In no particular order: peanut butter that isn't from the commissary. Sunday paper. My sister. Fall leaves. A bathtub that fills fast. The sound of the dishwasher. A local library with a children's section.
Things I don't miss: the commute. Everything else is close.
Birthday party in the garage (it's the biggest room we have): fourteen kids, nine Iradi and five American, balloons, a pinata that took fifteen minutes to break because they were all too polite to hit it first. Chynara's sister brought a cake with a horse on it, made with icing and a lot of patience.
I'll never forget the sight of eight-year-olds in kalpaks and cowboy hats, shouting in a mix of two languages, running under a pinata. They didn't need translation.
It snowed for two days and the whole of Cottonwood went outside. Sam and four neighborhood boys built a snow fort at the end of the cul-de-sac. The Iradi boys know how to make a sled out of a plastic sack and a bit of rope; the American boys have store-bought plastic ones; the sack sleds are faster.
The mountains disappeared and then came out, sharper than ever.
Midnight Mass was packed, standing room only, and half the Iradis wore their best chapan with a fur collar. The choir sang "Silent Night" in English, and then in Iradi, and then, to my surprise, in what I think was Syriac. I'm not Catholic enough to know whether that's allowed. It sounded right.
At home: tree from a pot (we found a fir at the nursery on the highway strip, $14), stockings on the porch rail, a long call to Ohio. Lily asked if Santa has the right visa. I said Santa has an excellent visa.
Merry Christmas to everyone back home.
Saturday we took the kids to the Old City. Narrow lanes, mud walls, carved doors with brass knockers shaped like hands. Our guide (Chynara's cousin) showed us the Temir-Kapka gate and the museum on the citadel mound, and told Sam that the mound used to be a fort where "bad people shot arrows at good people". Sam wants to know who was who.
We ended at a small teahouse. The owner brought us cups half full, and I learned why: a full cup means "go home." So I drank fast and held out the cup so he could pour more. That earned a smile.