Christmas morning, finally. My family is gathered downstairs; the tree has been emptied of presents, and torn wrapping paper litters the floor. There's a fire in the stove, which is responsible for only some of the warm glow that suffuses the room. Soon we'll break up and go our separate ways: naps will be taken, books will be read, etc. Before that happens, though, every year my father reads us the Christmas story from Luke chapter 2.

"But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart," my father finishes. There is a contented silence as we reflect on what had been read. "I wonder," one of my younger sisters says, "what the star actually looked like. If it was bright enough for the wise men to have seen it, wouldn't it have been a little too bright for the locals?"

It has been nearly a year since I've taken the bus regularly. During the spring, I was biking with what counted, for me, as a breathtaking degree of regularity. Rain or shine, I'd be on the bike. It was awesome. Then, however, came the sobering news that my housemates and I would need to move to stay legal (a different story altogether) - not just a few streets over, but to a different city - one situated a sufficient distance from the University to make biking a challenge.

And thus was justified my purchase of a scooter - a used 2003 Honda Metropolitan the color of old cheese. It chugs up hills at 32 MPH when it's feeling frisky, and riding is naturally somewhat weather dependent, but I firmly believe it's one of the best purchases I've ever made. In the fairer months I have flexibility in parking, complete freedom of movement, and sheer, unadulterated joy in transportation - and 93 MPG, in-town. It's absolutely worth the occasional worried-sounding phone call from my mom, and paternal lectures from my dad. ("I'm just worried, son, because in college a friend of mine died riding a machine very similar to yours. He was usually very responsible, too." Except, as it transpired, for that night: he had had a few too many drinks, and was riding sans helmet. On train tracks. So it's basically, I think you'd agree, the same situation as my daily commute.)

I have now achieved, in a sense, what I set out to do more than five years ago: I am a faculty member at a college. This is not nearly as impressive as it sounds. It's a community college, for one; not that I'm trying to be elitist, here, but I'm eventually hoping to end up at more of a four-year kind of school. Also, as faculty go, I am the most lowly form there is: a continuing education instructor. I'm one of about 20 people who, if called upon, can stand up in front of a room and instruct my eager charges in such subjects as the art of Microsoft Word. (See that button with the big "B" on it? That stands for bold. Click it and the text turns bold!) It's amazing how magical this appears to some people. Also the fact that when you hit letters on the keyboard, the very same letters show up there on the screen! Truly there are dark forces at work here.

Conversation from a few weeks ago:

She's wearing a T-shirt with a faded image of Snow White on it, something that probably qualified as "vintage" at an overpriced thrift store somewhere, and was priced accordingly. The shirt is a tight fit. Snow White is stretched tightly across her ample chest (alongside a couple of elongated dwarfs in key positions). The whole gang warps and jiggles in ways that, while probably not what ole' Uncle Walt had in mind, are no less pleasing for it.

This being a University town, rental leases tend to start on August 1st to accommodate the yearly flood of incoming students. Consequently, the end of July is always a zoo, as thousands of people simultaneously prepare to move. Trailers and moving vans sprout like giant metallic weeds. Sidewalks are littered with crappy couches, hideous floral patterns and stained threadbare coverings put forth for all to see, in the hopes that somebody might want them - someone with even lower standards, perhaps. The Goodwill dropoff points become clogged with clothes and books, as belongings are sorted and purged. It's as if the city is doing its own purge, saying goodbye to the old to make room for the new, preparing for the next yearlong chunk of life. Here, the year starts in August.

It's been a rainy week thus far, as nature finally comes through with the promised but heretofore absent April showers. It's been hard for me to drag myself out of bed. Grey skies such as these cast their shadows on everyone, and the usual suspects standing at the bus stop have all adopted a common stance: nondescript slouch, blank expression, hands jammed in pockets, earbud wires trailing from their ears. Together they stand, all staring at the same far-off horizon, as if waiting intently for a call that only they will be able to hear. The "call", when it comes, will be the diesel thrum of the bus as it finally crests the hill, coming to offer them shelter from the lonely spatters of rain that hurl themselves from the slate-grey skies.

Here's the part of the semester where things really get going. My initial optimism has faded a bit, kind of like the frost fades from the windshield after the heater has been blasting for a while, and you can finally see what's actually ahead of you. And it's a lot.

There's a dream I used to have about a marching band performance, in which the band is giving its all. The drill is intricate, but executed flawlessly: flutes and trombones and bass drums move and weave, drawing and redrawing lines and creating crisp patterns for one shining second, before they shift and yield something new. I see the tuba player hoisting his instrument, marching next to a quad player straining under the weight of his. They're making this look easy, but it's not, and their glistening faces reflect that, but also something else: a kind of transcendent pride. The sort of pride you feel when, as part of a performing music group, you know you're nailing a performance, to a degree you may never again achieve. Emotion is an integral part of dreams, and the feeling here is sheer jubilation.

So this is it then, the end of 2006, the last time it will ever be 2006 in the history of the world. Though it will be months before I stop writing "2006" on checks and letters and lawsuit papers and whatever else it is that I'll need to write dates on this year, 2006 is basically gone. And today's my birthday, too, which makes this even more of a marker for me than it is for most people.