Like a swarm of lemurs fired from a cannon, it hit me suddenly. I haven't told you about Christmas Day or New Year's Eve. Before I get into what's happened so far in 2010, I suppose I had better wrap up 2009 properly. That is if you're interested.
Christmas Day was pure-D marvy. The whole family-togetherness thing was splendid in and of itself. I haven't experienced it in two years, you see. Last year I was in South Korea, and though my expatriate posse and I managed to have a pretty good time over there (gathering in A & E's apartment, drinking Buck's Fizz, opening presents and eating fried chicken and beef stew), there's no place like home.
More to the point, I got EVERYTHING I wanted. I got a T-shirt with an F4U Corsair emblazoned on it; a leather cigar case, complete with cutter and butane lighter, spotted in the Russell's for Men catalog; an iPod (I got that a little earlier than Christmas Day, though); and a kneeboard.
Yes, I've sold my soul. I swore I'd never get an iPod. Compact discs and a Walkman would do me just fine, I said. I can still fit 'em into my pockets when I'm out walking. I can't run with them, and it's a bitch and a half to change CDs in the middle of a six-mile walk in the Mojave Desert, but hey, you can't beat an original. No MP3 players for me, thanks.
Ha ha, yeah. Those arguments withstood the test of time. About twelve seconds, roughly.
And just to clarify, a kneeboard is not something you kneel on and then get hauled rapidly across the water with. You know me better than that. It's aviation-related. A kneeboard is a portable clipboard that you can strap to your leg for those long cross-country flights. Unless you're in an Airbus or a C-17, you don't really have the benefit of a desk when you're in the cockpit. So kneeboards were invented to provide a flat space for you to jot down important information and figures while in flight. Mine is a premium model, a tri-fold kneeboard (meaning it unfolds in thirds, with lots of groovy pockets and suchlike).
I also got a customizable license plate holder, with a bunch of letters and numbers to create your own personal message to whoever's tailgating you (oh, you can bet I'm going to have fun with that); a Hershey's Kiss the size of a doll's head; some monogrammed hankies; a travel game set; a knife for my portable cocktail mixing kit; a new leather belt; an extra X-box controller (I also swore to give up video games in favor of comic books, darn it!); and some other good stuff.
Good, I got the loot-litany off my chest. Now we can resume the narrative.
For breakfast, Dad made his pumpkin pancakes. These are a relatively new dish in our family, entering Dad's repertoire after he had a delicious batch at IHOP just before Halloween. He downloaded the recipe off the Internet and has been making them for every special occasion this season. They're dynamite, let me assure you.
Suitably fueled, Harlan, Dad and I piled into my Jeep and headed across the valley, into the shadow of the Granite Mountains, to fulfill a promise made four years ago: summit the buggers. We'd attempted to climb these huge, rocky hills on New Year's Day a few years ago, and failed due to bad weather. Now we were back to try it again on this beautiful Christmas Day, with weather in the low sixties, sunny, and breezy. Our aim was Feldspar Peak, the Granites' highest point at [NOTE TO SELF: look this number up before you hit that "publish" button].
Well, we made it. It was a perilous journey, full of rocks, loose gravel, treacherous slopes, spiky plants and a surfeit of huffing and puffing. But we climbed a few key ridges and then had a fairly simple push to the summit. We stood up there, the now-cold wind caressing us gently, our water bags considerably lightened, sweat drying on our foreheads, surveying all there was to see.
We also phoned Mom to see if she could see us. Feldspar Peak is directly across the valley from our house, and Mom, in theory, should've been able to spot us. Harlan manned the phone, Dad got out his signal mirror and I waved my arms for all I was worth.
No dice. Mom's binoculars just weren't powerful enough. We were about six miles away, as the crow flies. She would've been better off with an astronomical telescope. She did spot the flash of Dad's mirror, though, if not the three figures behind it. At least that question has been answered.
Then we climbed down (giving our protesting quads another vicious beating), limped to the Jeep, went home, ate a delectable turkey dinner, and didn't move much for the next three days.
New Year's Eve was weird. I mean, it's never exactly been normal in my family. When my brother and I were little we'd all sort of cuddle up together on the couch and watch Lawrence Welk (not Dick Clark's Rockin' Eve) until the Big Moment. Mom and Dad would battle to keep us both awake, and stay awake themselves. As we got older, and it became less of a struggle to stay up, we'd have a dominoes tourney until the Big Moment came, when my brother and I would toast with sparkling apple cider and eat finger food while the folks sat, comatose, in the living room in front of the TV.
We sort of did that this New Year's Eve. We had finger food, and sparkling cider (which no one but Harlan drank), and a little bit of TV. But for the most part we just played Phase 10 (a kiddie variant of progressive rummy), listened to music, and drank champagne. Well, okay, not real champagne, seeing as how it's not from the Champagne region of France and all, but sparkling wine nonetheless. Oh, and we made cinnamon rolls. That was what was so weird about the night. We never bake anything on New Year's Eve. The whole point is just to be massively lazy and let the old year slither out on its belly like it probably wants to after a hard 365-day shift. The most intricate thing we make on New Year's Eve is the drinks. I busted all the 1.75-liter jugs out of the liquor cabinet and asked the folks to name their poison. And they did. I wound up making Long Island iced teas for Dad and myself, which we sipped as we mixed, rolled, cut, wound, and baked.
The remainder of the night is a bit fuzzy, but nothing anywhere near comparing to that embarrassing thing that happened last month. Don't ask.
We made the cinnamon rolls because we would be taking off at an ungodly hour the next morning for Benson, Arizona, to visit my great uncle and aunt, Bob and Barb. The cinnamon rolls would be our hi-how-are-you gift. For that same reason, Mom and Dad didn't stay up until midnight, for the first time in 20 years. They hit the sack about eleven, and as a result of this confusion, I actually missed the Big Moment. I looked at my watch as I was getting into bed, just in time to see it turn from 12:00 to 12:01.
"Happy New Year," I said to the sparkling lights of the town in the valley below, outside my window.
We also phoned Mom to see if she could see us. Feldspar Peak is directly across the valley from our house, and Mom, in theory, should've been able to spot us. Harlan manned the phone, Dad got out his signal mirror and I waved my arms for all I was worth.
No dice. Mom's binoculars just weren't powerful enough. We were about six miles away, as the crow flies. She would've been better off with an astronomical telescope. She did spot the flash of Dad's mirror, though, if not the three figures behind it. At least that question has been answered.
Then we climbed down (giving our protesting quads another vicious beating), limped to the Jeep, went home, ate a delectable turkey dinner, and didn't move much for the next three days.
New Year's Eve was weird. I mean, it's never exactly been normal in my family. When my brother and I were little we'd all sort of cuddle up together on the couch and watch Lawrence Welk (not Dick Clark's Rockin' Eve) until the Big Moment. Mom and Dad would battle to keep us both awake, and stay awake themselves. As we got older, and it became less of a struggle to stay up, we'd have a dominoes tourney until the Big Moment came, when my brother and I would toast with sparkling apple cider and eat finger food while the folks sat, comatose, in the living room in front of the TV.
We sort of did that this New Year's Eve. We had finger food, and sparkling cider (which no one but Harlan drank), and a little bit of TV. But for the most part we just played Phase 10 (a kiddie variant of progressive rummy), listened to music, and drank champagne. Well, okay, not real champagne, seeing as how it's not from the Champagne region of France and all, but sparkling wine nonetheless. Oh, and we made cinnamon rolls. That was what was so weird about the night. We never bake anything on New Year's Eve. The whole point is just to be massively lazy and let the old year slither out on its belly like it probably wants to after a hard 365-day shift. The most intricate thing we make on New Year's Eve is the drinks. I busted all the 1.75-liter jugs out of the liquor cabinet and asked the folks to name their poison. And they did. I wound up making Long Island iced teas for Dad and myself, which we sipped as we mixed, rolled, cut, wound, and baked.
The remainder of the night is a bit fuzzy, but nothing anywhere near comparing to that embarrassing thing that happened last month. Don't ask.
We made the cinnamon rolls because we would be taking off at an ungodly hour the next morning for Benson, Arizona, to visit my great uncle and aunt, Bob and Barb. The cinnamon rolls would be our hi-how-are-you gift. For that same reason, Mom and Dad didn't stay up until midnight, for the first time in 20 years. They hit the sack about eleven, and as a result of this confusion, I actually missed the Big Moment. I looked at my watch as I was getting into bed, just in time to see it turn from 12:00 to 12:01.
"Happy New Year," I said to the sparkling lights of the town in the valley below, outside my window.
