by Bob Johnson
Dear Friends:
Another holiday season is upon us, and that means it’s time for the 2025 Johnson Family Christmas Letter. I know you look forward to reading this letter as much as I enjoy writing it, carrying on an important tradition that dates to the late 1940s and really caught fire during the post-World War II ’50s and ’60s when millions of Americans left their hometowns behind in search of presumably greener pastures away from the big cities. It was suburbia or bust!
For many families back then, the Christmas letter was the only form of communication during the entire year. Long-distance phone rates were high and postage rates were low. Especially for large families, it made more sense to put pen to paper than tongue to handset. My dad had four siblings and my mom had eight, so those calls could add up.
Although none of my aunts or uncles were writers, several wrote fine Christmas letters – newsy, descriptive and sometimes funny. My aunt Jean took the first letters of everyone in our household – Warner (my dad), Amy (my mom), Robert (me) and Terry (my brother) – and transformed them into her own salutation: Dear WART. Each year, as I’d begin to read her letter, I’d try to use those four letters to form another word. I never succeeded.
I remained the R in aunt Jean’s WART for as long as she lived. One year I wondered whether changing that R to a B would produce a different jumbled word. No luck.
All my aunts and uncles – all 24 of them – are gone now. I miss them and I miss their Christmas letters. It is in their honor that I carry on the tradition by composing a letter for cousins, a handful of business associates and friends like you.
So, let’s get to it – a review of the Johnson family (Inland Northwest branch) highlights and lowlights for the year almost completed.
It was exactly one year ago that my first column appeared in the Huckleberry Press, and I continue to be grateful to publisher Gabriel Cruden for giving me the opportunity to share my observations with readers of this fine publication. In a way, this column serves as a diary of our family’s adventures and misadventures in our new and final home – a home that has many who receive this letter quite jealous.
“You’re living in such a beautiful place” is a typical observation.
“I know,” is my typical response, always trying to sound enthusiastic for us rather than exhibiting pity for them.
The only cousin who lives in a place that’s even close in beauty is Wendy, who moved from her native Wisconsin to Colorado decades ago.
In February, it occurred to us that the beauty of this place extended beyond things we can see to include things we can hear: the distinctive crunch as we walk in the snow, how different types of birds chirp in unique ways, the snap-crackle-pop of an open fire, church bells chiming in the distance and so on. For anyone who grew up here, these are sounds that are taken for granted. For anyone who came here from a big city or metropolitan area, they are sounds to savor.
March brought my third surgery for thyroid cancer, which one doctor has described as “isolated but persistent.” In September, the same surgeon tried for a fourth time to find those isolated cells without success, so now the medical team is considering next steps. The good news is I continue to feel fine. I also had two more Mohs surgeries to remove skin cancer, leaving two more scars that enable me to skip the roped line at biker bars.
As for the lovely Michelle, she has a back procedure on the schedule to try to relieve pain caused by too many years of competitive bowling. On the bright side, she visited our dermatologist for the second time and once again got the “all clear,” which she reported to me with no small degree of glee. Never let her sweet demeanor fool you.
We sure hope you and yours are healthy and not running up those co-pays. The costs of labs, scans, office visits, tele-meds, prescriptions, surgeries and follow-ups turn into real money after a while.
But back to the less-serious stuff. While we had high hopes that our experiences at fast-food restaurants would improve after escaping the big city, it just hasn’t panned out. To wit:
• When we order a barbecue bacon burger and then say, “Add mayonnaise,” the typical response is, “So you want barbecue sauce and mayonnaise?” Apparently, “add” and “and” are not synonymous in the fast-food world. Perhaps we should try ordering the barbecue bacon burger and then state, “And mayonnaise.” But we fear the response would be, “So you want us to add mayonnaise to the burger?”
• At another place, when we order a double cheeseburger that comes with the works, I’ll typically say, “I’ll have a double burger with mayonnaise only and no cheese.” Through the first 11 months of the year, that burger has come out the window as ordered three times and not as ordered – typically with cheese included – nine times. If you’d like to suggest what I should be saying to get a burger with two buns, two patties and mayo, I’m all ears.
In June, we took a drive on the west side of what’s known as the International Selkirk Loop. While the scenery was wonderful – not found anywhere else except perhaps Colorado – the highlight of the drive was a rest stop. In addition to relief stations, the stop served as a parking lot for the Sweet Creek Falls Interpretive Trail – actually three short trails that led to different views of a beautiful little waterfall. If you gotta go, this is a great place to stop.
The following month, we attended the Evening Light Lavender Festival in Deer Park, where we picked bouquets of lavender, listened to a local singer-songwriter, noshed on lavender ice cream and strolled the vendor booths where we bought a handcrafted cribbage board not made from lavender. It was a wonderful way to spend a few hours.
But on the way out, we encountered a mother and daughter who had just entered the grounds. As they passed by – and before even getting to the festival – the mother intoned, “Well, this certainly isn’t worth $13.”
We knew immediately that they were not Inland Northwest natives.
There were other adventures during the year, including a weekend in Washington’s Rattlesnake Hills wine country, an introduction to the fascinating world of bourbon, a tour of a one-time silver mine, and a handful of memorable meals.
We also added a few coffee mugs bearing the logos of the coffee houses to our, honestly, ridiculously large collection. What began as a way of remembering places we’d been has morphed into a way to support local businesses, where the coffee is just as good (or better) and always less expensive. (And if we ever open a 300-seat breakfast restaurant, we’re ready.)
All in all, it was a pretty good year. We’d prefer to be spending less on medical bills, but, on the other hand, having medical bills means we’re still kicking.
Between the time I wrote this letter and Christmas Day, we will have moved into our new manufactured home, which took longer to permit than to build. But why muck up a perfectly nice letter with a description of months of anguish and dealing with red tape?
Here’s wishing you and yours a wonderful holiday season, filled with love and gratitude for the things we’re blessed to have, rather than longing for the things we don’t. The lovely Michelle and I can’t wait to read your holiday letter so we can catch up on how you’re doing.
P.S.: Emailed letters don’t count. To put it bluntly, we should be worth the price of a stamp to you. And don’t use being green as an excuse. We recycle every card and letter we receive in one way or another. No glitter, please.
Holiday letters may be mailed to Michelle and Bob Johnson, P.O. Box 277, Spirit Lake, ID 83869.
A curious nature and willingness to ask hard-hitting questions has resulted in Bob Johnson receiving 99 national writing awards over the course of his career in journalism. Now a resident of North Idaho, he and his family enjoy exploring the Inland Northwest, and Johnson is asking lots of questions and sharing his observations with Huckleberry Press readers.