It’s Christmas Eve in Sweden. I wonder if they have snow. We don’t except on the ice field and the mountains that separate us from it. The weather is balmy but a stiff wind blows across Chicken ridge toward the state capitol building downtown. From the old Perseverance Basin mining road I watch long white plumes of snow fly from the top of Mount Roberts, reaching like baby’s fists for the blue sky above town. Aki, who cares naught about baby fists of snow, plays grab ass with the other dogs as their minders exchange holiday greetings. In Sweden they already feel the joy of Christmas. I hope that all our friends will feel a similar joy, no matter which book contains their spiritual rules.