For Poet.
Fred Sanford always celebrates the days between December 26th and January 1st. Not due to Kwanzaa, which he felt was the latest wave of Jim Crow. "Separate holidays are steps away from separate bathrooms," he'd informed me. No to my pop, those first few days post-Christmas were a junk man's paradise because of extra holiday trash.
Potentially reusable cards, salvaged wrapping paper and gift bags, wreaths and discarded ornaments were redecorated, repurposed, and resold, from Valentine's Day to Halloween. As you can imagine, none of these schemes worked out all that great but that didn't deter Pop.
Last year, he added Christmas tree potpourri, a handful of pine needles soaked and tied in tissue paper. You know what people don't want their house to smell like in January? Christmas trees.
I can only dread what's coming this year...
"Pop, I'm home!"
"Lamont, guess what?" I laugh as he comes rushing from the kitchen in a smudged green apron, tinsel stuck to his forehead. "This year I've really gone and done it."
"Blown up the kitchen?" I venture.
"No, you dummy. Found the perfect use for Christmas trees. You can eat'em. Bet you didn't know that." Dad looks smug enough that I don't even bother answering, tis the season after all.
"So?" I prod.
"Oh, oh right. So I made evergreen ice cream. Three whole gallons."
I scrub a hand down my face. "Just one question: who's going to eat ice cream in December?"