I tried to get Chat GPT to write the annual holiday letter this year. I briefed it to write a sardonic but cynical letter that is funny, biting but still a little sentimental…in a Shakespearean sonnet! It was too good. It made me look like a hack, so I buried that version (below). You get the regular stuff.
Running. So much running. Son-in-law David who was built for sport started running marathons just to shake off some nervous energy. When Maggie realized that there is a running club and you can talk while you run she decided that maybe this running could suit her as well. She talked her way through a half-marathon in Burlington and is planning to chatter through the full deal next year in Chicago.
Hannah runs inverse to Maggie, so she can be alone. Cal is an on/off runner I think. Probably not allowed to talk to Hannah while she is running “alone”. Carolyn runs with the dog Lucy when we are dog sitting. It is more an act of service to get the dog her required exercise. They both have big smiles when they return. Every run is a little odyssey in High Park.
The only way I can run is on skis. That is why Carolyn and I head to the land of high tuition each year in January for 2 weeks of cross-country skiing and poutine. At Mont Ste. Anne near Quebec City they have a world class Nordic centre with nearly 200 KMs of groomed trails and they accept Canadian currency at par. Sleep, ski, eat, repeat.
Hannah is still running her own Boston Marathon with 20 miles completed toward her Masters Degree. She has packed her graduate years with internships, teaching assistant roles, Hebrew School side hustles and a summer job where she does wind sprints chasing kids with Autism at a specialized summer camp. All of these things, including occasional school work, she purports to “love”. Now I’m not saying its worth it - going to school at that fancy institution, but she is making a persuasive case.
Carolyn and I ran away on a dream cycle through France for 7 weeks in May/June. Starting in Marseille then riding through Provence, Basque country and a bit of Spain, Bordeaux and the west coast, the Loire Valley, the wilds of Burgundy, finishing in Lyon. France has a phenomenal density of campgrounds where for $25 a night you have power and bathrooms and sometimes restaurants and many many German and Dutch people in RVs who love the French lifestyle, weather and food. So we saw France but we met the Deutsch and Dutch. The cycling is not as hard as it seems, mostly we are taking our time. Can it be true that the lynchpin of the entire tourism industry in France is the bakeries? For us, they loom much larger than the wine or the cheese. At 10:30 every day, having vanquished 20 KMs its not a glass of Pinot that we want, it’s the Gallic crack cocaine croissant. The baker knows we need to provision for lunch and has a baguette stuffed with tuna or chicken for our panniers. Those are the table stakes, and then you have the rest of France.
2023 was filled with global horrors. But our world was packed with immediate family, extended family and friends. Even in the inevitable sorrows and challenges, we had that support network to lean on. I won’t say we are blessed, but we are not unlucky.
In the 19th century folk tale, the Gingerbread Man jumps from the oven and takes off toward a better life. He dodges every pursuer on the farm. Taunting them as he goes, “Run, run as fast you can. You can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man” That stubby cinnamon cookie is shockingly full of athleticism and self-confidence. We wish that for you and your family in 2024. Ducking all the bad stuff on your way to your best life. Posting on Instagram “you can’t catch me…”. Just don’t stop for the fox. Crunch!
Happy 2024 to all.
CHAT GPT "original" version:
In merry tales of holiday cheer, we jest, Of kin and kinship, in this letter spun. A year of races, each one in jest, Where runners prance, and laughter is begun.
Son-in-law David, a fleet-footed sprite, Marathons conquered, nervous energy shed. Maggie, with talk, in Burlington took flight, Through half-marathon, with words well-led.
Hannah, in contrast, runs in silence deep, Alone she races, for solitude to keep. Cal, on-off, with treadmills tries to cope, Forbidden words while chasing after hope.
Carolyn and I, on skis we glide, To lands where tuition doth coincide. Mont Ste. Anne, where snow and poutine meet, A wint'ry odyssey, a snowy feat.
Our Hannah, in a marathon of the mind, Her Masters pursued, a path well-signed. Internships, side hustles, summers bold, She claims to "love," as tales of school are told.
A dream cycle took Carolyn and me, Through France we pedaled, wild and free. From Marseille's sun to Bordeaux's wine, In campgrounds, with the Deutsch and Dutch, we'd dine.
France's lynchpin, not wine nor cheese, But bakeries, the source of sweet unease. At 10:30, after a morning's ride, Not Pinot but croissants we'd confide.
Amidst global woes, in familial embrace, Our kin, our solace, in this tumultuous space. In sorrows and challenges, our network strong, Not blessed, yet fortune steers us along.
As Gingerbread Men once leapt with glee, Dodging pursuers, wild and free. In 2024, may your steps be light, Duck the bad, proclaim your flight.
On Instagram's stage, shout loud and clear, "You can't catch me," sans fear. But heed this counsel, as tales unfold, Beware the fox, my friends, be bold
