It's near enough to Christmas that Fiorella is remembering all the things she's done or tried to do and not gotten any recognition for: her niceness, her helpfulness, her forgiveness, her poetry and compositions, her patience and encouragement, her everlasting love, no matter what. But Fio being Fio, she will again write a meaningful poem that few will read or understand and will spread out what girfts are expected. If only there were a way for Fiorella to develop friends, to talk to them, to exchange ideas and adventures. She tried her church, but it's way across town and, remember, Fio can't drive any more.
Friend Paula called a half an hour or so after Fio wrote the complaint above, and it brightened your girl's day. We had both been college teachers, although she had gone further up the ladder than Fiorella, but college teaching is treacherous--you never know when you'll be let go, as we both found out --but what the heck--we survived.
After talking to her friend, Fiorella got melancholy for Christmas decor--yes, your girl has made decorations for almost all the holidays but Thanksgiving, which doesn't count because she can't doesn't have the material and buckles to make the hats.
Come to think of it, are there any turkey songs?
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