So there was this wreath, a wreath I was very happy with because it was unique — no holly, no acorns, no berries, no poinsettias. And I was mighty proud to put it up on the front door. We did that yesterday afternoon.
Then Sam woke up from her nap, saw the wreath and declared it was fit for a funeral. Pang-patay were her exact words. Shit, that hurt. Bad. But then I taught her never to hold back on her opinions, and maybe I forgot to teach her how to state her opinions more diplomatically, so I said nothing.
The good news was that she was willing to transform it. And so she did. Last night, after dinner, she brought out rolls of ribbons and a glue gun.
But before we put the wreath back on the front door, Speedy and I had a blast playing paparazzi.
Some two hours later, the plain lily wreath became this.
I have to concede that the wreath looks better with the ribbons. Festive but still subdued enough so that it exudes a quiet elegance rather than tacky glitter. You know, still following the principle that you don’t have to shout to be noticed.
That’s one thing about Christmas decorating. It’s always a family affair.
And that is the story of this year’s Christmas wreath.
Giuseppe Tornatore’s The Legend of 1900