I sometimes tell people that I had a Norman Rockwell upbringing. Our Christmas tradition explains it. For over fifty years, my extended family gathers at Woodthrush Woods, the house that my dad’s parents built, for Christmas dinner. The number of guests ranges from 20-35 people, and we hoot and carry on. First Robby (my namesake for Robinette), and now my mother cook a enormous meal and trot out the good china and set a fine table. Multiple tables, actually, at this point.

After dinner, we all pull our chairs into the living room, and sit in a big circle. One of the cousins goes to the piano, while we pass out songbooks. Then we sing. We sing Christmas carols and call out the page number of the ones we most want to hear. I tend to ask for The Holly and the Ivy, because it was Robby’s favorite, and I miss her. At the end of the night, the last thing we do is sing the Twelve Days of Christmas. Dad divvies up the parts, so each day is taken by a different group. We get sillier and sillier as the song goes on, trying to act out different parts of the song. The maids a-milking can get pretty funny, I’ll tell you.

Eric James Stone just pointed out this version of the Twelve Days. What do you think, Mom and Dad? Care to try this Christmas Eve?

Oh my heavens. Look at the beautiful paper work that Paper Forest found.

The whole collection is stunning and interesting, both as fashion (Rob loves it) and as cut paper art. In the photos of the catwalk, the last series shows the models tearing the dresses off. On the one hand, I wince, but on the other, it does celebrate the ephemeral aspect of paper.

Truly the whole site is worth exploring. Go! Off with you.