As a child of the northeast, many of the Christmas mornings during my youth came with a fresh blanket of crisp, untouched snow. Even though I’ve come to expect at least a few flurries when Santa’s in town, this year, New Englanders unwrapped presents without no trace of that idyllic White Christmas in sight. Thanks to the unseasonably warm weather that Connecticut has enjoyed throughout December, I left my snow boots packed away in my suitcase and spent Christmas morning exploring my parents’ backyard in jeans and a sleeveless shirt.
More like Easter, am I right?
My entire family pitched in and gifted me with a gorgeous digital camera for Christmas, so, naturally, I had to try it out immediately. I know that every film produced about New England at Christmastime features snow-covered trees and horse-drawn carriages, but I think that Christmas in sixty-degree weather has its charms. First one I can think of? Not having to shovel two feet of wet, heavy snow. Injured backs during the holidays make excessive baking incredibly hard.
Kevin, who was born in California, mentioned that our non-White Christmas reminded him of the holidays he spent in San Diego – and ironically, this year, the western part of the U.S. has had colder, snowier weather than us. I’m not complaining. Our springlike day made for excellent photographing weather, even if I didn’t venture out of my backyard.
My parents moved into their house one year before I was born, and have lived there ever since. Connecticut isn’t just wealthy bankers who commute to Wall Street and cutesy towns reminiscent of Gilmore Girls. This is rural New England at its least brown. (If you’ve spent any time in the northeast from October-April, then you’ll understand the joke. When there’s no snow on the ground, everything looks quite…dead.)
This is my incredibly photogenic Golden Retriever, Indiana Jones – Indy for short. He’s friendly, lovable, and extra fluffy. And yes, we all know he’s large. My hunch is that he’s part Golden, part bear. He’s currently on a diet, and we call him “Bread Boy” because he’s obsessed with pizza crusts and bagels. A dog after my own heart!
Kevin, investigating a tree while sporting his new sweater that I bought him at J.C. Penny.
Funny story about this post: I started composing it on Christmas Day, while Kevin, his father, my father, and my sister went to see the new Star Wars film. My new camera takes such high-quality photos, however, that the files broke part of my website, thus making it impossible for me to edit any of my drafts and start new posts. Kevin finally resolved the problem this afternoon, and I’m excited to finally share some of these photographs with you.
I’m finishing up this post at Gate 30 at Bradley International Airport in Windsor Locks, CT, ensuring that I’m technically still on the road (er, runway) for my latest installment of Musings From The Road. You might be thinking, “Wow, quite the late flight for a simple, quick puddle jumper.”
We were scheduled to take off for Reagan National Airport at 8:45 p.m., and our current departure time is set to 10:34 p.m., thanks to storms raging across the Midwest. I’m trying to make the best of this delay, which is twice as long as the actual flight, by typing away on my laptop while Kevin munches on a Snickers bar and continues to upgrade his Moon Lander in Hill Climb Racing, this ridiculous game app that he got the both of us addicted to.
The gate attendant just announced that our plane will be taking off from DCA within a few minutes, and would be turning right back around to bring us home. Meanwhile, I’m going to daydream about our next adventure, because if my new camera makes rural Connecticut look this good in the middle of winter, I can’t wait to see what it will do to Iceland or the Scottish highlands. Until our upcoming trans-Atlantic trip, Kevin and I will be remaining in Washington, D.C., and we haven’t stayed put for more than two weeks straight since early November. As much as I’m looking forward to a few lazy weekends, I’m going to miss those pesky, invasive TSA pat-downs and hours spent confined in a small car munching on gas station food.
74 days until we depart for our next European extravaganza…not that I’m counting.