“Till my good angel drive my bad one out.”

(William Shakespeare, “Sonnet 144”)

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OK, we’re really into it now. It all seems so sudden, but, as I write this, it’s almost Christmas.

It happens the same way every year. People I know have had the holiday season wrapped for months. Lights, trees, wreaths, cards, packages, poinsettias, the works. So organized!

Some people I know are already through with their baking, buying, card writing, shipping, cleaning and decorating, and are now just lying back in their brand new La-Z-Boy recliners listening to their favorite Christmas songs. Or, in the case of Biff, purposely NOT listening to Christmas songs.

Others say they have unfinished projects spread out all over the house. I don’t need to worry about what I say here about these people, because they will never see this column, and even if someone should read it out loud to them, they won’t hear it. They are too busy standing in the midst of their self-imposed chaos, looking around with a glazed expression, overwhelmed and daunted by all that they have yet left undone.

And next time I’ll be more organized, less profligate; I swear this every year. Profligacy is hard to resist, though. As Shakespeare wrote in his “Sonnet 144” — “To win me soon to hell, my (bad angel) Tempteth my better angel from my side …”

As I mentioned here last week, the word “holidays” has become controversial in recent years. The controversialization of the word “holidays” came about as a reaction to the reluctance of many people to use the word “Christmas” in public, for fear of hurting the feelings of those who do not celebrate Christmas, and perhaps thereby forfeiting valuable holiday dollars. You rarely hear the word Christmas or Hanukkah in television advertising for this reason.

Objection to the word “controversialization” may also surface, who knows.

I have noticed that holiday shoppers as well as salespeople are getting braver about saying “Merry Christmas” in recent years. It’s a risky business, though. You don’t know what to say. You might as well be talking about presidential candidates or guns.

“Alban Arthan will be here Dec. 22,” I mentioned to Biff the other day.

“Yeah, I ran into old Arty the other day,” Biff said, always reluctant to be the last to know something.

Welsh for “Light of Winter,” Alban Arthan is actually an ancient Druid festival celebrating the winter solstice, some say the oldest seasonal festival of humankind.

The solstice marks the official astronomical beginning of winter.

At this point, the holiday we are talking about is Christmas. I just like to be clear on things. Whatever you want to call it, it is Christmas that is monopolizing the airwaves and holding us in its holly jolly grip of steel.

We have already enjoyed our first December blizzard, which was truly beautiful and thoroughly enjoyed by children and dogs. On Friday I’ll be blundering around in the pouring rain, wishing it would turn to snow for Christmas, but filled with the Christmas spirit– a kind of delirious exhilaration, edged with bafflement–wondering which project to tackle next. Even though I complain about the season, I love Christmas. I love the Christmas spirit, giving presents and celebrating. I love the old traditions and trimmings of Christmas.

I have always liked mistletoe, for example, which is difficult to find these days, as well as poinsettias, which are everywhere. I know I tend to go on about correctness of speech, but it was not so long ago that I was amazed to learn that the name of this plant is not pronounced point-setta.

I ran into a neighbor at the post office several holiday seasons back who told me that his friend had just bought a new hunting dog pup.

“What kind of dog?” I asked.

He looked uncertain. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I think it’s a pointsetter.”

This story is true, and it goes to show that I’m not the only one confused by the season.

I’m not talking about you, though. Knowing you, you have everything under control. You’re just reclining in you La-Z-Boy, reading your cards by the light of your Christmas tree, with maybe a tasteful scented candle burning and a log on the fire, indulging in a swig of eggnog, because, what the heck, Christmas comes but once a year, and when it comes it brings good cheer.

Happy Hanukkah! Merry Christmas!

(Martha Allen lives in Keene Valley. She has been writing for the News for more than 20 years.)