Christmas ships

I deeply apologize for the extremely poor quality of this photograph, worse than my usual and that's saying quite a bit! But I did want to show you the Christmas ships and tonight was the night they came closest.

I invited Rosie to go with me but could not rouse her from her cozy bed so off Lew and I ran down to the lake at the end of the street when I heard them. They are pretty unmistakeable. It begins with a huge booming that you feel up through your feet. Earthquake you wonder? But then you hear an electric chorus of Hark the Herald Angels Sing and you know the ships are near! This is a local tradition in which many folks with boats large and small decorate them to the hilt and set off, sound systems ablazin' to share their enthusiasm for the season. Rain or fair, snow or wind they come on and it is a festive tradition at that.

I'll show my age to the extent to say that when I was little the ships were modest and peopled with neighbors, singing carols and stopping at your dock to share some eggnog or spiced cider. We kids clambered aboard, sticky with marshmallow hot chocolate fingers, rebeached by the minstrels when it was time to shove off once again. We would then huddle around the bonfire and sing carols of our own, families calling out best wishes for a warm sleep as they carried us home to bed, making plans together for the morrow. The lights on the ships then were as bright as tonight but the songs play much sweeter in the ears of my memory.

I don't mind, though. I am pleased as punch to rush off and see winter sparkles in the dark, Lew can't believe his great luck to be allowed to run free in the cold blackness! He accompanies me down to the shore but as we return, enshrouded by breath puffs of chilly night air, he bursts away at highest speed to visit his friends before turning in. I can track his path by the barks of his buddies. Bob, across the street with a high pitched terrier yip; Ross and Rory, the Golden Retrievers behind Bob, by their deep responses to my otherwise unnoticed attempts to recall Lew to me; the shrill almost-song of the elegant Collie 2 blocks away. I stand neath my cedars, entreating his pity by calling "Pretend I am whistling" as I have no masterful recourse. Eventually he returns, with a silver line of slobber shimmering across his nose and we settle in for the rest of the evening in front of the fire. One of us reads a book. One of us snores. I'm not telling which one does which.