From my forehead this morning, right on cue, sprang a single crimson pimple. Like a rooster at dawn, this zit yearly crows, "Time to write the Christmas letter!" You might think I can see that we are in the Season -- that no one could be that deaf and blind to the rumble and the jingle. But not so, my friends. You see, with practiced and monastic devotion, I only dwell IN THE MOMENT. The world's distractions no longer jar me from the HERE AND NOW. No, I am so in tune, it's my body tissues which set off alarms when worldly duties call: A runny nose, for example, means a light bulb needs changing. Earwax buildup forebodes a leaky faucet. A canker sore: it's time to reset the rat traps. When the pimple pops, I obey.
It's been a banner year, this two thousand thirteen. There was a wedding, world travel, a master's degree, new jobs, a reunion with long-lost cousins, good health, and tomatoes from the garden. Although Sue, I'm afraid, lapsed further into social deviance and depraved behavior: She is addicted to on-line fabric shopping, creates quilts and purses, has joined a book club, and, I'm sad to report, now subscribes to HGTV magazine. Yes, I know... worrisome.
After a 12-year courtship, Brendan and Jodi got married at the zoo in Grand Rapids. It took Jodi the full 12 years to finally stomach the idea that Bohnhorst would be her last name. It was an elegant affair. There was a cellist playing Bach, white table cloths, ice cubes in the water, air conditioning, a funicular -- all attended by 100 fully-clothed guests. Elizabeth mastered a creative writing degree in Georgia, then moved with boyfriend Roger to Austin. There, she nabbed a job as a "personal assistant" to a wealthy heiress from Arkansas who hired her on the spot after Liz recited to her one of Liz's poems. Meanwhile, her long-eared dog has taken to wearing a rainbow-colored tutu.
With a thousand thanks to friends Dan and Debi, Sue and I traveled to Italy in April and suffocated on pasta and pizza, in piazzas and perfect weather. We promenaded upon Pompeii and Positano. You can write on my tombstone, "He drove the roads of the Amalfi Coast and did not have a relapse..." With another thousand thanks to cousins John and Inge, and ol' friend Jay, we traveled to California in October and felt right at home in Alcatraz. We broke egg rolls and fortune cookies with cousins not seen in 42 years. I had my picture taken on the 18th green at Pebble Beach while mistaken for a harbor seal. In my defense, the fog had just rolled in.
The 2013 tally: Squirrels 8, Dog 0. If you've been keeping track, these numbers tell that Dog has slowed down some. Or maybe at age 11, she's become philosophical about The Chase, and made her peace with Futility. As a consequence, the back yard squirrels felt a new birth of freedom this summer as they chattered and mocked me while I hit golf ball after golf ball into my practice net back there. I had had about a hundred balls lying around, but when I started to pack up in the fall, I noticed that about half had disappeared. I privately accused the neighbor children, the little snot-faced thieves! But the next day when I took Dog for a walk, I discovered dozens of golf balls in the woods off our back yard, half-buried no doubt by those freedom-loving squirrels, apparently for their future harvest. In an indirect way, this was Dog's fault, her and her sense of futility, and I told her so. And another odd thing: the squirrels had buried only my Titleists.
My pimple has retreated, submerged for another year until this dirty Christmas duty rises again. Now I can let go of worldly distractions and crawl back inside THE MOMENT. Maybe I'll just lie there on the floor and stare upwards at our Christmas Ceiling Cobwebs. Or maybe I'll stare emptily into my laptop screen, yearning that someone, anyone, will "Like" just one of my endless Facebook postings. Ah, the stillness. But what's this I feel? Why, horrors! It's a hard blue boil erupting on my back! This feels serious... maybe the basement has flooded.
But before I grab my flashlight and galoshes... Merry Christmas! And... Go Green!
