I’m sad to report Christmas card season is over. After a month of bright, beautiful cards with sweet messages, we’re in for another eleven months of Bed, Bath, and Beyond coupons, bills, and sweepstakes notifications.
This year’s crop of cards was merry and bright, but it looks like time we accept Christmas letters have gone the way of pay phones and CDs. Like those artifacts, my kids will one day ask me “What’s a Christmas letter?” and I’ll say, “It’s when you recap your year in a fun way. It’s when you tell the world how silly and awesome your family is, but without saying those words.” And they’ll say, “Like Twitter? Or a blog?” I’ll say, “Yes! Exactly like a blog!” They’ll screw up their noses and say, “Who would want to read your blog everyday plus a whole letter?” I’ll say, “Probably no one.”
But maybe there’s someone? Maybe I’m not the only one who misses those goofy letters?
When I was a kid, we used to get tons of Christmas letters. Surely someone else remembers those ’80s letters from families outdoing themselves with creativity. One family made a board game about their year (Evelyn got into college! Move forward two spaces!). There were awkardly-rhymed poems. And several letters featured the dog or newborn or house as the narrator. There was no end to the cheesiness. Mark Zuckerberg surely invented Facebook to rid the world of this silliness.
I still love silly Christmas letters. Thanks a lot, Mark Zuckerberg. Now it’s abnormal to send out a hundred (typed and photocopied!) letters from your dog. But why conform to that? Doesn’t the world need fewer status updates and way more letters awkwardly “written” by canines?
I think so, friends. I think so….
Hello, Humans!
It’s Manny here, the Hergenrader’s new Greyhound. After two weeks in this house, I can tell you the Hergenraders are busier than a Border Collie herding a litter of kittens. I can barely fit in my ten hours of sleep without getting run over.
Nate, the little one, talks a lot (they all do). He likes to pet me, kiss me, and hug me. That’s okay because he usually smells like yogurt or chocolate milk or something sticky and delicious.
Elisabeth, the middle-sized girl, likes to dance–dangerously close to my tail. She sings at the top of her lungs, usually that song about Emmanuel. Even though she sings my name, she’s not talking to me because she doesn’t have the handful of treats she likes to slips me.
Sam, the middle-sized boy, practices Tae-Kwon-Do kicks right over my head. He also zooms around these little cars that sound a lot like that mechanical rabbits down at the track. He likes to run around the backyard with me, which wears me out more than any of my races.
Catie, the biggest girl, is always flipping and flopping off the couches. Maybe she could sign up for gymnastics–far away from my bed. She really loves to chat and tells me all about her school, including everything about her teachers’ shoes and all her friends. I wonder if she learns anything else at school?
The big lady is nice. She wakes up early to type, bake yummy-smelling food, and scratch my ears. She says, “Y’all! Pick up your stuff!” so much, I thought it was someone’s name. The big guy does “work” by talking on the phone and typing. He goes for long runs for something called a marathon. I’ve tried to tell him really work is running around a track all day, and I’m, actually, retired. I don’t think he gets it, though because he keeps dragging me on those runs.
Have a merry Christmas! I know I will because I really love my new home!
