I think these Christmas form letters must be “out.” Or I am. I haven’t gotten any this year. But style never being much of a motivating factor for me, I press on with those passe items of print and paper (and–Ye gads, postage!) Think of it as the poor man’s Facebook page. Apparently, ironically, all our social networking and online activity have made the plain old snail mail Christmas card a gesture of sincerity and authenticity. So here you have it: $0.44 of sheer Christmas wishes.

Wanting to connect with family this past fall, the kids and I took a train to New England for Thanksgiving. Riding the rails seemed an obvious choice for our homecoming trip, not to mention an economical one. That, and because William at the age of four is an absolute train nut. Let no story time at the Ashland Public Library go uninterrupted by the Amtrak Regional passing by at 10:15 every Tuesday! So much for Clifford The Big Red whatever he is, those kids are plastered to the plate-glass window, jaws agape, as the train screams by right outside, story lady just sitting in the corner spinning her wheels.

I must say, after the first four hours or so of the romantic getaway for four, the romance had worn off. Snacks had been pilfered, batteries had run down. I equipped the three of them with two walkmans (Yes, these archaic item still exist–along with haute technology: a portable CD player! Thinking… I get enough cords, batteries, and headphones on to that train and we are set.) You have to keep up with the Joneses and the electrical-mania, you know. IPod-touch schmi-Pod. What good is a piece of technology that doesn’t have any buttons to push? At this rate our entire species may lose by natural selection its opposable thumb, what with all those touchscreens out there.

Every stop or so, William would look up and ask, “Is this where we’re supposed to be?” Having, of course, no sense of time or the 7 and 1/2 hours that yawn before us, I guess he figured where we were supposed to be could pop up at any time–a sudden stop–and I would jump up, grab our things and yank him off the train. Is this where we are supposed to be? I marveled in the implied trust in his question, that I, prematurely weary and wanting only to read magazines alone for eight hours straight, would keep diligent track of the train stops. And that he cared to know. How come he doesn’t ask that same question standing in a foot of mud on the back patio while the hose just gushes out water, or climbing up on the bathroom counter to put toothpaste W’s all over the bathroom mirror? Or screaming naked down the hall, chasing the cat at bedtime? Is this where we are supposed to be? It is, let’s admit, a strange question coming from a child. Mom, is this where I’m supposed to be? No, Ellie. You are supposed to be well-dressed, and well-rested, with your hair tied in ribbons and your juice glass in the sink while you hum your way to the bus. Is this where we’re supposed to be?

So here’s the Facebook section. William, 4, loves to paint, call himself “W the Hug Head,” a nickname he came up with, although lately he has discarded this name and has instructed us to call him “Henry” from now on. Real mean on the hot glue gun making teacher gifts. Henry also likes to bake and is wild about his bike he got from cousin Aaron. Can wield a leaf blower solo and steer the lawn tractor on his day off with Dad. Ellie, 10, plays in a drum Ensemble and is on a Reading Olympics team at school. Sophie, 8, reading fool, loves Saturday mornings in her room, listens to a great deal of audio books and is $2 shy of her savings goal to get leopard gecko. She has been working on this project for over six months and in January is going to the Richmond Expo of Exotic Pets and Reptiles to bring one home. I’m excited to have a reptile in my house especially, one that grows to be two feet long and lives 10 to 15 years. I will miss the short and efficient lifespan of the hamsters we buried this past year.

Bill, ageless and enduring, keeps the place from falling down. Same church, same home, different disasters and challenges. Jen, old, tired, went back to work this April for Hallmark stocking cards. What a hoot! It’s part time and I do like it, but it’s often a trick to find the 15 to 20 hours to work when I am not also supposed to be a mom. The day after Christmas I’ll be at BJ’s taking down 32 feet of Christmas cards and putting up–you guessed it–Valentine’s Day. Is this where I’m supposed to be?

May your train get you where you are going this holiday, and I hope you enjoy every stop along the way. Blessing to you and yours, from the Burk family