Trolling The Ancient Yule-Tide Carol

“Deck The Halls” must be my favorite Christmas carol. There are a lot of funny old words that come out during this time of year (honestly, “manger” is only used in conversation to describe one particular barn, and it always make me think of "A Clear and Present Manger"), but “Deck The Halls” not only have Fa-la-la-la-las, (which are much better than Little Drummer Boy’s morose Pa Rum Pum Pum Pums) and donning we now our gay apparel, but the rather peculiarly worded tradition of trolling the ancient yule-tide carol. But ‘tis the season to troll.

We’re coming up towards the end of the year which began by me deciding to write the novel I had been mulling over. Midway through the year, another project began, taking the home study courses for foster/adoption. And along the way, there was a video game to get out and another one to begin designing, trips to the Derby and the Bahamas, quitting smoking, some political matters to get involved in, and lots of not newsworthy but hilarious and wonderful time spent with family and friends to distract me from these projects.

This time of year is particularly filled with distractions. We’re not going anywhere, but we’ve got all the other activities with cards and presents and decorations and parties and dinners. Last night though I still managed to get twenty pages of rewriting on the latest draft of the novel done. There’s still a bit of paperwork to do for the home study, but the references are done (and, I hope, glowing). We’ll get bids on fencing the pool over the holiday, and the nice thing is that I got a little bonus at work to cover it. All the news today is about turmoil and recession, but my life continues on its lucky streak which has lasted nearly forty years now.

Maybe that’s the story. A cheery guy named Scrooge is visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet To Come to show him that life is actually pretty shitty. I like it. Next book.

Merry Christmas

Beach Reading

In 1620, a group of Pilgrims landed in Plymouth Rock, Massachusetts, prompting the first Thanksgiving in America. In 1648, another group of dissidents had an equally rough first couple of years of privation some distance south, as they founded the nation of the Bahamas on an island they called Eleuthera, meaning “freedom.” Since Plymouth, Massachusetts is frankly cold in November, my family decided to go to Eleuthera instead to celebrate Thanksgiving.

Eleuthera itself is ingénue actress shaped, three miles wide by one hundred miles long, but we spent the first five days of the trip on an island off the “main” island called Harbour Island, which is three miles long by a half miles wide. Fortunately it has a number of good hotels and restaurants filling up that limited space, and my parents, my brother, and my sister-in-law joined Ian and me there. And if the famous pink sand of the island wasn’t enough of a draw, there was the beach reading as I passed around pages of my novel, fresh off the press.

It would be a cold-hearted author who didn’t dream of reducing his sweet mother to tears, so that goal achieved, I mark the vacation a complete success. I have returned with great editorial notes from my family, who are obviously supportive enough to be kind in their criticism, but very good editors with different specialties, noting when I reference the wrong fish to be in a lake, when my pronouns get mangled, and when I make huge leaps in logic to confound the most patient of readers. They’re so fiercely loyal, though, I’ve begun referring to them as my bulldogs.

On the last couple of days, Ian and I explored the main island of Eleutheria, which while much more beautiful than my fictional Midwestern city of Athelstan, Ohio, had in common with it that the best years had gone by decades ago. From a visitor’s point of view, that isn’t necessarily bad: you have the beautiful pink powdery beaches which used to attract royalty not to mention hundreds of visitors every week to the three airports on the island basically all to yourself. The people of Eleutheria and Harbour Island are unfailingly friendly, but there’s no doubt they’re suffering as resort after resort shuts down in the wake of economic woes and the more dramatic effects of several bad hurricane seasons. There’s very little to do. It’s like arriving at a party in time to see the caterers taking down the buffet.

I am generally a very relaxed person, and after a week of enforced relaxation, it’s all I can do to keep from slipping into a coma.