(First posted on Runaway Tales: Eggnog #13)
December 9, 2011:
“Harry, Mary, and Joseph!”** So declared Grandma Randolph (our Dad’s mom, your great-grandmom) while the fire truck did a second rotation through Blueville. Christmas in her neighborhood means Station House 5 goes down all fourteen streets blaring the siren on their main truck. The truck is always decked out…festooned…tricked out…covered in red, green, and gold lights, with a huge plastic Santa on the back.
I don’t know why a screeching fire truck blasted around the neighborhood for thirty-eight minutes. It was past seven, when everybody eats dinner/falls asleep while quarter-listening to the news/doing anything which gets disturbed by an approaching yowling noise. Gran Randolph almost dropped her after dinner candy cane stuck in amaretto coffee (she likes “prominent flavors”). Your poor maternal unit almost dropped you on the couch (don’t worry, I had reflexes of steel, so you never left my hands. Of course you also slept right through it too). Your grandfather and aunt just kind of looked at each other in some kind of mutual “Yeah, it’s here again” kind of look (because they never did it when I was little, but pulled out the stops a few times when Allyson was a kidlet).
Grandma Randolph certainly had more to say regarding the noisy fire truck as it squealed along the streets…but those words are better left unwritten because your great-grandmother curses better than an imaginary cursing sailor…
**You’re probably wondering who “Harry, Mary and Joseph” are…”Harry” was my grandfather, “Mary and Joseph” shouldn’t be hard to figure out.