Oliver Rhoads Bohnhorst was born March 10, 2019, to Brendan and Jodi in Grand Rapids, of Michigan, of America, of Planet Earth, of the Solar System, of the Milky Way... he, the babe in arms, a mere microscopic mote drifting through The Universe. But if you get close, Ollie impresses as anything but mere. Behold the grabby hands that slap at a puddle of dripped, pureed peas. Behold the triumphant proclamations: "Buh! Buh! Buh!" Behold the bib drenched in teething drool and how he teeters upright verging on first steps. And behold how he's babbled his way deep into our grandparental hearts. Forever and ever, Amen. The opposite of anything mere, the whole of The Universe in and of himself.
Oliver's skin is as soft as a rabbit's underbelly except for around the nostrils. They get encrusted with dried snot. Elizabeth's skin is just as smooth in spite of her advanced age of 34. Her partner, Andrew, for the record, hides a mysterious complexion under beard. They have festooned their house with a jungle of plants and through their bay window the greenery filters a lovely view over white Grand Traverse countryside. Elizabeth has just gotten a job in a shelter to support homeless adolescents. Those kids have the very best person in their corner.
This fall Brendan and Jodi sold their four-level, in-city house and bought an expansive, one-level in the Cascade area of Grand Rapids. No more stairs! With all that moving out and moving in, taking care of baby Oliver, Jodi maintaining her demanding health care job, Brendan starting a new job... even with all that stress, their complexions remained unblemished. Nary a pimple! Brendan's many tubas have adjusted to the new atmosphere and their dogs now bark at reimagined varmints. New beginnings are born.
Every night before bed, Sue applies a degreasing compound to remove her makeup before rubbing in a new grease to juice up her pores. When in the morning she springs from bed, her skin positively glows! I've put sunglasses on my side table to reduce the blinding sheen. Sue's life-long high school friends and later her life-long college friends (very bad influences, all) held their annual reunions this summer. And to top it off, the women from both groups engineered a surprise 70th birthday party for her. Such unmitigated adoration. Sue returns home from these events so very grateful, her face emitting a rosy hue, but also concealing renewed criminal intent.
In 2019, I caught rainbow trout with a fly rod in the Colorado mountains, caught a pompano in the surf near St. Augustine, and, best of all, suffered an in-grown toenail. I came to believe that in-grown toenails are the hors d'oeuvres en route to Satan's promenade into Hell. I pondered this while my toe's sac of pus finally started to deflate. I came to Jesus and vowed to repent, to improve my ways: go on fewer ice cream binges, keep the D-con fresh and the mousetraps emptied, read more literature with less smut, and give friendly waves to the neighbors, whose names escape me. So far, so good. I've had no recurrences of purple toe and my mouth is free of cold sores. My conscience and complexion are clear.
And what Christmas letter would be complete without an homage to… The Impeachment of Donald J. Trump? The hearings, as Democrats and Republicans took their turns, threw me into a fit of ping-ponging between bug-eyed incredulity and gross inflations of intestinal gas. And it’s so strange: those hot Republican faces took on the blush of a familiar orange hue. It’s either a case of neckties noosed too tight or a somatic reaction to blind allegiance.
Keep your skins moisturized this holiday season. And it’s important to prevent crusty nostrils. For Christmas, you really want that effervescent, pinkish hue.
