So it has been a tradition in my family that we write a holiday letter in our Christmas cards. My newly 19 year old sister has taken over the reins of this letter. My sister is an excellent writer and I thought I would share her letter. However, she did not check with me on the accuracy of my paragraph…but I think I will forgive her. Enjoy!
Season’s greetings to all! Since Mom bestowed the title of holiday newsletter scribe to the youngest Muessle daughter last year, I hope I have lived up to everyone’s expectations of an informative summary of family endeavors during 2007. Let’s have a look, shall we?
Between treks to Eugene for his Duck football fix and FLIR business trips, Dave cherished whatever glimpses of domestic life he could catch this year. Any way you calculate it, I’d bet an ample bag of peanuts that Dad spent more time this year sitting in airplanes and airports than he spent in conferences with his Swedish, French, Bostonian and Californian colleagues. Somehow, though, he summoned enough gall to plan (in his ever-so-meticulous fashion) a month-long summer trip for his family to Italy and Spain, plus one night in Belgium. Fate repaid his fortitude with an overnight stay on the Dulles Airport carpet due to an emergency flight change, but once in Rome, Dave led us in a historical and cultural marathon. A viticultural marathon ensued in the Tuscan wine country.
After the departure of her last daughter from home, Megan has coped with empty nest syndrome by means of her two other babies—scrapbooking and Darwin, the bat-eared sausage of a Corgi. The absence of the latter stringing along at her side across Europe was likely more traumatizing than the departure of her last daughter, but Megan nevertheless enjoyed the sights and sounds of Europe, especially those in Spain. However, she should reconsider returning to España if she does not want aforementioned daughter stringing along. Photos from the trip, numbering over a thousand, now sit neatly arranged in albums—one would expect nothing less from a member of the Life’s a Scrapbook© staff in Sherwood, rumored to be the preferred scrapbook store of the rich and famous (or so Mom’s posse of “scrapping ladies” reports).
Erin has a new home of her own in Eugene, close enough to work to avoid a long commute, and far enough from the university to discourage her sister from pillaging her refrigerator for “real” food. After a long day of corralling—I mean teaching—her nine “behaviorally-challenged” students (her “dream job,” let me remind you), Erin releases her pent-up aggression by kickboxing and playing defense on a recreational soccer team called the Raging Llamas. She has even committed to running a half marathon next May. “A half marathon—that’s thirteen miles, right?” I inquired. “THIRTEEN POINT ONE!” She snapped. Oh yes, she’s committed. Nevertheless, heckling shall be encouraged should she balk.
Judging from the nostalgic stories and descriptions I hear of Eugene from University of Oregon alumni from the 1960s, I suspect I am accurate in reporting that absolutely nothing has changed. I suspect this because when an out-of-stater says on a chilly evening, “Look! A barefoot hippie on a scooter!” nobody turns to look. While my affinity for tofu and fair trade products has steadily grown, my intended major remains the same: Romance languages, plus a minor in art. The summer trip to Europe was an incomparable opportunity to explore both subjects firsthand, often to an overwhelming degree (hence, “cultural marathon”). The Musei Vaticani, Uffizi, Alhambra, and Alcázar had me gazing in aesthetic wonder—not to mention a particular breakfast waiter at our hotel in Venice, a rival to Michelangelo’s David himself.
I begin Intensive Italian 104 in January.
May the season bless you and your loved ones with joy and serenity to last the whole year and always!