The first
day of Christmas did not begin auspiciously. A brief flurry was in the
forecast, with some more substantial snow, maybe a few inches, predicted for
further south. But just as
we were finishing breakfast and packing for the mid-morning drive to make a
ferry reservation to cross the Long Island Sound, the sky clouded over and those
brief flurries turned into a blizzard. I have subsequently been assured that
this was "a fast-moving storm." And in fact about the time I had
given up on that ferry reservation and re-centered our hopes on finding an
unreserved spot on a later ferry, the puffball snow drop shut off as if someone
had turned a spigot and the sun came out to take a good look at the sky's
recent accomplishment.
"We're
going!" I announced. Making the reservation might be a long shot: It's a two
and a half hour dash under normal conditions, and the interstates might not be fully
plowed, or plowed at all. But -- as I said -- it had stopped snowing.
The
highways were far from fully plowed, at one point we were trapped behind a trio of
enormous snow removal tractors, one for each lane. And even when we had left the
snow zone behind (Connecticut barely had a sugaring), the traffic that had been
unable to get off early as planned because of the snow -- like us-- was now jousting for
road room. When we reached the Bridgeport exit, I declared an optional
traffic-laws zone, ignored a half dozen red lights, and arrived at check-in only a few minutes
late. With the ferry still at the dock, I was told by a kid with a radio to get in line -- behind people who did not have reservations.
"But we have a reservation!"
"You're late."
"There was a snowstorm in Massachusetts."
"You're way over the cut-off time."
Cut-off time? The phrase was new to me. Is that the
time when I cut off your ear?
Somehow we
made it onto the boat, the last of the small cars in the small-car spaces, our
back bumper licking salt from the Long Island Sound. We didn't rock the boat, but the boat
rocked us, lifting its flanks to the sky from the swells produced by that fast-moving storm.
Still, we
reached our destination, had a great Christmas dinner, sang the old songs...
And his was only the first day of Christmas. What was the day like? It
was sort of like a partridge in a pear tree.
On the
second day of Christmas we drove from Suffolk County on Long Island to
Riverdale, at the northern tip of the City of New York. My son driving, it was
pretty much a vacation day for me. Anne's parents were waiting for us, perched
in their comfortable armchairs like two turtle doves.
We 'ordered
in' for dinner -- is that the expression? the other expression is 'nobody cooks
in New York City' -- from a Chinese restaurant and a sushi place. I have
noticed that no group of American diners numbering more than two (and some
fewer) can agree on eating the same thing. A couple of years ago we watched an endless
parade of bike-riding delivery guys streaking down Lexington Avenue to bring
Saturday night chow to all the apartments on the East Side.
For entertainment we
watched, for maybe the 20th time, an incredibly sweet and clever
short film version of Dylan Thomas's incredibly nostalgic and brilliant memoir,
"A Child's Christmas in Wales." Sometimes family groups are able to
watch the same thing.
On the
third day of Christmas (and the second day in Riverdale) a longtime family
friend of my wife's clan, a world traveler and bearer of tidings, paid a
holiday call to Anne's parents. A trio of their house guests, my wife, daughter
and self sat in on our visitor's this state of the world and brooded over this mixed
report (families growing; cities sinking) like -- you've guessed it -- three
French hens.
On the
fourth day we were on the road again. Departing New York after the morning commute
but not quite soon enough, we arrived back in the Boston sphere of commuter influence at an hour early enough, one would hope -- especially on Christmas
week! -- to escape the 'evening' commute. But no, evening starts early (well before the hasty departure of the winter sun), and plenty of that metro-traffic
was waiting for us. We arrived home in time to feel the deep New England freeze,
and I was surprised to find the bird feeder not completely empty.
If there
were four calling birds about, I did not see them.
On the
fifth day of Christmas, we went back to our routine, a day of work and a visit to the gym afterwards,even though the ancient course of the holiday still had a week to run.
What
did we have to show for the day? Five gold coins?
On the
sixth day of Christmas, the weekend had arrived so we did not work, but the
glowering sky and the persistent cold kept us from whatever festivities might be on
offer. Our outings were of the accumulative short. Between shopping for our screen appetites, movies and TV series at the library, and healthy food at the
expensive food store, I have no doubt we acquired the equivalent of six
geese-a-laying. Actually, we roasted one of them for dinner.
On the
seventh day, the punishing and enduring cold promises to have us once more swimming
upstream. Not only is today Sunday , but the widely celebrated folk
holiday of New Year's Eve, so we venture forth despite the cold to dine with a
friend. With our children absent, that still leaves us four swans short of
the necessary social swim. I suspect, however, if we watch the silly descent of the infamous
ball, there among the crowd we will find our swans swimming along nicely, their
long graceful necks pointing to the future, assured of their personal charms,
and their happy white tails trailing obediently behind.
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