Amy on writing

Here we are

Happy Holidays everyone!

I love this time of year, the traditions, decor, extended family. Awesome movies and baking shows, but it’s also a stressful time for many. For me it’s the self-imposed burning of both candle ends as I prepare to host my 4 Christmas’.

When I get stressed I always try to sit back a few minutes, maybe with an eggnog, watch my tree cast it’s glow around the room and the mist covering the California sun out my window and remember why I do it. Every year, without question.

It’s for the memories. Memories I hold and share and build with my little family.

What are your favorite holiday memories? Share with me in the comments. I am in deep need of all your warm and fuzzies…And anything hilarious is critically valued.

Cheers, Amy

13 thoughts on “Here we are”

  1. Beautiful set up in your picture and post as well Amy! I agree… we do it for the memories… for the precious quality family time. My funny memories revolve around playing Santa for my little girl. She always lets on that she kind of knows but then she also believes. It is cute. Keeps me young. Lol!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Xmas memories, Amy? Here is mine. Sorry if it’s long, but it’s taken from one of my old blog posts.

    I reckon it was Christmas 1976, when my cousin sneaked the Watney’s Party Seven (a purchasable vessel containing seven pints of beer) up into his bedroom for us to have our own party. This had been purely Roberto’s idea, of course. He was a bit of a rascal, the Artful Dodger to my straight-laced Oliver Twist. I’d been driven up for the day from leafy Surrey to Christmas dinner with the Italian side of the family in Wood Green, North London, which I found neither green nor woody but ruthlessly urban in which Roberto had developed an alley cat leanness to which I was pure mouse. We had little in common, but a mutual preference to be in someone else’s company at family gatherings.

    The Evel Knievel toy and Ker Plunk I had opened that morning had been left at home with their wrappings. I longed to play with them, but they were safe there: Roberto broke stuff. The Buckeroo he had received mere hours before had already had its spring tensed beyond returning point and his Tonka toys were looking haggard.

    Dinner had been a crowded table of Italian feasting and excitable gesturing as usual. Great-uncle Lorenzo had performed his normal magic in the kitchen. This year, our traditional starters of ravioli had been preceded by ‘the feesh’, ie baby octopus, all suckers and tentacles and left well alone by Roberto and myself. Dark now, in those flabby hours of Christmas evening, the number of empty wine bottles had grown as Auntie Fran found Dad’s jokes funnier and funnier, and Uncle Carlos had started playing Puccini arias on his trumpet early, in a pointless attempt to keep Mum entertained and awake.

    The whereabouts of us boys was of no concern as I shut the bedroom door behind Roberto as he brought through the booty. As a 13-year old, I’d had no experience of alcohol beyond being allowed a shandy in a cut glass, in front of Starsky and Hutch on Saturday evenings. Sometimes I was even allowed to watch the first soccer game on Match of the Day – the most grown-up it was possible to be. But that was Surrey.
    Now, we both sat on the bed admiring the impressive scarlet and gold Pandora’s cylinder of temptation lying in front of us. It gleamed like something from the Tutankahmun exhibition I’d seen on a school trip to the British Museum. Just as Howard Carter had opened the tomb, we were about to break into the mighty drum and imbibe the proceeds of Roberto’s crime: all seven pints of it – a feat that I could take me across a line I was not certain I wanted, or was able, to pass. The alternative was worse – lose face in front of my cousin: and I had the English side of the family name to stand up for.

    We examined the shiny canister for a ring-pull. There was none…

    It was this design inadequacy that immediately became apparent to Roberto and I as we sat on the bed examining the giant can. It had no entry point. We weren’t to know, but at Christmas parties across the land, thirsty revellers would be struggling to break into their sealed units of gassy beer. Frantic men would be searching for hammers, screwdrivers, bread knives and hand drills to pierce the unyielding metal. A&E departments would be working throughout the festive period to stitch the wounds of failed attempters. For 59 shillings 9d, the initial run of Party Sevens had come with the option to buy a Sparklets Beertap to access the beer without the probability of personal injury, or gouging the kitchen table, but most men, being men, knew better, or had lost this piece of kit having consumed their previous Party Seven.

    Of course, Roberto had no such device or indeed any robust tools in his bed room, and a trip out past the parents to the garage for tools was far too risky. But in an inspired move, I opened his bedroom window and suggested the action that inadvertently revealed the second issue faced by consumers of the Party Seven.

    We lifted the great beast and hit it against the window ledge, where the metal peg stood proud to engage with the drilled hole in the window arm I had just opened to secure it in the shut position.

    There was a metallic ‘clang’ and the sound of swishing. Inspection revealed the peg had caused a significant denting, but insufficient to penetrate the metal side. The second strike resulted in a similar depression adjacent to the first. The third blow, a full-bloodied whack, did the job.

    The can instantly came alive and went berserk, the two of us struggling to hold it down as it delivered a jet of carbonated beer against the ceiling above us at 400psi. The bloody thing was pretty much uncontrollable as its spray blasted the against the pictures of Ducati motorbikes and the tennis girl scratching her arse, on Roberto’s wall. The hissing noise was deafening and we feared for our safety even more than discovery and retribution, so powerful was its force. We just about managed to fight the angry can to a position where the furious jet was aimed out of the window, its range disappearing into the dark, probably hitting the flower bed alongside the back fence some 100 feet away.
    The wretched thing showed no sign of calming, so we pushed it out of the first floor window into the garden below. We stood at the window and watched it buck and spin around like a Catherine Wheel on the grass for another 30 seconds or so, before it ran out of venom.

    Roberto and I looked at the beer spume in our hair and running down our faces, and laughed. Anglo-Italian relations had never been better, and a respect shared, that remains in our family today, more than 40 years later.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much for that one! Hysterical. I do recall reading about your Italian side on the other blog with the bot that must not be named.
      Oh to be 13 again. I recall a similar incident of ridiculousness that involved triple sec and vanilla ice cream sundaes at a friends slumber party….
      Will this little number be in your published works? I just received my paperback yesterday😀.

      Liked by 1 person

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