“So, are you ready for Christmas?”
Och, other people's holidays. The question comes at me from out of left field: I'm sitting on the table in an exam room, having my blood drawn.
In past years, I might have answered defensively.
“I don't celebrate Christmas!”
“Sorry, not my holiday.”
More recently, my response would likely have been more conciliatory.
“Actually, we're Solstice people.”
“Where I come from, we still call it Yule.”
Maybe I've lost my fire. Maybe I've mellowed with age. This isn't spiritual imperialism, or proselytizing. The nurse is just being friendly in a thoughtless kind of way; her question has no more meaning than “How are you?” or “Cold enough for you?” Yes, there are assumptions going on here, but really, what matter does it make?
Where I come from, we call it the Yule-frith: the peace of Yule. In the old days, it meant that you could safely travel unfriendly territory.
Five days now to Midwinter's Eve. I translate in my head.
“Everything but the cooking,” I say. “How about you?”