December 24, 2008
London, ON

Gentle Readers and Bestest Friends,

Bonsoir from swiftly-melting snowbound suburbia. I’m hiding away in my chamber at the Sweetland ranch, post family bonding and pre sugarplum fairy. Looking up from my nest on the white sheepskin rug I see a sky of glow-in-the-dark stars shining on walls I painted black in grade nine. I’ve spent a lifetime of Christmas Eves in this room, and somehow they all feel the same … How is it that the dark seems darker and the night more silent than on every other eve of the year? Nostalgia is a powerful magician and tonight I am his willing daughter. Against the wall, between the lamp and the Fender Deluxe Reverb is the shelf of ancient Sweetlandish manuscripts. Thirty-five journals and diaries (what I call “the archives”) have trapped my words and secrets in time and space for over twenty years. Every so often I do this thing I call “This Day in Time” where I go back and look though all my journals for entries on that day in any particular year. Tonight the ghost of Christmas past was calling my name and I knew I was going on a trip to sweet memoryland.

Twenty–three years ago on this day I was writing about chocolate, and Remington Steele. Ten years ago, a recipe for Pad Thai. Fourteen years, a note scrawled in a hotel room in the dark. Twelve years, lyrics to Richard Shindell’s song “Nora.” I have shivers just thinking of the melody as he sings of those angels “trumpeting in ecstasy!” Six years ago I wrote an epic tale after dreaming I was with Harry Potter on a class trip to an otherworld demon dimension. Somehow Mulder and Scully got involved and thank the goddess we all saved the world in the end! Five years ago I penned a hilarious letter to Santa and two years ago a workaholic list of things to do. And most importantly, seventeen years ago I wrote myself a whole page of wishes. #1 read: Never give up on your musical dreams. Keep writing songs! My ghost of Christmas past would be proud to know I never gave up. And most likely never will.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m expecting a visitor to drop down the chimney any minute. If it all goes well he’ll be tall, dark, handsome and carrying a chilled bottle of Veuve-Clicquot.

Thanks Santy … and Bless Us Every One.

Love,

K