Grime is collecting in the gutters of Richmond Street. Jason nearly took his inaugural fall on the ice in front of our house. Vanessa nearly took her inaugural fall on the couch due to wine intake. Our Santa Skydancer is now in the window terrifying the dogs. This all adds up to one thing: CHRISTMAS IS UPON US!
Some of you might be surprised to know that we take Christmas to heart. Sincerely. Despite our urban posturing, we are small town kids in our soft, broken middles. You can argue successfully that the enigmatic song of Women’s Auxiliary sandwiches, hand-make ornaments (poorly made, by children), dusty standards played on an organ, and yellow brick, dark-skied churches, is our jam.
We drove into the country the other night to visit a friend, passing the Adam Beck provided hydro-lit farmhouse lights that blended like bashful sirens into the thick mist, saying to each other, “We should really move out to the country.” But the farther we drove, and the darker it got, the fewer bars appeared on our cell phones, the more we needed some kind of public washroom, the more we truly desired the glow of our high street hole-in-the-wall life. This is our Christmas aesthetic and spirit spoken, exactly.
In the din of the season’s hullaballoo, we huddle with our little rituals and observances, whether it be a book on crime or Calvin and Hobbs or essays by Louise Gluck, and nibble the fruit of our passions–church sandwich inspired crudité, time with a ridiculous friend, the snuggly love of a partner, or the majestic chaos of Santa Skydancers. And before the earth goes dark–like, DARK for MONTHS–we shore up a small pile of magical, ephemeral portals to this splendid and plain place called Christmas.
A Town Called Christmas: population, cheeseballs. It is possibly the most beautiful town on earth.
Much love,
Jason and Vanessa
