Three times as much snow as forecast. Canceled flights. Son with stomach flu. Such are the vicissitudes of late 2019.  Talk to you next year.

Last evening began at a coffee shop with a college friend and her sister. I hadn't seen this friend since 1986, so I was a little nervous about how it might go. But it went swimmingly: we talked about books and music and poetry and witches and bad relationships, and I, at least, left feeling extremely happy about reconnecting. Then I bustled home to my house full of boys, and we all went out on the town together. First, two dozen oysters. Then poutine and local beer. Then a ramble through town to look at at the lights. We ended up at the ferry terminal, and wandered down to the end of the pier, where a lobster boat was unloading its catch in the spotlit darkness and one of the fishermen was engaged in an awe-inspiring monologue about his drug-addicted sister. On and on he went, like the Ancient Mariner, spooling out tragedies punctuated with "It was a bona fide fuckin nightmare," and on the pier we four sympathetic ravenous artists longed to steal all of his lines. It was a notable moment . . . the Wedding Guest reveals himself to be my very own story-greedy family, the Ancient Mariner stands spotlit on the deck and turns out to be a 35-year-old exasperated pain-riddled fat guy . . .

And after that big deal, we went home, made a large caprese salad and toast, and played contract rummy.

Now it is snowing, Tom is getting ready for work, Son # 1 will catch a bus to Boston later this morning, and our family quartet will begin splintering back into everyday plywood life.

I slept horribly last night, then fell asleep hard at dawn and bumbled through a funhouse of nasty dreams for the next two hours. So this morning I am groggy and unsettled, to say the least. Time seems to be prodding me with forks . . . an end-of-decade alert, perhaps.

Ten years ago, at the tail of 2009, I lived on 40 acres of old-growth forest in the middle of nowhere. I was 45 years old and had a 15-year-old and a 12-year-old at home. My dog was alive and my cat was unborn. I had just published Tracing Paradise. Here's what my blog looked like back then. I haven't brought myself to read it, but you can.

Now, a decade later, I am 55. My land is gone from me. My younger son graduates from college in a few months. My older son earns more money than his parents do. I read and write in a small house in a small city by the sea. In the intervening years I have published six more books. I have compiled at least two more unpublished poetry manuscripts and possibly an unpublished essay manuscript. In a few days I will meet with an archivist who wants to collect my papers. This is bizarre and unreal. How could I have produced all of those words?

Weirdly, I have accomplished, writing-wise, far more than I ever thought possible. Still, as expected, I remain unfamous and unstylish. My papers will get dusty in the archive, but, on the bright side, my kids won't have to clutter up their closets with my boxes of stuff.

Aging is a strange story.

Two boys at home! And, tonight, an impromptu party with some favorite young people! Chili, ice cream, board games! I am all of a flutter.

Meanwhile, ten thousand pounds of laundry await.

The sky glimmers in pale pink over the bay.

I am drinking black coffee and looking at the spines of the books heaped on our coffee table: Christy Mathewson, Pitching in a Pinch. Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. John Guy, Queen of Scots. Sarah Ruhl, The Clean House and Other Plays. Morgan Parker, Magical Negro. The New Bill James Historical Baseball Abstract. William Wegman, Funny/Strange. Upstairs, Tom is reading Peter Mathiessen's Cloud Forest, and James is reading Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States. Words float around this house like dust. They leak into the street every time I open a door.

Christmas was lovely . . . relaxed and friendly, punctuated with a long mid-day walk and a glorious evening feast.

Today I suspect we'll mostly be glopping and gloping in small non-concentric circles, as one does on the day after Christmas, and you may define glopping and gloping for yourself.

For the moment, I am sitting at the kitchen counter brewing coffee. Next to me is a fat bio of the Queen of Scots. I am wearing an ancient sweater over my pajamas, and my hair is sticking up strangely. Next on my list of chores is to inspect the giant jigsaw puzzle and discover what can be solved in the clear light of day. As you see, the gloping is already picking up speed.

A quiet morning here in Amherst. A thin layer of snow ripples the rough ground. The rhododendron leaves are shriveled and limp. A squirrel skitters through the canopy of white pines and, below, the small pond is layered with grey-white ice. I'm the only one up. I've started the coffee, dropped a couple of pieces into place in the giant community jigsaw puzzle. I've got my tiny volume of George Herbert's poems alongside me, and here is one I've just read for the first time. I send it to you as a small gift of affection and hope and honor for whatever it is that reminds us to be humane.

A Wreath

George Herbert

A wreathed garland of deserved praise,
Of praise deserved, unto thee I give,
I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes,
My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live,
Wherein I die, not live: for life is straight,
Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,
To thee, who art more farre above deceit,
Than deceit seems above simplicitie.
Give me simplicitie, that I may live,
So live and like, that I may know thy wayes,
Know them and practise them: then shall I give
For this poore wreath, give thee a crown of praise.

Later this morning the three of us will head south to Massachusetts for the holiday. Our older son is flying in from Boston and will meet us at Tom's parents' house. Tom's sister's family will arrive for dinner, and we will celebrate over my mother-in-law's restaurant-level cooking and eventually play a large loud card game.

We are a game-playing family, on both sides. There are always card games in the offing, sometimes a giant Monopoly roundup (Tom is a ruthless real estate magnate), sometimes the dictionary game with hilarious nephews, sometimes just a companionable crossword puzzle with my father-in-law or a Scrabble game with my unbeatable dad. Over the years games have filled many holiday hours. I always took this for granted until a friend told me that her family never plays games. What happens instead, I wondered. Arguments? TV? The great thing about family card games is that everyone shares a conversation, disagreements are channeled into formalized jousting, and young and old are equals on the field. In Massachusetts our card game of choice is oh hell. In Vermont it varies by fad and number of players but has lately been contract rummy, though we often reprise the popular game of my father's youth--five hundred--a version of euchre that I recall my older relatives playing rabidly at every holiday gathering.

Even alone Tom and I play games. Usually, after he comes home from work, we have a round of cribbage by the fire before I start dinner and he goes upstairs to work on his photos. All of the younger generation (five boys total, if I include both sides) are eager game players. Their ages range from 13 to 25, and all play cards as well as the adults do. It is a fine thing to watch a 13-year-old go head to head with an 80-year-old.

So as I embark on this year's Christmas journey, I send you much love and a pleasant competitive spirit. Shuffle your decks well, and deal everyone a good hand. Cheers!