My buddy turned the tree trunk into a series of wooden spoons that commemorate my grandbaby’s first Christmas.
Candles have melted into the woodwork. The place is still littered with half-bottles of Cab. Our living room looks like the set of a Noel Coward play.
Merry Christmas if words are your wrapping paper. Merry Christmas if “Chestnuts” stirs your soul.
Christmas is the blanket God drapes across the world. Don’t believe? That’s OK. Occasionally, I have doubts too.
Our new Christmas tree ($7,000) sits in a corner of the den, listing 12 degrees starboard, as if whipped by a holiday storm.
I’m as simple as simple gets. I’ve always preferred Schulz to Shakespeare, sledding to sleigh rides.
Funny how Americans set up a holiday defined by gifts, promote it with all sorts of gooey Proustian moments, then tear it down piece by piece.
These are the relationships that now define me: Smartacus and Suzanne, plus Catty Cakes, the maestro of my life. Plus White Fang, my bombshell of a dog.
I’ve been taking White Fang to a nearby soccer field, where she sniffs the stinky scents left by the kids who play there on weekends and thinks -- momentarily at least -- how good they might taste on toast.