What is it about alleged “holidays”? Maybe because aside from siblings and cousins, most of the family deserves plowing under. That’s always a hard one to get past. We’ve now entered the six-week gauntlet of hell, and January can never come soon enough:
“LOOK OUT, here come the clichés again!”
They’re like Stukas. Relentless dive-bombing by homilies. It’s all I can do to stay sane enough to pay decent attention to my wife, who incidentally in regard to all of this is utterly blameless and pure as the driven snow. Without her, in fact, I might never have experienced the real thing.
The best time I ever had this time of year was that pre-Xmas week of ’99, when I was all alone in San Cristobal and went to Las Posadas with a bunch of neighbors who didn’t know who the hell I was. I had never been so lonely, but sitting in that warm, crowded kitchen afterwards with all those Spanish grandmothers, I wanted to blubber into my posole. Walked all the way home later in the moonlight. It was 10 degrees, and the snow squeaked under my boots. Coyotes were howling, the moon was bright, and God loved me.
[It's in the book, ya know!]
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