Broken Egg Sunday At That Old House

There is a saying: You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs.

In hopeful pursuit of the perfect omelette that will be our Christmas decor,
I'm breaking a whole mess o' eggs this snowy Sunday at That Old House.

Witness:

Just some of the many boxes marked "C" that live 11 months of the year in the attic.
These are in the front hall, but their buddies are all over the house.

More boxes. . . .

. . . and a dining room table filling up with the contents. This is the staging room;
most boxes get emptied here and the contents then get deployed around the house.

On the sideboard, the Winterthur feather tree awaits its assignment and its ornaments.

Howard, assembling the artificial tree in the parlor:

Two sections done, one to go.

Then we put the furniture in place for the holiday, and
I get to spend the next day fluffing each little branch

in a vain attempt to make the tree look real.

We haven't bought our real, fresh tree yet; it will go in the conservatory.

Speaking of real, here is Howard, after I sent him out into the snowy cold

to take pictures of our house, and then told him I didn't like any of the pictures he took.

Does he look a little less than pleased?

I can't think why. I am using one of his shots:

I'd go and take some pictures myself, but it's snowy out there,
and I'm wearing fuzzy slippers. Happy decorating! -- Cass