The Ghosts of Christmases Past

.

I was in Williamsburg recently, and went for a walk down DOG Street into the historically reconstructed part of town and ran into a fife and drum corps marching up the street .  It struck me then that I'd spent my entire college life sunk in Frederick Jamesonesque hyperreality without realizing it.  Is it any wonder that I became a fantasist?

I'm still sunk dream-deep in the novel's revisions.   And I've got an intro to write for a story in a friend's collection.  So this will be a short post.  Also, I'm working on this year's Christmas story.  Every year I make up a story for the family and tell it on Christmas Eve.  It's a tradition that goes back -- my God! -- over twenty years.  The first one, I remember, was about the ghost of a mouse.  And I've been making 'em up and telling 'em ever since.

In retrospect, I probably should have written them down.  I'd have the makings of a collection by now.

But, oh well, that's not what matters, is it?  Love and family and hot buttered rum by the woodstove.  That's what makes the world go round.

Above:  A ghost fife-and-drum corps.  The makings of a decent Christmas story.  I may tell it some day.

*