Wednesday, December 31, 2008: We are thinking of Caitlin, drawing to the close of her Ecuadorian adventure. Drew is still working on those college applications. The rest of us, along with neighbours Christopher and Madeline, drive up the canyon to the city’s Jolley's Ranch yert. Sarah gets some cross-country skis, while the rest of us don snowshoes. That went well! Everyone is brave and cheerful, and the shared activity reveals individual things about each personality. I liked all the lung-expansion. There were Canadian echoes, of rich and varied winter experiences, of even more basic sights and sounds and sensations. Past, yes, but also today. Very gratifying. That was a stoat, they all insisted, and some definite moose prints.
From there we went over to the sledding hill. They’ve got a couple of good runs going there. Our best moment was when the Taylors went down, upended themselves, and Madeline rode the rest of the way down on Christopher’s head. “I scraped my face, I think,” he said, all scored and livid.
As evening falls Sarah is off to the Jensens' house. Drew goes to a movie with with Mary. We drop Spencer at Allan's for a sleepover. The homebodies watch Muppets Take Manhattan. Sharon falls asleep. At midnight the kids go and ring the doorbell, then go sweetly to bed. The girls get back. Drew likes her friends, and she likes being with them. She also might be a fundamentally solitary—reflective, self-sufficient, only semi-sociable—person. Sarah is not too pleased. Apparently they were going to watch a horror movie, but it somehow turned into an ad hoc fireside, complete with youth-provided inspirational thoughts. Party!
Friday, January 1, 1999: Sharon has prepared our now traditional breakfast—German pancakes, insufficiently appreciated by Christmas-sated kids. The Rose Bowl is on TV. Formerly a source of mystification, I now appreciate the sunny recollections that it summons.
Sharon takes kids 1-4 to a movie in Spanish Fork. Matt bounces a lot in his jumper. I hold him a lot too. He’s a squirmy, cuddly, serenely smiling boy. I read too: Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend—can it be ten years since I’ve read him? I’d forgotten the breadth of invention, the big laughs and sweet stabs of sentiment. I’ve forgiven the contrivances and coincidences as well. Who did I think I was, anyway? More than one way to mow the lawn, I’ve discovered.
The family returns. The middle kids construct a big fort in the basement bedroom. Caitlin and I look up the the text of Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales on the web. We read it together. She’s a bright listener—we especially like the part about the snowmen and the tea. I find the end to be quite affecting, given our own falling holy darkness, and the technology-assisted memory forming with it. After that we all watch the 1987 adaptation on TV. Lovely.
Dan Austin and Steve Olpin come over to watch Dan’s new film about biking across the country. Rough. Good. Sharon has cleaned things gleamingly. What a nice place she’s put together. Steve hooks our new camera to the TV, and we watch our first home video. It’s excellent—personalities strikingly revealed, capably captured. I’m inept, if not a Luddite, but here in one day are two clear instances of machines making life richer.
