- November 17, 2024
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My wife and I were at the grocery store last Monday night with our kids, and we had a big decision to make.
We could either buy a turkey and bake it ourselves for Thanksgiving, or we could not buy a turkey and drive to Washington, D.C., to crash my brother’s Thanksgiving feast at the last minute.
Twenty-four hours in the car was the obvious choice. We didn’t buy a turkey.
And so, on Wednesday morning, we piled in the van, and a funny thing happened: The further away from home we got, the colder it got. By the time we reached my brother’s house, there was actual snow on people’s cars from the night before. Unfortunately, we only brought Florida clothes, and so our trip to the Lincoln Memorial the day after the holiday will always be remembered mostly for the intense jealousy we felt toward the people who had coats.
Back in the Sunshine State, I went to my daughter’s preschool to pick her up, and I overheard a man talking on his cell phone.
“I’m wearing shorts!” he said. And he let out a laugh that was eerily similar to the laugh of the Joker. I imagined that perhaps he was new to Florida and was rubbing it in for a loved one on the other line, perhaps an Eskimo who was locked out of his igloo.
That’s how we all are, though, isn’t it? During the winter, Facebook’s main purpose for Floridians is to complain about how hot it is and wait to laugh at all the hateful comments.
Inside the preschool classroom, my daughter, Ellie, ran up to me, wearing her pink sneakers and a white skirt, and she said, “Dad! Do you want to see what month it is?”
“Umm, yes!” I said.
She took me by the hand and dragged me over to a bulletin board, where 12 laminated strips of paper had been pinned to the wall. She pointed to the bottom of the list and said, “December!”
She couldn’t have been more proud. Finally, she said, we are in the same month as Christmas.
And I couldn’t agree more. Finally, we can enjoy the winter as it was meant to be: among the palm trees.
