One Christmas was so much like another in those years around the near-sea-towns of wine country, out of all sound except the distant speaking of voices and rattling of wine glasses I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it rained for six days and six nights when I was six or whether it rained for twelve days and twelve nights when I was two.
All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my paws in the sand and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my paw into that wool-grey bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Sonoma County photos on a Christmas eve. . . .
Christmas eve afternoon, we wandered around on Cherry Ridge, northwest of Sebastopol, in the Russian River Valley.
After dark, we walked down Snowman Lane in east Santa Rosa.
Mouse, rabbit, and cat were caroling. . . .
Wine country dog friends were stringing lights. . . .
And Snoopy, whose doghouse is nearby, came by to put Mr. Snowman's hat on his head.
All's well that end's well.
Paw-note: Much thanks to dog-ma fur readin' to us the original story A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas.
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