Okay, here’s what happened.
I was driving around, cautiously because it was snowing and I had Mr. Precious Cargo about to begin his mantra of “I want somepin'” in the back seat. I was listening to Day by Day, which is (take a breath), Slate Magazine’s presence on NPR. It airs at noon around these parts.
So, I was listening, and this essayist starts reading an essay. It was one of those “I’m noble and probably better than you because I hate Christmas” kind of things. Guy can’t find joy in the season, he’s too busy contemplating his mortality as the solstice nears. Wife and kids aren’t deterred, especially young son who finds an old music box that plays Nutcracker music and follows dad around the house with it, even to the bedroom where he awakens him with a “Mewwy Chwistmas, Daddy”. Dad almost says it back – but holds strong. Whew.
I was listening and hating it, not because the guy hates Christmas, but because he thinks I should care. Arrogant, I’m thinking. Get the heck over yourself.
So I’m mentally dissecting this, when the announcer returns, and in dulcet NPR-ese announces the essayist’s name.
I WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL WITH HIM!
I literally shrieked right there on S. Clinton Street and Rudisill.
He’s adjusted his name a bit – extending his first name, and adding another last name, and I wouldn’t have had a clue who he was but for the fact that he was featured in a piece in the back home diocesan newspaper about a month ago, being in town for a book signing (he writes mystery novels). I remember him as a very affable guy, a year behind me, who was in some activity I was in – maybe Model UN, or something.
Small world, sort of. Odd moment. Still didn’t like the piece, though.