'Twas festive and the tree was trimmed

"Where's the Fireboy?" my cousin Andrew wanted to know after I posted this album on Instagram. Earlier this week as we trimmed the tree and decorated holiday cookies and sipped mulled cider, Fireboy was working a 24-hour shift, during which multiple fire houses were battling a massive and decidely suspicious fire at the police evidence warehouse in Brooklyn. Some firefighters were injured, thankfully none of them critically. My boy wasn't actually working the fire, as he's currently assigned to the department's press office as he waits to be medically released back to active duty following his knee surgery. He's fine, actually, but the department wants to be very sure that when next he climbs into a fire, that knee is fully healed and supportive. I appreciate that. In the meantime, he jokes that he's getting a small taste of his mama's profession. I remember when he used to come to work with me when he was a kid, and I was an editor at a women's magazine. All he saw were people sitting at desks tapping away at keyboards, and it bored him silly. That's when he knew he needed a more active vocation. On some level, he had already chosen his path.

My new choir held its holiday concert yesterday, and as I always say, we made a joyful noise. There are many more of us in this choir than in my last one, mostly retirees who can meet up on a weekday afternoon. I loved all the musical selections, including a haunting Hanukkah piece "Ose Shalom," a joyful Paul Laurence Dunbar composition "Ring Out," and the always rousing "Hallelujah Chorus" from Handel's Messiah. I thoroughly enjoyed the singing season with this new group, with rehearsals held in a church walking distance from my home. My friend Lisa is an alto with me (it was she who recruited me to join), and we have now made friends among the choral members, some of who regularly invite us for coffee after rehearsals. And yet, during yesterday's concert, I found myself fondly remembering the quirky crew from my last choir, and really understanding in a new way how our former choral director worked with us to make sure that all our entrances were strong and in unison, our enunciation clear, our rhythms cohesive, and our sound on pitch. We really sang well for such an amateur choir, even with our famous weak links—I count myself among them—and I am appreciating our efforts so much more in retrospect. 

My husband and some other friends attended yesterday, and we went out for hot soup afterward. As two of our number were very worried about the rising rates of Covid and other respiratory viruses in the city, we sat outdoors, but the temperatures were definitely frigid, and even with the heating lamps suspended above our table, I was chilled to the bone. How I relished the warmth of my home last night, the man and I each sipping a perfect pour of wine from our Vinebox advent calendar, given to us for Christmas by our son-in-law-to-be.

My girl and her love happened to be in Mexico this weekend, attending the wedding of two Indian friends. It involved four days of celebrations, and guests were asked to wear traditional Indian attire for two of the events, a style of dress I personally find to be very beautiful, with its vivid jewel tones and elegantly flowing garments.

Our girl sent me that photo from last night. Don't they look lovely? This is the, count 'em, seventh wedding our newly engaged couple has attended this year, including the wedding in September of my own son and his lovely bride. I guess people are making up for the two years lost to Covid, when so many nuptials were postponed. Or maybe my girl and her love are just in that time of life when their age cohorts who have a mind to marry are tying the knot. Even so, seven weddings in one year is a lot of weddings, and all I have to say about that is—Ain’t love grand?