A light bulb went off. I raised a genius.
Timidly, I asked my boss for permission. He said yes. “As long as you turn your stories in, I don’t care if you write from Saturn,” he said. On Dec. 9, I packed my sleigh and set out like Santa for Christmas.
I won’t bore you with my minute-by-minute doings over the next 27 days, but it was a joy. I discovered a charming little toy store in Muncie. I loved seeing brilliant Andre as the cranky, sneering Scrooge.
As we did as children decades ago, my twin and I blew out the candles on our shared birthday cake.
I had dinner with my cousin Julie and her friend Doug at the 219-year-old Golden Lamb Inn in Lebanon, Ohio. That inn opened in 1803 and has hosted 12 presidents, along with Charles Dickens, Mark Twain and Annie Oakley, among others.
Next, I drove 300 miles to my twin sister’s house on the shores of Lake Erie in Ashtabula, Ohio, and worked remotely for the next 10 days. In the evenings, we wrapped gifts and hauled in her fresh Christmas tree.
On Dec. 23, I drove 65 miles west to my brother Bob’s house in Shaker Heights, a Cleveland suburb, for Christmas. My son Matt flew in from Los Angeles. On Christmas Eve, we went to church, then sipped eggnog around the tree until we heard Rudolph prancing on the roof.
