The unfortunate delays with Greyhound did indeed elevate my remaining time in Portland. There was some deeply affectionate pride that permeated my family as we had all contributed in some manner to my safe arrival. I was greeted warmly by my parents, and we enjoyed the comforts of holiday traditions that had been postponed in my absence. As had been decided before my time, we ate minestrone soup and watched It’s A Wonderful Life. The film had been consumed so thoroughly by us for the last few decades that admittedly we all watched it in a trance-like state, gnawing desperately at its little remaining bone marrow to uncover any not-already-discussed insights from the plot. These past few years, I had gravitated towards a more-direct class-based analysis of its themes. George yells at Mr. Potter, telling him that this rabble he’s talking about does most of the working and paying and dying in this community, and is it too much for them to work and pay and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? The simplicity and earnestness of his conviction, the righteous anger he levels at Potter punctures me intimately and I tense up, embarrassed at the new ways I find to cry to this movie.
It didn’t snow on Christmas, although I rarely ever experienced such a thing in my life even on the east coast. The Oregon biome persisted as it often did in damp and life-giving greys and greens. As always, I received incessant apologies from my family; the recurring gag that the Pacific Northwest was a warm evergreen paradise all but the days I came to visit. The Bay Area was already itself such a paradise in climate that a brief detour into the sunless states was honestly an exciting change of scenery. And anyways, some recessive Gaelic gene in me yearned for rain and grey storms on rolling green hills.
