Author: Sally

Faith · Life

Pearls

Sally2 Comments

Let me be candid. I was shouting in the officials’ room at the swim meet on Saturday.

Not my finest moment, for sure. That ugliness left me bone-weary at the end of the day.

The next morning when I got up early to read, I still felt the stone in my gut, the last vestiges of that conflict.

Several years ago, my friend and fellow-blogger Anna Brown made a reference to pearl-formation. I liked it so much I tried to incorporate it into my daily prayers, specifically in my creed where I state those things I believe. After many iterations, I settled on these words:

I believe that the trials in my life are ultimately God’s good for me; they are like grains of sand in an oyster that God uses to produce pearls.

When I arrived at that part the other morning, I thought of the man who had shouted at me and at whom I had shouted in turn.

“Lord,” I prayed, “I believe that ______ is a like a grain of sand, and that You can use him to produce a pearl in me.”

I sat there picturing the process that happens in an oyster. The presence of the irritant is sometimes a grain of sand, but often in nature is a parasite. The  oyster excretes a fluid that coats the irritant, and then coats it again and again and again. The fluid, called nacre, is otherwise known as mother-of-pearl. Shiny, luminous, iridescent. Beautiful.

The longer the irritant stays in the clam, the more coatings it receives. It’s a slow process that can take up to three years for the pearl to reach its size. “Lower-quality pearls have often been ‘rushed’ out of the oyster too quickly (sometimes a year or less) and have a too-thin coat of nacre.” (from Pearls.com)

As I prayed, I could feel the edges of my irritation softening.

I prayed it again, this time inserting a different name. I’ve been walking the edge of irritability for a while now, more and more often losing balance and falling into frustration with this person or that situation.

As I named specific people or issues and prayed the prayer over and over, I began to picture a string of pearls.

And tears began to roll down my cheeks.

The more irritations, the more pearls. I found myself feeling thankful for each one.

The funny thing is, I know I have three more years of interactions with the shouting man.

Three years. Just the right amount of time to form a good pearl.

 

Life

The Things I Do For Points

Sally2 Comments

I signed up for Get Fit Right, a program at our local gym.  Each week I get a new punch card to try to fill.

As I got in the water the other day for an aquacize class, the shock of the cold water made me grimace a little.

Why am I doing this? I asked myself, but I knew the answer. I’m doing it for the points and the punches on my card.

The Things I Do for Points

Too many numbers on my punch-card need a punch now
Too many classes I don’t think that I can do
Like zumba-yoga-spin-pilates-pound —
The things I do for points, the things I do for points

Thirty minutes in the Fitness Center done now
Went on the treadmill, then the weight machines were next
I worked my pecs, my lats, and other stuff —
The things I do for points, the things I do for points

(yes, that’s me)

Like getting in the pool when it’s cool
And I feel like a fool
And I’m clumsy, but, you know, I’m really trying
And I’m looking to warm up through exercise
I think I’m s’posed to kick now
’cause I’m sinking like a brick now

ooh — I get a punch though
ooh — so that’s okay
ooh — I could go climbing up the wall

A few more points and I will meet my weekly quota
A little fitter, too – the icing on the cake
I’m getting fit right if it kills me now —
The things I do for points, the things I do for points

The real version of the song:

Grief

Dr. Purple’s Fall

Sally2 Comments

Those who know me well know that I have spent hours researching Dr. William Purple from Greene. He was a fascinating man who lived a long life in service to his family, his community, and his profession.

The following story is based in fact; I’ve tried to tell it with Dr. Purple’s voice.

William D. Purple lived from 1802 to 1886. He and his wife, Julia, had four children: Julia, Agnes, William, and Mary.

October 4, 1864

Ah, William. You are my Icarus. How I longed to see you fly to safety!

When you registered for the Civil War draft in June of 1863, my heart nigh burst with pride and broke for sorrow. And when your name was called to serve, you readied yourself.

But you began a cough. With the date fast approaching for the regiment to leave, your cough grew worse. When I saw the blood in your sputum, I knew.

Consumption.

I had heard of soldiers leaving for the war and being sent home with consumption, but far more tales were of young soldiers who died away from home from that dread disease. I wanted to be sure of your care.

We scraped together the $300 to pay the commutation fee and release you from service. $300, dear Icarus, for wax and feathers, and, through friends, a bank job in the north, where the air is fresh and clean and curative. I had hoped that you would carve a place for yourself in the banking world.

You had not the heedless hubris of the ancient Icarus. What did Mr. Averell, the bank president say in his letter? “William was a man of great simplicity of character, purity of purpose, confiding and generous in his feelings. He will be missed.”

Yes, you will be missed by no one more than me. I missed you the moment I put you on the stage for Canton, daring to hope that it would not be the last time I would see you alive. Yet, one year later those waxen wings, the escape that I, your Daedalus had planned for you, dipped you toward the netherworld before allowing you to soar to Heaven itself.

I walked last night as if in a dream. It was a moonless night and I had not brought a lantern. As I passed the open doors of  the Chenango House, light streamed out. I could hear laughter and music within. Once passed, I walked in darkness and all I could hear was the flowing water of the Chenango River. It beckoned me, like the Icarian Sea.

“Come,” it said, “I can reunite you with your William, your Icarus.” I walked toward it, my thoughts lost in heavy grief. “Come,” whispered the river.

I remember approaching the bridge. The night was cool and I hadn’t worn an overcoat.

The next thing I remember was August Willard kneeling over me, his lantern held aloft by my Mary. My left arm, cold and wet, draped into the river. My feet felt tangled, and rested up the steep embankment that was strewn with leftover canal stone dumped there years ago. My head ached; the rocky pillow upon which it rested was coarse, cold, and damp.

“William,” August said, whilst shaking my shoulders, “Julia is so worried. We must get you home.”

Mary set the lantern on a rock and assisted August in getting me upright and to level ground. I leaned heavily on the two of them as we slowly made our way home. My whole body was bruised, but my left side – my shoulder, arm, hip and leg – was badly abraded as well. Blood from a gash in my head continued to trickle down my cheek as we walked. Julia paled as she saw us enter the house.

“I’ve been so frightened for you, William,” she cried, gently placing her hand on my bloody cheek before hurrying into my office for some medical supplies.

The story unfolded to me as August tended my wounds. I had been gone for hours. Julia had sent Mary across the street to August’s house. She roused him and he willingly searched for me. But, how long had I lain below the bridge? That was a mystery.

Had I accidentally stumbled?

The night was so very dark, and my thoughts occupied by one thing, my only son’s death.

Or, had I heeded the river’s call?

“Come, Daedalus. I will give you wings to fly to your son.”

The Greek myth of Icarus and Daedalus can be read here: Icarus and Daedalus

Consumption is better known as tuberculosis. During the Civil War, an estimated 14,000 soldiers died from tuberculosis. In the Union camps, it was treated with “fresh air” and lung surgery. Outside the war, tuberculosis was the leading cause of death in the 19th century.

Life · people

Bruce

Sally3 Comments

Seven years ago Bruce sat next to me on a flight out of Nashville. We both changed planes in Detroit and there I frantically wrote down as much of our conversation as I could remember. His heavy southern drawl forced me to listen to him carefully so I could mentally translate what he was saying as he spoke.

I remembered him, but my notes from that day sat unread — until this week when I pulled that notebook off the shelf while shelving last year’s journals. I leafed through and stopped on the page where I had written the heading “Bruce – Flight from Nashville to Detroit”. His story, even his voice, flooded back.

We had done the perfunctory small talk while waiting for take off. He told me he worked in aircraft manufacturing. I told him that I was a mother eight. I stared out the window at the other airplanes on the runway.

“I got me a Cessna,” he said, nodding toward a small plane that was in view. “One time I flew it out of Atlanta. That thang was like a wasp among eagles.”

I liked the imagery and smiled at it. Our plane took off. It’s my favorite moment of every flight — wheels leaving pavement.

“Lemme show you somethin’,” he said, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. He flipped through the pictures and stopped at a well-worn picture of a smiling little boy. “That’s my boy,” he said proudly.

“Very nice,” I said.

He tapped on the photograph. “17 years ago someone ran a red light and hit our car. He was six years old. Died instantly.”

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured, but it felt inadequate.

He flipped to another picture, that of a pretty young woman. “That’s my daughter. She’s a bad ‘un.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said again.  I didn’t ask for details and I couldn’t help thinking that 17 years before, she had been a little girl who lost her brother. Life is hard and sad — and we rarely know the other person’s story.

Bruce chatted with people across the aisle and in front of us. He was traveling with several people from his work.

He turned back to me. “You know, I just got done cancer treatments. Thyroid cancer. If I hadn’t taken this new job, probably wouldn’t have found it for a while. They found it on my pre-employment physical — and they still gave me the job.”

“That’s pretty amazing,” I said.

“My father died of lung cancer, you know. So the cancer — it’s kinda scary.”

Talking about his father led him to talking about him growing up. “We was dumb-ass poor growin’ up. Used to go haying with no driver in the pick-up.”

I used to help with haying here in New York, but it was purely for the fun of helping the neighboring dairy farmer. I loved riding in the hay wagon, but someone was always driving the tractor. I tried to picture haying with no driver.

Taking a few hay bales home. I’m the tough cookie on the right.

“You know what the Mason-Dixon line is?” he asked. I was worried that he was testing my knowledge as a northerner.

“Didn’t it divide the slave states from the free states?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said. “It’s the line that separates y’all and you guys.”

He laughed like he had just told a good joke. I laughed because I hadn’t expected a linguistics lesson from this burly southerner.

“You like sweet tea?” he asked, but he said it “swait tay.”

“I’m not much of a tea drinker,” I confessed.

“Northerners don’t hardly know how to make sweet tea. I once had a waitress tell me that I could just add sugar to my tea, like she didn’t understand that the sugar gits cooked right in with the tea.”

Frankly, I didn’t know that either.

In Detroit, I wrote it all down — about his son and his daughter and his cancer and his poverty and sweet tea. I tried to write the phrases exactly as I had heard him say them. Our flight had been less than two hours but he had shared so much with me.

I once heard Christian singer Jason Gray tell a story about a mentor that he had. Jason respected his mentor and wanted to be like him.  Jason asked him, “How did you become you?” His answer: pain.

The hardships in our life shape us but they don’t define us. Bruce had known deep sorrow and in our brief encounter had shared some of the difficult times he had known, but he also knew how to embrace life.

I’m thankful I got to sit next to him for that flight and listen to his story.

 

Sabbath

Sabbatical

Sally2 Comments

Walter Brueggemann, in his book “Sabbath as Resistance”, referred to the idea of “seven”-ing our lives. “People who keep Sabbath live all seven days differently,” he said.

I decided that 2018 will be my Sabbath year.

Each week, I hope to reclaim the Sabbath by turning off my phone and computer. Imagine 24 hours every week without the tyranny of the urgent!

I mentioned this to my co-early-morning lifeguard this morning and her reply was a little off-putting. She said nothing, as in not a word. I babbled on for a little longer about taking a break from devices. Still nothing — from a usually good conversationalist. Either this is the dumbest idea in my history of dumb ideas, or I struck a nerve, or she just didn’t “get” it, or it was some sort of weird allergic response. Note to self: don’t discuss device abstinence at 5:30 in the morning.

Even the computer games, which I have so often rationalized as a way to relax, will go.

St. Francis de Sales said,

For if we spend too much time in a game, it is no longer recreation, but occupation: we refresh neither our minds nor our bodies, but on the contrary, we depress and weary them.

St. Francis penned that 400 years ago, never imagining this world of handheld devices that entertain. Once a week, those games won’t even be an option for me. I will power down.

Brueggemann spoke also about the Sabbath year — “Every seven years [is] an enactment of the sabbatic principle.” Basically, this means spending the whole year living generously.

In the Biblical Sabbath year, the land lay fallow. (Fallow means “usually cultivated land that is allowed to lie idle during the growing season” Merriam-Webster) I tried to think what I could leave fallow.

And I settled here. This blog. My story.

This blog began as a place to write about my mother and my father, and caregiving, and the struggles of life in a large family. I wrote the story that I know best — my story.

For one year, I’ll set my story aside and (try to) tell other people’s stories.

Sort of like Humans of New York, on a much lesser scale. And not as good. And without photographs.

Of course, I’m in the story because I’m the narrator, but I hope to minimize me. It may be a skill that I’ll hone as the year goes on.

I’m starting with a man named Bruce. I listened to his story on a flight from Nashville to Detroit 7 years ago — and I still think about it.

Life

Augur’s Bookstore

Sally3 Comments

Below is a semi-updated post from January 1, 2014:

davidsons_large1New Year’s Day is like the back room at the old Augur’s Bookstore

In Cooperstown, on the corner of Pioneer and Main, is a bookstore.  Well, it used to be a bookstore.  They still sell books there, but now they also sell  jewelry.  And toys.  And children’s clothes. (see update below for its current usage)

In the old days, it used to be a bookstore that also sold office supplies.

In the left-hand back corner of the store was a display case full of fine writing instruments.  Not 99¢ Bic pens, but Cross pens that were gold or silver, and fountain pens with ink cartridges.  I even think there were bottles of black India ink and blotters.

On the top of that glass case was a display Flair pens of every color imaginable.  I loved to try new colors.

To the left of the back left hand corner, tucked away where it was easy to miss, was a door that led to my favorite room in the whole store.  It might have been my favorite room on all of Main Street Cooperstown.  It was quiet and smelled like paper.

Often there was a man working back there at desk.  He sat with ledger books and an adding machine.  A glance at me over the top of his half-eyes told me that he knew I was there;  then, he would set back to work.

And I would begin my perusal.

Poster-board of many shapes and sizes stood in a rack as I entered.  I never cared much about poster-board.

Blank notebooks were neatly stacked and arranged on a shelf along the whole right-hand wall.  Nice paper, onion skin and bonded paper of varying weights, filled boxes and shelves.  Ledger books stood in one stack, and receipt books made up another.

It was a room of possibility.  Everything was blank, just waiting.  Waiting to be filled with all sorts of words or numbers or pictures.

I miss it.  Because Augur’s now has become more.  More stuff.  Less potential. It’s funny how that works.

But New Year’s Day — it’s like that back room.

Today, I can run my hands over the blank pages of the new year.

And imagine.

2018 update — now the store is called The Beverage Exchange. I went in there for the first time a few days before Christmas to buy a bottle of bourbon that one of my children wanted to give as a gift. Two things I never imagined — that Augur’s would one day become a glorified liquor store, and that I would ever be purchasing bourbon.

I asked to peek in the back room when I was there. I could see the open door and couldn’t resist.

“Sure,” said the store clerk. “That’s where things happen.”

It was part storage, part kitchen. In the evenings, The Beverage Exchange is a cocktail lounge — at least, that’s what the clerk said. A utility sink replaced the man at the desk. Boxes of who-knows-what replaced the countertop stacked with empty notebooks.

It was progress, I suppose.

But I felt sad.

Last year Owen had me for our gift exchange.  Funny how that worked — last year he had me, this year I had him.

Part of his gift to me was two unassuming blank journals.

I have a “thing” for blank journals and I think it can be traced back to Augur’s.

Over 2017, I not only filled the journals that Owen gave me, but I stockpiled a small arsenal of new blank journals.

2018 will be the Year of the Journal. I have so many plans for them.

So much possibility lies in those clean pages.

And in 2018.

Leaning In · Life

The Gift

Sally10 Comments

’twas nine days before Christmas
and my throat was so sore
my muscles so achy
I couldn’t ignore

So I drove to a walk-in
and waited a bit
before being ushered to
a new place to sit

With my butt on blue vinyl
and my foot on the step
I told the provider
“I need a rapid-strep”

Looking over her glasses
she tried to assess
this hoarse bossy patient —
should she say yes?

“I’ve no time to be sick,”
I tried to explain.
“A script for penicillin
and I’ll be on my way.”

A swab of my throat
a twenty minute wait
a knock on the door
then came the update —

No strep.

Dang. It was not the news I was hoping for. Not that anyone hopes for strep throat, but it’s a known quantity and a relatively easy fix.

“I could check for flu,” she said, but I declined. I doubted it was flu. I had no fever and I wasn’t feeling that bad. Just a sore throat and achy joints.

But the sore throat got progressively worse. Over the next few days I couldn’t swallow without pain. My children watched while I grimaced to swallow the Advil that brought some level of relief but I had to take twice my normal dose and repeat it every 4 hours.

I stopped eating. Well, mostly. Yogurt slid down with minimal pain. If I cut the thing I wanted to eat into tiny bits and chewed them a gazillion times, I could swallow, but it would take a good half hour to eat a single piece of toast with peanut butter on it.

Christmas loomed on the horizon. I really didn’t have time to be sick.

“Just make it go away,” I prayed. Surely God understood how inconvenient this was. I longed to wake up in the morning and swallow painlessly. But it didn’t happen.

I made an appointment, this time to see a doctor.

“Do you have a primary care provider?” the scheduler asked.

“No, I haven’t for a few years,” I told her. The older I get, the less I like to go to the doctor.

“Would you like to see a male or female provider?” she asked.

“I really don’t care. Just put me in with the next available,” I said.

She set up an appointment for the Thursday before Christmas with a new female provider.

When I met Dr. Cerna, I immediately liked her. She was pleasant and thorough. She listened well. She respected my concerns. Then she gave my problem a name: Gastro-Esophageal Reflux Disease.  She drew a little picture of it for me on the back of a piece of paper.

“I’m not a very good artist,” she said apologetically, but I could recognize the esophagus, the stomach, and the duodenum. Then she added little arrows showing the direction things should be going and more little arrows that showed the direction things were going.

Finally, she sent me on my way with a follow-up appointment scheduled, information about Gastro-Esophageal Reflux Disease which included dos and don’ts, and a prescription.

So here I am, one week later, and I can swallow again. I can eat without pain. In fact, I feel pretty darn good.

AND — I’m ready for 2018 with some new eating guidelines.

  • Small meals.
  • Small bites.
  • Chew well
  • No rushed eating

I’m going to keep a food diary, to hold me accountable, and to see which foods affect me negatively.

Over Christmas, when I failed to eat properly, my body reminded me. GERD (Gastro-Esophageal Reflux Disease) feels almost like a gift, forcing me to slow down, allowing me to gain control over an area of my life that I have often felt is beyond my control.

Sometimes gifts come in the most unexpected packages and arrive in the most unexpected ways. The quick fix isn’t always the best thing. Good things don’t always feel cozy.

My “theme” for 2017 had been “Leaning In.” I didn’t post every day, one of the goals I set for myself — but I did pursue relationships and I tried to train myself to find the beauty in things.

So finishing the year with GERD felt like a final exam. Lean in. Embrace this thing. Find the beauty in it.

I can’t wait for 2018.

 

family

Zaengle Family Gift Exchange 2017

Sally6 Comments

This is for Leah. She said she wanted to hear about our family gift exchange this year.

We do two gift exchanges within our family. Sam nicknamed them — Nifty and Thrifty.  The Nifty exchange is a “real” gift, with a spending limit of $50 (although we aren’t terribly strict about that). The Thrifty has a spending limit of $10 and can be something from a yard sale, thrift store, or something homemade (and we aren’t terribly strict about that one either).

We draw names about two months before Christmas and then commence with plotting, planning, and fretting. We’re a family of givers — and everyone wants to give the best gift.

This Christmas Eve, when the family was gathered — although some joined us from afar through the magic of FaceTime — I asked, “How do we begin this?”

Donna and Sam on the big screen

Someone started giving me the history of the whole thing. “I think we decided to draw names, like, five years ago when…”

But I interrupted. “No. How do we begin? Like, how do we begin the gift-giving?” I honestly couldn’t remember. I’m not sure anyone else could either, so we drew names out of a hat. And then, because my memory is poor, I’ve already forgotten who went first.

Helen was early on. I remember that. Philip handed her a huge box.

She sat in front of the camera so our Canadian family members would have a good view as she opened it.

“This is every little kid’s dream,” she said, “getting the giant box for Christmas.” It’s not every child’s dream to get a crockpot for Christmas, though. That would be a young adult’s dream — to come home to a delicious-smelling apartment with dinner ready to eat.

I had drawn Owen’s name for the big gift and gave him chickens. Not actual chickens then and there. I gave him a feeder, a waterer, and some other chicken paraphernalia. My father gave him a gift certificate for a place that sells chicks. I had debated between chickens and bees, seeking advice from knowledgeable friends, and the chickens won.

Laurel had drawn my name. She gave me spatulas — the one thing on my list — and then teamed up with Donna (who had drawn Bud) to give us a gift certificate for a nice restaurant in town so Bud and I can go on a date sometime. I really appreciated that. Bud and I don’t have enough time together.

You know your children are adults when some of the nifty gifts are bourbon. Others got clothes.  All in all, the big gifts are always an opportunity to purchase one nice thing for a family member.

My favorite, though, is the thrifty. It’s an opportunity for thoughtful creativity. Laurel made bath bombs. Mary made homemade oreos. Emily gave Mary her old ukulele.

Amanda had drawn my name. She gave me some maple candy from Mexico. Mexico, NY, that is. Upstate New York is delightfully confusing with towns named Cuba, Poland, Chili, and Mexico, not to mention Copenhagen, Rome, Amsterdam, and Warsaw.

I purchased a groupon for a photo book (to stay within the spending limit) and made a little photo book for Philip with poems to go with each photo.

Each poem tells a little story about young Philip. My hope is that he’ll read them to Henry.

Here’s the poem that I’m reading in the picture. The last line is what Philip said to me when I went to the hospital in labor for Owen:

Mommy had a baby growing in her belly.
Little Philip said to her, “I want you to tell me –
Where did the baby come from?
How did he get in there?
When will I get to meet him?
What will the baby wear?
Can the baby see me?
Can he peek out somehow?
Will you let me hold him?
Why can’t we see him now?”

So after months of questions
And Mommy growing rounder
One day she went to hospital
And Philip waxed profounder –
“I don’t know what to call this thing
That you’re about to do
But it has to do with baby,
and it has to do with you
And from everyone’s reaction,
it’s a GOOD thing, there’s no doubt.”
So he kissed Mommy and whispered,
“Have a good baby-coming-out.”

And that’s pretty much it. Any questions?

family · photography

Best of 2017

Sally4 Comments

Every year is filled with ups and downs, unexpected trials and undeserved mercies.

My favorite time in 2017, was the week in May when my brother, my sister and her husband, and my husband and I all traveled with my father to tour Normandy and Paris. The picture is of Bud and me in the Eiffel Tower. Our time together is so limited. Having a whole week together was amazing.

My second favorite time was this, learning to shred cabbage the Bosnian way.

I love my home, but traveling sure was fun. I may have to do it again in 50 years.

Merry Christmas everyone. Looking forward to the adventures of 2018.

family

Carpet

Sally3 Comments

“How long do you think the new carpet smell will last?” one of my co-workers asked.

I had to leave work early because the carpet guys were coming.

“I have no idea,” I replied. “Is that like the new car smell?”

My family replaces carpet every 45 years or so whether it needs it or not. This particular carpet had reached replacement age. It was the color of cat vomit, which, I suppose, was both a pro and a con. The new carpet, grey-ish brown, will hide dirt well, but probably not cat vomit. Oh, well. I guess you can’t have everything.

When my husband and I bought our first house, we immediately tore all the carpet out. Lovely hardwood floors were hiding beneath it and we wanted to enjoy them.  Bud hacked the carpet into manageable size chunks to roll up and put in the alley for the garbage man.  About halfway through the task, he noticed that the rolls were disappearing from the alley. Back in the house, he watched as our new neighbor on the other side of the alley went out to scavenge the latest roll. She was carpeting her garage with our discards.

The second house we purchased had green plush carpet throughout the second floor. When we first looked at the house, Bud said, “We can pull this up and replace it.” I agreed. Seventeen years later, when we moved out, it was still there.

The third house had mostly hardwood floors, but upstairs, in one bedroom, a previous owner had laid orange shag carpet. It was hideous. “This has got to go,” Bud said. I agreed. Eleven years later, it’s still there.

The carpet we replaced is at my father’s house. As we reclaimed this particular room — it had become the depository for so much stuff that there was no place to sit — everyone has enjoyed it, even my father. Maybe especially my father. Whenever we have a fire in the fireplace, he loves to sit back there and enjoy its beauty and warmth.

Yesterday he asked about going back there.

“They’re putting in new carpet,” I told him.

“Can we walk on it yet?” he asked after the installers left.

I had no idea. My experience with new carpet is pretty meager. Actually, it’s pretty non-existent.

This morning I vacuumed so we could move the furniture back in. Pay no attention to the shelf of books that fell down during the night.  Or the fact that I didn’t vacuum neat straight lines, something Bud liked to do with that old green plush carpet when we were showing the house. Just note the carpet that’s NOT the color of cat vomit and picture a crackling fire in the fireplace.

Ah — new carpet for Christmas.

It smells okay — but once we put our Christmas tree in there, it will smell like Christmas.

And then, hopefully, it will begin to smell like home.