holidays at home.

“Fat, happy, and lazy” would best accurately describe the mood at the dinner table on Christmas day.

After celebrating a holiday of tradition and togetherness, I couldn’t help but wonder what the new year would have in store for the Krull family.

Curious, I asked.

“What’s new?”

What I was looking for, I didn’t quite know. Quite possibly, it was likely as simple as seeking conversation.

It’s rare, you know, to have my whole family at one place.

Sure, we do family dinners once a week, but between work talk and fighting to share what was new in each of our lives, it always feels fleeting.

On Christmas Day though, there was no work, no appointments, drama, or distraction.

We were together: fat, happy, and lazy.

My brother was the first to respond.

“How about asking instead: what makes us happy in this moment?”

Great question, so we went round the table.

One after the other, the same answer was spoken:

Family.

That each member of my family thought to answer what made them happy in that moment as family was pretty remarkable.

Despite the generosity, thoughtfulness, kindness, and richness of our Christmas morning under the tree, it was being with family that made the most memorable impression for us all.

When people ask how my holiday was, what special gifts did I get, did I have a nice time, I think about that moment at the dinner table.

We’ve had this tradition for nearly 30 years and have not once missed a Christmas holiday with the family. When I think about it, that’s pretty special.

In an economically uncertain time and despite the separate lives we each and all live, the one thing that remains constant, certain, and sincere is time spent with loved ones around the dinner table on Christmas.

Family was, is, and will always be, what makes the holidays so dear.

Those times together spent pondering what makes us happy in that moment is what Christmas is all about.

That, and feeling fat, happy, and lazy.

end of an era.

a song to set the scene // how it was will never be again by syml

She was my first.

They never tell you about the bond you have with your first car, how much it hurts to say goodbye.

Being the emotionally-attached-to-inanimate-objects type, I knew this kind of goodbye would be hard on me.

It was the trailer hitch I ran over that did her in. Having survived nearly running out of gas in the Oregon mountains, the smash ‘n grab in San Francisco, and the many road trips across the USA, the transmission injury was the one that ended her days on the road.

I guess after-market Fiat transmissions cost a lot.

I was devastated, to say the least.

And so, on a windy wintry day, my gem and I braved the gusts and and went to the auto repair shop where she was waiting and cleared her out.

The first thing to catch my eye in the back seat was an appropriate box of tissues. It’s like she knew. As I emptied cup holders and debris hidden under the seats, the tears fell. Memories of our ten year courtship flooded me.

She went everywhere with me: from Alaska, to Washington, California, across to South Dakota. She braved a blizzard in Lusk, Wyoming, was my shelter during many cry sessions on the streets of San Francisco whenever I tried to find a parking spot in Haight Ashbury, and was my comfort during road trips with my siblings. Although I had one ticket to my name when I got pulled over in Topaz, Nevada, Tall 1 remained strong.

She was a part of me and my identity.

That little blue Fiat, roaming the roads of Alaska.

But it was time to say goodbye.

Or, as my sister reminded me, my thank yous.

Sitting in her seats one last time, I took a look at the Barbie style dashboard and thanked her.

I thanked her for keeping me safe, for providing me transportation, for storing my things on my many moves, for being there during cry and jam sessions alike, and for all the memories she gave me.

Though I will no longer have the pleasure of driving her, those memories will stay with me forever, and every time I see another blue Fiat on the road, it’ll make me think of her.

Gone, but never forgotten.

I’ll wheel-y miss you Tall 1.