The Midwest is such a jovial schlubby little hamlet. I love how people rib each other about everything. On Christmas Eve Eve I approach one of Puhg's uncles. He's in a recliner in the middle of the room, children bouncing all around, cookies being consumed at lightening speed. I ask him, "Do you know where our suitcases ended up?" He says, "Yes," and then pauses for a long time--before a mischievous little grin creeps across his face! The next morning I feel guilty I don't want the cheesy potatoes and ditch everyone for a fancy latte. I sip it, trotting through the suburban forest.
All I want for Christmas is to have dinner at my favorite high school pizza spot. My sister and mom indulge my request. The meal is not overrated, a teenage dream, and probably $30 for the three of us! We go to the fancy grocery to buy "snacks" to watch the filmed Waitress musical. Pookie sneaks an entire cake into the theatre. There are walks to the river and gingerbread folk to decorate, living room couches piled with wrapping junk and old ornaments to tap. A Santa garland from my childhood on the banister going up the stairs.
In farmland my dad always knows someone. In the grocery store parking lot, at the coffee shop where I toil over my final deadline of 2023, at the lodge, near the fireplace. I sit there journaling about my next play, into the night, wool socks on.Two ladies with crooked teeth greet me at the resale shop on main street. (Or, "a" main street.) They ask where I'm from and then frown. "I would not like living in a big city!" they assure me. People aren't shy about their preconceived notions where French names are butchered. We sit in the bakery, we sit at Cracker Barrel, we sit at Baskin Robbins, we sit at lunch I think at the very same table we had to evacuate during a tornado in 2017. The winter is more than mild but I have to wear my gloves.
On Christmas Eve there are coolers on the porch and only dips with meat and all eight adult siblings peer into the Fannie May box, detectives on the hunt for caramel. God help who gets the lemon creme. The teen girls always find me. One a class president who shows me her collection of homemade cards, the other a crackly drama queen who tells me about torturing the boy she likes. She has 18K TikTok followers for making Hunger Games edits.
The bathroom is marble and the fireplace is fake. We walk around the Macy's windows. No bustle at all, just pods of unhoused families. The plane is full, and everyone working at the airport is miserable.
