Merry Christmas. I’m Flying Into a Storm.

by Little Miss Attila on December 23, 2008

My husband is in the town in Oregon where his cousins live, but they had to make an emergency trip to the hospital. If they don’t get back to their ranch tonight, he may drive on ahead to Portland to beat Storm #2 (he intentionally drove just behind Storm #1). And then maybe we’ll see them in the in-between week, or visit them on our way back down to Los Angeles.

“Get some food,” I tell him.

“I just ate; I might pick up some motor oil,” he responds.

“I got presents for most of the cousins; unbreakable stuff, except for wine, which I’ll get at the airport when I disembark.”

“We should bring a bottle for the symbolism, but I’ll bet they have enough,” he reminds me.

“You want me to trust the Irish?”

“There is some truth in most stereotypes.”

“By the way, I got into a bit of a scrape with my father’s wife’s daughter.”

“Yeah, I read about it.”

“I did what I could to patch it up; I even called to apologize, even though she was the one who had been rude. So, you know . . . Chinatown.”

“Make friends,” he reminds me, “with the willing.”

“You got it. Life’s short. It’s like something that happens really quickly, and then is over with in a hurry. Like . . . when you see that light in the sky, but just for an instant.”

“Not ‘nasty, brutish, and short,'” he muses.

“No, not that,” I concede. “But it does move at a ferocious clip. Now please: I’m arriving around noon in two days in Seattle. I’ll grab some wine if they have it; after that, you can find me at baggage claim. I’ll have a book with me, but someone should stop by sometime in the early afternoon and pick me up. I will be hurt if you guys forget.”

“We won’t forget,” he assures me.

“Namasté,” I tell him. “Later.”

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