Due to the recession, none of you will receive a Christmas letter from my wife and me this year. Most of you have never received a Christmas letter from us, and therefore this is not that big a deal. Those of you, however, who were anxiously awaiting the annual, irony-soaked summary of our lives, I’m sorry. Stamps cost money, address labels are a pain, and time is a luxury we just don’t have. It’s not that we don’t like you; it’s just that we don’t like you well enough to send you mail.
Not all is lost, however. As anyone who has ever read this online column is well aware, I’m OK with talking about me. I won’t have any problem at all using this very forum as a Christmas letter substitute. Without further ado, then, as per the standards of the contemporary American Christmas letter, I will begin by telling you how great things went this year without ever coming close to mentioning anything that wasn't fun or personally fulfilling.
Again, I’m sorry. I know there’s nothing funny about domestic contentment, but you need to understand, I live in a house now. It has a yard, and a basement, and neighbors that never tell each other to go to hell. This time last year we were raising our infant daughter in a cramped apartment next to a graveyard. To get fresh air and exercise, sometimes we’d stroll around that graveyard. Morbid, yes, but also a real pick-me-up, as it served as a perpetual reminder that regardless of how challenging our day had been, at least we weren’t dead. This worked all right until the afternoon we saw two naked people doing what naked people often do, except usually not in day lit cemeteries. Thus ended our graveyard walks, along with what remained of some societal assumptions.
Christmas letters also serve as a sly way to brag about all the interesting places one’s visited over the course of the last year. Well, this year, we went to Wisconsin Dells. With my parents. And despite those two facts, we had a really good time. The Wisconsin Dells is actually a beautiful place once you get away from the city of Wisconsin Dells. About five months ago I could have explained to you, with only minor inaccuracies, what geological phenomena created these dells so many years ago, but today it is best that I simply tell you that it is a very pretty river with pretty cliffs next to it. We went zip lining with my mother and shared a water slide raft with my father, who will probably never share a water slide raft with anyone ever again.
Continuing, no Christmas letter would be complete without some fairly self-absorbed commentary on a child and/or pet. For starters, the one pet we have, Banshee the Cat, is living out her retirement years at my parent’s house where she still clings to the notion that she is not really a cat. She carries herself with the demeanor of an expatriate aristocrat, probably Russian. She hates all the other cats, the two dogs, and anyone not feeding her at that exact moment. Occasionally my parents will hint that since now I have a house, perhaps I’d like to reclaim full ownership rights and responsibilities of Banshee. I usually ignore these hints.
We also have a child, as you know. She’s wonderful. I’d tell you her name but since nearly anyone on the planet could, feasibly, read this, I won’t. Her first and middle names basically mean “Light from Heaven,” and that is absolutely what she has meant to us and nearly everyone else, minus the photographers at Sears who were forced to listen to her sob uncontrollably on more than one occasion. As her father, I am inclined to write for pages about the joy she carries with her into each room, but I will deny that impulse and instead offer this anecdote:
One early morning I was talking to God, as is my habit, and I was wondering aloud if I should go back to school to finish a Master’s Degree in History. It would be terribly time consuming, but would also provide additional employment opportunities down the road, if ever such opportunities were needed. I asked God this question, and a few seconds later, she and her mother entered the room.
“Hi, Daddy!” came her greeting. And that pretty well answered my question. A few weeks later, we found out we were expecting. History, I have decided, can wait. It is the now that needs my attention. And with that in mind, now it is time to end yet another great American Christmas letter.
So, in summary, 2010 was just great. It was much better than 1978, the year I got a bunch of stitches in my head, and certainly better than stupid 1991, when my show hog escaped her pin at the Fayette County Fair and I had to chase it until we both almost passed out. Clearly, things have improved. Until next year, have a Merry Christmas, and thanks for reading. Eventually I am going to try and sell you a book.
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