We had a white Christmas this year. Had old friends and new friends at the table over the holidays. And though we had a most enjoyable time, the ghost of Marley lurked in every corner. You see, the original plan was for Steve aka Chip aka Marley to put in an appearance. This news was greeted with joy and nervous anticipation. Would he pole dance on the walking trails? Would he crouch down and call "Here, Boy. Here, Boy" to a coyote on a side path during a snow storm? Would he hold everyone at the local Tim Horton's hostage while he collected donuts for the staff and visitors at the local libary at his impromptu and makeshift parking lot book signing for Hadley? As each day passed and no one was clear on why he HADN'T shown, Chad became more and more convinced that a car would pull up and Marley would alight. And I wasn't the only one in the dining room calling "Car!" everytime a vehicle turned down below in the cul-de-sac. (Though, honestly, even a clever Alberta boy would have a heck of a hard time navigating from the Halifax airport to a house here on the edge of the forest). I swear by New Year's Eve, we were all hearing the soft rustling and clinking of chains in dark stairwells and corners. Thus, it was in an anti-climatic atmosphere that everyone departed on New Year's Day. Full of lobster and paninis and French onion soup and provolones and regret for what might have scarily been.
