Finally, a quiet morning. No incipient 8th-grade craft fair or turkey dinner; no monitoring of arguments over who used up all the hot water in the shower. Merely a cold kitchen and strong coffee--a great improvement.

Yesterday, while Paul and I were craft-fair hosting, Tom and James went out into the woods and cut down a Christmas tree. It may be the ugliest tree we've ever featured in our home, although the competition has always been stiff. Living as we do on a 40-acre woodlot packed with conifers, we find it difficult to justify the idea of purchasing a pine tree, no matter how plump and shapely it might be. This particular tree is, in James's words, "skimpy." I'd say that's a kindly description of what is more or less an oversized twig. However, festooned with an inordinate number of lights, anything can look charming, and the twig looks quite cheerful in its tight corner.

I'm trying to concentrate on this cheerfulness; for while I was sitting beside the craft-fair's soup table, shell-shocked from playing Christmas carols for 6 hours, my friend Linda came over and put her arms around me and said, "Guess what? I found Baby."

Maybe you remember last summer's murders? Maybe you remember my telling you about Linda, whose daughter and grandchildren were killed by her son-in-law? Maybe you remember that I mentioned her dead grandson's rag doll, who used to be mine? That's Baby. On Tuesday morning I am going over to Linda's house and she will present me with Baby. And then we'll both cry. And then Baby will live somewhere in my house for the rest of my life. I feel terrible.