We each leave our mark -- whether we mean to or not. There is no anonymous life.

While Gandhi and Mother Teresa left theirs through years of service, John Hancock, in 3 seconds of scrolly handwriting, said all he ever needed to. Babe Ruth only pointed. A cow's skull means Georgia O'Keeffe. But be careful about the mark you leave; you could end up like the Emperor Nero, bound for all eternity to share a blackened pasture with Mrs. O'Leary's cow.

If you decide to re-do your kitchen (like Santina and I did), and if you go the whole bit with the dishwasher made invisible (like Santina and I did), and if you then reach blindly for the silverware drawer, which pulls out, but inadvertently grab the dishwasher handle, which pulls down, your whole world will turn instantly topsy turvy and for a split second you will not even be certain of your gender.

Seems like we used to get a lot more Christmas cards than we do now. I trust this says more about the changing times than it does about us. Still, they're nice to receive. Diana touches base from Switzerland, Susan thanks Santina for the holiday cookies, LR speaks from the soul. And it's good to hear from Michelle and Barack, catch up with them, hear what they've been up to.

When I was in high school and just starting to shave, Bobby Poole enlightened me as to the nature of whiskers. They don't grow at a constant rate he told me, but rather they have two phases of rapid growth, the first phase beginning right after they've been cut, and then a second phase just before they're cut again.

(who was I to question a friend?)

And I confess that I have often wondered during all these intervening years just how many really stupid life decisions I might have avoided had I been only half as smart as Bobby Poole's whiskers.

I was shocked to hear today that Chad and Jeremy would be performing locally. Shocked that they were both still: a) living, b) performing together, and c) welcome in NH.

In probably 1966 Patty of the Cher-hair and I had sat stage right, front row in the u-shaped wrapping balcony of the Keene State College gymnasium, waiting impatiently through an interminably bad opening group, and boisterously joined the throng of stamping feet, whistles and catcalls for the main event. Finally Chad and Jeremy emerged. After three songs the President of the Student Senate rushed on stage and implored us to give them a big hand. Which was very confusing. Till we realized they were departing. And then we were told that one of them wasn't feeling very well. Stamping feet and catcalls returned as a drama unfolded backstage. The college refused to pay, citing breech of contract; and then there was some breaking of furniture.

I didn't see Patty after that. Dropped her off at home and never called back. We'd been out maybe three times, it might have looked from a passing bus that we'd be a good fit, but there was simply no spark. And even less maturity.

43 years later I'm hoping Patty is also still alive; and if she remembers me at all I'm hoping that she does not do so with the same glower that I reserve for Chad and Jeremy.

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Oh, but memory fails. And are we surprised? It was only designed to suggest possible locations of car keys; 43 years of personal dust bins is way out warranty. Never was Chad and Jeremy was it? Was Peter and Gordon (who maybe only had three songs).

Thanksgiving featured fourteen far flung friends from Vermont, Maine, New York and Massachusetts, as well as New Hampshire; stories from around the world. The old place was humming for a day and sweet stragglers graced our transition on Friday, but by Saturday the house had cleared out, leaving just the two of us, a bulging refrigerator, one groaning dishwasher, and simplified communications, as in: "So . . . pie?"