It all started with bad weather.
This is the Saturday before Christmas. Ray and I decided the weather was too bad to drive around town, so we walked. It had already been snowy, but it was getting ridiculous. Sunday it would continue to be ridiculous, piling snow all over the place. The National Weather Service, by the eve of Christmas eve, was saying that the weather would be back to normal (rainy) come Friday everywhere, but that the Harbor and Seattle area would probably be decent by Christmas eve.
But we were going to Longview, which is closer to Portland and the beneficiary of a cold stream of air flowing from East Oregon down the Columbia River Gorge. So it was going to be a little snowier out there. But we didn't care, we didn't want to be trapped on the Harbor for Christmas so we headed out. We listened to a CD of Christmas songs, one of which was the Carol Bells by Trans-Siberian Orchestra. One of the few things I appreciate about TSO is that they make Christmas songs absolutely terrifying. Seriously, I cannot imagine why they did not spike this version with a little "Night on Bald Mountain." I think that's the piece I'm thinking of.
It looked like the Christmas angels were having a pillowfight by the time we got to I-5, so we pulled over and asked Ray's dad what it was like on his end on a hill in Longview. "Oh, it's really bad. It's like a blizzard. It's snowing so bad it's dark out here. I'd just turn around if I was you. Just go home." Kris' husband George, however, said he didn't think it was too bad, even though it was kind of snowing where he was. And the snow had tailed off by then so we pressed on.
Well, going down Kris' road it was obvious that we weren't going to be able to go up the hillside and we'd have to stay at her house, which is undergoing some pretty extensive renovating of the walls and was covered in drywall dust and smelled like primer. She and George were basically living out of suitcases in the three or four habitable rooms they had. Somehow, in her fairly small kitchen, she had managed to make a bajillion cookies. I'm not even kidding. They weren't the regular drop kind, either, they were all really elaborate sorts. Because a little home renovation will not stop Kris' compulsive Martha-Stewarting. It would take a much larger force, perhaps nature's own fury, to do that.
Speaking of nature's fury:
look at all that snow. Their house is at sea level.
So we go up to the house for crab louie that night and the roads are just so bad, but Kris, driving with chains, is a champ going up and coming down. So this bodes well for Christmas.
Except that on the way over for Christmas, Kris and George have a, ah, little argument about her driving early on and they pull a Chinese firedrill. And when it comes to who is the better driver in the snow, I'm going to have to give Kris the points on that.
We get up the hill and pull in and Kris starts making the tofurkey alternadinner she and George will eat. So Ray and his dad and I watch some of the Battle of Myrtle Street, a documentary about Aberdeen/Hoquiam football rivalry. It, ah, overreaches in some bits, especially when it intersperses clips from WWII soldiers storming stuff with assistant football coaches narrating how Myrtle Street (the boundary between the two towns, a completely anonymous-looking spot) is where the line is drawn, how you'd better be ready to do battle when you get to Myrtle Street. Because Myrtle Street is where champions are born. George takes this opportunity to call his son, who is in the Navy, to tell him about how the Germans have caught some Somali pirates. His conversation intermingles with the BOMS tape. There is a lot of war talk on this day of Jesus' birth, the promise to all mankind that we will be saved.
Dinner was lovely, early, though, so there would be daylight for driving back. There was pork loin, potato-leek gallette, stuffing, canned cranberry sauce and for dessert, a Yule log and a million cookies and the buttermilk fudge I'd made.
Then there are the Christmas presents. I got the water bottle I asked Ray for, yay! And then I got a lovely recipe book from my aunt Patti. But I looked through it and there was a picture of my recently-lost cousin Aaron with my now-gone grandparents and for a moment, I was like, oh, I'm okay, wow, that's good. Then suddenly I wasn't okay — I was bawling like a baby. Ray's dad, bless his Teutonic heart, continued to make awkward conversation about wrenches with George while I decompensated into tears. Oh, Aaron. I hope you had Christmas with GMR and BDW.
After the presents we headed back down the hill and George only nearly got us in an embankment once and the rear only slid out of control the one time, so it was all good. Luckily, he had Kris giving him helpful pointers about putting the SUV in low gear and going slower. It may have made my top 5 harrowing rides of all time, but I've lived in temperate climates my whole life.
Kris and George were out to Portland that same night, off to Vegas for a week, hopefully their snow will melt while they're gone so they can come back to normalcy. And Ray and I didn't want to take the risk that we'd be stuck driving back in worse weather the next day, so we headed back to Aberdeen, stopping for a brief check on his mom. I managed to soak my foot in melted slush getting across the street. The drive back took a lot of concentration, so no podcasts or anything. Just me occasionally singing a Christmas song.
We got back to the house and ate a salad for dinner then piled into bed and watched a couple of episodes of "Rumpole of the Bailey." I didn't get out of bed until absolutely necessary the next day.
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