It was one of those nights of the dreadful winter, after the celebrations of Christmas, after the singular toasts of New Years, about halfway through the month of January. A winter's night that no longer delighted with brisk cold and playful flurries but rather filled the chilled the heart and ached the body tired from shoveling. It was, coincidentally, my eighteenth birthday and my 15-year-old brother Dick stood in the great room at the foot of the stairs, singing at the top of his lungs.
"Oh come all ye faithful. Sing of Chad's ex-paul-shin from hi-is, Mo-ther's womb, womb, womb, womb..."
"Stop that caterwauling. I’m trying to write my column and I'm on deadline," our father yelled from his computer. Now normally, an order like that might have been accepted with dutiful silence. Not this day in frigid, disgusting January history. My other younger brother Steven, lacking the brains God gave a turnip, joined in, clanging an old school bell.
"Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! Thomas Pynchon wears pantyhose..."
"That's it!" Our father said. "I warned you." With a flick of Father's wrist, Steven popped and fizzled out, like the bottles of champagne opened for New Year's only a couple weeks ago.
A moment later, Dick was likewise extinguished.
"Are you in the mood for caterwauling too?" Father asked me.
"No I'm fine," I squeaked from my computer.
Web conference birthdays. Not as good as the real thing.
Opening: Dave F......Continuation: Naomio