We lived along the train line to Manhattan in Fairfield,
Connecticut from 1981-1990. Spencer
caught the 6:52 each weekday morning, and the 5:02 out of Grand Central Station
each evening. He rose at 5:30 to
dress, left home at 6:15 to drive to the
station, park, and buy a paper before boarding, and if the trains were on time,
he was back in the driveway at about 6:30 that evening. A long day for anyone in a suit and tie and
one that was filled with the burden of performing well in the office and the
added stress of public transportation schedules and serious weather conditions at
least half the year. When you live like
that, you want home life to be as peace filled as possible.
We naturally looked forward to the holidays even knowing
they could get complicated. One year we
invited my parents to come for Christmas.
They were excited to see the children and to see New England decorated in
the style of Norman Rockwell/Christmas card fame. It truly is beautiful.
Mother came prepared to help in the kitchen, of course, but
besides the main Christmas dinner there were regular meals to be prepared,
gifts still to be wrapped, last minute things to purchase, and other
company--old friends we'd known in Texas, who had transferred north shortly
before we did. We thought my parents
would enjoy seeing them again and meeting their growing family, three boys,
ages one, three, and five, so we invited
them over to share a little supper and some "holiday cheer" a couple
of days before Christmas.  |
There's no place like home
for the holidays
|
Everything seemed to go wrong that day.
