Winterfest Stories

“When you were little,” Dad tells us, about the time when I was a two-foot-tall gnome, “you demonstrated to us exactly why you thought Father Winter couldn’t be real. You never were really good at math, but I always thought this was some algebra-level proof.”

“So what you’re saying is, she was always a killjoy?”

“I stand by it! Father Winter is such a weird myth! The Selvadoradians have never even heard of it!”

“The Selvadoradians don’t have chimneys, Ban-Hannah.”

“They do! And unless he falls down from ours in the next twelve hours, I’ll keep agreeing with two-foot-tall, gnome me.”

Remnants

The gifts have been freed from their prisons of colorful paper, and the proof is right there on the wooden floor. Crushed boxes and ribbons abandoned on the ground, as a Winterfest morning should be. All that’s still intact is the gifts we mean for someone else.

Doesn’t mean Winterfest is at an end, though…

That’s a nope on the Game Changer front for me. I thought I’d feel sad, but nope, still super excited!! I can’t wait to see who got in! Congrats to everyone who did I am so happy for youuuuu!

I also just reached Affiliate status on Twitch today, so that’s gotta help feel good, too ^^

Aaaaaand…

And it’s the perfect gift, because my family knows me well.

Nothing has ever made me happier than Selvadorada, and in the box, I find two plane tickets, framing a two-week trip to the Belomisian jungle, a new, high-definition camera, and a blank notebook. Blank, except for the first page, where each of the weirdos I call my family, wrote a note for me.

To keep track of your beautiful adventures —Dad.

Pretty sure you won’t let Cy and I read this. Still, enjoy. I picked it — C.

Ready to have this covered in scribbles in the blink of an eye. I’m so proud of you! — Mom.

Cléo totally did not pick it. I did. Merry Christmas, BanHannah — Cy.

Totally picked it. Also, our birthday is the day after you get back, keep that in mind when you choose souvenirs. — C.

A moment to remember

Over the next half hour, wrapping paper flies all around the room, along with laughter and cries of excitement. Nounou is thoroughly unimpressed, because apparently the fireplace, his own true love, is much more interesting than us, and he didn’t get anything anyway. Loladorado is just ignoring the whole thing.

But Cyril, Cyril has whipped his phone out, and is recording everything, the smiles and the laughs and the happiness. The kind of videos I can’t help but think I’ll cherish even more once I4m out of this house, and away from them for good.

But now is not the time to think of that. It’s my turn to open my gifts!

The Twins’s Gifts

Cléo and Dad get a hold of their gifts first, with the enthusiasm and total lack of shame that one clearly inherited from the other. The one Dad is holding is mine, a Salvadoradian artisanal statue that made me think of him, and I’m pleased to see his smile as he inspects it.

Cléo somehow went straight for the one gift Mom and I meant for both her and Cyril. Tentatively, she slides the lid open, and discovers the gardening kits inside. And it’s a success!

The Twins’s Gifts

Cléo and Dad get a hold of their gifts first, with the enthusiasm and total lack of shame that one clearly inherited from the other. The one Dad is holding is mine, a Salvadoradian artisanal statue that made me think of him, and I’m pleased to see his smile as he inspects it.

Cléo somehow went straight for the one gift Mom and I meant for both her and Cyril. Tentatively, she slides the lid open, and discovers the gardening kits inside. And it’s a success!

Who’ll go first?

We’re done singing, and the gifts are right there, looking at us… daring us to be the first to lean forward and tear open the wrapping paper.

For a minute, we just look at each other, half out of politeness, half daring each other to look more eager than the others.

“All together?” I propose

“All together.”

Winterfest Carols

We walk into the living room together, after a breakfast made entirely of coffee — because we can’t even think of eating again yet, and our stomachs have to be ready for the Winterfest lunch.

There’s only five of us, but it’s still a cacophony of laughter and jokes. Until Dad starts humming a Winterfest song, which prompts us all to slowly quiet down, then join him… then break into a canon of Winterfest Carols. Fwingle Zibbs, Mayzie Grobe, the classics.

Can we sing? Apart from Mom, not really. Does it matter? Certainly not.