Like a lot of small towns in America, my little village of Nowell-by-the-Sea was a poorly planned accident. The only difference is that the buildings average about eight inches in height.
The accident started when my wife sent me to a department store in November and I happened to find that they had their Christmas decorations marked half off. (They wanted to clear the stuff out to make room for the Valentine’s candy.)
On the display of tiny ceramic buildings, electric bulbs glowed warmly through plastic windows, casting light across the cotton-wool snow. Miniature plaster people stood in their winter best admiring a spiky Christmas tree festooned with over-sized gold garland. My breath caught in my throat and the guy part of my brain said, “This is just like being mayor of your very own town.”
That was completely untrue, of course, but when I got home I showed my wife the beginnings of a brand new holiday tradition. Continue reading
