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.