Hope you all had a lovely span of days in whatever way you choose to spend these end of year moments. As no doubt we’ve all heard over and over umpteenth times—along with either thinking or saying out loud—it can’t come soon enough. But as I think we’ve all discussed here before, time has stopped really meaning much as days blend, below-the-waist clothing became optional (whether style-wise or just literally), and markers of work and play have altered pretty much permanently. Yes, there’s been the very very bad, the unexpectedly good, and the otherwise strange. And while there’s no actual guarantee that ’21 will be better, just knowing one guy is moving out of the house of White is a bonus for the year ahead.

This holiday Dennis and I had my dad over for the Eve and we went over there for the Day and it was cozy, fun, and filled with food. I learned how to make oyster stew. Actually, the learning curve there was that I learned how to shuck an oyster. A couple of things about that: Apparently I had never paid attention or bothered to know that oysters are alive up until you open that shell. Also, if one does not have an oyster knife, a screwdriver will do. So I did that, then mixed up a lovely little semi-spicy broth, popped those babies in (after thanking them for their service as a sea creature) and we had that for the Eve dinner. My dad had mentioned how when he was a kid and up through a bit of teenagehood, his family had a tradition of oyster stew at the holidays. So we did that and it was luverly.

Got me to thinking about traditions. How they transport and, when they work as planned, bring comfort. For me, getting a book (or as was the case this year, a few) for Christmas has been my tradition. I remember the first one and how it transported me: Little Women. Maybe I was ten or twelve. We lived in Pasadena and I distinctly remember laying on my belly on the floor and disappearing inside the world of Jo, Beth, Meg, Amy, Marmee, and all the rest. I was fully transported, bewitched, and probably unwilling to come to the table for dinner or turn out the lights to go to sleep. It was the first time I remember being so fully taken out of my surroundings and into somewhere else. For sure I was still in the phase where Barbies were on the list, so I’ve no doubt Malibu or Skipper or maybe even Ken occupied my attention for a bit until they just became too real and static and I went back to the March family. What I realized then was the power of a story. And ever since, every year my dad asks me what book I want and I ask the same question back to him. This year the new DeLillo for him and Hamnet for me. (Also received Shuggie Bain, Love, Apeirogon, The Audacity of Hope, The White Boy Shuffle, Never Let Me Go. I’ll happily be escaping well into 2021.) This tradition is so comforting (& this piece in the NYT is a great view in to the act as well) that I recognize how the pleasure part of my brain reacts even when I know it’s coming. I pick up the package. It’s obviously a book under the wrapping paper, yet still the happiness that I’ll get to disappear into the story is acute.

In my teenage years, records (the vinyl kind) would have been my Christmas choice of escapism. Elton John, Led Zeppelin, maybe a little Boston or Kansas. But also a book. Those two worked well in tandem to take me places in my head, in my dreams, in my plans for the future. Maybe I thought I could be Robert Plant’s muse/love of his life. Maybe Nancy Drew introduced me to some ideas of being a female detective. These filled many of my waking hours and were great escapes from the hour-to-hour, day-to-day. Fer gawd’s sake, if we ever needed escapism from all that moment-to-moment right now, what better place to turn than novels for grand, emotional stories and nonfiction for learning about all the things we may not get to explore in real time. And now that we’re all getting a good view into the bookshelves of talking heads, it seems The Power Broker is the one to impress all your friends and neighborly viewers with, as this piece points out. If Dennis were to be interviewed today, he’d have to lay down Joe Namath–style in order for viewers to see his copy on the bottom shelf of his bookcase. I haven’t read it (yet) but when I really want to get well and worked up about Robert Moses and New York City, I know where to turn. I feel I’m already worked up enough about the abusers of power currently wreaking havoc. Robert Caro may need to wait.

So as we sail off into the next, what’s your flavor of escapism? And leaving this challenging time behind, what will help us get to the next? Here’s to being safe, thoughtful, and filled with stories! Cheers