Thursday, December 20, 2012

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Mrs. Hall arranged the Christmas cards on the bookcases and sighed.  Noticing her wistful state, Mr. Hall came over, smiled and gave her a warm hug. "What is that delicious aroma you're wearing?" he asked.
  "Well, it depends," she moped. "If it's redolent of rosemary and mint, it's that lovely shower gel I order from that glorious spa in New York.  If it smells like Old Spice©, then it's my anti-perspirant from Walmart."
  Mr. Hall sensed there might be some discord in her soul. "It's just that I was thinking of all the things we'd be doing if we were back East," she said.  "Right about now, Oakwood Crematorium would be having their yearly cocktail party after work.  We'd stroll on over after filing a death certificate or two, have a short one with the boys and remark on the state of the business, admire the sextant's landscaping and toddle on home.  They always have such a nice buffet; although I understand the chef they use is famous for his barbecue.  Darling, why do you suppose they never have it on the menu?" Mr. Hall smiled gently at her. "I'm guessing they try to steer clear of anything smoky at those functions."
  "I miss the holiday dinner at Coleman's Irish Pub." she continued on dreamily. "The bar decorated to a faretheewell and the parking lot a sea of black Cadillacs. All the old faces we'd see there- Scottie Kerr from Batesville and Bob Atkinson from Wilbert Vaults, all talking business over the hors d'oeuvre and desserts.  Ah- good times!" Mr. H. nodded as he slipped on his coat to retrieve the afternoon post.
  She was still sulking on the couch when he returned with a handful of colorful envelopes.  "You'll have to put aside your homesick pout for another day," he informed her after perusing a brightly colored missive that had been taped to their front door.  "We've been invited to a neighborhood mixer tomorrow night. Fetch a shiny bow from the giftwrap and see if there's a bottle of that cheeky Beaujolais left in the cooler." But he looked around to discover he was talking to himself; all that remained in the room was a whiff of mint and musk- Mrs. Hall was already nose deep in the Christmas ribbon.

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