a remarkable young man he’s become. But then, he was a remarkable boy.
Last Saturday, after enjoying the Potters Guild sale—an Ann Arbor tradition since 1959—Anne and I saw a winter sight that made both of us laugh out loud. A dad and toddler were crossing the street on their way to the sale, dressed for the weather. His ensemble was pretty standard for a cold day. Her jacket was a showstopper.
It was a shimmery fabric in pastel colors, tending toward pink. White faux fur outlined the hood. The hood itself was shaped like a pyramid, apex pointing toward the sky. Of the child’s head, we could see nothing. She looked like an adorable, pink, walking mushroom, holding Daddy’s hand and stepping right along. I hope he put her hood down when they got to the sale, so she could see the Potters Guild’s lovely wares.
Saturday afternoon, Daughters Two and Four came for a visit, bearing Advent calendars. When we were kids, Advent calendars tended to be village scenes, with numbered windows in the houses to open in order as we counted down the days till Christmas. The windows opened onto interior scenes, or a person looking out.
Advent calendars now seem mostly to involve prizes of some sort, trinkets or food. My calendar has single-serving jars of preserves and jams behind its windows, bits of scrumptiousness to carry us through the winter. I plan to hoard them and dispense them as needed.
My sweetheart’s calendar doesn’t even bother with windows. It features numbered, two-ounce tins of nutty snacks. Smoked almonds. Coconut curry peanuts. Cajun cashews. That sort of thing. He is not planning to save his treats for later. He started opening them immediately. He ignored the numbers printed on the tops of the tins, and went directly to Cajun cashews. He loved them, and offered them around.
Then he opened another tin and another. Every tin yielded its secrets. And, as every tin was tamper-proofed, soon the floor was deep in ribbons and curls of plastic. I don’t remember the last time the girls’ father had so much fun with a present. Shades of Mr. Toad.
I got Rascal a sweater to wear while out walking on extra-cold days. He turned eighteen at the end of November, and I didn’t know how he’d feel about clothes. As it turns out, he likes the sweater fine. He’s really quite enthusiastic about taking it off. The first time we took off his sweater, he decided that that activity called for a treat.
Every time the sweater comes off, he prances himself to the pantry. If I’m still dealing with my own winter gear, he prances over to my sweetheart to see if he’d like to do the treating honors. Rascal loves his doggie sweater.
12 December 2025
Let the hoarding begin (or the passing out of the bounty over time).
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all had neighbors like you do! You are very fortunate!