A little more than a week ago, Chestertown was hammered with snow. Approximately 20 inches accumulated, and so that people could continue to park and shop at Acme, snowplows cleared certain parts of the parking lot while creating huge, impromptu ice mountains in others.

The other night we were out visiting our friendly neighborhood Taco Bell for a late-evening repast. It was an unseasonable, eerie 50 degrees outside. As we were leaving the establishment laden with inadvisable delights, we noticed that the snow mounds were behaving strangely. They were, in fact, steaming enthusiastically.

If only we had been filming an independent horror flick about the elusive Chestertown Yeti, he who remains doggedly loyal to the Acme of his youth, in spite of the unquestionably superior bakery and deli options at nearby Superfresh.

This year the loot under the tree was heavily weighted towards Alden. This comes as no surprise, since Matthew and I only got into the holiday spirit in time enough to purchase each other dental floss and foam earplugs and the like (thanks, Rite-Aid!). There was, however, one present under the tree that I’m not sure belongs to any of us. It was a small, hastily-wrapped packet with this tag on it:

along with this photograph:

Now – many of you may not recognize me from my glory days of fourth grade, but try as I might to forget those days, I was able to pick myself out of the line-up. This photo was evidently from a [heavy-hitting] Kent County News article about the winners of the D.A.R. essay contest titled “We, The Youth of America”. It seems mom recently found it in what must have been the Bin Full of Things to Embarrass Your Children With (I’ve already gotten a good start on Alden’s). I think I won $20, which was an inconceivable amount of money for me at the time. My father insisted that I decline the award and the $20 because he had helped me write it. He made me go to the principal and everything. Luckily, the principal really was a princiPAL because he was like “everybody’s dad helps them write essays, just let the frickin’ kid win something for once”. And so I got to go to the award ceremony held at the American Legion and collect my awesome check.

However, the question still remains whether this gift was actually for me or whether it was for Amy or Alison (fellow prize-winners) or Mrs. and Mrs. D.A.R. (presenters) who are also in this photo. I would not want to be depriving the rightful recipient of the gift, but I have to say, I’m afraid Alden has already laid some claim to it:

So – if any of you (Amy, Alison, or Mrs. and Mrs. D.A.R.) had “red spatula” on your wish list for this year, please don’t hesitate to drop me a line. I will try to wrest your gift from the pincer grip of my greedy little daughter’s hands.

While we were driving south to Atlanta last Friday, Chestertown was getting battered with the biggest snowfall the Eastern Shore has seen in a long time. We returned home in the wee hours of Monday morning and found our little town transformed. There were misshapen lumps where bushes used to be. There was absolutely no chance of parking in front of the barn.

Yesterday we dragged ourselves about the house, sleep-deprived and yet compelled to complete a series of chores. There were orders to process and Christmas presents to get in the mail. There was a child to watch and various sidewalks to shovel.

We decided to reward ourselves at the end of the day by going to a movie, something we do surprisingly infrequently, considering how much we both enjoy it. We decided to go see Avatar, mostly because we were excited to see the new 3-D technology. We arranged a sitter for Alden, drove to the Chester 5, and bought our tickets. We were in the theater, deciding where to sit, when we realized that something was wrong. No one had handed us our 3-D glasses. We went back to the lobby and looked around, but they were nowhere to be found. Disoriented, disappointed, and nearly despairing, we went to the ticket booth and asked what was going on.

We were informed that the Chestertown version of Avatar isn’t in 3-D. Apparently we’re not ready for that kind of excitement over here. We politely asked for our money back, hiding the rage growing deep within our hearts. We felt duped and morally offended. Avatar without 3-D? It’s like Die Hard without Bruce Willis, 24 without Jack Bauer, the Smurfs without Smurfette. We walked back to our car, broken people without a shred of joy to cling to.

But then we saw this, and our perspective readjusted.

There was a time when snow was enough to thrill us to the core. And here were great heaping piles of it.

Who needs to sit for 2 hours and 40 minutes watching blue people prance about on the big screen when ridiculously tall piles of snow sit waiting to delight us in the parking lot? We could have scaled these impromptu mountains and seen for miles. Did we? We did not. Robbi is quite pregnant, after all. It was enough to look at the snow and remember a time when Star Wars was the most incredible thing we had ever seen in our lives.

We’re back, and home for the duration. It’s all about the waiting now.

We are unexpectedly in Atlanta to celebrate the life and mourn the death of my Pop, my mom’s father, who died after 88 wonderful years. We drove down from Chestertown Friday, missing the full brunt of the East Coast storm, but suffering plenty of messy driving through the great state of Virginia in the wee hours of Saturday morning.

I haven’t been to many funerals, but this one has been more happy than sad. Lots of memories of a wonderful man, lots of catching up with family who wouldn’t otherwise have seen one another this holiday.

Alden got a new dress for the occasion. She wears black well, I think.

We got a chance to meet my new sister-in-law Megan (left) and my sister Andy.

We had the opportunity to meet my cousin Arthur’s daugther Audrey, the newest member of the family.

Robbi and I were both horrified to be reminded just how small, useless, and strange-looking very new babies are. Audrey is a fine example of a two-month old, don’t get me wrong, but I had completely forgotten just how different a two-month-old is from a 21-month-year-old. The experience startled us. We wondered aloud whether or not we should try to send the new baby back. I called our OB to see if there was anything to be done, but he assures me that Tarzan will be arriving soon, and that there’s nothing we can do about it.

Last night was the visitation at the funeral home. We had a chance to pay our respects to Pop.

Alden got to meet Pop last winter. I took her over to his ashes to say hello.

And goodbye.

Later, back at my grandparents’ house, we celebrated my birthday, which was last Friday.

My brother Alex got me a grocery store cake. At first, I was led to believe that I had turned 31.

A closer inspection, however, made it clear that I have just entered my teenage years.

In biological terms, I am 35 years old. But on a funeral weekend, such trivial things seem unimportant.

Here I am with my brother, sister, Mom, and Dean. Lindsay couldn’t make it from Oregon, but she’s with us in spirit. It’s good to be together right now.

We love you, Pop.