We had family and friends over this afternoon for Christmas. My mom, brothers, sister, and myriad nephews and nieces get together at noon on Christmas day for a brunch and gift exchange. My kids have always spent Christmas eve with their mom. Trying to see my kids Christmas morning before going over to see my family means geting up way too early so, last year Zoe came up with having the kids over late afternoon on Christmas eve. It worked out great last year so everyone came over around 2 to leave lots of time to be together before they went to their mom's. This year was without Jenny and William. William is in Baghdad and Jenny is staying home, which is Fort Carson, CO. We missed them. Zoe and I were up late wrapping packages and cleaning. I had to make an emergency run this morning to get more wrapping paper. All was finished on time.

My son Robby, his partner Hannah, my daughter Katie, her son Mike, her boyfriend Colby, and our good friends Kim and Doug all arrived for our traditional Christmas waffles. (Actually, this is the first year of the tradition. Traditions have to start sometime.)

Zoe took the first two pictures and also reminded me that there is a Christmas carol about waffles.

Here is a link to the rest of the words: The Waffle Song. They misspell waffle, though.

We then started opening presents.

Finishing up the presents

We gave Robby a little laser light show. It's nice to have kids and friends that are easily amused. Kim was laying on the floor watching it. A good time was had by all. Doug and Kim left to visit their landlord, Katie and Robby, with entourage, went to see their mom. Zoe has crashed and I'm making bread for tomorrow. Here are a couple of Christmas stories from Joe Bageant.

Childhood in an English children's home

Dear Joe, I have been reading your web site for a number of months and have really enjoyed reading work by an intelligent American. Forgive me if I sound patronising, but from my side of the Atlantic it often feels like all Americans are Bush. I leave the door wide open for you to attack my very own poodle leader Tony Blair! am writing to you because I wanted to tell you about my childhood almost a half-century ago in the late fifties and early sixties. I had the great good fortune to be brought up in a small children's home in Hertfordshire, England. The first three years of my life were, apparently, coloured by deep poverty and neglect and when my father was finally imprisoned for grand larceny (lovely quaint offence, don't you think?) in Wormwood Scrubs at Her Majesty's pleasure, and my mother showing not the slightest interest in having me join her and my other illegitimate siblings, the decision was taken by the London County Council to take me into its "care". The social workers decided that it was very important for them to move me out of London and also out of my father's violent reach, or perhaps it was because they thought a little girl shouldn't be left with a lone father. I was to go to Boxwood, a rather lovely red brick former shooting lodge owned by Mr & Mrs White. When I arrived in 1958, I remember being given a bag of sweets by my accompanying social worker, "to share with your new friends". I was so happy because I don't think I had previously ever been given a whole bag of sweets in my life. Mrs White was known as "Ma" and she completely ignored me, as "my new friends" descended not so much on me as on my bag of sweets! Ma walked away and left me to it. I don't think my "friends" had ever had a whole bag of sweets either, since I believe I only managed to save one sweet from the bag. That memory is probably my earliest memory, but I know from that moment until I was 14 I never knew fear again. Ma and Pa always ignored new children. They believed that kids are usually scared of unknown situations, so they would wait until each child trusted them and the child would approach the adult.

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Prince of a Different Peace
by Joe Bageant

In an ancient rural county in West Virginia on Christmas morning, a bent old man with a face like gentle twisted wildwood will raise the American flag in the frost. Then he will go back indoors, sit down quietly amid the smells of cooking, light his pipe and dream. My Uncle Nelson raises the flag every morning at the secluded nursing home in the hills of Morgan County, West Virginia. If anyone in this world should have that right, it is he. Because Uncle Nelson, whom we called Nels, never left Morgan County in his life. Not even once. You see, when he was born a deaf mute over 80 years ago on that lonesome Blue Ridge Mountain farm, there were not handicapped programs available as there are today. So, my grandparents kept him at home in the belief that was the safest, best path for Nelson's happiness. He grew up splitting wood, gardening, watching the turning of three-quarters of a century of Christmases with a purity of heart I've never seen in another soul. Limiting as their decision may sound today, it was apparently the right one. Because for more than two decades after they were gone, he lived a free, independent and rich life on that farm.

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Tomorrow we go over to my brother's to celebrate Christmas with the rest of my famly. A good time will be had by all. We will miss my daughter Jenny and her kids Robyn and Evan but they will be together in Colorado. But Jenny's husband William is in Baghdad. We love you and miss you, William. We will be having waffles next Christmas eve. You get the first Christmas waffle.