In the end, the snow was not so bad; a Sunday, the day after Christmas is pretty much a day no one wanted to be traveling anyway, and digging out on Monday just means extending the days off another day.
I usually write a bit on Christmas Eve before we start our festivities; this year I was (literally) too busy playing dress up dolls with my friend Jennifer (I can reveal, now, that I bought her yet another Barbie for her collection). It helps us to practice for our preferred fantasy careers as fashion stylists. Seriously... I was doing that when I was 12.
So Christmas Eve was lovely, a traditional Swedish festival, candles and cold supper followed by presents and pleasant conversation. Christmas Day I did an early morning at work and then Mom and I saw The Tempest (review to follow... but don't bother) and had a fabulous Chinese lunch in Hartsdale (which I think continues my development as an honorary Jewish man, at least by marriage).
The day after Christmas? More work - and not the best day - but I did get home before the storm was in full swing, and the Most Adorable Nephew in the Universe's Birthday had to be postponed, at least for family celebrations. And here we are.
It's all so good... it's hard to explain why the especially wistful tune - best known as Karen Carpenter's, yet another example of her pristine voice doing it's best on the saddest lyrics - followed me across the holiday. I've only recently come to fully appreciate it - for a long time, it was the whitest of white bread, up there with Perry Como and Bing Crosby. Under the precise guidance of my friend J in B, I've come to see the jazz and the melancholy in Karen Carpenter, and now it seems like a modern day "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas."
I can dream, and in my dream... well, Christmas never ends. Holidays are joyful. I hope yours were. And now, back to the writing.
(Photo of my Barbie in a pink satin bolero in front of our tree, by Jennifer. Price on Request.)