Category Archives: General

And just like that, Christmas is over. We’ll get a few more days out of it, tie it into New Year’s and everything, but from here on out there’s nothing but a slow, or quick, fade. I did my best to get into the spirit, but sickness and residual strife were difficult to overcome. Maybe next year. That’s the joy of Christmas, you can always try it again when you’ve forgotten how awful it can be. For now, I look to the sun as it sets in the barren boughs of a cherry tree.  The days are only getting longer from here on out, and it is the time to sow the seeds of change.

The warmth of cherry wood will see us through the remaining Winter. And what remains is the bulk of it, so buck up. This ain’t no cakewalk.

Every now and then I’ll read something and it will enthrall me with such unexpected gusto that I’ll find myself with tears streaming down my face before I can finish. Such was the case when I read Frank Bruni‘s latest op-ed piece in The New York Times here. He expounds upon his evolving relationship with his Dad as he comes to terms with his son’s being gay. It was such a surprising moment of resonance, I was not prepared for the waterworks to be released in such torrents. Chalk it up to a combination of holiday emotion, pent-up frustrations, and end-of-the-year sentiment. At any rate, give it a read.

This is going to be a rather slow day here, so I’ll direct you to The Pictures portal for your perusing pleasure. That’s where the featured picture was culled from, and there’s a whole Winter gallery to whet the appetites of those fiending for snow. I’m not quite ready for the white stuff, but to each their own.

Tonight, at midnight to be exact, I will be seeing my first midnight showing of a movie since… well, probably ‘Evita’ with Suzie in Times Square. This time around it’s ‘The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey’ with my friend Skip (who is also webmaster of this very site). Consider it a midnight man-date. (His wife Sherri said it was okay, and so did my husband Andy.)

I have no idea what to expect, other than a few people wearing costumes. I debated going that route – I love an excuse to wear a costume! – but time ran out, and a sniffle derailed me, so I’ll have to sit the wardrobe portion of the evening out. The best I can do, off-the-cuff, is an approximation of the fur ensemble seen below – though it might prove awfully hot in a crowded theater.

It turns out that the term ‘Cock & Bull’ could very well be referring to chicken and beef, as my brother so matter-of-factly pointed out to me when I asked where this establishment had gotten its name. It’s one of those very late-in-life realizations that changes everything and makes you wonder what else you have missed by not paying attention. He was slightly incredulous that I never made the connection. I just always assumed it was a saucy, cheeky name for a place.

After our ride through the fog-laden roads of Galway, the way the Cock & Bull seemed to rise out of the clouds was almost magical. The cold chill of a December afternoon stopped abruptly at the door, kept at bay by the welcome warmth of several fireplaces roaring with amber-hued flames. A crowd – bigger than I ever expected to find in Galway this early in the afternoon – mulled around the restaurant. Later we’d discover that the people – and the delicious cookies that we were partaking of at the bar – were for a Christmas party that was being held there. Even after our admission that we were not part of the party, the owner still offered us the cookies.

Sitting fireside, our backs to the heat, we chatted with the owner who was helping out behind the bar. Since I wasn’t driving I had a Jack & ginger, as warm and welcoming as the cozy surroundings. This was the perfect Christmas cocktail spot, the kind of place I searched for in dreams, and in the fog-induced haze it almost felt unreal.

It was also the perfect Christmas moment with my brother, the kind that works best when completely unplanned, as our spur-of-the-moment trip here was. Sometimes you simply have to trust the universe to guide you through the fog to the fire.

After the Festival of Trees, I stopped by my brother’s and we headed out into Galway to have a drink with his boss. I’d never been to the Cock & Bull before, but the name sounded promising, and he said it was the perfect cozy Christmas spot, with a few roaring fireplaces and decent food. The ride out was along the winding way of Route 67, reminding me of the trips we took to see Gram in Hoosick Falls. We would not be going that far today, instead taking a left at the corner of the church and a Stewart’s shop. The day had turned foggy – very foggy – and the world slipped away, a bank of clouds on all sides of us, transporting us to another realm. Visibility decreased and seeing fifty feet ahead proved difficult.

Fog has always been a comfort to me. Walking to McNulty School as a kid, we would sometimes cut through the fields that separated our neighborhood from the school. In late Fall the fog would surround us, so thick and heavy that I’m amazed we didn’t lose our bearings more often than we did. As it was, we would often come out of the fields at a great distance from the school, having miscalculated our location and swerving slightly off course with nothing to guide us. On those mornings, the fog was a danger and a respite. It filled the in-between time, buffering home and school, and I was grateful for getting lost in it. At those moments, no one in the world could see us, no one knew where we were, and there was great freedom in that.

On this day, as my brother drove us through the back-roads of Galway, I felt the same thrill of being unseen and unknown. The fog closed behind us as we turned into a driveway I would have normally passed right by. A plume of smoke rose from a cozy-looking place, melting seamlessly into the sky and promising the warmth of a fire.

After the Festival of the Trees, we got lunch from McDonald’s as an extra treat for the twins. (It appears that kids are what keep McDonald’s in business.) Emi was more interested in giving her fries “a bath” in the McNugget sauce than eating them. Noah was more interested in spilling his fries on the carpet and stomping them into the fibers. Out of 50 French fries, I’d say a total of three were consumed.