By the time we finished editing Breeder both of my wrists were thrashed. I literally could not turn the wheel on my Honda, which had a tendency to stop running in the rainy season anyway, and finally had to get rid of the thing.

Normally the money from the book advance would have gone to cover critical bills since we were a family living on a graduate stipend designed to support a single adult.

But while I was shuffling papers around Byron went to a conference in Texas and started dancing with these Swedes who offered him a job over the thumping beat of the music. They said he could live wherever and finish his PhD while drawing a salary – a deal that could not in fact have been any better. He accepted and when my book advance turned up I had already paid the overdue utility bills.

I petted my check for awhile and then set off to find a car with power steering. I located it parked on Hawthorne: a powder blue 1984 Volvo 240 with ski racks, wonky doors, and a dubious title. I haggled the guy down to fifty percent of his asking price and then drove home in the not-very-luxurious new ride with blue cloth seats.

One day during carpool my daughter slammed her hand in the door, gouging the skin completely off and breaking a finger. This would not have happened with the Honda; the door would have simply bounced open again.

The cloth seats figure prominently in this story because at some point during a picnic someone left a bag of recycling and garbage in my car without notifying me, and since I lacked a sense of smell the car was putrid before a passenger gasped and pointed out the problem.

From that point on we fondly referred to the vehicle as Skanky and I drove it with pleased affection until we were packing to move to Seattle. The week before we left I was running errands and turned a corner and the door that broke my daughter’s finger fell out of the frame with a loud clunk..

The car needed more investment in mechanical work than I originally spent on the vehicle. We debated the veracity of bringing it with us, but didn’t think it would actually survive the trip.

In the end we left the car parked next to our house, turned over the keys to the friends renting the place, and waved as we drove off in our (new to us) marginally less decrepit 1994 Volvo 240 station wagon.

Gabriel wrote this week to say that Skanky has suffered what might be the final illness.

I’m sending good wishes to the intrepid old car and the wildly optimistic people who are trying to get it running again.

I have a photograph of myself at age seventeen, snapped on a street corner in a small mountain town. The day was gray. I had a yellow paisley scarf holding my hair away from my face but the wind picked up strands, blowing locks of slippery blonde hair around and forward. In the picture I am looking steadily away toward the mountains. My eyes are fixed on an unknown horizon and my expression is solemn.

I showed this picture to some friends and many commented that I did not look seventeen, but rather much younger. Someone reflexively used the word beautiful. The photograph is technically proficient.

I look at the image and remember that day, that month, that year. The photograph shows the gash where my eyelid was split open, but otherwise gives away no secrets. The scar is hard to make out in a black and white print.

I do not have an impartial perspective. I look at the picture and remember that the scar was actually red and purple, with small flecks of glass working their way up from the depths of a cut meticulously repaired by a plastic surgeon.

I look at the picture and remember what it felt like to have a fractured cheekbone, to lose my sense of smell and part of my hearing and the ability to track text on a page. I remember the fact that my jaw was dislocated along with most of my ideas. I remember the headaches that turned my world red, the rage and fear that surged through my mind every day. I remember that everything tasted like blood.

Beautiful? Not then, not ever. I had already survived cancer and learned to keep secrets. The damage to my face turned a confused seventeen year old girl permanently away from any interest in physical beauty. I wanted to hide the shredded nerves and muscles and splintered bones. The horror of the event did not show on my face because I didn’t let anything show on my face.

The picture sitting on my desk gives away none of this. The picture does not even reveal the fact that my arm was still, seven months after the accident, in a plaster cast stretching from my knuckles to my shoulder. Other photographs over the years occasionally capture a different expression, but for the most part I still have the same solemn face of that young girl.

I look beyond the people in my immediate surroundings toward a horizon that is never clear. Beautiful? No; damaged, and determined. The truth is that I am not attractive by the standards of a larger society or even of the subculture I am generally aligned with. The reasons go beyond the fact of my scars, because of course some people find the scars interesting.

Before you rush to tell me otherwise, I want to be very clear. I do not believe in the idea of beauty. I do not know any beautiful people. I have never experienced the transient physical compulsion of a crush. I see everyone the way I see myself, as a complicated array of problems and secrets.

I wear what I like, eat what I like, go where I like, do what I like. I don’t care one bit what anyone thinks of my appearance, and I frown at compliments. I would never let anyone else determine the perimeter of my desires.

The only limitations I respect are those related to the fragile state of this body. Although I photograph well, most people find me rather frightening. Nobody has ever dared flirt with me. The people I have dated have all found their way to me by more direct methods. They are compelled less by appearance — because they do not have permission to care about something so superficial — than by the intensity of my beliefs.

If you can look at a picture of a smashed face and use the word beautiful then you are responding to something other than the features depicted. The only thing clearly conveyed by this picture is the fact that I was staring straight ahead.

If you can look at me and use that word then what you are really saying is more of a compliment to your own corporeal reality. If you see beauty where it is not present then you are in fact the beautiful one.

The Pacific Northwest Inlander offers this article about the child abuse scandal in the Catholic diocese of Spokane: Sins of the Father.

This story is important for many reasons, not least of which is the fact that many of the people who were victimized are still not talking. The cultural stigma of rape and sexual abuse often silences the people who need the most help.

When abuse happens in the context of a family or institution the level of denial is extraordinary – people do not want to believe that it can happen. Boys and men are particularly vulnerable because they are not given permission to admit that they were hurt, that they could not defend themselves and their friends.

One of the men who came forward in Spokane remembers I began to create a world in which I could live alone and let no one else in.

We need to protect children, and prevent future abuses through systematic structural activism. But we also need to untangle the damage of the past.

We need to acknowledge that these men are telling the truth. We need to thank them for their brave and honorable choice to come forward. We need to pay attention to the people who are willing to speak out about abuse, and categorically welcome those stories, no matter how difficult it is to listen.

This weekend we walked on the beach at Alki, just before sunset, during low tide. It seemed like all color had been washed away, leaving only the gray of the water and sky and sand. The Olympics seemed to float, the foothills obscured by fog, and downtown refused to sparkle. I watched the ferries go back and forth and decided that I know too many secrets.

Yesterday we drove to Olympia to have breakfast with Stella and Al.

We headed home early because the roads were icy, with entire sections of I-5 between Fort Lewis and Lacey quite slippery and frightening. Or rather, I was scared. Byron learned to drive in Colorado. He listened to his old warped cassette tapes and hummed happily. The rest of us went for defensive sleeping.

Snow is such a rare experience in these parts I can remember no more than a dozen storms. I’m excited that there may be more snow tonight.

Back at home the children sculpted a snow kitten and named it Skid Bladnur.

Later this month I turn thirty-three, followed by our eighth wedding anniversary.

When we lived in Portland I always threw myself a party and an astonishing number of people would show up. Like most of my parties, I often did not know most of the guests.

I used to think the parties took the edge off the persistent existential crisis of the event which is not just my birthday but also the anniversary of being diagnosed with cancer – the darkest part of the year – but it never actually worked. I just ended up with more cleaning chores and a deeper confusion about the experience of friendship.

Other people born this week have always told me that I should give up the parties completely. They try to hide the fact of their birth date or quietly resist celebrations. I have decided those friends were right all along. Winter is depressing.

So I’ll turn thirty-three and tell a few funny stories about birthdays in the past. But the existential crisis will have to fulminate without the benefit of guests to distract me.

I’ve also decided to move my wedding anniversary. It is an arbitrary marker of a legal contract. I think we’ll push the date back to May and recognize the anniversary of moving to Seattle instead.

I am a winter child. I never make New Year resolutions.

One year ago today I was almost thirty-two and the thing I wanted most in the world was a new agent. Concerted efforts did not yield a result; instead, I sold two book proposals for nonfiction projects without benefit of professional assistance.

I decided to abandon another book, too dismal to contemplate, about danger and safety and having cancer as a child.

I was healthier and stronger than I had been in five years – but then ended up in the hospital, and emergency surgery, another much-delayed result of the disease that nearly killed me at age twelve.

Upon being released from the hospital I decided not to do one of the nonfiction books, but then finished the memoir I had decided to destroy. I don’t know what to make of this fact but the manuscript proceeds into the world.

Now? I am nearly thirty-three years old. I have every material thing I have ever wanted.

Tomorrow I will write letters to the people who made a difference in my life. Several are dead now; a few are beyond reach. I believe that I have a responsibility to contact those I can still find.

I want to thank my high school history teacher and tell her how important she was in my life. She took me aside and told me that I should go to college. She opened up the world in a tangible, practical way.

So to summarize: happy new year, and happy birthday to all the other sad winter babies.

I have now officially cooked two large holiday meals for many guests without the benefit of a fridge on the same floor as the stove (not to mention the fact that the downstairs fridge holds approximately two yogurt containers and a head of lettuce).

Yesterday in the middle of preparations the sink backed up. I skittered around trying to pretend that all was well and only admitted otherwise late last night after dosing it with chemicals. Byron took the trap apart and poked around but the problem was beyond us.

This is what I learned today: hiring an on-call plumber during a holiday is very expensive. Also: even if you can afford to pay, the problem may not be resolved.

If you happen to own a house that has been renovated from a one-room bungalow to a two-apartment four-room duplex there are many complicated jerryrigged pipes.

If you are an especially lucky person you may learn that your house has not one but three (or more) connections to the street sewer line. If you are even more fashionably eccentric you may be informed that existing pipes lead to no known outlet. Or that the upstairs toilet is leaking and rotting portions of the carpentry and downstairs walls.

To learn these lessons, you may find that many large holes are knocked into your kitchen, living room, bathroom, and bedroom. Without any noticeable improvement in the drainage of the sink.

But after paying the plumber and resigning yourself to the idea of taking out a second mortgage to fix the whole system you may find that the sink suddenly works again – mysteriously, hours later, and for no discernible reason.

All is well if you don’t mind big holes, enormous repair bills, and the impending doom of bathroom repairs.

The in-laws arrived yesterday for a holiday visit. Byron’s dad looks healthier than ever before; remarkable after the harrowing illness.

Rumor has it that certain members of my extended family will join us for supper tomorrow, along with AEM.

Our house is warm, the children are content, we are having fun. I do the work I want to do and wear the clothes I want to wear. My stomach still hurts, but aside from that grim reminder of illness, I am content.

This is what I know right now:

I am lucky. I have a good life.

The company is too large to have just one party; each division or group has a separate celebration. Because Byron works in two divergent areas we get multiple invitations…. but this year we forgot to attend the decadent big party and instead had dinner with the research crew.

What does the scaled-down version look like?

Last year they rented the Seattle Art Museum during the Frida Kahlo exhibit and we had free run of the place. This year they chose the only truly grand hotel in town. The food and open bar were endless; the tables were massed together with enormous floral decorations. I think that there might have been some kind of carnivale theme based on the big swaths of fabric and sparkly masks.

I like free stuff. I also like research scientists. So long as I can avoid the question So what do you do? these events are always quite jolly. Much fun was had by all.

I always say: if you sell out, at least get lots of treats out of the deal.

Plus, I had a good excuse to wear my demented majorette dress.

Today I went to an actual mall to purchase sundry gifts that could not be found elsewhere. Winter is a wretched season and shopping in an enclosed space with angry humans and overpowering scents does not generally improve my mood.

But instead of getting angry I started to hum and sat down right there next to the caged Santa to take notes.

Here are a few of my favorite things:

• Polyester dresses
• Story songs
• Comprehensive health and dental insurance
• Reading in the bath for hours
• The Olympic range, from a distance
• The way Mount Rainier seems to slide across the horizon as the Fauntleroy ferry motors toward Southworth
• The burrito bus down in Rainier valley
• Collards, rice & gravy with a biscuit at the Globe
• Swallows swarming over the knoll at Sand Point
• The friendship of my children
• The love of my friends

The best thing by far this year? I’ve made so many promises and commitments I simply do not have time in the schedule for pesky cancer tests. Tra la la & happy holidays!

Byron has been in California and my co-editor and co-author have been either sick or working so there hasn’t been much progress on the books in the past few days. I would have been stressed out but Erin Scarum arrived for an unexpected visit.

One of the great things about moving away from Portland is the fact that people tend to arrive and stay for days at a time. When we lived in the same city, even when we used to sing together every week, normal life was so chaotic that I never really had a chance to talk to most of the people I considered true friends.

I remember the first time I ever talked to Erin. We were asked to work the door at an event because we were arguably the toughest chorus members – and would make everyone pay to get in. She was wearing regular clothes, work pants and a shirt, but I had on some kind of costume – my see-through orange dress with a ruffled bosom, or maybe my green square dancing dress. I kept the door receipts wedged in my cleavage and we sat there on stools, not talking, while people glared at us as we collected the full cover charge with no discounts for friends.

During various lulls in the event we realized two things. One, that we both felt compelled to check our teeth even if we had not been eating; and two, that we share a birthday.

Our lives are not, in the abstract, very similar. But we have so much in common that it is almost eerie. This is true of everyone I know who was born on the same day as me, regardless of the actual choices they have made. No matter what they do or believe, they react to events and encounters in much the same way I would.

Today when we picked the boy up at school he had one of those little paper games where someone asks a question and picks a number and he showed Erin. I talked to the teacher for a moment and then we walked out of the building.

My question was Will it snow?

Erin said I asked if it would rain. I

picked the number four and she said I picked four!

During the visit we went to museums and thrift stores, cooked greens for supper every night, and talked. I am so happy to know someone who makes sense. My general reaction to socializing with people (even those I love) is to wonder exactly what they are talking about.

But folks born in the winter are not mysterious; they can decide on a plan and stick to it.