We barely made it while fetching the tree.

The children began the Christmas carousel on one autumn day, when they lined me up at attention and demanded to know what the deal was with Santa. Tom had practically come for confirmation that it's actually bullsh*t that a fat old man should climb through our chimney, overcome a scattering of unrelated stuff that hangs around and on our fireplace, but Lisa, I think, was still nursing a spark of hope that miracles do happen. I had to explain to her that it's much better to have parents and grandparents who love them very much, as opposed to a some strange geezer, and I had to top if off with a promise that Christmas will take place as usual. When later Tom encountered a problem how presents get to show up under the tree, it was Lisa who remembered that during our evening walk, it is I who always returns home "for a hat" or something.

A letter to Santa Claus belongs to Christmas traditions in our family; he then takes it away in the night and leaves (chocolate) Advent calendars in its place. Lisa came along when I was buying the calendars, so she quickly composed her wishes and asked for the chocolates, and I had to remind her that we keep sticking to the rules and she would get her calendar during the night of December 1st; fortunately, I did NOT forget. So at least I succeed in functioning as Santa, now that I had managed to turn the Tooth Fairy into a confused and forgetful person.

On a weekend when we did not go skiing, we managed to drive to a farm to cut our tree. We took Slávek along, a newly arrived immigrant, who was trying to get his bearings before his family would arrive. We had decorated the tree on Sunday, but I admit right away that our decorative ginger breads were from previous year; my baking this year had been out of control.

Snow had fallen in the Sierra and I was glad to plan our skiing. And to be properly prepared, I underwent shopping for cross-country skis. Pavel and Vendula had obtained them this year and I got carried away by the thought that I could do something else at Kirkwood than running the slopes up and down. I had not stood on cross-country skis for twenty years, and much had changed since then; eventually I dismissed internet ordering and ventured to professionals so that someone could help me in person to select sizes (shoes, skis, poles). Everything went smoothly, until I was to choose my skis — my size happened to by out of stock and they had to order it. They promised to deliver them by the next day, just to be sure I'd have them for the weekend. It was Tuesday.

Naturally, in this moment our wagon (Subaru) decided to strike; we count on it providing our transportation in snow (as you don't have to bother with chains on an all-wheel-drive). And since we have our experience with the CHECK ENGINE light and a dysfunctional cruise control, and we know the root cause is a broken catalytic converter, and we also know that this failure is covered by a recall warranty, all we had to do was drive to a Subaru service, which we otherwise absolutely avoid, as we don't want to risk our mental health.

It was cold at Kirkwood.

One of the service outlets is located close to my workplace, which I considered a good omen. Further I concocted a masterful plan, which included having the car fixed on that day, working my few hours, and picking up my skis on my way from work. You probably suspect that such plans are meant to fall flat. The ski store was supposed to call me that they got the skis — the did not call. Car service was supposed to call to confirm that it indeed was the catalytic converter and let me agree on further course of actions. No call. By noon, I called them (they had had the car for two and half hours) and learned that they still knew nothing. Perhaps their diagnostic procedure is more complicated than plugging a probe in the car's socket, reading off a code, and looking its meaning up in a book? In another hour they admitted that I was right and the converter was the problem, but they did not know, if they had in in stock. I explained to them that if they were out of stock, I could easily make an appointment for another day, but I would certainly need my (quite drivable) car by two o'clock. I won't keep you waiting — at two o'clock I had finally learned that they indeed were out of stock — i.e. it took them four and half hours to read a service code and check their database (or whatever) for the converter.

By that time, I was quite clear that my ingenious plan was in shambles, and so I managed to organize Rumiko to pick up our kids from school and keep them before I would regain possession of my own car and drive home. I got my car back after I had to raise my voice (and blood pressure). I freed Rumiko of my kids and sped home to apply another raised voice, this time over the phone, with the sports store representative — about "if I order something on Tuesday and it's overnight shipping, why don't I have it by Thursday night". The store had trumped us, however, for our voice mail contained a message that Sid had a package at the store. I don't know why I bothered to leave them MY cell number and MY e-mail, when they took our membership number — pointing to SID's data, and called a number that was unattended the whole day. I had to task my Hippo to pick the skis up on his way back from work. It would seem that some days simply seduce you to pour yourself a large shot. I could not do that though, for I still had to climb that night — at least something positive.

On Friday I picked the kids up from school right after lunch, loaded the car with stuff for the weekend plus my new cross-country skiing gear — my ancient experience from transporting skis in my parents' Škoda came quite handy — I did not want to put a carrier on the roof and thus Vendulka and Tom had to enter through an obstacle course of skis.

But we don't complain, at least there's snow.

It started to freeze on the way up, and suddenly we were driving through a snow-white forest, and I had to slow down even with our all-wheel-drive, and keep my eyes open. It's tiresome on one hand, but after the snow-less winter of previous year, I don't intend to complain.

Alas, snowing meant wind and cold, and on Saturday the kids whimpered after only an hour and a half about being cold, and did not want to ski anymore. We found shelter in the "cottage" and there I had discovered that Tom's feet were indeed cold, and that he would probably need new ski boots, larger ones. The only thing I could do for him in that moment was giving him thinner wool socks, and we started defrosting him in regular intervals.

At two o'clock in the afternoon the offspring refused to get out of the "cottage"at all, and so I supplied them with popcorn and a movie and orders not to cook anything on their own and not to open the fireplace, and I headed for the slopes myself. I wondered if I would be somewhat less worried if the kids had a cellphone at their disposal, but even without it they managed OK.

Vendula with Pavel and Karen naturally skied until the lifts closed, but then I talked Vendula into cross-country. Now that I got them and dragged them up to Kirkwood and bought myself a season pass to the cross-country tracks, I would be cursed if I did not try; after those twenty years, I was first stumbling a little and labored to find my balance, but fortunately it seems that you cannot really forget how to ski. Vendula and I had completed a three-mile lap around the meadow.

I enjoyed it more than I would have believed. The routes are maintained with a classic track and extra room for skate-skiing and snow-shoes. Even on the meadow alone, there are several loops, partially crossing a grove, partially in the open areas, with a view to beautiful surrounding mountains. There are several dozens of miles of routes beyond the highway, so I can explore in the future.

On Sunday morning I went out cross-country skiing on my own, leaving the kids digging in the snow in front of the "cottage", where the rest of the expedition was still getting ready to hit the slopes. When I had finished my lap, I chased the children indoor, we warmed up a bit and changed, and proceeded to the mountain. Having learned from Saturday, we were dressed properly warm, but even so we had enough by noon — our little Californians suffer frost poorly, and I had tired myself through the extra cross-country, so we packed our stuff and got home already early evening. Which may have made things easier, since Tom and Lisa had to get up for school on Monday, and a challenging day was ahead of them.

Important-looking certificates from the school board.

Important-looking certificates from the school board.

You see, our children were selected to present a gardening project to the school board. People at the school were impressing on me how an extreme honor that was; I harbor various reservations about committee meetings in general, but the kids were enthusiastic, so why not. I reckoned that our comedian Lisa would manage easily, and Tom, who's certainly no comedian, could use practicing a public performance.

Naturally, the reality by far exceeded my expectations. Lisa behaved more or less measured, almost shy. But Tom right at the beginning had arranged for all the children to take turns in testing the microphone and learning how to use it. He presented his section with verve, and then carefully followed other performers. This would be pretty much according to the plan. Then, several complications had emerged; music supposed to provide background to a slide show failed to play; it had escalated during a ceremony of presenting the kids with congratulatory certificates, as it turned out that some named kids were missing, while others were present without certs ready for them. Then Tom could not hold back anymore, walked up to the microphone, and announced to the startled board, performers, and the rest of the audience that some children were not present and that it was OK, for they would be given the certs later. The show proceeded with taking pictures and some jovial geezer of the board said that they would make a break in their meeting so that the kids could get home to their homework. Tom took to the microphone again to reply to the man that they were indeed going to go home, but only if the esteemed board had no further questions. He topped it off by declaring later in the car, "Mom, you will surely never forget this day." How right he was!