THIS IS OUR upstairs fireplace, a photo I shot just this morning.
There were no footprints in the ashes, so it appears Santa did not come in through this route. There is also a fireplace downstairs, a larger one that would be more appropriate for fat Santa but again, no footprints in the ashes.
I woke up this morning, leaped out of bed and ran into the living room to see what I had scored, but there was nothing waiting in spite of my having been a good boy all year.
I spent last night alone after transporting my child bride to the nearby state capital yesterday afternoon where she hoopla’ed late into the night with a gang of her relatives, a Mexican family requirement on Christmas Eve.
This after she had just returned the previous day from Guanajuato, again with a gang of her relatives. They were there three days while I cooled my heels at the Hacienda overseeing the painter who will return tomorrow, by the way.
Well, anyway, I rushed into the living room this morning and found squat in the way of gifts. I had asked for an AR-15, a bazooka and a Trump T-shirt.
Perhaps the fact there is neither Christmas tree nor stockings hung on the chimney with care had something to do with Santa’s ill-spirited no-show.
Maybe I should have put out cookies and milk. Or whiskey and steak.
Could it be that Santa does not like Mexicans?
I’ve learned my lesson. Next year I’m not going to be a good boy.