Yesterday, as my father-in-law told us happily at the end of the evening, was "raucous." It's been a lively cheerful Christmas, jam-packed with family traditions, such as listening to Sounds of North American Frogs (one of the funniest recordings ever made) and continuously rearranging the Christmas displays into ominous tableaux.

But for some reason, despite going to bed very late, I couldn't fall asleep, then couldn't stay asleep. So for the moment I am feeling groggy and fragile, like someone who might accidentally collapse into her dinner plate. Let's hope a nap is in my future.

I write to you from an armchair next to a first-floor window with a view of three Subarus in a parking lot. No snow to speak of down here in the south, though yesterday we had to shovel six inches out of our driveway and white-knuckle our way to the Massachusetts border before the weather agreed to let up. But in the end we arrived safely, the kids arrived safely, and the day closed with a big jambalaya dinner and a noisy card game.

Now it is Christmas morning, and all is quiet in this inn . . . no excited children waking up their parents at ungodly hours; not even one single animatronic holiday rat in the lobby (see my poem "Christmas at the Ramada" in How the Crimes Happened if you want more about that story).  I am wishing for coffee but none seems to be available. In fact, I am unsure that humans run this inn: we have not laid eyes on any staff person since we arrived. However, apparently someone/something will provide breakfast at 7 a.m. I am kind of hoping for C3PO in a holiday apron. I feel he might be a good cook.

In the meantime, coffee-less, I stare out at the Subarus--one from Massachusetts, one from Connecticut, one from Maine. Lights are on in the house next door. Perhaps at this very moment aggravated boys are attempting to drag their fake-reluctant father out of bed by flipping the bedroom light switch on and off and bombarding him with snatches of Metallica songs at top volume. It's been known to happen.

Last night at dinner our own giant boys were putting on "The James and Paul Show," the two of them trying to upstage each other with "remember when we used to" craziness, performing their childhood in the Harmony woods as if it were a Wild West show . . . which maybe it was.

No doubt, there will be much more of that today. I hope you, too, will enjoy a loud and goofy holiday or, conversely, if you prefer, a quiet and thoughtful one.

I send much love.

Well, it's snowing hard out there--a sticky, postcardy sort of snow, glorifying every twig and garden stalk.  Peering into the dark, I'm struggling to guess accumulation: certainly there's enough to shovel. The storm is supposed to die down by mid-morning, so we should be able to hit the road at a reasonable time. But that doesn't prevent me from feeling, in the present tense, a little daunted.

This holiday has opened awkwardly. Yesterday my older son called from Chicago to tell me he was recovering from a bout of something-or-other and wondering if he should travel. My heart sank: my in-laws have set their heart on this big party; we all have, really. But I behaved like a sensible mother and coached him through a Covid test. And fortunately, as soon as he tested negative, he started feeling better. Last night's texts were quite cheerful, so I hope we've dodged that particular bullet. But now Tom and I are immersed in this weather situation, which could affect how easily we can pick up the Chicagoans at the airport in Connecticut . . . 

I will stop fretting and think of good things. I'm sitting here cozily in my couch corner, drinking hot black coffee and admiring the Christmas lights among the cards on the mantle. Chuck has been safely stowed at the kennel. My suitcase is packed. The wrapped packages look beautiful in their bags. Prepped in the refrigerator are boxes of smoked fish, special cheeses, black cake, and three kinds of cookies.  I've chosen Updike's Rabbit Is Rich as my vacation novel. I wrote a sonnet yesterday. Things will be okay, surely.

I have always hated bringing my pets to kennels, and also I have always hated leaving them at home alone, and also I've always hated asking friends or neighbors to come in and do the ugly litterbox or barn chore, etc.--in short, as The Reader's Digest Condensed Version of this endless dumb sentence explains, "I hate going away from my pets."

However, Chuck has not been invited to the hotel, and he is still too young to spend four nights alone, so he and I will be wending our sad way to the cat kennel this afternoon, possibly through snow and sleet. Naturally, just in time for holiday travel, a Yankee clipper is scheduled to whip through Maine today and tonight. I think we should be okay for driving tomorrow, though it's unclear how soon we'll be able to leave. T is supposed to pick up our Chicagoans at the Hartford airport tomorrow afternoon, which complicates matters. But I don't think the snowstorm is supposed to stretch that far south, so I expect things will work out.

This morning I'll bake a final batch of jam-filled cookies, and then my Christmas tasks will be done. I hope I can find an hour or so afterward to think about poems. I'd like to get started on my communal sonnet project; I'd like to work out some thoughts for the summer faculty performance. But who knows if my brain will agree to any of this? It knows the rest of this week will be a maelstrom of driving, card games, chatter, and extravagant culinary undertakings. It may insist on a mystery novel and a nap.

After our busy friendly weekend, my next couple of days will be quiet. Tom goes back to work this morning, and I will have the pleasure of figuring out how to be alone in the house. I've still got one more batch of cookies to bake, and tomorrow (sob) I'll have to drive Chuck to the cat kennel, but mostly I'll be puttering between desk and couch--reading, working on drafts, basking in spaciousness.

Now, upstairs, T chunks his dresser drawers open and closed. The furnace puffs self-confidently through the registers. Chuck races down the steps--bappity, bappity, bappity--and skids around a corner. I am thinking idly of Tennyson, of football scores, of whether to go for a walk this morning or get onto my mat. Last night we shivered beside a bonfire in our friends' backyard, and now the memory of flame glitters in my thoughts and the scent of Tom's toast wafts all over the house.

Yesterday was a busy easygoing day--wrapping presents, making cookies, reading a book, going for a walk, sitting by the fire, then strolling next door for dinner with our neighbor. Today will be somewhat less  Hallmarky, as my main chore is to clean the basement. Replacing the furnace created an uproar down there, and I've been waiting for Tom to do his part (haul dump stuff out to his truck) before I can do my part (reclaim my laundry area, reorganize kindling, vacuum up cobwebs and varied detritus). Yesterday he finally got Part 1 done, meaning that now I am on the spot to do Part 2. But we're also going Christmas shopping for cheese and smoked fish, I'll likely bake another batch of cookies, and we've got another social evening ahead, so the Hallmarkiness is not finished with us yet.

On my walk yesterday I pulled a copy of Rachel Kushner's novel Creation Lake out of a little free library. Both T and I have read her essays and have been meaning to try out her fiction, so I was quite pleased with that find. Also, it was nice to keep something for myself. As usual, books form a large chunk of the gifts I've bought, mostly novels that I've been wanting to read myself but haven't yet. I am sorry to report that I do not at all enjoy giving them away without reading them first. (Oh, beautiful tale that doesn't belong to me. Sob.) When it comes to stories I am selfish and greedy, and I will never be any different.

Yesterday's gale was unnerving. In Portland, gusts close to 60 miles per hour tore at the massive Norway maples as they flailed their boughs over the fragile rooftops. The wind wailed like a train, and Chuck kept staring up at me in wonder and concern. But by evening the storm had died down, and this morning I glimpse only a few small branches littering the yard.

The warm rain washed away nearly all of our snow, and now cold has settled back in. It's the last Saturday before Christmas, and I am tucked into my couch corner as Tom sleeps upstairs, as the furnace chugs in the basement, as Chuck plays chow hockey among the dining room chairs.

It feels very, very good to be unemployed for a few weeks. My writing time will come, but this weekend will mostly feature communal busyness: wrapping presents, acquiring treats for Christmas lunch, confabbing with Tom about plans. There will be eleven of us in Amherst, a crowd of young and old, probably the last big family gathering before the Chicago wedding, and everyone is excited.

Meanwhile, Maine is a hive. This week alone I've had a sleepover with friends in the homeland and holiday hijinks with my high schoolers, been on a movie date with my sweetheart, and gone out for a poetry evening that was also a Christmas party. Ahead are dinners with friends both nights this weekend, and for New Year's Eve T and I are planning a card party.

I love quiet; I crave it; I will soon be begging for it. But in these waning hours of a dark year, the beloveds flicker like candle flame. I'm a moth.