This is the first year that we ambitiously decided to jet about, weather be damned, and visit both sets of parents. It has been a blur of planes, trains, and automobiles. Snowy vistas, flight cancellations, Indian call centers, Afghani cabbies, airports before dawn. What was I thinking?
The very thing that I looked forward to the most--togetherness with my family and eating delicious food-became nightmarish. Of the 14 people that congregated in Northern Wyoming, 9 were ill. The toll is still mounting. All of the children and half the adults were wracked with a violent stomach flu. Others had colds and flu. No matter how sumptuous the feast-no one wants to eat when babes are puking nearby. Our togetherness became a worst case scenario of cross-country contagion.
My favorite moments, not surprisingly, happened outdoors, away from the claustrophobia of germy interiors filled with ailing relatives and barf buckets. I strapped on my dad's cross country skis and carved some trail with my aunt. The sky was stunningly blue and clear, the snow fresh and deep. In a neighboring field, some dark horses stood around a hay bale, exhaling little clouds. In the high altitude, my blood was really pumping. I followed deer and rabbit tracks through the woods. The mountain beauty was ecstatic.
Less ethereal moments no less ecstatic: building a snow woman with my sister. We made her a battle-axe, with a spectacular bust and booty. My mate and brother-in-law built a snow man with his own special features. We created a whole narrative about the snow persons, meeting at a bar. Or at the company holiday party. It was a love story of sorts. An extremely ribald one.
My dad tied a couple of ropes to the back of an ATV and pulled us in sleds up and down the snow-packed dirt road. The tobaggans skittled around, banking off snow piles and slamming into each other. Later, we played a great game I want to recommend: Apples to Apples. It's a word game that takes 10 seconds to learn, and you'll laugh your ass off. You won't even care about winning or losing-it's that good.
While we were in Northern Wyoming, I was wished a Merry Christmas by countless strangers in stores. It became a little disconcerting. Every time, I thought, "How do you know I'm not Jewish?" People here take the "War on Christmas" very seriously. Or do they? I was constantly pondering this phenomenon. Has it always been the custom to use those words--and NO OTHER EXPRESSION--or is this just what happens in areas where there is little to no religious diversity?