Christmas by Initials

As I read the Christmas memoirs of famous dead writers, I have noticed that their holidays were considerably more interesting than mine.

I have also noticed that great writers rarely identified their friends by full name. They used initials, presumably to protect confidences, reputations and future invitations.

I have decided to do the same.

My wife, K., and I, J., thought it might be pleasant to spend Christmas traveling through the countryside in a one-horse open sleigh.

Unfortunately, we had neither horse nor sleigh.

Also, no one in the alphabet who lived nearby had returned our calls.

We had exhausted all 26 letters and were considering moving to Russia, which has 33.

So K. and I set off in our Acura.

K. drove.

This was our first mistake.

The Zs had invited us to San Jose for the wedding of their son, M., to the lovely H.

The Zs are Canadian and knew only six other people in the United States. Fortunately, all six were out of jail.

The wedding went beautifully.

Not a shot was fired.

There was, however, a small disagreement between the bride’s parents and the hotel management. I was attempting to learn more about this when the hotel caught fire.

We took this as a sign to leave.

Next we drove to San Luis Obispo to visit the Bs, who were sharing their property with O.M.

O.M., or Oscar Myers, is a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig.

The Bs adopted Oscar when he was a cuddly 11 pounds.

He remains cuddly.

He is now 225 pounds.

Mr. B. assured us Oscar is smarter than a dog and every bit as friendly when he isn’t hungry.

Oscar is hungry approximately twelve times a day.

As long as you don’t get between him and his food, he probably won’t gore you.

This is one reason Oscar no longer lives in the house.

It may also explain Mrs. B.’s stun guns.

Our next stop was supposed to be the Ls near Santa Barbara, where we planned to celebrate New Year’s Eve.

Unfortunately, we had already spent Christmas Eve with the Ls.

Also present were J&B.

During dinner, I became comfortable enough to discuss several charming weaknesses of K. and her lunatic family.

K. was sitting beside me at the time.

Shortly afterward, the Ls discovered they had no room for us at New Year’s.

They did, however, have room for the Bs.

And Oscar.

Fortunately, we had recently met B. and T., who had just completed a beautiful home in the High Sierras.

At some point B. had made the tactical error of saying:

“If you’re ever nearby, drop in.”

We were only 400 miles away.

So we dropped in.

B. later described our arrival in her journal:

“J. and K. fell upon us in the midst of chaos.”

Their house was remarkable—a manufactured home that had originally been delivered to their five-acre wooded site by helicopter.

Inside were 14-foot ceilings, crown moldings and, most important, a guest room.

K., employing the animal cunning that has sustained our marriage, promptly jammed the Acura’s transmission.

B. and T. had no choice but to let us stay.

We had a wonderful, old-fashioned holiday.

Scarcely ten days had passed when K. noticed that our hosts’ pantry was completely bare.

We assumed this was a coincidence.

We borrowed some money from T., got the Acura working and drove into town for groceries.

When we returned, we noticed something unusual.

A helicopter was carrying B. and T.’s house away.

B. and T. were still inside.

From about 400 feet in the air, they waved cheerfully as their home disappeared into the fluffy white clouds.

We considered waiting to see whether the helicopter would bring them back.

But we had already decided to avoid air travel.

So K. and I drove back to Los Angeles, determined to meet some fresh initials in the New Year.

This has been our annual resolution for several years.

So far, we are up to Q.