My Father's Daughter...

I am my father's daughter.

So I decided to be in the holiday spirit & put up christmas lights on my sliding glass doors. I dont have special hooks to keep them straight... so I went to it with a roll of clear packing tape. It took my over half an hour & half a roll of tape (because each light had to be exactly straight) but when it was done I felt very festive & accomplished. I turned them on and went about my business...

The next night I drove by (out of my way) just to see if the lights looked good from the road... YOU COULDN'T SEE THEM! The stupid metal frame on the doors was blocking them, so it just looked like my door had a halo around it, NOT lights. Grr!

I had taped them to the door frame thinking you could see them, the metal frame on the glass is only an inch wide. Apparently that inch made all the difference, and I was very angry with myself for not taking that into account! Anywho, it took me a few days to build up the desire to RE-DO the work, but I did last night, and they are beautiful, straight, and visible from 256th. My fix: I taped em directly to the window & the metal frame around it. What an ordeal.

Tonight... I tackle the Christmas Tree!

HOW DID YOU DIE?

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there -- that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
It's how did you fight -- and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

-Edmund Vance Cooke