Here's What You Should've Read Last Year

In case you missed them, here's a bunch of books I recommended for The Heat Lightning.

I didn't include Nicole Krauss' Great House because I'm in the process of writing something where I compare it to Sara Gruen's Ape House.  Great House vs. Ape House, get it?  That's good stuff, right?  I've got three pages to whittle down that can be summed up thusly: you can't wait to finish both books, but for very different reasons.

I also didn't include Peggy Orenstein's Cinderella Ate My Daughter or Les Standiford and Joe Matthews' Bringing Adam Home because I read ARCs; they don't come out until February and March, respectively.

Joe Hill's Horns was hands down the best guilty pleasure of 2010 and I forgot to include it.  Of course it's not really a guilty pleasure since he's such an amazing author, but he makes reading so damned fun it feels like you're getting away with something.

If any of these strike your fancy, I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

Happy reading!

I'll be Home for Christmas

I grew up in Syracuse, which just experienced 97 consecutive hours of snow. My first experience of Christmas in Miami was on video.  Watching Andi and Jim on their front lawn, wearing shorts and t-shirts, fighting with the water guns they'd just gotten under the tree, I immediately decided Christmas in Miami did not exist.  

I moved here in 1998.  Sometimes there were decorations and a tree, sometimes not.  Sometimes we'd eat at the in-law's, sometimes a friend's, sometimes at the brother-in-law's, and sometimes at home.  We always exchanged gifts, stuffed stockings, listened to holiday music, drank egg nog, and spread holiday cheer, but nothing in thirteen years of semi-tropical merriment filled me with the excitement and joy I always associated with Christmas up north snow or no snow.  

Supposedly it's bad trying to relive your childhood through your own children.  You get the high you used to feel by seeing something through their eyes, which is fine, but the danger is you might end up resenting the children for not having all the fun and happiness you remember (or imagine you remember).  

Well, screw the danger.  Whether it was Dylan, Becky, or the way the three of us have become a family, I now know Christmas comes to Miami.

We opened our gifts Christmas morning.  Dylan, who wants to be an immediate expert at everything he tries, became frustrated with the Beyblades he got.  If you're unfamiliar, Beyblades are the dramatic re-imagining of tops.  You spin them together in a plastic arena to battle, and the last one spinning is the winner.  

Beyblades are for ages eight and up, and they're tough for little fingers to put back together when they fall apart.  I warned Dylan if he threw another fit about the Beyblades, I'd put them away for two years, until he was old enough to use them.  I was preparing breakfast for a crowd, Becky was frantically cleaning, and if he wanted to play instead of helping, he needed to do it without the drama.

As Christmas approached, Dylan has been a handful and a half.  Both Becky and I have wanted to cancel Christmas at least once.  One fine day, after blowing most of a paycheck on Santa's toys, he decided it was time to see who was in charge around the house while mommy wasn't around.  I stormed into his room and yelled, "Guess what? I fucking AM Santa Claus!  Unless you want me to bring everything back and use the money to fly your mother and I to New Orleans, you better clean your goddamn room NOW!"  

Well, no.  But I thought about it.  Hard.  A few mornings later, Becky and he screamed at each-other.  Both of them ended up crying and shaking with anger and frustration.  

We told ourselves he'd be better once Christmas finally got here.      

Of course, Christmas morning, Dylan threw another fit when the Beyblades fell apart.  I had to put them away, and his snit became a crying tantrum.  Becky and I didn't get upset with him for ruining Christmas, imagining our childhood selves as dancing sugar plums of joy.  I hugged him and told him it didn't mean we didn't love him.  Becky invited him to play with the piles of other toys Santa brought. 

Parenting is one of those things you'll never understand unless you experience it yourself.  By extension, you can't understand your own parents without being a parent yourself.  You might think you know how you feel about your parents, but being a parent will cast those feelings in a new light.  I've never felt closer to my family than while forming my own.  

The Quiroga Clan joined us for breakfast, as well as Carroll, and it was beautiful.

When they left, Becky and I enjoyed our first Christmas waking in the same house.

After twelve years in Miami, Christmas finally found me.  

Coconut Grove: Racist

Visiting the Grove on Boxing Day after the 29th annual King Mango Strut parade, I spotted a new cigar shop next to The Cheesecake Factory called Coco Cigar.  Touristy knick-knacky crap has been replaced by my best friend, the cigar store Indian.  

He's patriotic.

 Then we lunched at Mr. Moe's.  What are wooden logs from North Carolina, Colorado river rock, and Nova Scotia slate without a nice carving of an Indian head on the wall?

Psst, buddy... try the blue cheese burger.

Apparently, I missed the big one.  No matter how you present demeaning Indian Kitsch, it's fine as long as you use the respectful term of "Native American".

Happy New Year!

Christmas Miracle

The house we're renting was built in 1928, impressively old by Miami standards.  Some months back, Becky and I decided we should remove the decades of accumulated paint before we chose our own pallet.

Okay, it was my brilliant idea.  Blame me 100%.  But the windowsills are flaking without our help, and previous peeling has obviously been painted over.  None of the doors close because of the accumulated layers.  The crown molding has no detail, and the corners sag with frozen drips.  Apart from the floors - oak in the front rooms, pine in the bedrooms - the house's wood energy is suffocating beneath years of latex and lead.

Little did I know how difficult it would be to remove.  

Five days of work spread over several months later...

Work is nothing without a deadline, so we invited Becky's family for Christmas brunch at our place.  Dylan stayed with his Abuelo and Abuela.  Becky and I could work all night if we wanted.

"So we'll be tired," I said, "so what?"

Well paint-scraping tired is not writing tired, or internet-surfing tired, or drinks-with-friends tired.  It is where-did-that-cut-come-from, aches-in-muscles-and-tendons-you-never-knew-you-had, making-a-fist-hurts-like-hell strung out exhausted, especially after a few hellish weeks of holiday retail.

This hurts.

We worked until three AM Thursday night then popped up at eight Friday morning.  We scraped until we physically and emotionally could scrape no more, until no amount of willpower would force our muscles to obey.  One cabinet is better than nothing.

We hit one cabinet with chalkboard in a can and painted the walls Chianti (Behr S-H-150).  The other cabinet, baseboards, and trim will wait for another day.

Through dividing and conquering, we managed to get the dining room not just presentable but lovely, while picking up paychecks, cleaning, and grocery shopping for the brunch.  We also learned that even exhausted at three am, we're a great team.

Yum.

Oddly enough, the red is so rich that it makes the last few layers of paint to be scraped look like a deliberate attempt to be distressed and antique-looking.  We were praised to heaven for the look.  It's a nice thought but I doubt we'll go with it, particularly when only one more day of work will give us a finished room.  Well, maybe two days.

Either way, we can't let the paint win.

Noche Buena II: The Quickening

Now I know how Becky felt going up north for Thanksgiving.  There's one picture of me which survives from my first Noche Buena last year, a group shot of the whole Quiroga clan.   Since I tower over everyone else, there's no mistaking the terrified look on my face.

Meeting someone's family for the first time is always nerve-wracking, especially when there's a whole bunch of them presented to you at once.

Terrifying individuals.

Even though there were a slew of folks I didn't know or had only met once, this year I stopped freaking out and felt like part of the family.  

I think Jose's Coquito was only partly responsible.

Pictured: Jose.   Also, Becky's sister in Coquito haze.

We ate delicious food, laughed, and welcomed family from as far away as California.  We enjoyed live music around a fire outside on a night which can only be described as perfect.  No one got too handsy when in his cups.  No one puked or passed out.  Every dish tasted sublime.  Tia New One's homemade pies were like little slices of heaven.  Ninety-something Dora grabbed my face and unleashed a slew of Spanish (I caught "fine gentleman" and figured it all had to be good).  I have no idea why I was so nervous last year.

Not so terrifying individuals

It's tough being away from my family for the holidays, but the Quiroga clan made me feel right at home.  The love of a good woman helps, too.