Having converged from the city in the East and college life deep in the South, the siblings arrived on the ridge last night, laden with bags and boots.
There was an immediate rise in clamor and chaos, with hooting and howling, sisterly spats and a friendly wrestling match or two. Colleen headed straight for the old upright piano in the music room.
There was homemade bread and soft butter on the table, and a plate of garlic and onions from the farm ready to slice into chili simmering on the woodstove.
The woodstove was roaring and so were the Slattery siblings. My own roaring reached a personal screeching pitch after two hours of attempting to put a very excited toddler to sleep while a very noisy impromptu gathering of teens raged in the next bedroom, and the darkness was punctuated by periodic visitors thowing wide the door to let in the bright light of the hall. The fifth time this happened just on the verge of Olympia falling alseep, Cale strode in strumming a guitar and singing at a high volume. I stood up and ran at him howling.
This morning I headed down the steep stairs to find my father seated at the head of the huge Amish built dining room table, cutting the heads of a bucket of fish. We are miles from the nearest stream, and no one in my family fishes. I have no idea where they came from. I shrugged and headed into the kitchen, absently noting a heap of rubble piled high and filling our entire side yard. It appears to be the remains of a home or possibly outbuilding of some sort, not from our property. No one has commented on it yet.
I am home for Chrismas, amidst the chaos.
In case you missed the recent Slattery sisters posts about Christmas, see here: