As you will come to see, I tend to be pretty randomly generated, particularly when it comes to titles. My inclination is to make them as relevant as possible to the subject matter, but then I will always think of something that sounds nicer or catchier, and will thus inevitably sit torn as to which to pick…until I just decide on something altogether different and most likely altogether random. This very quality is probably what makes me notoriously rotten at multiple choice tests, but I digress.
If this post’s title sounds familiar that’s because it is. You hear this phrase on airplanes in regard to the exit strategy, yet the poetic rambling of it sounds like the tinkle of silver bells, which, coincidentally, happened to be one of the forerunners for the title of this post.
Now that we have come full circle, I want to talk about our first Christmas on island. It was, in one word, sizzling.
Yes, it was pretty damn hot. Probably 83-ish or so. But it was also quite a hit. At least, amongst our little family of 4. This was the first year that the kids really “got it” in terms of there being something exciting and new not only inside the pretty paper (a treasure all on its own) that was wrapped around the box (already the perfect gift), but there was also something inside the box itself. What sweet dimensions of glory!
The most impressive gift to the boys was probably the pimp ride Power Wheels waiting for them in the driveway, delivered from Santa’s sweet sleigh with a radio pumping calypso Caribbean beats, wooing them to its chromed-wheeled wonder. Holden literally squeaked when he first saw it, which of course, set my heart beating wildly on course.
The idea was that Holden would drive Casey all around the long and isolated streets that line our house, while Chris and I followed behind, sipping a drink and marveling at how quickly they’d grown up and gotten their own set of wheels. And, for once, a plan we hatched involving our children panned out exactly as we’d intended.
Casey did not throw himself from the vehicle in terror. Holden did not drive into a palm tree. In short, a Christmas miracle.
In fact, so far the only issue of circumstance was when Holden suddenly lost complete interest in the fact that he was driving in favor of an enthusiastic salutation to the moon. Yes, he spied that large fingernail-shaped orb, threw his hands up like someone at a Def Leppard concert circa 1985, and screamed “HI MOOOOOOOON!” But I really wouldn’t call that an error at all, in fact, I’d say that moment where he abandoned his ride in favor of his mysticism would amount to a large check in the cosmic scorecard of parenthood. And besides, he had a parent on either side of him, to take over the steering while he attended to greater matters.
In the few months we have lived on this rock I myself have started to take notice of any pimp rides such as Mercedes, BMWs, etc that I see parked or driving past me as I fart by in my silver Nissan beater. Have I grown more materialistic, pray tell, having moved to a slower, supposedly-less materialistic way of life? No, actually. It is that there are so so so few of these fancy cars (whereas in Austin they were cutting you off every 5 minutes on the road) that they stand out like a puffed-out, ridiculous, peacock amidst the banged-up (the subject of potholes will be a post all to themselves), dinged-in (parking lots aren’t exactly spacious), salt-worn jalopies that is the signature fleet of Saint Croix. And we aren’t talking about just the impoverished here…no one gives a shit what you drive, we are too busy staring at the sea, or the moon, or possibly pondering how the fuck milk can cost $7 a half gallon.
Otherwise, we spent our vacation playing with our new toys:
And at the Beach (shocker):