Christmas treated me pretty well this year.
I had to work for the first seven hours of the holiday, but that's OK. Everybody had to put in at least a few hours that day, to make it fair to all. Since I was scheduled to work that night anyway, and since I don't really celebrate any holidays whatsoever, it was fine with me.
It was a fairly quiet night at the store, once the first two hours had passed. Even the Evil Empire, Wal-Mart, was closed by then. Eventually even the cops ran out of people to pull over and five or six of them came in and took a break for an hour or so.
Contributing to the easy night was the decision not to cook breakfast.
Normally I bake 40 buttermilk biscuits and cook sausage, bacon, chicken, ham, deep-fried steak, and pork tenderloin. The biscuits are then cut in half and sandwiches are made with them, using the aforementioned meats. All options (except chicken) are available with or without egg. On weekends, the count is cut in half (20) and not all options are available.
The manager and I had discussed whether or not to cook on Christmas, but a conclusion hadn't been reached. When I got to work on Christmas Eve, a rough mental calculation indicated that the odds were high that we'd lose money on hot food on Christmas morning. A few people still had to work, but not enough to justify putting even 20 biscuits up. By not cooking, I also saved myself a lot of time and didn't have to hurry as much as I usually do.
After I got home, I took a short nap, and then my brother called. He had a few things to bring over. About 45 minutes later he showed up, with food and dog food and treats and dog treats, all wonderful and needed stuff. We stood around in the yard and talked for an hour or so. There really wasn't any point in bringing him into the Château; the recliner is piled high with Lisa's clothes that I recently removed from the closet, and the couch has a CRT TV taking up most of the space. There really isn't any place to sit. Still, we had a nice visit and as I said, he brought a bounty of things that Rocko and I needed.
And then, this morning, as I sat on the front porch drinking some herbal tea that Karl brought, a half-dozen bluebirds flitted around in the woods across the street. I grew up in New York State, where the state bird is the bluebird, yet I never saw one until I moved to the mountains of North Carolina.
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