A is for... ACHTUNG! Be forewarned. This alphabetical mishmash sums up our year's highlights, swung-at knuckle balls, and emotional rampages... warts and all. Yes, there's a wart. We, unlike most others, are only human. We are prone to complaining, skin abnormalities, and bad grammar. Besides, it's a damn long slog.
B is for Bambino! It’s a boy! Or will be. Yes, on March 31 Brendan and Jodi are expecting a bouncing bundle of bibs and baby barf. They are very excited. Sue will become “Nana” or “Gramma” or “Granny” or maybe “Grams”. As for me, I shall be dubbed The Grandfather Thomas Supreme. Like a pizza.
C is for Crescent Beach, Florida. For the third year in a row, we spent a condo month near St. Augustine. And we’re headed back in 2019! The only cold temperature will be in the cooler to chill bait. Daily I shall walk the beach, barefoot in cargo shorts. I shall pause mid-stride to gaze northward at the wretchedness of Michigan’s winter. And then I shall make very satisfying and obscene gestures.
D is for Dear Donald. Oh, how you’ve revolted us, permeated our daily lives, and made us drunk on tweets. There is nothing we can say that we haven’t heard thousands of times on MSNBC. The station blares at us non-stop as, agog, we watch. Why not change the channel, you ask. Simple: A drunk cannot refuse a free drink.
E is for Ernest. That’s a fine baby name. “Ernest Bohnhorst”. Consider the namesakes. The kid could become a great writer like Hemingway, a great hitter like Banks, or a great actor like Borgnine. Namesakes: that’s the importance of being Ernest.
F is for Fatso and Pierre. My skin tag buddies have had a great year. Nestled there in my left armpit, they make no demands and make no complaints. They don’t even itch. I always say hello when I take a shower.
G is for Golf Whore. I will play in an earthquake and I will play during a kidney stone attack and I will play in swarms of bees. Making great golf shots is my holy grail.
H is for Hellmann’s mayonnaise, straight from the jar, and everything high fat, high carb, high fructose, bad as hell for you, that I suck down like oxygen to beat the winter blues. H is also for “Holy shit! I just gained 10 pounds!”
I is for Ichabod. “Ichabod Bohnhorst”. Okay, maybe not.
J is for Just Do It! You there, Robert Mueller. Bob. Bobby. Dude. We can’t take it anymore. We’ve paced so long and so hard, there’s a gutter in the floor. Please, no more of those depressing black redactions. You hold the can of peanuts with those coiled up “snakes” inside. Release the lid! Release the snakes!
K is for KA and KI. KA and KI are actual words. I have played KA and KI hundreds of times playing Words with Friends. I have won 1,103 games and played tiles that extend 87,505 feet. I can’t stop. Did you know there are no two letter words that contain a C or a V? You really should know this.
L is for the Leelanau School. Elizabeth moved back to Traverse City from Los Angeles in February and got a wonderful job as English teacher at the private Leelanau School this past fall. But, alas, they had to downsize and let Elizabeth go. She may be able to return next year. Undaunted, she’s back to the job hunt while writing and submitting sublime poetry to elite literary journals.
M is for Mecca. America’s moles have ended their haj, their pilgrimage, to 9554 Westwood Drive. The yard has erupted in snow-covered peaks as the mole horde ejects tons of dirt to construct their subterranean, religious capital. But hey, I’ve always wanted to live in the mountains.
N is for New Abode. Elizabeth and her boyfriend, Andrew, have purchased a modern and cozy house just south of Traverse City. After a few years stuck in LA traffic, their Michigan roots are re-planted. There’s even a fenced-in backyard to contain the wanderlust of Elizabeth’s frisky pet, Omar.
O is for Omar the Dog. We took care of Omar for those years Elizabeth was stuck in West Coast traffic. But she’s back and he’s back with her. We so miss him, especially now that local squirrels feel free to mob our mountainous yard, the yard known by our neighbors as Mole Mesa.
P is for Picnic. I continue to stand the helm of the open adoption program at Catholic Human Services. Every July we hold a picnic where adoptive and birth families congregate to feast on bratwurst and each other’s company. This year some 90 folks assembled. It was great… open adoption is thriving. If you’d like a glimpse, go to our FB page, CHS Open Adoption.
Q is for Quality Quilt Maker. Sue continues to spend our children’s inheritance on fabrics from The Missouri Quilt Company. Her sewing machine is smocking, about to blow a fuse. At times I don’t see her for weeks, such is her driven love of quilting. Her labors produce masterpieces that she, of course, gives away. Oh, it would be so nice to retire on quilt revenues, far away from it all on some plastic-strewn beach.
R is for Reunions. Every June, Sue holes up with beloved high school girlfriends at an undisclosed location. And every August, she holes up with beloved college roommates somewhere, I suppose, in the western hemisphere. She talks about how they laugh and go to flea markets and dress up in funny hats. There may be a sip of wine. But she always comes home happy and exhausted with pupils dilated. I ask but I get no answers.
S is for Schubert or Stravinsky. How about “Schubert Bohnhorst” or “Stravinsky Bohnhorst”? Solid names for a boy. No pressure, but the kid would have to compose symphonies. His great grandmothers, musicians both, would be so proud.
T is for Tchaikovsky. Brendan is fond of Tchaikovsky. He continues playing for the Holland Symphony Orchestra and will perform in a brass quintet at a Catholic mass on Christmas Eve in Grand Rapids. It might be a religious affair, but we will be there anyway.
U is for Unguentine, Uruguay, and Urethra. Unguentine is what you smear on your dry skin because you spend your winter in Michigan. Uruguay is a warm country that is the opposite of winter in Michigan. Urethra has something to do with a bladder infection you get because you spend your winter in Michigan.
V is for Vaseline Petroleum Jelly. Winter tip: If you run out of Unguentine, you can smear on Vaseline.
W is for Wart Removal Kit. I am happy with my burgeoning population of skin tags. But the wart, he I abhor. A crusty little devil, dammit, has bloomed near my elbow. All I want for Christmas is a wart removal kit. A wart should not be confused with a mole, and unlike skin tags, moles lack personality. Unless you’re talking about a Mole Mesa mole which is different.
X is for eXcruciating. I thought I got another flare-up of gout in my big left toe, only it turned out not to be gout at all but an ingrown toenail. It got really swollen and sore. And then a blistered pool of yellow pus formed at the base… Wait. Geez. So sorry. One should NOT write “blistered pool of yellow pus” in a Christmas letter. Please forgive and ignore.
Y is for Yellow Snow. Oh, how we miss Omar the Dog. Today atop Mole Mesa, the snow is white as freshly flaked dandruff. Gone are the yellow splotches of snow. Gone are the body slams we got when arriving home to an overjoyed canine cannonball. Gone are the bruises.
Z is for Zmas. That’s about it this Zmas. As you have seen, we still lead deeply flawed lives, but lives that are consistently rated above average. We hope you celebrate your own flaws, warts and all. Have a merry little Zmas!
