Season's Greetings: the Holiday Letter...

"Every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!"
                                                                   Ebenezer Scrooge

Or for those readers not prone to salutatory offense: "Merry Christmas!" And for the rest of the readers who just want all the fuss and bother behind them, "Happy New Year!" A hearty thanks to those who felt compelled over the years to put pen to paper and chronicle their family's annual adventures, accomplishments, and experiences to share with those to whom they sent holiday cards. May it be a comfort to know that taking the time to read these missives at this, the busiest time of the year, provided the recipients a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle, frenetic hurry, scurry of the season.

The narrator guiltily admits that as long as he can remember he has included little more in his Christmas cards than a hastily scribbled sentence or two followed by the sender's scrawled signature.  After receiving a goodly number of holiday letters over the years the Editor decided it was high time to reply in kind.

For some curious reason the holiday letter is composed in the narrative third person which appears to be the proper etiquette for this seasonal genre.The author's intent is to share his year with the reader, yet lest he seem to be boasting, chooses to couch the details as if they were not about his family's exploits but those of the neighbors down the block. Staying true to that format of detachment, the following holiday letter begins its maiden voyage.

In April Terry and Trecia journeyed to East Washington for the annual Johnson family crab feed where they spent a couple of days breaking garlic bread with his mother (ninety-five years old and a gracious hostess), the family, and exchanging gossip in the presence of a good deal of freshly cracked crab and mountains of potato salad (the latter replete with three kinds of pickles). The event was not without mishap, however. While engaged in a woodcarving project, Terry's chisel slipped and deeply speared the hollow between his left hand thumb and forefinger, sending the blood gushing, as the saying goes "like a stuck hog." Brother Keith performed first aid on the victim, staunched the flow of blood with an abundance of bandage and tape as if instead of suffering a self-inflicted puncture wound the victim had lost an entire limb. The loss of left handed assistance precluded the handicapped from cracking crab, unfortunately a two-handed operation, but Trecia kindly came to the rescue by shelling out a tasty plateful for the hapless injured. Except for a fleeting concern about tetanus, the remainder of the event passed without incident.

In September Terry and Trecia made their annual pilgrimage to Hood River, Oregon. They split their stay at the Best Western Plus to attend the nuptials of niece Casey and fiance Brendan. The happy couple's ceremony was held at Camp Namanu, a former Girl Scout Camp nestled in the rain forest on the west slopes of Mt. Hood. Terry and Trecia rendezvoused with daughter Marika Finkel, husband Avi and grandsons Atticus L. (seven years old come February) and Augustus T. (three years old in January). Vows were exchanged in a forest amphitheatre accessed by a heady climb up an old game trail once explored by Lewis and Clark. Without the assistance of oxygen the ascent challenged the older guests (namely the Editor and his wife). Surrounded by towering cathedral firs the bride and bridegroom tied the knot in the company of friends and family, most who managed the climb without cardiac arrest.

The night was spent in Cabin Kanga , one of the few campsites with heat and indoor plumbing (an hour's drive from the amenities of the Best Western). Lying on a foam rubber mattress in a bench-like cranny, rain drumming on the shingles, surrounded by the echoes of giggling Girl Scout ghosts made for a long and restless night. With the exception of the tittering ghosts the experience recalled memories of the week Terry spent as a Boy Scout at Camp Scout A Vista. The only thing missing being the acrid smell of sun baked tarpaulin and the uncomfortable lump of earth that spoke to the small of his back through the thin kapok of a sleeping bag. Hot showers at the Best Western helped wash away the trauma.

Sometime in June Terry began a merry jaunt down medical lane when an aortic calcium score returned numbers much higher--unfortunately--than those of his GRE. Thus began an odyssey by which he was introduced to a variety of tests (many ending in the suffix "gram") and a cardiologist whose bedside manner presented much the same as Margaret Thatcher's. Issuing a brusque edict, Doctor informed him he was about to take a cruise on the Mediterranean Diet.

In November Terry was able to scratch "ambulance ride" off his bucket list when the ER doctors, instead of dialing Uber, mistakenly dispatched an emergency vehicle. After a rock 'n roll ride in the "meat wagon," the EMTs offloaded him at the ER entrance of Providence Hospital in Everett where they wheeled him unceremoniously through the labyrinthine corridors of that vast edifice to a "room already waiting for him."

After a night similar to the one spent at Camp Namanu (a bevy of nurses having replaced the giggling Girl Scouts) Terry was treated to a 5:00 a.m. tonsorial procedure a night nurse had earlier scrawled on the room's white board as a"groin prep." At one minute of five a diminutive female nurse armed with an electric razor swished in as if by magic and performed a procedure Terry would not have dared ask his wife, a hair dresser of forty-three years, to perform. With purring razor in hand and the work site nearly at eye level, the "little shaver" as Terry chose to call her, performed her task professionally and much to the blushing patient's relief, quickly.

The next few hours were a swirl of events stemming from the medical opinion: "I don't know what the hell to do with him." After a lengthy consultation with her "team" Terry was told, "If he were her husband, she'd have him undergo an invasive procedure called an 'angiogram,'" from which he concluded that her husband must lead a very interesting life indeed. As he was pondering that conclusion, Terry was whisked off through more long corridors again and wheeled into a large room furnished with glaring lights, an array of mirrors, and a refrigeration unit that filled the sterile compartment with arctic air. Almost immediately he was set upon by a team of masked men and women, one of who told him "not to move...especially his right arm." Best to obey a masked man, he thought, and given the ambient temperature it was easy to comply. Then off again through the corridors to the room "still waiting for him." After dozing off and on through a Seahawks game, fussing with some paperwork, and cruising five circuits of the nurses' station, he left the long corridors behind him in his own car, driven by his own wife where he arrived at his own home without further incident--clean shaven.

Terry and Trecia were able to take a break from matters medical long enough to host the family Thanksgiving gathering and after taking a few days to catch their breath rushed headlong into preparations for the family Christmas Doin's at which they hosted twenty-nine guests.

Now that the first (and last ever) holiday letter is composed and posted, it's on into the New Year and whatever snares and pitfalls most certainly lie awaiting. And for those so inclined to send future holiday letters, by no means feel obligated to do so.

To each and all a Happy New Year.

The Editor

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