So, last year I saved Christmas. Unfortunately, the Christmas spirit didn't stick and, other than the neighbors across the street, we were the only ones in our circle to put up Christmas lights this year. However, there is one Christmas miracle worth noting.
For whatever reason, my parents bought all of us matching snowmen this year. Paige was, of course, ecstatic about this and asked me every day when I was going to put it up. I procrastinated and procrastinated until I was hammering in the last peg while the blizzard was approaching.
It didn't seem like it should be so complicated, but as the temperature dropped I was still fumbling with the cords and cursing at the pegs as two of them broke during assembly. Paige, my valiant helper, stood next to me the whole time, incessantly asking, "Is it ready, Dad? No, what about now? How 'bout now?"
Finally, the big moment came. I turned on the fan and watched the old guy inflate. It was to be so magnificent. But something wasn't quite right.
He was more of a hunchback than a proud snowman. Then he was leaning over. And then he tipped over completely.
The snow came and our little friend was soon buried under six inches of snow.
"Where's our snowman, Dad?" Paige asked everyday.
"He's just sleeping. Face down. Under a pile of snow."
I was beaten.
Or so it seemed.
With just a week until Christmas, I found my resolve. I dug old Frosty back up. (Putting a hole in his back in the process. But that's what duct tape is for.) After more hammering and a bit more cursing, the snowman was standing tall and proud.
Paige was pleased.
I was vindicated.
I saved Christmas. Again.
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