Nevertheless, our true friends continue to wheedle at us to keep producing these heartfelt messages of hope. Or, perhaps, to stop producing them. Really, we don’t pay that much attention to our true friends. So, let’s catch up on a 2007 that once thrived but that now is lying in a ditch, bleeding from the ears and gasping out its last moments of life.

First off, this year everyone was real excited about Claire’s culinary adventures. Those of you who have been invited to the Vast Thompson Compound for one of our legendary dinner parties (and if you haven’t been invited, come on, take a hint) will remember some of her innovative and sometimes edible creations such as Squirrelatouille, Vole Surprise and the tasty yet tragic Neighbor Flambe. When the abdominal cramps would allow us to speak, the rest of the household urged her to take a cooking class. However, as most of you know, Claire is easily confused and signed up for swimming lessons instead. Unfortunately, after eight weeks, she still believed she was learning to cook. We may never have noticed her mistake if we hadn’t come home early one day to find her in the above-ground pool, waist deep in Apple Pan Dowdy. As you may have heard, Frank has been having some health problems, which were more or less resolved when x-rays showed that the tibia and fibula in both his legs were somehow reversed, possibly during a botched appendectomy. The result of this agonizingly hilarious condition is that he has been walking backwards for decades, a trait that he attempted to hide from the world by wearing all of his hats hip-hop style. Sadly, surgery could only partially correct this so now Frank tends to walk everywhere sideways. At least this cuts down on his bruising, since his peripheral vision has always been extraordinary, like that of a horse or Jackie Kennedy.  

And more good news on the medical front. We’ve learned that our oldest son Yvonne isn’t autistic after all. Turns out he just inherited his social skills from us. And he also learned from us how to dress, which partially explains why he is lionized by devotees of M. C. Escher. But we’re encouraged to learn that Yvonne is developing some new hobbies. He saw a TV show about a guy who wears a beard made of bees. Inspired, Yvonne became the first person on record to sport an all bee comb-over.  

Now to the twins. As you know, for most of their lives, they’ve been so perfectly identical that they’ve never owned a mirror. But today, thank goodness, they’re beginning to acquire a certain degree of individuality.   

The older twin, Professor Archibald de Quincy, LDS (he’s the red-haired freckled one who stands about six foot nine) is a nascent environmentalist who lives the “green” life, starting with his teeth. He strives to lessen his carbon footprint in two ways: first, he gets around in a vehicle which runs entirely on marmots. And second, he tries never to step in carbon.   

The younger twin, Glenhaven, Pop. 1125 (he’s the tiny albino; think Mason Reese after about four years in a closet), caused something of a scandale at his junior high school when it was revealed that he had only become a cheerleader as an excuse to look up girls’ skirts. When it was pointed out that he was only three foot eight, and could do that pretty much whenever any girl stood up, he then changed his story. Now he claims that he became a cheerleader for the same reason that Che Guevara, Leo Tolstoy and Wink Martindale had – for the free government cheese. He is undergoing therapy. And, needless to say, his therapist is also in therapy. And so on.   

The baby, Renfrew of the Mounted Police, has shown remarkable advances over the past year which is particularly heartening since his nanny long thought that we were playing some sort of bizarre trick on her by making her care for a large adobe brick. Today, you wouldn’t know the little fella – you really wouldn’t; he had a nose job – what with his lively personality, piquant odors and diverse interests. Too young (and, I contend, too stupid) to read, he spends hours poring over picture books detailing the history of processed meats. He seems to have taken this so much to heart that he has created a small menagerie of pets for himself, made entirely of Vienna sausages. And he often protests if we try to dress him in anything other than potted ham spread. We figure this is a phase he’ll outgrow but for the moment it’s causing problems since he’s often harassed at pre-school by bullies bearing crackers.   

So, in conclusion, dear friends, life on McCormick Street in 2007 has been a little like if the Spanish Inquisition had been held on the Hindenburg, but without the laughs. The sad thing is, it’s almost bound to be better than 2008.

So, Happy Holidays!