Exactly fifty years ago I sat down to my old Royal portable typewriter to write this Christmas letter to counteract all the cards we received that bragged, bragged, bragged. Don’t worry. My friends knew me. No one was insulted, and they already knew we had pretty good kids.
Christmas letter 1966
A Merry Christmas letter from the office mimeograph can sometimes read a little like a family epitaph, recording wise decisions made and listing honors won, with panoramic glimpses of togetherness and fun. So for a change the Markland clan is running off the press a Christmas letter sparkling with homey truthfulness.
We haven’t made our fortune yet, the bills are rolling in, and postage is expensive so we’ve kept the letter thin.
The kids are eating better than they’ve eaten in their lives. They’re breaking lots of records too . . mostly 45’s. Aside from that it seems we’ve not an awful lot to boast. John’s class nominated him the boy who talks the most; while he and Sara share alike distinction on the whole of failing just a point below the posted honor roll.
The music lessons screech along to a pretty tidy sum, and neither side admits to where the talent’s coming from. Our baby Tom is growing up; he’s running everywhere . . except in the direction of his little potty chair.
The market has its ups and downs, Gene’s competition’s keen, and with cattle or with golf balls it’s hard to “make the green.” The wife stayed out of politics and, judging from the score, discovered why her party lost elections years before. And as for the vacation fun we each, including Mother, went separately in great relief to rest up from each other.
In all it’s been a normal year, and as we wish you well, we’ll leave to speculation all the things we didn’t tell
Warmest wishes for a wonderful season.