Another day. A day. A day where everything went wrong, and everyone was to blame.

Okay, so not everyone and everything, but you know what I mean. Woke up to the notification on my phone of another mass shooting at a club, many killed. Went down and got coffee, checked Instagram. A friend was supposed to be there last night, but didn't go. The kids were wrangled off to school and I didn't mention it. Didn't even read the news piece on it. I know. We all do. People were killed. The details will kill us all.

Drove out to the manufacturing plant to pick up the materials, only to see a bunch of the workers out front, strangely watching the highway, and who just nodded my way as I drove in. Walked into Will Call just as the paramedics arrived, moving past me. I stayed out of the way of the action, as they tended to an employee who needed medical attention. When I finally got up to the desk I mentioned quietly, without inquiring on the details, "I hope everyone is okay."

"It's been that kind of week," was the solemn response, and I nodded/shook my head accordingly.

Eventually the factory guys came out with the materials and greeted me with a hearty, "Moneybags got a brand new truck!" referring to me, using the unlikely moniker I am always greeted with, and gesturing to my recent purchase. I defensively reminded them that I'd been coming here in the same old beat-up truck for fifteen years, until now, but there was head shaking, all around. "Moneybags got a full kitty somewhere... Counts it on the beach, doesn't he?"

I forced a laugh and tried to change the subject. "A lot of action around here, today. Everything okay in there?" One of the guys blew out a broad, white cloud from his vape, and then mentioned completely without irony, "One of the ladies was having a hard time breathing. She's got real bad asthma."

Anyway, the components had the wrong cuts on them. Corbels here, scallops there -not my fault. But, in a travesty full-blown and rarely committed: wrong color. And that was my fault. But easily made, in my defense. THESE parts "Mojave Tan" and THOSE parts "Spanish Brown"! Oh well. That's my life. I placed a rush re-order, loaded up, and moved on -just as the paramedics were loading up the sad woman, and moving on. I breathed out a short prayer, remembering a question someone asked me once: "How would you feel if you were in an ambulance, being rushed to the hospital, with the sirens blaring, and knowing that at every intersection, the people in the other cars were praying for you?"

So, I arrived at the lonely job site only to find that the measurements were off. Couldn't get a hold of the homeowner, whom I'd never met, to hammer down the details, and then I realized that moment had passed -noon on Thursday- where my re-order was already processing, and now I was going to have to re-reorder. This was getting expensive, and depressingly so.

Here, Moneybags headed to the nearest microbrewery to put this down on a blog, where he could at least push "publish" and log the word count.

Across the street from the nearby humble, local airport is Legacy Brewing, where I ordered The Chesty Irish Red, but the bartender brought me a beer. (I'll beer here all week, folks!) And no sooner did I sit down and open up the screen did my customer from today's job call and ask what was going on. Now: it looks like Moneybags has a decision to make. Do I drink the beer? Do I go back to the job site? Do I do both? Can anything be solved? And on a day like this?

There's a long table at Legacy Brewing. Ten distinguished looking older men are sitting at it, on a Thursday, having a pint, but otherwise the place is quiet. The men are planning something. A proposition. A journey. A business endeavor. They are serious, but satisfied. And then six of them get up, shake hands, and leave. The other four finish their beers, watch them exit, and say, "The married ones have left." And they laugh a bit. And that's when my phone rang, and I swear my customer was one of those guys, calling from the parking lot, probably leaning up against my truck, not noticing the materials in the bed. Materials with his name on them.

I have declared the day is over. Hell, it's almost 4:00. Got the word via wife-text today that our youngest, according to the parent-teacher conference, is "a perfect student and a dream to have in class." The teacher must not have got the memo about the recurring meltdowns he has at home. Must be us, then.

The phone is ringing again. It's my customer. I think I gotta go. But I don't think another meltdown is going to solve anything today.


~

Election Day. I jogged past my polling place this morning, just to see the turnout (mild) and confirm the location. Then I went back later all sweaty, wearing red (my gang colors) and stinking up the neighbor's garage with my bad self, like a good republican. This is California, where you can't get a republican on the ballot, since there's only ten of us and since those spaces go to the top two vote-getters anyway. So here, instead of getting to choose between country and rock and roll, you get to choose between country and western. But it's also trash night. So you can actually count on something getting done.

Mrs. Ditchman is running for PTA president, not that she campaigned. She was vice president until the president showed up late to the last fundraiser, and then just to post selfies on Instagram, so that president was kindly asked to step down, before the cries of IMPEACH! reverberated from the walls of the teachers lounge. The principal was already referring to Mrs. Ditchman as Ms. President before election day, and one of the ladies in the office told her she wasn't going to congratulate her, but that she was just going to thank her. Politics is local.

I just laugh. But this morning I went to get some coffee and poured myself more than my fair share and we got into a bit of a row about it. But she always pours herself the last cup and then never finishes it! Just leaves it sitting there on the counter, getting cold! Previously rendered undrinkable by that nasty Coconut CoffeeMate! Defiled! So I announced I wasn't voting for her. I led the children in a loud, rhythmic chant: "DON'T VOTE FOR MOMMY - SHE DRINKS ALL THE COFFEE!" Gin up the base. Politics is local.

It's a two-year stint. She's the best they got. Everyone was relieved. She has my utter and complete admiration. I'll make the coffee.

I'm looking forward to this election season being over, although the 2020 presidential election season begins tomorrow. I'm looking forward to all the emails, brochures, robocalls, and political ads coming to a halt for a while, even though this is THE MOST IMPORTANT ELECTION IN HISTORY! You know, until next week.

But I admit to being a (lightweight) political junkie. I like reading about the issues, watching the strategy, the gamesmanship, following some of the polls, following the bellwether states. It's like a furious, massive multiplayer video game. Complete with all the goofball gamertags, errant bomb-throwing, fiendish emotes, and lucky breaks you'd see on Call of Duty or Battlefront. Very entertaining.

And the ultimate reality show. Tonight is the season finale, so I am going to barbecue some blood-red steaks, pour out a nice full-bodied, deep red wine, remind myself of the time zone map, and sit back and watch the returns.

The PTA vote is at 6. It's going to be a blowout.

~

Up early again, after a night of heady dreams. Went downstairs to find the youngest on the couch, under a blanket, watching highlights of an MLB all star game on YouTube. The cat wanted treats, but wasn't satisfied in the amount I gave him. I wanted coffee, but wasn't satisfied that the timer hadn't clicked on, and here I had to wait, while the world slowly turned it self to face the sun again.

There was a time change, so Sunday had us a bit disconnected from the normal way of things. We were all headed this way or that, off an hour or so, with the daylight confusing the perspective. And there's fifteen clocks in this house. You think you caught them all early, and then you turn a corner, see another one, and you're not sure. But the cat wanted his treats exactly one hour earlier than usual last night. Refuses the change.

I see the time change is on the ballot here in California. I worked my way through the arguments on the sample ballot, and it reads like we are living in some crazy future, arguing nonsense, wearing sequined jumpsuits and silly hats, with nothing left important enough to complain about. I'm tempted to weigh in on the whole thing, too, but aayachhh... I must be getting older. The world is full of crazy crowshit. I've got other things busting me. The office phone rang at 2:30 in the morning last night. Give an hour or take an hour, it's whatever time you say it is, but that was the wrong damn time to call.

And I was dreaming that old dream that I was back in college again, failing a class. It was a writing class, and I hadn't been all semester. I'd written one of the two required essays, quick and half-assed, and didn't do the other, so here I had shown up on exam day with a fifty/fifty chance of passing. I suddenly realized I didn't have any paper, so I decided that was it, and got up to walk out, taking the F with me. Then the prof (who, as it happens in dreamland, was Mr. Kumano, my 8th grade science teacher) saw me ditching out and said, "Hey there Mr. Hawkins you sit back down and take the test. I've got some paper right here..." and he handed me a few sheets of blank 11x17 copy paper, redirected me to my seat, and saying loudly, so the whole class could hear, "You can do it. Your one essay was surprisingly well-written..."

And I woke up to the phone ringing. Mrs. Ditchman got up and just closed the office door, which was at least a proper response. I rolled over and fell back asleep, where I was then in a strange neighborhood and the cat was missing. We couldn't find him, and I was angry and sad about it, as usual when this kind of thing happens, and then I was in my living room. I saw it was raining outside, and through the curtains I saw a long-eared coyote in the yard, chasing the cat. I ran out, the coyote came for me, and I went to kick him good and hard.

And I had kicked my heal into the side of the bed, with force enough to wake Mrs. Ditchman, a second time. I saw her sitting up, looking around. I told her it was me, sorry, and the damn coyotes...

After that, it took me a while to get my eyes to roll back, and when they finally did I had one of those semi-coherent dreams that played out like a movie, with a beginning, middle, and end. This one had all the sumptuous production design of a Terry Gilliam film, colorful and bizarre, and I was right in the middle of it, although I struggle to recall the details... World War 2... World travels... Something about an antique fork and knife, and I had to find a buyer, who, in the end, rewarded me with the finest meal in the world, which I spilled. It was a tale of struggle, persistence, and inspiration. An artist's journey. The critics raved.

It's what I did with the extra hour. They can have it back in the spring.


~

The cats are racing about the house at 5AM. It's just kerflumpuh-kerflumpuh-kerflumpuh up and down the hardwood stairs in the dark, and then scritchety-scritchety-scritchety on the base of all the doors. What do they want? I don't speak cat. Approach one, and he runs in the opposite direction. He's meroarwing in the other room now, clawing the forbidden ottoman. I got up and gave him a kitty treat. Seemed to make things worse.

It was 85 degrees yesterday, with a warm Santa Ana wind that swept out the sky and left it a deep, San Diego blue. The leaves come off the trees and whip about, settling in house corners and streetside pockets. I had just gotten used to wearing a sweater on the chilly nights, and shutting the window before bedtime, but here now, pre-dawn, the air is dry and warm again. The summer refuses to die.

The cat has clawed the office rug and is now rolling himself up in it.

There must be catnip in the air, or some other energized dust. A static electricity, which is not really static at all, but more of a pervading electrical charge. An invisible, pulsating field of energy moving the trees, blowing old paper upwards in a spiral dance, and causing the cats to freak out.

Moby, our Himalayan-Siamese mix, has a soft thick coat that stands on end when you bring your hand to it. He's anxious, restless. His eyes dart back and forth like he's following some invisible flying insect. And then Moby leaps onto the high back of an office chair, grips the leather with his claws, and holds on as it spins in circles from the force of his landing.

Weather like this stirs something up from the bottom of the pot. An old memory. A forgotten joy. Or pain. It makes you smile at a stranger, and tip your hat at a lady, which no one does anymore, which is why you do it, and then follow it up with an impulsive off-color joke. Because you'll never see them again, you see. It's a time to take a chance, be a little different, accept a new idea. Laugh it all off when no one gets you. And hurry. Because this rush of mood will soon be gone with the wind, and then it's back to our old, tiresome ways. Winter is comning.

The sun's coming up. I have a slight headache, since I had wine for dinner last night. And here, we're all out of half and half, which I prefer in my coffee, and so it tastes different today. The sky is clear, from horizon to horizon, like a full glass of room temperature water, no ice. I may go for a run, before the kid's baseball game this morning. Try to get something done this Saturday. Or start a new project again.


~

Up early again. Fell asleep on the couch late afternoon yesterday sitting straight up, Xbox controller firmly in my grip. Awoke to find the sun going down on the first day of November, and Mrs. Ditchman looking over from the sink, "Game not exciting enough for you?" And then I felt nautious and congested. I took a Sudafed, and ended up awake all night.

At one point I heard the unforgettable stirring Randy Newman anthem from the movie The Natural, and I went downstairs to check it out, and found my wife falling asleep to that old award-winning classic. I hadn't seen it in years and got hooked on it for about an hour, but I missed the beginning, so I wasn't committed, and instead went upstairs to bed and read the Wikipedia entry.

The film is about a baseball player whose bright future evaporates when he, essentially, makes some bad decisions and runs into some bad luck. Years later, he returns to baseball as an aged rookie on a last place team. The whole film seems to be shot through a gauzy lens with silhouettes, shadows, backlighting, colorful sets... and it all gives the story a nostalgic American air about it, as if we're not really watching what happened, but how we remember it, or merely wish it all was. The music is moving and emotional. (You still hear it today in sports montages, used as a go-to musical track when a star athelete's bio is relayed in hush, impressed words.) And the characters, with the bad guys in black and the good guys in white -there's even a quirky, one-eyed sage and a storied baseball bat in place of a sword- reach obvious mytholigical heights.

The film was criticised for its overwrought sentimentality and fantastical indulgences, but so what? It's baseball, after all, and wasn't that the point? All this to say that, we're human. Life is in the way all the livelong day, and stubborn facts bog us down. What we want is the Legend. Or, perhaps, just a Standard. Take the boring, bungled facts of our daily lives, and bend them into an arc that shows purpose, intent, passion, sincerity, and maybe, if we could, some integrity. Please.


I actually watched baseball this year. It was a bit of a struggle, I admit, since I wasn't born with the sports gene and still don't grasp the rules and strategies of the game, but I have a knowledgable spouse and a passionate 6-year-old who are more than willing to clue me in.

The Dodgers went to the World Series! I grew up outsdide of L.A. so, hey, they're my team. And the World Series is, you know, important, so I watched with the family. They lost. We'll get them next year.


~

Thursday. And the first Thursday of the month. Streetsweeper Day.

Seems appropriate, this being the day after a particularly raucous Halloween scene in our neighborhood. I went full-bore yesterday on the house decorating. Boarded up the windows and dumped trash on our lawn. Neighbors drove by with raised eyebrows, and I got a solid approving smirk from the recycling truck driver, who was tempted to whip the can down off the truck at a mechanized speed that would create a windy whiplash of papers all a-flying. He didn't.

And it's Streetsweeper Day. Where we blow through this life and try and put some pieces of things back together. This old blog hit a sandbar nearly a decade ago, and has foundered since. Looks a little rusty, as I make my way through the cabin and sift through forgotten remnants of times past. There's a few other blogs in here, once started and soon abandoned. Old posts never posted. These things have just hung out there in the Interland, taking up space, darkening the Cloud.

Unfinished projects are my bane, and I've accumulated so many of them over this last decade that I swear my joints are finally giving out under the weight of them all. Old projects, with their half-baked inspiration, started and abandoned, still hold sway over a part of me. I've got an old garden, weedy and unkept. (When the sprinklers broke down I just walked!) I've got new parts on my work bench, that go on that old boat. I've got work materials, piled en masse, the same on this office desk. I've got breakfast to make for myself, (which I always skip and always pay for) and I've got unfinished exercise goals, unfinished business, unfinished laundry. And old relationships, long diminished, for lack of a single phone call.

Honestly, I'm surprised this old Blogger machination still works (does it?) Seems the world gave up on The Blog over a decade ago, in favor of the stripped-down, dumbed-down, mindless input of The Facebook machine -an appliance so misused over time that the simple (otherwise necessary) truths of communication and friendships were tossed thoughtlessly onto a cultural ash heap, and the real value of words and images kindling for its holocaust. Because Obama! TRUMP! These are crazy times.

That Streetsweeper just went by my window, as it has every first and third Thursday of the month since I've lived here, these fifteen years. The parking attendant drives close behind, and behind him those half awake pajama clad neighbors, moving their cars out of the way in our bi-weekly cul-de-sac parade. I suspect the Streetsweeper himself sees a few more candy wrappers on this Thursday, more than usual. And broken pumpkins, Halloween paraphernalia, holiday excess, which built up, wound up, reared back, and POPPED last night, in a frenzy of childhood memories made, and kept. The Streetsweeper moves ever-forward, unstoppable. I hear the rumble and hum of his machine in the distance, and he slows only for some larger pile of trash, or a car in the path -the car whose driver was unstirred this morning (after a heady night) to get up and move it, to get in line behind him. To get in that parade that trails the Streetsweeper, Grand Marshall of the Suburbs. A parade the Streetsweeper never slows for, pays no mind to, and never sees from the sidelines.


~

I was the favorite.

It's an in-joke with my brothers and sisters. I'm not sure I get the joke. It's possible I was favored somewhat because I was the quiet one. When you have six kids, the quiet one is the favorite.

It was nice to be back at the old church, though it's changed somewhat -as we all have. But when I was young, the place was like a second home to me. I remember my mom trying to get me to go to church when I was a kid. It was a battle, but she finally found the one thing that would get me to go. She paid me. It's true. In the fifth grade, I got, like, 50 cents every Sunday. By Junior High, I had upped it to a dollar. We both won.

Though her parents were of dedicated, Bible-Belt, Christian stock, she never spoke to me of Jesus. She never quoted the Bible, prayed with me, or pondered aloud -at least to me- the Big questions of Life and The Universe. She was busy with six kids. I guess she figured, at a dollar a week, it was a bargain to pay me and have someone else do it.

If you knew her like I did, you know she was a saint. She was not like my father, who was more the "hardened adventurer." She was like Mother Teresa, and he was like Humphrey Bogart. They were an unlikely couple. As a matter of fact, a good portion of my youth was like being a deckhand on The African Queen. I remember, distinctly, one time being on our boat, the whole family. I was probably about ten. We were motoring upriver, and my Dad spied a large cave, port side. He wheeled the boat around, excited for some spontaneous exploring. It looked dangerous. When my mom saw what he was doing, she stood up in protest. She groaned and said something like, "Oh, Gary. No." My Dad just smirked and said –and I'll never forget it- he said, "Oh, Lois. The world is probably going to end in the next five minutes. What are you going to do about it?"

He was a tough guy. But she sat down and took it, prepared for anything. She made sure our life jackets were properly buckled. And I remember thinking, The world's going to end in the next five minutes? And we're just sitting here? In a boat? In a cave?

My mom could take anything. And she didn't play to win, she played to outlast. She knew a certain wisdom of life: that it's better to use your strength absorbing the blows in defense of others, than it is in delivering the punches. She was like Muhammad Ali.

But she didn't see herself as Muhammad Ali, or Mother Teresa. I think she saw herself as more Audrey Hepburn or Cyd Charisse. Or, on her bad days, that character in the 1948 classic film, The Red Shoes, about the ballerina who dances to her end by way of a pair of enchanted slippers. It was one of her favorite movies. But when I think of her, I think of the Gene Kelly classic, An American in Paris. She loved Paris, though she never went there. It’s good to have a dream like that, in life. And that Paris that she loved was not the real Paris, but the Paris of a Hollywood soundstage. And I think that even she believed that sometimes it’s better to just leave some things as dreams, where they are sure to be beautiful forever, and where hope can spring eternal.

The cancer was her toughest fight, and she fought it for a long time. But in the fight she never gave any thought to any preconceived, inevitable end. Her doctor would never say how long she had, probably because he couldn’t tell himself. “Your mom's a fighter,” he would say. And, as far as I know, she never asked how long she had, either. She asked when she could go back to work.

And that's who she was. A fighter, a dancer, a hard worker, and if you thought you were the favorite... well, you had five brothers and sisters, and there were hundreds of other children she was off to take care of there at the church, at the hospital, and elsewhere. And then, eight grandchildren. But she made you feel like you were the favorite.

She had her ditsy moments, as we all do. But she took them all in stride, with her ever-present, self-deprecating laugh and smile. I hesitate to tell the story, but my family will never forget the Christmas a few years back when one of us had gone to open a gift from her. It was wonderfully wrapped, but upon opening we'd found that the box was, well, empty. She'd neglected to put the gift inside! It was actually pretty funny, and my mom laughed about it, too. And, to be honest, I don't remember any gift she's ever gotten me. But I remember The Empty Box. We all still laugh about it. Just last week, after my mom died -it was so hard- and we all got together at my sister's and we ordered a bunch of pizzas. When they were delivered, it so happened that one of my nephews opened one of the pizza boxes and it was empty. There was no pizza in it. My sister said, "That's mom's!"

Maybe my siblings claimed I was my mom's favorite because we both liked the movies so much. But even though I was the one who went to film school, she liked movies more than me. At film school they taught you to analyze and critique them, pore over static images and look for symbolism. But my mom just loved them. She loved all of them. I don't know a frame of celluloid that she didn't enjoy. So often it seemed she was incapable of criticizing a film, and it drove me crazy, for some reason. But what a lesson: Let it go. Just enjoy it, while you have the chance. It’s a movie, after all. What was the point, otherwise? My mom. Always a positive outlook. Never critical. Ever-loving.

She was a Christian like no other. She didn't preach the gospel, she bore it out in her life, and in her manner. She was humble and unassuming, but mighty. And she was good.

This is what I learned from my mother: That you should work hard, but enjoy the movies. That you should surround yourself with children. That the world, in many ways, really is going to end in the next 5 minutes, and that you can turn the other cheek and take the blow with more strength than was used to deliver it. And that, like her unforgettable Christmas gift, the Tomb is empty. That there’s always hope.

And that we are all God’s favorites.

~

Family will fail you, but only after you have failed them first. People like to say, “Family first!” but it’s more often than not an exaggeration of the truth: that 99 percent of the time we put our actual selves first. “Family first” is really the motto of a small nation, a band of mismatched but blood-knit folks always the first ones standing there looking down at you when you’re trying to get up, who on their best days are your first line of defense. “Family First” is a charge into battle. Less a simple conviction than a governing belief system. Less a passing hobby than an all-consuming passion. It is altogether an endeavor to health and happiness. Family is why you work, what you make, and what you go on living for. It’s what you leave in the end.

~

Last Post

Because it's time. Because CHANGE is in order! Well, ain't it? Oh, it's a new year. I resolve to redirect these energies elsewhere. Not that I abhor the blog, or anything like that, but I think the effort has been fulfilled. The title feels used, the opinions, redundant. There's no further need to clarify things. You know where I stand. I've done enough damage to my reputation. And now's as good a time as any.

The Most Significant Thing has always been the following seven: Family, Friends, God, Country, Work, Health, Passion. On hindsight, I should have set up those labels early on and just ascribed every post to one or the other, with an additional label for those days where I just showed up and voted "present" (but who really uses those labels, anyway?) So, such are the most significant things. Ignore one of them, I hold, and your life falls out of balance. Not saying it's easy.

The truth is I have found myself unspectacularly coming back to one of those things in particular: Family. Over the years I've found myself changed up to that point -where the family was once a source of pain, dysfunction, disappointment, and despair, now it is my reliable foundation, a hopeful destination, and an unexpected source of pride. I guess I'm growing up.

It's New Year's Eve and I'm surrounded by the whole big clan. Last night there was an impromptu talent show (I was a judge) that seemed straight out of Dan In Real Life, my new favorite gem of a film. I was sitting there on the couch with a glass of wine, alongside my siblings and their spouses and kids, and we were all hollering and laughing -and it seemed a perfect moment. But I noticed something significant: the simple fact that nobody there made the moment fun per se, but it was the collection of everyone that made it unforgettable. No one in the group was perfect, but everyone was indispensable. No single person held any right or privilege, any authority or preference, any grand talent or unique quality that superseded anyone else's -but the mere collection of us, with little more in common than blood, made the moment whole. "Wholeness" may be more important than any sort of balance, or it's at least the necessary construct of it. What I mean to say is, "balance" -which I have always sought with some sort of Zen indifference- is impossible without all the pieces and parts. When you're trying to get the engine to run, you can't just ditch a few gears. Some 500 posts, or so, and if I haven't made my point by now then I'm not sure I can. Hey. We're running out of metaphors here.

People have told me how lucky I am for having such a loving family, such a big family. And I am. I'm lucky. But frankly I believe it can be had by anyone. Start today: have six kids! (And try and love them!)

That's crazy, I'm sure. But my mom did. And my family has been through a world of incomparable hurt, unmentionable whatnot, and has come through to the other side. My parents made mistakes, but if it was a mistake to have six kids, then at least one wrong thing went right. There was thick and thin in my family over the years, feast and famine, hurdles and harbors, but somehow we're all still together in spite of us all. I would trade nothing for them, nor could I. I have walked away from friends and watched friends walk away over the years, but my Family has remained. What is there to do besides, make it work.

Families are funny things: born, made, assimilated, adopted. They take all sizes and shapes, and mine is not like yours. But one thing they all are: necessary. It begins and ends with family. They are there when you're born and, if you're only half-lucky, they are there when you die, but first things first -you're the family. Some folks fall off, for whatever reason, but you hold on to it and make it real. I have one sibling who goes out of her way to make every event a real party -always, at a minimum, unforgettable- and I'm lucky. And grateful. You do your part by at least contributing with your presence at the births and deaths and the significant in-between things like holidays and weddings. It took me a long time to learn it, but if you don't show up, you'll lose that most significant thing, and unwittingly replace it with something lesser. Without family, you're an orphan. And, hey, maybe you've always been an orphan. If so, endeavor to build a family. Eventually, they'll thank you for it. (And, hey, how do you think you'll feel as a result?)

As for me, I'm a father. And that means, above all else: keep the family together.


It's a new year.



(My mother last Easter with her, so far, eight grandchildren. She's a saint.)

~

The past few days have been a diverting series of misadventures, unlike life back home only in the sense that we are surrounded by some life-affirming, invigorating, astounding beauty. We hiked a bit, explored various gift shops, and sampled local dining fare, leaving a wake of broken crumbly crackers, drinking straw wrappers, and shattered tree ornaments wherever we go. Restaurant servers ro-sham-bo to get our table out of their zone when they see us coming. But the kids are cute enough.

Hiked along a slick icy path the other day for a few miles or so. Long, shoulder-splitting icicles hung precariously above us at points, making us feel brave and trail-worthy. Everyone seemed to handle the 25 degree temps pretty well. At one point the Little Ditchman began moaning, "My knee hurts. My elbow hurts. I hafta go to the bathroom," and I figured we better turn around and head back to the car. Then she said, "Do you dig the hole before, or after?" Pause. Huh? "Oh. It's before!"

She'd been quoting lines from Up, so, yes, she is my daughter after all.

Yesterday we drove in an easterly direction, a hundred miles or so across the vast Colorado plateau (which extends well into southern Utah.) It was a perfect, scenic American byway, blanketed with a recent snow and the remnants of the holidays in rural civic displays, surrendered to the season. If you've seen Cars, (which the Little Ditchman happened to be watching during the drive) and have balked at those over-painted, idealized stretches of southwestern highways with their perfectly carved sandstone tunnels and bright red buttes and towering hoodoos dotting the landscape, I can now attest that that Pixar-crafted vision is grounded in reality. It's all there on UT Highways 9 and 12 -pine trees, teepees, and all.

Arrived at Bryce Canyon National Park at about the same time as a mild snowfall, which was charming for the kids and yet demoralizing for us adults who found the fabled, deep canyon, natural wonder of the southwest, filled with a heavy fog. "Oh well," we thought. "Next time." As if there would be one. On the way out of the park we drove to another viewpoint, on the off chance that maybe some of the weather had lifted. We were in luck.



(We're collecting all the states!)

Today, it's back to the big family for the turning of the New Year, which will be great. (We're out of money, anyway.) I'm going to insist on one last drive through the valley to gaze up at those awesome, glorious red cliff-faces, dusted with last night's snowfall. It's stunning, though the kids aren't quite able to grasp it yet. They get out of the car and immediately look down, so as not to trip over or miss some curious twig or rock or lump of ice. I guess, as you grow, you slowly lift your head, willing to be taken aback by all that miraculous world around you -those curious twigs, rocks, and lumps of ice a thousand times the size.


~

Year-end salutes and salutations from Zion National Park!





~

Greetings from behind the Zion Curtain! I ordered two large beers at a restaurant last night and all I got out of it was a series of trips to the men's room. It was a nice men's room. Tidy and fresh. They must give them extra attention here from all the extended use, since 3.2 percent is the maximum alcohol content legally allowed in the beer, if you didn't know. This amounts to little more than mugs of carbonated, hop-flavored water, so if you thought you were in a state of inebriation, you're not. You're in the state of Utah. (Unless you drink twice the beer at twice the speed. Enjoy the men's room!)

Zion! We're actually in Zion, too, which has always been just a few hours from my sister's place, though we've never made the trip to get the coveted Visitor's Center stamp. Aside from our church retreat, the Ditchmans didn't get a vacation last year, so this is it. Original plans were for Yosemite, which I thought would've been a pleasant, wintry way to ring in the new year, but it turns out the whole family was going to be in Vegas for the 2010 event, so how could we miss out on that? Anyway, we're making good use of that nether week of days between Christmas and New Year's by visiting Zion. Nothing happens in those few days anyway.

And room rates are cheap. "You've got the best room in the house," the perky lady at the front desk said when she handed me the key cards. This was a surprise, and words I've only heard once before at the El Tovar when I asked Mrs. Ditchman to marry me, bear me children, and then drag them to National Parks seven years hence in the middle of winter -all sickly and complaining. Yes, we were up all night from the cold, dry, coughing, (dammit.)

It's no El Tovar, but the place is clean. It's got a magnificent view of the edge of the park, and a nice little balcony for drinking it all in, if you can handle the Utah chill. The kids are making a mess of the place, which is one of the reasons we're not staying here, aside from the fact that we can't afford those things anymore. We love old, historic lodges (who doesn't?) so we'll be stopping in for a Near Beer later. In Zion, you get drunk on the view.

It's my first time here, and I didn't know what to expect, but it's all truly lovely -in that breathtaking, grandiose, National Parks sort of way. We went for a little family hike when we arrived yesterday and hoofed it up a snowy sandstone cliff for the promise of an unrivaled canyon view. The Little Digger was in the REI utility papoose, and the Little Ditchman cheerfully bounced astride us, though we were a mile high on a sandy, icy cliff face, with a single frozen steel rail the only thing that stood between us and a busy night for local mountain rescue teams. Then, since we didn't fall, night did -as we hadn't properly gauged the length and breadth of the hike. Happy tunes gave way to whiny complaints. Fingers and faces froze, and I thought, "Yeah. This is about right."

We made it back to the car. Easily found, as it was the only one left in the lot. And it wasn't completely dark yet. Never go camping with a Ditchman, that is, if you prefer the safe, unstoried, boring vacations of anal-retentive homebodies. We're not like that. We prefer impulsive jaunts, the thrill of danger, peril 'round every bend! Indiana Jones carries our bags!

But we're gonna take it nice and easy today.




~

A terrific Christmas -the first one we've celebrated at home since we were married, since we usually party down in Vegas. But our Little Ditchman is at that wondrous age where The Magic Man will actually, expectedly, slide down her chimney and dispense the annual reward for twelve long, hard months of niceness. She spread reindeer food on the grass (ingredients: oats, glitter, etc.) and when asked whether she thought the enchanted caribou would alight on the back lawn or the front, she was thoughtful about it. "The front," she announced confidently, giving no reason. And who among us would argue?

We were able to cram all the events in: me with my last minute shopping, Family 'A' coming over for Christmas dinner, Christmas church service, up late to meet Santa and help with the wrapping/assemblage portions of his labors, Christmas morn full of glee and delight, prep and clean abode for sitter, drive hundreds of miles to Family 'B' for Christmas dinner, and finish off with a rousing rendition of our annual family tradition of singing the 12 Days of Christmas around the table -though we were 4 days short this year, and some of us had to double up.

The Little Ditchman took two verses, and I was at first concerned she couldn't handle the workload and tried to take one from her. But her mommy and others jumped on me for this, righted me, and off The Little Ditchman went -she would've taken all 12 verses if given chance. It was quite a sight, and I was proud. (So she loves to sing carols -who woulda thunk it?) I've written of the glorious tradition of ours before, so I won't go into it, but it was fun, especially seeing the little girl join in so cheerfully. It's nice that my big family keeps having kids. We need to fill out the choir.

And there was the Great Unwrapping. This year was different, as it has been spread out over a week or so. There was some on Christmas Eve, and then the following morning, and then just a bit ago, and there will be some later, as more family arrives. In the past, it's been a tsunami of ribbon and tissue, (which I find fun) but this year it was necessarily a rolling set of swells every so often, all perfectly surfable. It's become this way out of necessity, and so be it. Santa comes to our house now, too, and we love it.

I got a good gift, by the way, from my sister. One of these. It met my criteria for the perfect gift -something you've always wanted but were just unwilling to shell out the cash for. I love it! Though... I admit I'm not sure it contributes much more to the wine than a nice swirling of the glass would -but hey, it's a gift. It's fun. And I'm gonna use it later, and I won't have to decant an entire bottle.

Like the day after Thanksgiving, I've found myself with a moment to type some here. Everyone is out: at the park, shopping, movies, and me and the Little Digger are home having a Bud Lime. It rounds out the season. Though this time, instead of napping, he's opening every cupboard and emptying the contents on the floor. (Forgive me if this reads a little on the choppy side.) He's that kind of kid. Leave the bathroom door open and he'll follow you in and fondle your pee stream from between your legs.

I'm looking forward to the next few days. There's a lot of looming worry on the business front, and it's great to put it all aside for a while. Year's over. Go again.

(That is, go again next week.)


~

When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flocks,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers,
To make music in the heart,
And to radiate the light of Christ,
Every day,
In every way,
In all that we do and all that we say,

Then the work of Christmas begins.


-Howard Thurman

In case you're wondering about our ongoing neighborhood saga, tonight my neighbor found a baby on his doorstep. No note. Just a simple, friendly little Christmas miracle.

Merry Christmas.

~

Other influences:

Star Wars.

I only mention it because I spent my blogging time today watching this, which is SPOT-ON BRILLIANT:



When you have the time, check it all out. Parts 2-7 are here, every second of which illuminates, enlightens, and gives you the closure you have longed for. The analysis of light sabre duels in Part 6 alone is worth [what I'm still spending on] a USC film school tuition (about $200,000.) I'm not kidding: save yourself a quarter million dollars and just watch all 70 minutes.

And you better hurry, before the Lucasfilm lawyers shut it all down.

~

Here's something you might not know about me.

Influences:

Garrison Keillor. Yes, I'm a fan. And yes, I listen to NPR from time to time (though I admit nowadays it's mostly Car Talk and Prairie Home Companion.) I like writing that sounds like it's being read to you. I like it when I'm reading a book and I feel as though I can hear the author telling me the story. Now, I know a lot of people don't appreciate this, as the spoken vocabulary is different from the written one, but there is, I believe, some happy medium where the two marry and intertwine, some kind of literate, oral history. I love the Oral Tradition, and Keillor's good at this. It would be a dead art if it weren't for NPR, (and summer camp campfire messages.)

Also, Garrison Keillor is grossly sentimental like me, often wrapping up his homespun tales with some grandiose metaphor. So, that's where I get it. (Sometimes I go overboard. It doesn't show, but I try to control myself.)

Frederick Buechner. He's a terrific Christian author, but don't let that dissuade you from checking him out. He is a sincere talent, and has been nominated for the Pulitzer. His written voice is a wordy one, with lots of commas and run-on sentences -so if my style of doing that bugs you, you can blame him. And I love, of course, what he writes about, and how his faith is the center of his world-view.

Tim Cahill. He's a travel writer and one of the founding editors of Outside magazine. Most people like Bill Bryson, but I like Tim Cahill. When I began reading him, I discovered that I didn't actually have to travel there to enjoy the place, his storytelling was so magically sufficient. And funny. I appreciate funny. It's hard to do. I read a few of his books and got the sincere impression that he loved his job, and enjoyed writing. I immediately envied him.

John Irving. Now, I admit that I've only really read one of his books, A Prayer For Owen Meany, but the book so moved me, and so enveloped me as the story was told, that I will never forget the experience. I was obsessed with movies growing up, and I mean, really obsessed. But when I read Meany, I thought for the first time that writing might be a decent, workable outlet for my creative inclinations if the film thing never panned out. (And a cheaper one.) Anyway, the first paragraph in that novel so inspired me that I wrote a short story in college that opened with a similar, somewhat plagiarized, paragraph -different words, but a nearly duplicate cadence, which was the brilliant part. I dream of being able to orchestrate something like that first paragraph of his. (Irving was a student of Buechner, by the way, and quotes him at the beginning of that book.)

Thoreau/Emerson. Those crazy passionate transcendentalists who wouldn't leave Nature alone. Brilliant, to be sure, but sometimes out there. I saw Dead Poet's Society as a teenager and it got me looking into all that stuff, which was better than the movie -but such is the power of movies. Anyway, those two guys, Emerson especially, got me into heavy ideas. I like heavy ideas.

Joseph Campbell. Not a writer, per se -Lord knows his master thesis The Hero With a Thousand Faces was an incorruptible, unreadable bore- but the ideas are genius. He disassembled all the classic myths and explained why they are great, why they are lasting, and he used Star Wars as his modern day example to prove the points (it's what originally got my attention.) The Power of Myth interviews are truly fascinating and utterly brilliant, and if you want to know what makes good stories tick, his teachings are indispensable. I never appreciated his lumping the Jesus story into his analysis of myths, but I still go back to Campbell to remember the basics. The Matrix, Indiana Jones, Harry Potter, and a myriad of others -they all owe a huge debt to Joseph Campbell.

Ernest Hemingway/Kurt Vonnegut. How can I possibly couple the two? Yes, I know, it's nutz. But Thoreau taught to "Simplify, simplify, simplify" and I've always taken that to heart. (Or, wanted to.) These two authors have mastered a way of writing that cuts out all the chaff, loses all the superfluous adjectives, and gets straight to the story. Hemingway more than Vonnegut, but Vonnegut was always so funny that it just felt like it was important that it was funny. Anyway, I can't really bear Vonnegut anymore, as I've grown out of pacifism, but if you see these three and four word sentences of mine -that's where they come from. Hemingway had it mastered to the point where if he actually started using adjectives you might have a conniption or a seizure or some kind of aneurysm from the aesthetic overload.

And Douglas Adams. That guy was just plain, awesomely hilarious. Dedicated atheist, but his humor is immortal. I was a devoted reader, and terribly saddened when he died at 49 in Santa Barbara. I was living there at the time, and always looked for him in the pubs but never bumped into him. Not sure what I would have said in any case. If I was given the choice of either being a good writer or having his sense of humor, I would be a terrible writer -but you wouldn't notice (or care) because you were laughing so hard.


Anyway, it's all just something I was thinking about. If I ever get around to writing some book worth your reading, it'll probably sound like a combination of the above authors. (Did I say "combination"? I may have meant "conflagration".)

~

First day of Winter. (The Winter Solstice! It's the reason for the season!)


I suppose it's possible that the miscreant who stole my neighbor's baby Jesus was just too poor to afford his own baby Jesus, but in my mind it still ain't right. (See here.) I'm as saddened by that priest as I am by my local cul-de-sac shoplifter, but maybe I'm just Old School Religious, like where, hey man, stealing is just wrong, you know?

This also makes me sick. I visited Dachau about ten years ago and was struck by the (similar) sign and its stark, eeriness. Godless totalitarianism became so real at that moment, walking alone through those gates, where before it had been little more than a historical concept. It didn't occur to me to steal the sign, incidentally, but like a good American I did take a picture of it. When I got home, I taped it on my computer to compel me to keep writing. It hovered there above the screen for years: ARBEIT MACHT FREI. In English: "Work Means Freedom". I was miserable for so long, and yet I held out hope that If I just kept at it, maybe I could get good and make something of myself, sell something. It never really happened, and the pic never really helped. On the contrary, it may have made me loathe the craft altogether, as I dragged myself to that work camp every day, writing what I thought I was supposed to be writing, or something, or whatever. Eventually I hated and resented it. I stopped reading, stopped seeing movies, and then I think I stopped writing the day I ripped that 3x5 off the computer. Went off and got myself a contractor's license and a wife, I did. And five years after that I started this blog. Thought I'd see if it would take.

In some unexpected ways, it did. This will be my 235th post this year, matching last year's 235, and I think, to some degree, that's an achievement. I'm not going to claim that it's all great writing, (or even good writing) but I did it. I sat down and wrote a bit for most of the year. I tried to have new thoughts. I tried to put a few words together that I'd never seen put together in that order before. Some days I succeeded a bit.

The goal was really something else, however. I wanted to see if I could do it on top of a full-time job and a full-time family. I wanted to see if a bit of creativity would transpire amid the madness of spinning those other plates, because... for ten years I thought I needed to suffer "The Writer's Life" being poor and lonely, pursuing the Mighty Dream of ART for art's sake. Now I know that that was a mighty lie. Why, since I started writing this post 45 minutes ago I have had to get up from the keyboard and 1) put the child in the bath, 2) get the other child away from playing in the toilet, 3) turn the burners off on the dinner that's cooking, and 4) well, a million other fits and starts not worth mentioning. But I'm writing. And I'm happy at the same time, where before I thought misery was some necessary apparatus. What a joke.

I know I'm no Van Gogh, but I was very nearly as depressed as he was throughout the 90s. At the time I found it vaguely inspiring, the way no one likes to smoke alone. Now I know that Van Gogh would still have painted great art if he was happy. The two things, disposition and ability, are totally unconnected, and I have no idea why I ever thought they were. (I can still be bold: I suspect that if Van Gogh had conquered his internal demons, his art would have been altogether more elevating -though perhaps they wouldn't sell for the millions they do today. It's the world we live in.) Anyway, if someone tells you otherwise, check and see if they're miserable first. Never accept advice on success and happiness from someone who's miserable.

Towards the end there, circa 1999, I read a quote from Ray Bradbury who said he loved writing so much that he just sat at the typewriter in his basement all day long and just laughed and laughed, and then spent the rest of the day collecting metaphors. It floored me. I was so miserable writing, that I knew I would never be a success, and if I ever were, what would be the point? I knew I could never be like Bradbury because I was living wrong.

So I quit. I quit for about five years.

And then I, sort of... started again. What's surprising to me is how easy it was to come up with something to write about every day. That's not to say that it was ever consistently interesting to read, per se, but I never expected anyone to have a daily rapture upon reading my morning journal. My intent from the outset was just to entertain myself, to find some joy in the craft, and, happily, there have been some days where Mrs. Ditchman has asked me what I'm laughing about, while I was in front of the computer, and I just shook my head and said "nothing" because I was just cracking myself up. If you spend a lot of time being creative, you know the feeling: the good stuff comes from somewhere else. And I like that somewhere else. I want it to vacation here. Now, it would be nice to have something to show for it, instead of some random set of blog entries.

Real writing is hard. It takes discipline and work. And attention. This is more like journal writing, which is little more than a small flexing of the muscles, a few miles of jogging a day when you know you're capable of competitive racing. "Journal writing" is what professional writers do on top of the hardcore stuff they dedicate themselves to. Journal writing is relaxing. And blogging is a joke.

I know how hard it is, and I know I should dedicate some more time to it all if I pretend to aspire to something more valuable. Time is hard to find nowadays, but I know that's an excuse. (I used to have all the time in the world, and look where it got me.) So all this to say... I think I'm going to ease back on the blog. It's always been the original Most Significant Thing: passion, though now there are others. Mrs. Ditchman, who showed me what those others were, has been so great at putting up with it, being my tolerant muse and my dutiful enabler, but I know the sad truth why: because years ago, just after we were married, I told her that I would never be happy working in construction, and it has haunted this family ever since. She's had to live with that cruel joke -that I would mislead her down some illusory path of security, building these funny aluminum patio covers. But she has found it in herself to look the other way when I write. And sometimes she sends me an email, "Good blog today" and I weep about it on the way to work, the grateful husband, doing his duty. Work means freedom.

The year's coming to a close. I'll be 40 in 2010. It's time to work a little harder on some other significant things. I miss fiction, which I happen to think I'm better at than this, local effusive commentary. I don't expect to sell a million novels or anything -I just love it- and someone else out there might appreciate what I got. After all, though the Boston Marathon qualifying time is 3:20 for a 40-year-old, I was able to muster 3:26 without too much extra effort. Maybe I've got something special in me. Hey, maybe you do, too.

I've always been sentimental and, hell, it's Christmas time, so we're frosting the lollipops, here. And tomorrow I've got some big-ass senseless patio cover with some funky plastic sheathing on top of it -you know, to protect from the rain that comes two days out of the year in this county. It doesn't make any damn sense, except that there's a paycheck in it. But like I said, I'm sentimental. I believe things do change, with effort. I used to think every day was the first day of Winter, but now I know those heavenly bodies need us, with our dark matter, to heft them round the sun.




~

Here it is folks. Every year I cart it out and prop it up, and every year I laugh:




Still can't imagine what went into the making of that album cover. "Stand right there, Ray. Now hold this. You look great!" (**snicker, snicker**) The thought of those horses getting suddenly frightened by the likes of the Ghost of Christmas Past and then just racing off into the snow with a blind musician at the reins is the kind of funny stuff holiday comedies are made of.

I actually bought a Christmas album the other day, and thought I'd mention it here, it's so good. Christmas music is one of those things, where you're like, Gawd! I hate Christmas music! But you don't really. You hate the jingly-jangly, over-arching Perry Como stuff that has ten too-many people in the choir and then is played and replayed and played again while you're tethered to the torture table of whatever checkout counter you're at. The stuff that's good is the stuff you're listening to while you're decorating the tree, having a nice cider with a fire going. Or that Vince Guaraldi Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack. Who in the world can reject the Charlie Brown soundtrack? No one. It's perfect.

Charles Schultz was a big jazz fan, and I can't help but wonder if his naming of "Charlie Brown" was at all influenced by Charles Brown, the notable blues singer who was the exact same age as Schultz, and who died at the same time.

Anyway, you can't go wrong spending $9.99 on iTunes for this album:



I was going to say that it surpassed my love for the B.B. King holiday album, "A Christmas Celebration of Hope" and then I realized that it's nearly the same set of songs. I guess there's not a lot of bluesey holiday stuff out there, so these masters of the genre are stuck reworking the same material. Anyway, the musicianship in both of them is terrific. You'll love them. Buy now.

(Charles Brown wrote the original "Please Come Home for Christmas" by the way, and it was a big hit for him in 1960, and so was later copied by Jon Bon Jovi and The Eagles and nearly everyone else.)

Have a blue Christmas this weekend. That's not a bad thing.


~

Christmas beer! Yes, Virginia, there is such a noble thing.

I'm drinking the Jubelale from Deschutes Brewery. Last year it was horrid, undrinkable. Tree sap hopped with the pine needle nests of four calling birds. This year, mmm not so bad... Actually hoppy, with a very nice color.

I'm behind on my tour of the Christmas beers this year. For one, they all seem to have gone up in price. This is sucky. For two, the first few I got were disappointing, and then I followed it with the Samuel Adams Winter Case, which has always been disappointing except for the nice Costco price. But the Samuel Adams Winter Lager was not too bad either this year. I found it refreshing, though not particularly bold nor ambitious as most winter ales are.

People generally don't like "bold and ambitious", with which I can sympathize, but it's good once a year, like garish Christmas decorations are good once a year. And most of these bold beers are well-hopped, well-spiced, and higher on the specific gravity scale (read: alcohol heavy. Meaning, drink a few and you're more likely to fall down from all that gravity.) so you feel warmer on the inside during cold weather. Interested in starting out on a few Christmas beers? Here's a few tips. (I'm an expert!)

The Samuel Smith's Winter Welcome is a great place to start. (Not Samuel Adams.) It's been bottled longer than just about any other Christmas brew and has a very attractive seasonal label, with a friendly Shakespeare quote on it. It's brewed in the style of the classic English ales, but with a bit of seasoning. It's not too heavy and, frankly, I could drink this any day of the year, but if you're new to this kind of beer you can get a feel for what you're in for without wading too deep into the seasonal spicy boldness. (The label, by the way, claims that the brewer uses "Fuggle and Golding hops with nuances and complexities that should be contemplated before an open fire" and who can argue with that?)

On the other end of the spectrum, all should know about the Anchor Steam Christmas Ale. They claim a different recipe every year, but every year you can expect a dark mahogany, fully-spiced beverage, somewhat ricocheted off a porter. It's practically a chocolate mint beer, with all the spices that dust a wassail, and then some. There's nothing like it. People new to beer will hate it, but old brew meisters LOVE IT to no end. I've always felt kinda funny about the stuff, but I find myself enjoying it in an odd way, if only for that pretty tree on the label. But I don't know how to describe this beer. If you put coffee, chocolate, brandy, rum cake, cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla, spearmint, caramel, and whatever random moldy fruit you had on the counter, into a blender and then let it ferment, you might have one nasty disaster, or you might have the perfect winter beer, Anchor Christmas! Anyway, everyone should try it. (This year's recipe feels a bit more mellow than previous years, so it's a good year to be a first-timer.) They also sell it in a magnum, and claim it tastes better after a few years of aging. Maybe it does, for the fourteen people in the world who age their beers.

I personally go for the Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale. You can buy it most anywhere, and it's a hoppy, flavorful winter brew with some citrus notes that raise a December eyebrow like no other winter beer will. If you try this one first and discover yourself liking it, you may find that no other Christmas beer compares. If you don't like it at all, well... sorry -Christmas beers, most likely, are not for you.

There are many others, and I am happily working my way through them as a public service. (You're welcome.) Redhook's Winterhook used to be the best winter beer around, a truly stunning display, but now it tastes like it was brewed in a corporate reindeer stable. (I get depressed every year about it. I blame the Anheuser-Busch takeover.) Anderson Valley's Winter Solstice is always highly rated, and highly priced. I didn't like it last year, with its thick cream soda flavor, but I will gladly give it another tasting. That's what's great about the Christmas beers, they're slightly different every year, but altogether reliably pleasing, like the Christmas tree in the living room.

~

UPDATE: The Anderson Valley Winter Solstice has unique qualities that will really appeal to some. It reminds me of a cream soda, but with a full seasonal ale astride it. It's a winter beer for a sunny afternoon on the slopes, where the Anchor Christmas is one to have alongside a full holiday meal, and the Sierra Nevada Celebration is an end of day, gift-unwrapping's done kind of beer. They're all a pleasure.

~