The annual family Christmas card/letter became the family New Year card/letter because we are busy people. Some of you may recognize this from your mailbox; for those who don't and would like to receive this going forward, please join our mailing list--or simply send holiday correspondence this coming season.
The Wilson Family 2022 Christmas Letter: Suburban Flight
Any escape may help to smooth the unattractive truth,
But the suburbs hold no charms to soothe the restless dreams of youth
Neil Peart, “Subdivisions”
Seasons greetings from well, home. If you recall last year’s installment of this glorious series of prose, we were homeless. Or houseless. After being left at the altar by a person who–in the spirit of Christmas–let’s say was not of top shelf character, it was back to the drawing board and the lending banker. Living with Kristen’s parents, nerves were frayed, toes were stepped on, and let’s face it–sometimes you just want to strip down to your boxers, crack a beer, and yell obscenities at a televised sporting event. Interest rates were rising and we needed to go home.After being crushed time and again by out-of-state cash offers, we faced the real possibility of either extending the Gloria and Meathead show for another 2-3 seasons. Or expanding our search to Turley.
That’s when home became available. After nearly two decades in midtown, it was time to escape to suburbia. As with many minor miracles, home looked little like home upon introduction. The previous owners, aside from a host of peccadilloes concerning staging, kept house like a twelve-year-old girl. From the DIY (poorly) planking to Dollar General window treatments to the carpet stained by every liquid a dog can secrete, the place needed a power washing to even be considered a fixer upper. Upon first entering, Steve developed acute, though thankfully temporary St. Vitus Dance. Sloane went to the car and cried. Kristen saw possibilities. It’s Ash street; it was meant to be.
After five years in real estate, she understood something about making chicken salad. Queenie’s style. Though we spent the first three months of our residency walking on Kraft paper, the vision came to fruition. We are home.
On the vocational front, Kristen got tired. Tired of spending Sunday afternoons hosting open houses for ill-heeled house shoppers who stomp through properties, flipping switches on and off, putting germinated fingers on every surface and talking feng shui after binging on Chip and Joanna Gaines terrorizing contractors on television.
Hours are long, compensation is sparse, recognition is intermittent at best. The boss is out more than the cast of RuPaul’s Drag Race, and the soul starts to rot quicker than the case of Harry and David pears you still haven’t opened that arrived ten days ago.The situation finally reached critical mass or in the parlance of our times, FAFO (Google if you must. The word “family” in the title precludes me from sharing the long version of this versatile acronym).
With no prospects, she took a leap of faith and tendered resignation. Almost twenty years ago, we received our first mortgage statement as a single income family. Worked out once, it could work again, right? Fortunately, a protracted interview process with a new company followed shortly.
Also, as it was nearly twenty years ago, with our financial future in limbo, we decided to travel. That year it was Houston. This time the three of us went to Turks and Caicos. Actually, this was paid in advance as Kristen had been planning the trip since the previous fall as a surprise trip for Steve, who was having a milestone birthday. The number is still difficult to utter but most of you can figure out the math.
For the various locales vying for the title paradise, TCI makes a strong case. The beaches are white powder; the coastal waters clear and cool. The pace is decidedly laid back, good food is easy to find and the locals are loquaciously grateful for tourists. Within two hours of check in, Steve had broken his big toe. With no medic at the resort, the only treatment was rum punch, and the vacation went on with wonderful people, pristine snorkeling, a fabulous boat charter, and even a Karaoke duet with Kristen and Sloane performing “Don’t Stop Believin,” for a jovial, if not entirely sober, crowd at Danny Buoys–yes, there’s video.
It truly was a vacation of a lifetime, and as one grows inevitably older, it helps to do so above Grace Bay as a soft ocean breeze carries grill smoke from the kitchen while you sit back with your bottomless rum punch as a steel drum ensemble plays “MacArthur Park” near the pool. AARP can save the postage, Steve is not one of them.
Back home, Kristen’s interview process lumbered on. Finally, the patience and diligence paid off. She accepted an offer for what she now describes as her “dream job” as a brand ambassador for SVT, a technology services and solutions company out of Michigan. No, we’re not moving to Michigan. That wouldn’t be a dream now would it? Kristen’s office is now on the second floor—of our house. Brand ambassador means travel and a generous expense account. Just this fall, she’s visited Michigan (on-boarding), Las Vegas, and Chicago, with a full slate for the coming year.
As for Sloane, she’s a smart, well-adjusted sixth grader and recent clarinetist. However, it is volleyball that is her jam. Her second club season began in January on a miserable night in Oklahoma City (what other kind is there?). After a bad weekend, she moved to setter and her team began to play much better. Over the course of the season, she acted as team captain and blossomed into a leader on and off the court. Over the course of the winter and spring, she collected bruises, medals, and tournament t-shirts by the bundle with the season culminating in most memorable fashion in suburban Dallas. The full story of that weekend can be found at the solid though undernourished blog Old Tennis Shoes, under the nom de plume Jive McGill (https://jivemcgill.blogspot.com/). The short version is, after a day of yellow cards, arguing with opposing coaches, openly mocking the platform official, and nearly earning permanent banishment from the Frisco Flyers Sports and Events Center, we partied like the 1986 Mets and returned Sunday to take first place in our division. Naturally, there were no medals.
This fall, Sloane tried out and received multiple offers–including a 14U team, coached by the Jenks High School varsity coach. Though emotionally rigorous, the decision was largely a business one. When the varsity coach at your school takes an interest in you as a twelve-year-old, it makes sense to stay on that coach’s radar by playing for the club that coach is affiliated with. She accepted a spot on the 13U team, in order to play all six rotations. Her new club is Virago, the archaic definition of which is female warrior. The modern definition is a bad tempered, violent woman. We prefer the former but at times encounter the latter.
In November, we traveled to Norman to watch the eventual National Champion Texas Longhorns volleyball team play against the Sooners. The locals were a touch rude to those in burnt orange, but the game was much like the one in the Cotton Bowl the previous month, though a talented but young Oklahoma team threatened in the second set. Kristen got to renew her friendship with Sophomore outside hitter Megan Wilson, though, and we all went home happy.
The club season started early with an early morning trip to Stillwater and a silver medal after only a handful of practices. Cheese fries at Eskimo Joe’s seemed like an appropriate means for celebration.
That’s our year in roughly 1200 words, or 1.2 pictures. As we turn an optimistic eye to 2023, we sincerely wish you a happy, healthy, and prosperous New Year.
La famille Wilson
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